The Missing: The gripping psychological thriller that’s got everyone talking... (4 page)

I stand at the end of the bed with my feet pressed together and my arms outstretched and I tip backwards. The bedspread makes a delicious
floop
sound as I hit it and the bed springs squeak in protest. I can’t remember the last time I felt this happy.

‘No!’

I look to the right, in the direction of the voice, but there’s no one beside me on the bed. I’m alone in the room. There must be someone in the corridor. A woman arguing with her husband perhaps, although I can’t hear the low rumble of a male voice.

‘No!’

The voice again, quieter this time but closer, as though someone has spoken the word directly into my ear. I sit up in bed and pull my knees in to my chest.

‘NO!’

I clamp my hands to my ears but there’s no blocking out the woman’s voice as she shouts the word, machine-gun fast – NO, NO, NO, NO, NO.

It’s inside my head. The voice is coming from inside my head.

‘CLAIRE!’ it shouts. ‘I AM CLAIRE. I AM CLAIRE.’

Claire? Who is Claire? I recognize the name but I don’t want to. I don’t want to know who Claire is. I just want to get back to the seafront. Back to the sunshine and wind and the café on the edge of the pier.

‘I AM CLAIRE! I AM CLAIRE!’

The voice fills my brain, screaming and buzzing, and my head is vibrating and the light, happy feeling inside me is fading.

Dark. Light. Dark. Light.

My thoughts are dark and foggy, then brighter, clearer and then, just for a second – a split second – I know who Claire is, then the darkness returns and with it a confusion so disorientating my hands instinctively clench as I try to anchor myself to something, anything solid. There is something smooth and slippery soft under my fingers. Bed linen. I am sitting on a bed. But this is not my bed, this is not my room. There is a framed art print on the wall to my right: a faded Lowry, stick people milling around a town. There is a lone boy in the centre of the scene. He has his back to me. He’s looking at the crowd of people spilling out of one of the buildings. Who is he looking for? Who has he lost?

A shrill sound makes me jump. A small black mobile phone jiggles back and forth on the orangey pine bedside table to my right. A name flashes onto the screen. A name I don’t recognize. But the noise hurts my head and I need it to stop.

I reach for the phone and press it to my ear.

‘Mum?’ says the voice on the other end of the line.

I want to reply but I can’t talk. I can’t think. I can’t … it’s as though my mind has shattered. I can’t focus … I can’t form coherent … what’s happening to me?

‘Mum?’

‘Claire.’ I say the word out loud. It sounds strange. Like a noise, a sound, an outward breath. ‘Cl-airrrrr.’

‘Mum? Why are you saying your name?’

My name?

‘Cl-airrrrrr.’

‘Mum, you’re freaking me out. Stop doing that.‘

‘Claire.’ The word crystallizes inside my mouth. It tastes familiar. As though I’ve known it for a long time. Like buttered toast. Like toothpaste. ‘Claire. Claire Wilkinson.’

‘Oh Jesus Christ. Dad, I think she’s having a stroke or something.’

My head … my head … my brain hurts … no, aches … but not a headache … foggy … and then a thought, breaking through the darkness and I grip hold of it as though it is a rock to tether my sanity to.

‘Is my name Claire Wilkinson?’

‘Yes, yes, it is. Jesus, Mum. We’ve been trying to ring you for hours. Where are you?’

Mum. I am a mum? The man on the phone sounds scared. Is he scared for me? Or of me? I don’t know. Nothing makes any sense.

‘Where are you?’ says the voice on the phone.

‘I’m … I’m …’ There are gingham curtains at the far end of the room and a full-length mirror, smeared with fingerprints. Beneath me is a bedspread. Pink, satiny, puffy. I dig my nails into it and cling to it, rigid with fear. ‘I don’t know. I don’t recognize this room.’

‘It’s okay, Mum,’ the man on the phone says. ‘Just … sorry, hang on a second …’ There’s a muffled sound like a hand being placed over the receiver but I can still make out the low rumble of his voice.

‘Mum?’ His voice is clear again. ‘Is there a door or a window you could open? Tell me what you can see.’

I don’t want to move from the bed. I don’t want to open the pine door to my right or the closed gingham curtains at the far end of the room.

‘Please, Mum. As soon as we know where you are we can come and get you.’

We? Who is we? Who is coming to get me? I’m in danger. I need to run but I can’t move.

‘Dad’s here, Mum. Do you want to speak to him?’

‘No,’ I say and I don’t know why.

‘Are you sure?’ the man says and an image appears in my mind – vivid and sharp in the gloom – of a young man with tousled fair hair, shaved at the sides, and broad shoulders, lying on a bench, pushing weights into the air.

‘Jake?’ I venture.

‘Yes, Mum. It’s Jake. I’m at home with Dad. Liz just came round, wanting to talk to you. That’s when we realized you’d gone missing.’

I search for a memory, something, anything, to still my mind, to stop this terrifying free-fall sensation. Where is my home? Why don’t I remember?

‘Yes, I know, okay. Okay, Dad.’ The man is talking to someone else again. ‘I just asked her that. Mum, can you describe what you can see?’

I look back at the Lowry painting, at the boy standing right of centre staring into the crowd, looking for someone, then I look at the shiny pale pink bedspread, the mirror, the cheap pine table and the white tea tray.

‘I think I’m in a hotel room.’

‘Is there a phone? Can you ring reception to find out which hotel you’re in? Or is there a brochure or room-service menu anywhere?’

I slide across the pink bedspread and press my toes into the worn pile of the beige carpet, then inch my way across the room, keeping one eye on the door, and approach the table near the mirror. There’s a white china teapot on a tray and two cups and saucers. There’s also a dish containing tea, coffee, sugar and tiny cartons of milk. There are no brochures, no menus, no phone. Nothing else in the room at all other than my handbag and boots, with my socks tucked into the top, on the floor by the bed.

I touch the edge of the gingham curtain and tentatively pull it back. Outside is a low railing, a balcony and a stretch of grey-brown sea with a lump of land in the distance, an island shaped like a turtle’s back.

‘Steep Holm,’ I say and the darkness in my mind fades from black to grey at the sight of the familiar lump of rock in the distance. ‘Jake, I’m in Weston-super-Mare.’

As he relays the information I feel a sudden desperate urge to throw open the window and inhale great lungfuls of sea air but when I yank at the sash it only opens a couple of inches at the bottom.

‘Do you know which hotel, Mum?’ Jake asks. ‘If you stay where you are we’ll come and get you.’

It’s a small room: shabby but warm and clean. The floral wallpaper behind the bed is peeling in one corner and when I open the door to the en suite there are no branded toiletries, just a bar of soap in a frilled wrapper and a glass, misted with age, on the shelf above the sink. There is no welcome pack on the table that holds the tea and coffee things, no branded coaster or complimentary notepad.

‘Reception,’ I say. ‘Need to find reception.’ But then I spot a fire-evacuation notice pinned next to the door. It is signed at the bottom by Steve Jenkins, Owner, Day’s Rest B&B.

‘Day’s Rest,’ I say. ‘I’m at Day’s Rest B&B.’

‘The one we used to stay in as kids,’ Jake says and I have to steady myself against the wall as a wave of grief knocks the breath from my lungs.

Billy.

I have two sons. Jake and Billy. Billy is missing. He’s missing.

‘Mum?’ The worry in Jake’s voice bounces off me like a stone skimming the sea.

I snatch up my handbag, my boots and my socks and I reach for the door handle.

‘Mum?’ he says again as I yank open the door.

‘Billy!’ I scream into the empty corridor. ‘Billy, where are you? Where are you, son?’

Jackdaw44:
You there?

ICE9:
Yep.

Jackdaw44:
Liv is a bitch.

ICE9:
Who’s Liv?

Jackdaw44:
Girl I was seeing.

ICE9:
I didn’t know.

Jackdaw44:
You wouldn’t. I keep my shit private.

ICE9:
OK …

Jackdaw44:
But I’m pissed off today. Need to talk to someone. I know you can keep secrets.

ICE9:
It’s up to you to tell your mum what you saw, not me.

Jackdaw44:
And that’s why you’re cool.

ICE9:
Ha! I’ve never been called that before. So why is Liv a bitch?

Jackdaw44:
She told Jess not to go out with me. She totally slagged me. Said I’ve got a small dick.

ICE9:
Have you?

Jackdaw44:
Go fuck yourself.

The man behind the reception desk jumps as I slam up against it.

‘Is he here?’

‘Is who here?’ He’s a tall man, over six foot with balding hair and an auburn moustache. The buttons of his shirt strain over his gut.

‘My son. Billy. He’s fifteen.’ I raise a hand above my head. ‘He’s about this tall.’

‘Did he check in with you?’

I don’t know. The last thing I remember was running out of Liz’s house. How did I get here and why don’t I remember? Am I asleep? Unconscious? Did I trip and hit my head when I was running? But this feels real. The reception area feels solid under my fingertips. I can smell the musty aroma of old furnishings beneath the pungent scent of furniture polish. ‘I’ve got no idea. Could you check to see if he’s booked in? His name’s Billy Wilkinson.’

The man runs a thumb along the length of his gingery moustache. ‘And your name is?’

‘Claire Wilkinson.’

He reaches for a clipboard on his desk. He raises it to eye level, then mutters, ‘I can’t see a thing without my glasses,’ and replaces the clipboard and begins ferreting around in a drawer. I tap the counter as he searches. It’s all I can do not to clamber over the top and snatch up the clipboard.

‘There!’ I point at a pair of glasses on top of a paperback book. ‘Your glasses are there.’

‘Ah, thank you.’ It takes an age for him to clasp his fingers around them, for ever for him to unfold them and then, as he finally places them on his nose, he removes them again and wipes the lenses on the hem of his jumper.

‘If you could hurry. Please. It’s urgent.’

‘All in good time, Mrs Wilkinson, all in good time.’

‘Hmmm.’ He hums through his nose. ‘Room eleven, is that right?’

I hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs but it’s a middle-aged man, not Billy, who steps into the reception area and raises a cheery hand at the man behind the desk. ‘I don’t know what room I’m in. I didn’t look.’

The receptionist gives me a quizzical look, then says, ‘I’ve got a Mrs Wilkinson in room eleven. Queen room. One occupant.’

I press a hand to my forehead but the fog in my brain remains. Somehow I booked myself into a B&B in Weston. I can’t remember doing it, so either I did check in and I don’t remember or … nothing. There’s a black void where my memory should be. ‘Could Billy have checked into one of the other rooms?’

The man’s lips disappear beneath the bushy arc of his moustache. ‘I can’t give out information about other guests. Guesthouse policy.’

A vision plays out in front of my eyes, of me ripping the clipboard out of his hands and smashing him around the head with it –
thwack, thwack, thwack
– and I have to close them tightly shut to make it disappear. When I open them again he’s still pursing his lips, still staring at me.

‘Billy is my son. He’s missing. You have to tell me if he’s here.’

‘Missing? Goodness. Have you told the police?’

‘Yes. Six months ago. Please! I need to know if he’s here or not.’ I lean over the counter and reach for the clipboard but he snatches it away, flattening it against his chest.

‘I’ve got a flier.’ I duck down and rummage around in my bag. ‘Here!’ I hold the appeal leaflet face out so he’s eye to eye with Billy’s photo.

The man gives the briefest of nods when he’s finished reading and our eyes meet as I lower the leaflet. There. He’s giving me the look. The ‘you poor bloody woman’ look I’ve come to know so well.

‘I wouldn’t normally do this but …’ He presses his glasses slowly onto his nose, lowers the clipboard and dips his head. He trails a bitten-down fingernail along the list and my heart stills when his finger stops.

Has he …

Is it …

He shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry. There’s no Billy Wilkinson on this list.’

‘Maybe he’s using a different name?’

He places the clipboard on the desk and presses down on it with his palms. ‘It’s a small hotel, Mrs Wilkinson, just thirteen rooms. We’ve got a couple in with a teenage girl and half a dozen families with young children. I’d remember your son’s face if I’d booked him in.’

‘Does no one else take the bookings?’

There’s sadness in his eyes now. Sadness and pity. ‘No. I’m really very sorry.’

The tension that’s been holding me upright for the length of the conversation vanishes and I slump against the desk, eviscerated. It’s all I can do not to lay the side of my face on the cool wood and close my eyes.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he says again.

I look up. ‘Did you check me in?’

He nods. ‘Yes. One night, paid upfront. Don’t you remember?’

‘No. I don’t remember walking in, or even how I got to Weston. One minute I was talking to a friend in Bristol and the next …’ I can’t explain what happened because I don’t understand it myself. I came to but not in the way you do when you wake up after a nap or a long sleep. And it wasn’t like the hazy slip into consciousness after a general anaesthetic either. I was awake but my mind was muddled, tangled in a jumble of sounds, images and thoughts that gradually faded away. And then everything was sharp, in focus, as I became aware of my surroundings. And it was terrifying. Utterly terrifying.

‘Boozy lunch, was it?’ the man asks, the sympathy in his eyes dulling.

‘No,’ I say. ‘We were drinking tea.’

‘Sounds like you should get yourself to a doctor.’

‘I will. Just as soon as I get home.’ I crouch down and pull on my boots and socks. A drop of sweat rolls down my lower back as I haul the strap of my handbag over my shoulder.

‘Thank you,’ I say as I head for the door.

‘No problem.’

I wrench the door open and then, as the sea air hits me, I turn back. The receptionist looks up, Billy’s flier still in his hands.

‘Can I just ask one more thing? Was I alone when I checked in?’

‘You were, yes.’

‘And did I seem frightened? Scared? Confused?’

‘No. You seemed …’ He searches for the right word. ‘Normal.’