The Missing: The gripping psychological thriller that’s got everyone talking... (29 page)

Jackdaw44:
So last night was fun.

ICE9:
I fucking hate you. I’m never doing that again.

Jackdaw44:
Yes, you are.

ICE9:
I knew you had backups of the photos. I’m not an idiot.

Jackdaw44:
I’ve got screenshots of our Snapchat conversations too, including the one where you said how much you enjoyed sucking my cock.

ICE9:
And I’ve got a photo of your erect dick.

Jackdaw44:
And?

ICE9:
The photo includes your face.

Jackdaw44:
So?

ICE9:
If you try and blackmail me again I’ll send it to all your mates and post it on your Facebook page.

Jackdaw44:
Got the numbers for my mates, have you? And if you post on my FB page it’ll have your name attached. And you can’t post to my page unless you’re a friend.

ICE9:
I’ll find a way.

Jackdaw44:
Cool.

ICE9:
You’re calling my bluff.

Jackdaw44:
Am I? Or maybe I don’t give a shit that you’ve got a photo of me and my massive cock. It would prove Liv’s a fucking liar for one.

ICE9:
You’d be humiliated if I made this photo public.

Jackdaw44:
Would I? Kids my age don’t give a shit about that kind of thing, not if they’re well hung. Look up Dappy, look up Arg from TOWIE, that bloke from Made in Chelsea. It’s not a big deal. But YOUR photos on the other hand … shit would hit the fan and then some.

ICE9:
I’m not doing what we did last night again.

Jackdaw44:
I don’t want you to do that again. It was a bit of a disappointment if I’m honest.

ICE9:
Then what do you want?

Jackdaw44:
Nothing you haven’t done before.

ICE9:
Sex.

Jackdaw44:
Something else.

ICE9:
Like what?

Jackdaw44:
Oh, the suspense! Beg and I’ll tell you.

Jackdaw44:
Still waiting for the begging …

ICE9:
I don’t know what kind of twisted game you’re playing but it stops now.

Jackdaw44:
Your call. Oh, is that the sound of photos whooshing out of my phone I hear?

ICE9:
Do it. I don’t care any more.

Jackdaw44:
Now who’s bluffing?

ICE9:
Do it.

Jackdaw44:
You’ll lose everything.

ICE9:
Do it.

Jackdaw44:
Hope you enjoy jail.

ICE9:
What?

Jackdaw44:
I’m 15, remember?

ICE9:
And?

Jackdaw44:
You’re over 18. That makes you a paedophile.

ICE9:
Don’t be fucking stupid.

Jackdaw44:
You slept with someone under 16. PAEDOPHILE.

ICE9:
You started this.

Jackdaw44:
Did I? You were the one that kissed me. I’ll tell the police you groomed me.

ICE9:
They’ll laugh you out of the police station.

Jackdaw44:
Not if I say you raped me.

ICE9:
They won’t believe you.

Jackdaw44:
Won’t they? I have photos, remember. You’ll be locked away for a very, very long time. Do you know what they do to people like you in jail?

ICE9:
What do you want?

Jackdaw44:
I just want you to do one more thing for me and then I’ll leave you alone.

ICE9:
I don’t believe you.

Jackdaw44:
I’ll write something, a letter. I’ll say we had consensual sex, that I was in love with you, that I started it.

ICE9:
I don’t believe you. You’ll come up with something else.

Jackdaw44:
I swear. Just one more thing. Something that will always be our little secret. Then we’re over, I promise. It’s not sex.

ICE9:
What is it?

Jackdaw44:
It’s something you’ve done before. And it might hurt.

The street is awash with people doing their weekend shopping: students, mothers, fathers, children, shoppers, browsers and dawdlers. They spill out of the shops, congregate in front of windows and fill the pavement, forcing me to step into the road to overtake them.

‘Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me.’ I hurry down Queen’s Road, past supermarkets, banks, letting agents and record stores. Pink Hair said Kira was meeting someone in a café, but which one? There are so many.

I dart in and out of each café I find as I follow Queen’s Road all the way down to Bristol Museum. I am vaguely aware of bells chiming above doors as I enter, staff asking if they can help me and customers turning and staring but I ignore them all as I scan every face looking for Kira.

I feel breathless, manic and strangely elated. I am certain that the tattoo somehow holds the answer to Billy’s disappearance.

When I reach Bristol Museum I cross the road and go back up Queen’s Road, checking all the cafés on the other side. My pace slows as I get halfway up and not simply because I am out of breath.

It’s just a tattoo. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s not a clue.

I stop walking and rest a hand against the window of a shop as the adrenalin that propelled me out of the School of Art and down the street is replaced by an overwhelming feeling of exhaustion.

The answer is obvious. Billy got a tattoo he didn’t tell me about – another secret that’s been kept from me. I don’t know why I’m even surprised. He skived off school so many times he could easily have got a tattoo without us knowing. He’s always looked older than he is. He would have blagged being eighteen if the tattoo artist had asked. He was always able to wriggle out of an awkward situation. And not just with me.

Ever since we’ve known her, Kira has been snapping away, taking photographs. She did a project last year called ‘The Face of Terror’ where she made us watch scary films while she took photos. She even went round to Liz and Lloyd’s to do the same. Billy must have confided in her that he regretted getting his tattoo done and she took a photo as part of her project. That’s why she told Jake she didn’t want him to come to her exhibition. She didn’t want him to see it and get upset.

End of mystery. End of story. There’s nothing more to it than that.

I feel flat and drained as I continue to trudge up the street. It starts to rain and I pull the hood of my jacket up over my head as I continue to stare into the windows of cafés and restaurants but I do it half-heartedly. All sense of urgency has gone. I still need to get my car keys so I can retrieve my tote bag and get rid of the knife but—

I double-back and take a second look through the window of Mama Valerie’s. Kira is inside, sitting at a table near the door. I nearly missed her because the rain is falling heavily now and her hair is gathered up on the top of her head in a messy bun. She almost always wears it down. She’s sitting opposite a man but I can’t make out his face from this angle. I take another step back down the hill and see a flash of auburn hair, a russet-coloured goatee, a long-sleeved black top, a pair of long khaki shorts and a tribal tattoo on a hairy calf.

‘Lloyd?’ His name catches in my throat.

What is Liz’s husband doing having coffee with my son’s girlfriend?

A group of teenaged girls push past me and I’m buffeted towards the open door of the café. I can still see Lloyd’s face and a sliver of Kira’s profile. He hunches forward in his seat, staring at her intently as she swipes at her eyes. What is she saying? And why is she crying?

Lloyd says something, then reaches a hand across the table as though inviting her to take it. As he moves, the sleeve of his top slides up revealing a flash of black ink on his forearm. Kira snatches her hands from the table and shakes her head. She fans at her face with both hands as though trying to stop herself from crying. After a couple of seconds she stops fanning herself and fumbles with the button of her cardigan instead. She pushes the grey material from her shoulders, then leans across the table towards Lloyd.

He says something else that I can’t make out but I lip-read the very last word he says.

‘Liz.’

A group of young men surround around me and I’m buffeted into the café. Two of the men block my view of Kira but I still hear her reply. I hear every word.

Where am I?

WHERE AM I?

Oh God, not again. Please God, not again.

My fingers graze something cold and rough. A tree root. I am outside, surrounded by bushes and trees. Beneath my feet is mud, carpeted with leaves. The sky is grey, striped with the orange glow of street lights and pollution.

The
stomp-stomp-stomp
of heavy footsteps on concrete startles me and I curl up, making myself as small as possible. The sound gets louder and then fades. When it is completely quiet again I uncurl, part the bushes to my right and ease myself onto my knees. A wide expanse of grass. Trees. Houses, loads of them, clustered together with rolling hills in the distance. The Downs. I’m in Bristol. I’m still in South Bristol. Oh, thank God. I part the bushes to my left. Railings. Beyond that pavement and a road and then … my heart double-beats in my chest as I look at the house opposite. My house. I’m in the park opposite my house. There’s Jake’s van parked outside. Mark’s Ford Focus, Liz’s Mini, Stephen’s Zafira, Caleb’s motorbike and Lloyd’s black Alfa Romeo.

I can see two figures in my kitchen, standing close together, both of them with their arms folded over their chests. It’s Mark and Stephen. Jake appears beside them. He raises his arms in the air as though remonstrating and Mark shakes his head. There is movement on the first floor as Kira passes the landing window. She must have heard the argument downstairs and come out of her room. Back in the kitchen Stephen has disappeared from view. Now Mark and Jake are talking. I wait for Kira to walk in but she doesn’t appear. She must be standing at the top of the stairs, listening.

I shift my weight from my knees onto the balls of my feet as I try to stand up but I’m so dizzy I lose my balance and tip backwards. I put out my hands to break my fall and my right hand knocks against something. My handbag is beside me but that isn’t what I touched. It’s something on top of the handbag. I reach under the bush and feel about. I find leaves, tree roots, an empty crisp packet and then, finally, something solid. I pull it out carefully. It’s an old-style phone, thick and chunky with sturdy buttons.

The screen glows blue as I press on the keypad. At the top of the screen is a mobile phone number. I have no idea whose it is – I don’t know anyone’s mobile number off by heart. Beneath it is a text message, unsent:

I know you were sleeping with Billy. I know about the tattoo. I know you were responsible for his disappearance. And so do the police.

I am so shocked I drop the phone.

I pick it back up again and turn it over in my hands, being careful not to accidentally hit the send button. Whoever wrote the text didn’t send it. It’s still in compose mode. The mobile is a Samsung. Black. Basic. I don’t know anyone who owns a phone like this.

Where has it come from? Did someone give it to me? Did I steal it?

I tip the contents of my handbag onto my skirt. I find my phone and use the light to go through my belongings. I find my usual house keys, purse, tissues, make-up compact and something else, something that wasn’t in my bag when I left Mum and Dad’s this afternoon. A crumpled Carphone Warehouse plastic bag. In the very corner of the bag is a receipt. I angle the phone towards it so I can read the faint text.

Sim Free Samsung E1200 Mob – £14.99

Virgin Sim Pack – £1.00

And beneath it are the last four digits of my bank card.

I bought the phone.

Sonia told me that my fugues are caused by things that arouse my suspicions. What was the last thing I saw? Images flash up in my mind – Queen’s Road, Mama Valerie’s café, Lloyd, Kira – but the pictures are dark and indistinct and the harder I try to bring them into focus the more they blur together.

Whatever I saw on Queen’s Road it was enough to convince me to buy a pay-as-you-go mobile phone and compose an anonymous text. But who to? I must have copied the number from my mobile. I press the wake-up button on the side of my iPhone but nothing happens.

I press it again.

Nothing.

I press the button harder and the phone vibrates in my hand as a white swirl appears on the screen and then disappears.

The screen goes black again.

Using the light has drained the last of the battery.

It’s all I can do not to hurl it into the bushes. There are seven people in the two houses on the other side of the road: Mark, Jake, Stephen, Kira, Lloyd, Liz and Caleb. If you’d asked me a year ago to name the people I trusted more than anyone else in the world I would have said their names along with Mum and Dad, Caroline and Billy.

When I stopped outside the Mama Valerie’s I was convinced that Billy had secretly had a tattoo of his design inked somewhere on his body but I must have seen or heard something that made me change my mind.

I know you were sleeping with Billy. I know about the tattoo. I know you were responsible for his disappearance. And so do the police.

Mark, Jake, Stephen, Kira, Lloyd, Liz and Caleb.

Do I really believe one of them would have hurt my son? Seven months ago I wouldn’t have. But now?

I move my thumb over the thick, clunky buttons and hit ‘send’.