The Missing: The gripping psychological thriller that’s got everyone talking... (6 page)

The doors to the carriages open and, as the passengers disembark, I’m distracted by a fracas further up the platform. There’s a small crowd of people around one of the doors and a man is shouting at someone to stop pushing in.

And then I see him. Tall, slim, in a baseball cap and a black Superdry jacket, shoving his way to the front of the queue.

‘Billy!’ I fling the leaflets away from me and sprint up the platform. ‘Billy! Billy, wait!’

The policeman shouts. A pigeon, pecking at crumbs beneath a bench, is startled and flies into the air. A woman gasps, the crowd parts and my lungs burn as I launch myself through the open door and sprint down the carriage.

‘Billy!’ I shout as he reaches an empty seat at the end and pauses. ‘Billy, it’s—’

The words dry in my mouth as he turns and I see his profile.

It’s not Billy. It’s not him.

Jackdaw44:
Sorry.

ICE9:
What for?

Jackdaw44:
Telling you to go fuck yourself last week.

ICE9:
No, you’re not. You want something.

Jackdaw44:
Ha. Ha. Spot on.

ICE9:
So?

Jackdaw44:
Just wanted to talk to you.

ICE9:
You know where I live.

Jackdaw44:
Ha. Ha. Am at school. Need advice.

ICE9:
What about?

Jackdaw44:
Girls. Why are they such bitches?

ICE9:
What makes you think I know?

Jackdaw44:
I fucking hate Liv. She dumped me so why is she trying to put Jess off me?

ICE9:
Jealous? Maybe she still fancies you.

Jackdaw44:
Yeah, right. She’s fucking Ethan Thomas.

ICE9:
Revenge?

Jackdaw44:
What for?

ICE9:
Did you cheat on her?

Jackdaw44:
[
confused face}

ICE9:
That’s a yes then.

Jackdaw44:
I was drunk.

ICE9:
Dick.

Jackdaw44:
That’s Mr Big Dick to you.

ICE9:
Not according to Liv.

Jackdaw44:
Fuck off. (Not sorry.)

‘I’m not sure this is a good idea,’ Mum says as I turn the key in the lock. ‘I don’t feel right leaving you here alone. Not after what happened. He was decent though, wasn’t he, that policeman? In the end. I knew he wouldn’t fine us, not when we told him about Billy. You saw the look on his face when he told us he had a son of about the same age. Kind of him to say he’d keep an eye out and help spread the word.’

She follows me into the kitchen, hovering in the middle of the room as I drop my handbag onto a chair and open the fridge.

‘Are you okay?’ Mum asks. ‘I know you feel embarrassed about what happened on the train but you mustn’t let it get to you. Imagine if it had been Billy and you hadn’t gone after him. You’d never have forgiven yourself.’

‘I thought I’d do a casserole for tea,’ I say. ‘I know it’s the summer but everyone likes a sausage casserole, don’t they? I drop two onions, five carrots and two packs of sausages onto the counter. ‘Twelve sausages – that’ll be enough, won’t it, although God only knows Jake could probably finish off the lot himself.’

‘Claire, talk to me, sweetheart. You haven’t said a word since we left the station.’

I take a knife from the block on the counter. ‘The onions haven’t had long enough in the fridge to chill the juices. I always cry if they’re too fresh.’

‘Claire.’

‘I’m going to need swimming goggles. I think Billy’s got some in his room. I’ll just go up and—’

‘CLAIRE!’

Mum slips around me, blocking my exit from the kitchen.

‘Claire, sit down.’

‘I can’t. I need to put the dinner on. I need to—’

‘Claire, please. Please sit down, love.’ She gazes up at me, pain etched into her soft, lined skin. ‘Talk to me.’

‘I can’t. If I do I’ll cry.’

‘And?’ Mum rubs her hand up and down my upper arm.

‘And I don’t know if I’ll ever stop.’

‘Oh, sweetheart.’

‘I thought I’d found Billy,’ I say as she wraps me in her arms and I slump against her. ‘I thought the nightmare was over. But it’s not. It just carries on.

She squeezes me tightly. ‘We’ll find him, Claire. We’ll bring him back home.’

Mum left an hour ago. She was going to stay until Mark or one of the kids got back but then Dad rang to say that his car battery had died and he was stuck at B&Q and could she collect him. She told him to get a taxi and they’d sort out the car later but I insisted she go to his rescue. I reassured her that I could go over to Liz’s if I was feeling wobbly. She left, begrudgingly, and gave me an extra-long squeeze at the door.

My phone bleeps. It’s a text message from Mark.

Are you still at your mum’s? How are you feeling? I’m going to try and get home a bit earlier than normal. Text me if you feel unwell.

I text back.

Just got home. I went to the train station to hand out some fliers.

My phone bleeps almost immediately.

With your mum?

Yes.

Who’s with you now?

No one. I’m fine though.

Don’t go anywhere. Jake or Kira should be back soon and I’m on my way.

There’s no need to hurry
, I type back. The last thing we need is for him to put his foot down and end up having an accident.
Honestly. I’ll be fine.

I met Mark in a nightclub in town. I was eighteen, he was nineteen and he crossed the dance floor to talk to me, shoulders back, all South Bristol swagger with an attitude to match. He told me he was going to become a policeman. ‘I’ve passed the competency tests, the fitness test and the medical. I’ve just got the second interview to go and I’m in.’

For months, joining the police was all he could talk about. He’d turn up the radio whenever there was talk of an assault outside a nightclub or a drugs bust out in a disused barn in the countryside. He read true-crime book after true-crime book, piling them up on his bedside table like badges of honour. And then he had his second interview and I didn’t hear from him for a week. My calls went unanswered. When I went to Halfords where he’d been working while he completed the application process he took one look at me, then turned on his heel and headed straight for the nearest staff-only door.

I thought it was me. I thought that now he was a big-shot policeman he didn’t want anything more to do with me. He was going places whilst I was a receptionist at the Holiday Inn. He’d probably met some fit, ambitious policewoman during celebration drinks and didn’t have the guts to tell me we were over. I went to his house. Twice. The lights were on both times and I could see the TV flickering through the thin curtains but Mark didn’t come to the door, even when I kept my finger glued to the doorbell and screamed at him through the letterbox.

The truth came out three weeks later when I ran into one of his mates in a pub in town.

‘Mark not with you?’ I said, two large glasses of wine and the encouragement of a friend giving me the nerve to approach him. ‘Teetotal now he’s a copper, is he?’

‘Mark’s not a copper.’ He raised his hand and waved at a group of lads over by the bar.

‘What?’ I grabbed his arm as he turned to go. ‘What did you say?’

‘He didn’t get in, did he? He wouldn’t say why, secretive little bastard. I reckon it’s because his uncles have done time. Anyway, Mark’s at home sulking.’ He shrugged me off. ‘Why don’t you go and give him a blow job? Cheer him up a bit.’

I swore at him under my breath as he made his way through the crowded bar but relief flooded through me. Mark hadn’t dumped me for someone else. He was hiding and licking his wounds. All the plans he’d made, all the hopes he had. Gone. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him but I was angry too. How dare he cut off all contact with me just because he’d failed to get into the police? I deserved more than that.

Two weeks later I found a note on the doormat when I got home from work.

I’ve been a twat and I’m sorry. Meet me for a drink so I can explain. Please.

I didn’t reply. Six weeks he’d kept me hanging. Let’s see how he liked it.

I told Mum to tell Mark I was out if he rang, which he did – the next day. He didn’t leave a message.

Ignoring his calls was torture. I nearly caved in several times but I ripped up the letters I’d spent for ever composing before I could send them. Then he turned up at my door.

‘I thought about bringing flowers or wine or something but you’re worth more than that, Claire. Please,’ he added before I could respond, ‘just hear me out. You can tell me to fuck off after I’ve said what I need to say. Can we go to the pub? We can sit outside if you want.’

I listened for an hour as he explained how he’d struggled academically at school after his mum died, going in during the holidays for extra help with his coursework and scraping five low-grade GCSEs. He told me how his dad had said he’d never amount to anything and his best bet was to join him in the family’s building-supplies firm so he could learn about running a business. His dad had laughed when he’d told him he didn’t want to do that – he wanted to be a policeman – and had called him a grass. Two of Mark’s uncles were in prison, one for aggravated assault and one for fraud, and he knew his own dad wasn’t beyond taking a few backhanders and passing on stolen goods.

‘I wanted to better myself,’ Mark told me. ‘Everyone on our estate thinks my family is dodgy. People cross the street when they see me out with my uncle Simon. The family thinks it’s respect but it’s not, it’s fear, and I don’t want that kind of life for me and my kids. Because I want kids, you know, Claire. I want a family.’

Kids. His eyes shone as he said the word, just as they had when he’d talked to me about joining the police.

‘I want to be respected. I want people to look up to me because I’ve achieved something.’

And then he told me about what he called the ‘boxes’ in his head. It was his way of compartmentalizing his life. He couldn’t get in touch with me after he’d been rejected by the police because he was trapped in that box in his head. He had to process what had happened, then shut the box and get back on with his life. If he’d rung me he’d have taken a lot of his anger and resentment out on me and he didn’t want that. He didn’t want me to see him at his lowest.

‘If you’d seen me like that you’d have lost all respect for me. I’d have lost you.’

‘Maybe you already have?’

He hung his head then, chin tucked into his chest, as he swirled a small puddle of lager around the base of his glass. I said nothing.

‘Fuck it!’ He gripped his hair with his fingers and covered his face with the palms of his hands. ‘I’ve screwed everything up, haven’t I?’

There are some decisions that alter the course of your future; pivotal moments in life where you find yourself standing at a crossroads. Go left and you’re off down that path and there’s no turning back. Same if you go right.

‘Bollocks.’ The wooden picnic table shook as Mark got to his feet. ‘I’m sorry, Claire, you’re better off without me.’

He strode across the patio with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched forward.

‘Mark!’ My throat was too tight and his name came out as a whisper. ‘Mark!’

I had no choice but to go after him.

‘Mark!’ I grabbed hold of his arm. ‘Don’t you dare walk away from me. Don’t you dare!’

He stopped walking but said nothing.

‘Is that it?’ I said. ‘You tell me you had a shit childhood, then you walk away? You’re not the only one who had a rough time, you know, but you don’t see me feeling sorry for myself and—’

He grabbed me around the waist and pressed his lips so hard against mine that our teeth clashed and my neck cricked as he leaned his weight into me.

‘Give me another chance,’ he breathed as he pulled away. ‘Give me another chance and I swear I’ll never let you down again, Claire. I love you. I don’t want to lose you.’

I didn’t have to think twice. I was eighteen years old. I was in love.

Now the back door clicks open and I catch the briefest glimpse of a baseball cap before it ducks back outside and the door slams shut.

‘Wait!’ I jump up from my chair and sprint across the kitchen. ‘Come back!’

‘Jake! Wait! We need to talk.’

My eldest son ignores me. He reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a key. He stoops to place it into the lock, wincing as he shifts his weight onto his bad foot, then turns the handle and yanks the garage door open.

He hobbles inside, swears at the pool of oil puddled around Mark’s lawnmower, then fiddles with the dusty stereo on the shelf at the back of the garage. Pounding rock music fills the room as he straddles the weights bench and shuffles onto his back. His fingers wrap around the silver bar and his biceps tense as he lifts the dumbbell off the bar.

‘Jake! Are you ignoring me?’

He doesn’t reply. Instead he grunts as he dips the bar down to his chest and then presses it into the air.

His interest in lifting weights began about six weeks after Billy disappeared. I welcomed it initially – Jake lifting weights was preferable to Jake spending every waking moment in the pub – but he became obsessed. An hour after work in the early evening became two hours and then he added another two hours in the morning. The
bleep, bleep, bleep
of his alarm at 5 a.m. drove Mark to distraction. Jake began spending less and less time with Kira and the family and more and more time in the garage. If he did deign to join us in the living room he’d be lost in the pages of
Lifting
or
Power Grunt
or whatever magazine he couldn’t get his nose out of. Kira would sit beside him,
tap-tap-tapping
into her phone, nodding politely as he’d explain how he was going to increase his deltoids by doing a certain combination of lifts.

Kira’s always been a quiet girl but she shrank into herself during the height of Jake’s obsession. The bigger he grew the smaller and more silent she became. Shortly after she first came to live with us she told me how our home was like a breath of fresh air. We weren’t the perfect family by any means but I could see why our living situation was preferable to the one she’d escaped. But then Billy disappeared and everything fell apart. We fell apart. Poor Kira. She’d swapped one screwed-up, dysfunctional family for another.

‘Jake.’ I take a step towards him. ‘You need to tell me what’s going on.’

‘I’d have thought –’ his face contorts as he presses the bar into the air – ‘that was obvious.’

I stride across the room and switch off the stereo.

A muscle twitches in my son’s cheek as he stares up at the corrugated roof. The barbell wobbles above him and for one horrible moment I imagine it slipping from his hands and pinning him to the bench but then he grunts and lowers it onto the rest.

‘Sorry.’ He sits up and runs a hand over his face.

‘You need to talk to me,’ I say softly as I crouch on the edge of the bench.

He reaches for the sports bottle on the floor and takes a swig, grimacing as he swallows. Jake is almost the spitting image of his dad. Whilst Billy inherited my dark hair, Jake is fair like Mark with the same small eyes, prominent nose and thin lips. His is a masculine face; strong and angular with a wide expanse of forehead. Billy’s features are more refined. He has my large brown eyes, a smaller nose and fuller lips. Dad always used to go on about what a pretty boy he was when he was little. ‘Angelic,’ Mum called him. I’ve always been careful never to comment on the way my boys look – they’re both beautiful in my eyes – but the world isn’t so circumspect. I lost track of the number of times old ladies would nod at Jake, then gaze at Billy in the buggy and announce, ‘He’s going to be a right heartbreaker that one.’ The comparison wasn’t lost on Jake. ‘Why don’t me and Billy look the same?’ he’d ask when he was nine and Billy was five. ‘Arrogant bastard,’ he growled when Billy was twelve and the letterbox rattled with cards for Valentine’s Day; only one of them was for Jake (and that was from me).

Jake replaces the sports bottle on the floor and his gaze flickers towards me. ‘I’m just stressed, that’s all.’

‘About what?’

His pale blue eyes are unreadable. ‘Everything. Work, Kira, Dad, this house, Bill.’

‘Is that why you’ve started drinking again?’

‘What do you mean, again?’ he says but he knows what I mean. After Billy left I lost track of the times he’d stumble into the house at night, crashing into the kitchen table, swearing at the coat hooks as his hoody hit the floor, stumbling up the stairs and into bed with Kira. I confronted him about it but he said he wasn’t doing anything that other nineteen-year-olds didn’t do and if he went to work every day and he paid me my rent then what right did I have to hassle him about it?

What could I do? It was obviously his way of dealing with the loss of his brother. But I can’t stick my head in the sand any more. I can’t stand idly by as he destroys himself. We need to talk.

‘Jake, we need to discuss what happened on the day of the appeal. I know everyone’s been worried about me, but I can’t just forget about the fact that you were drinking at seven o’clock in the morning.’

He takes off his cap and runs a hand through his hair. ‘I just had a bit of a session, okay? We got back from the club at three and I kept drinking because I was pissed off.’

‘What about?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Mum. Do you have to be such a control freak?’ He shifts position to stand up but the sudden movement is too much for his foot and he’s forced to sit back down again.

The accusation stings and it takes everything I’ve got not to retaliate. Instead I take a steadying breath.

‘Sorry. That was out of order.’ He puts a hand on mine, his palm sticky with sweat. ‘Look, if you really want to know, I was pissed off because some bloke started chatting up Kira while I was in the loo.’

‘He was probably just trying his luck.’

‘Yeah, I know. But she looked really happy. She was laughing and playing with her hair, like she did when we first got together.’ He shrugs. ‘And I was shitting myself about Billy’s appeal. So I kept drinking to try and block it all out. That’s all there is to it.’

I want to tell him that I understand, that it’s been longer than I can remember since his dad looked at me that way too, but this isn’t about me. And it certainly isn’t about Mark. This is about my son opening up to me for the first time in a long time.

‘Oh, Jake.’ I wrap my arms around his broad shoulders and pull him in to me. His body feels hard and unwieldy in my arms. ‘I understand. Really I do. She’ll look at you like that again. I promise. You and Kira have been to hell and back, we all have. When Billy comes home everything will go back to normal. I promise you.’

Jake stiffens and it’s as though I’m hugging rock.