THE LOST BOY an unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists

by MARGARET MURPHY

  ‘What are you doing here so late?’ Jenny asked. It was twenty to eight, and the offices closed at five, leaving only a skeleton staff on the switchboard.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ Shona said, shrugging her bony shoulders. ‘No rest for the wicked.’

  Jenny continued dressing, while Shona hovered uncertainly, sitting, then standing, then pacing the room uneasily. She had the slightly gawky movements of a teenager, though she must have been in her mid-twenties. She was dressed in a short denim skirt and a tight-fitting cotton top with bootlace straps. Her hair, dark brown and unruly, was brushed back from her face, a small hank of it caught in a slide which she had trouble keeping in place, so that it slipped sideways and she was constantly having to pull it back into position, until a snarl of knotted hair gathered behind it.

  ‘Has he said anything yet?’

  ‘Paul? No. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Well, they’re not gonna find his mum and dad if he doesn’t talk, are they?’

  ‘I think the police are hoping someone will come forward when they show his picture on the TV and in the Echo.’

  Shona clasped her hands anxiously in front of her. ‘But they’ll have to make sure they’re his real parents and, like, that he’s gonna be okay.’

  Jenny smiled. ‘I’m sure they will. In fact, I can’t understand why his parents haven’t come forward already.’

  ‘You know what I think?’ She paused, and Jenny saw that she was deeply troubled.

  Jenny tilted her head to show that she was listening.

  Shona shrugged. ‘Well, never mind what I think. You’ve only got to look at his little face to see that poor lad’s suffered.’

  ‘I don’t think we should jump to conclusions,’ Jenny said, folding her jeans and T-shirt and stowing them on the shelf in her locker. Privately, she agreed with Shona, but the telephonist was susceptible to even the mildest suggestion, and she had a vivid imagination.

  ‘It’s not jumping to conclusions when a kiddy comes in and he’s so traumatized he can’t even talk!’

  ‘Traumatized?’ Jenny repeated.

  Shona stared back at her. ‘I’m seeing this therapist,’ she said by way of explanation. ‘She says we’ve got to unlock the anger bottled up inside us or it’ll eat us up from the inside.’

  ‘Shona,’ Jenny said, ‘releasing anger in that way can be dangerous. It feeds on itself. Being angry makes us angry.’

  ‘You’ve got to get him to talk, Jen.’

  ‘He’ll talk when he’s ready.’

  ‘He’s blocking it out — what happened to him.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘He’s got to get his memory back or it’ll arrest his development.’

  Jenny sighed. ‘I think the whole problem is he can’t forget. He wants to, but he can’t.’

  Shona’s smile was pitying. ‘I know what I’m talking about, Jen.’

  ‘Well, thanks,’ Jenny said briskly, ‘but I’ll stick with the experts’ advice.’

  Shona recoiled as if she had slapped her, and Jenny saw that she had spoken too sharply. ‘We have to go very carefully, Shona. We have to be sure that anything he does say — when he decides to talk to us — is real. It’s a hazard when you’re trying to draw children out: you can inadvertently plant ideas — things that never happened.’

  ‘And what about his hands, eh? He didn’t get them injuries playing “knuckles”, did he?’

  Jenny winced. ‘How do you know about his hands?’ They were old injuries and, until a satisfactory explanation could be found as to how he got them, Max had decided to keep quiet about them. Shona shrugged, offering her a coy smile. Jenny stared for a moment. ‘His case notes are confidential, Shona,’ she rebuked gently.

  ‘Oh yeah, blame me for showing an interest,’ Shona said, huffily. ‘I’m only trying to help, aren’t I?’

  Jenny stared at her until she blushed.

  ‘Ar ’ey, Jen. You’re not gonna grass me up, are you? I only had a little squint over Trish’s shoulder while she typed them up.’ Trish was Max’s secretary.

  ‘Let the police do their job,’ Jenny said, hoping that an ambiguous answer might make Shona more circumspect about looking at confidential medical records without authorization — cross-eyed or otherwise.

  * * *

  Still, Jenny thought, as she trotted down three flights to Ward A2, Shona has a point. In the three days since he’d come to them, the boy had shown signs of trauma. Jenny had kept notes, as Max had asked.

  On Saturday, she had made burgers and chips for him — a safe fall-back option with all the other children they had ever fostered.

  Paul sat staring at his plate for a full five minutes with that look of unfathomable sadness on his face, and when she had asked, quietly, ‘Don’t you like chips?’ he had started violently and hastily eaten a few mouthfuls, then promptly burst into tears, hitching and choking and balking like she had made him eat raw chopped liver.

  * * *

  He tried to eat it. But the man kept watching him. He tried not to think about the other time—

  ‘Throw up, and I’ll make you eat THAT! I’ll get you a fucking straw and you can suck it up!’

  —even closed his eyes to make the remembering go away. But you can’t shut your eyes to a memory. It only makes it come more.

  * * *

  Shona sat down in the pub, a glass of cider and a packet of crisps for her dinner and poked about in her shoulder bag until she found the photocopy she had made of Jenny’s behavioural diary on Paul. They had sat on Trish’s desk, waiting to be passed on to Max Greenberg all day, and nobody missed them in the five minutes it took to make a duplicate set. ‘He glances up at me frequently,’ Shona read from the photocopied notes, ‘but he quickly averts his eyes.’

  He started at the top of the house, in the playroom, then worked down to the main landing, checking the window in his room was shut, even though it was hot and sunny. Then he opened the cupboards and touched each item — toy or clothing — closed them after him, then moved on to the bed, the cabinet, the chair, the radiator.

  I suspected that he was asking for information with his quick, shy sideways glances, and so I began a commentary: what each room was for, who had owned the clothes in the wardrobes and drawers. Once or twice he seemed to nod, as if to say, ‘Explanation accepted,’ but mostly he simply moved on to the next thing, touching it, picking it up, sometimes smelling it. He cuddled some of the toys, but always replaced them where he’d found them.

  In the study, he went through the ritual of checking the window locks, and then he stood with his back to it and surveyed the room. I told him that we use it as an office, and he showed an interest in the computer, the desk, my papers. The only thing he wouldn’t touch was the filing cabinet. He kept turning away from it, so that it was out of his field of vision. In the end, I touched it and named it and he blanched and hid his hands behind his back.

  Shona flinched. Her own hands felt a sympathetic rap of sharp pain and, looking down at them, she saw that her fingers were hooked so severely that her nails had pierced the paper.

  He gave the spare bedroom a cursory check-over, and secured the window, but at our bedroom he paused, touched the door and tilted his head, as if in question.

  ‘That’s mine and Fraser’s bedroom. You can go in, if you like.’

  Instead, he returned to his own room, unhooked the sign from the inside of the door handle, and placed it on our door after pulling it shut.

  I said, ‘You’ve put your “Do Not Disturb” sign on our bedroom door.’ He patted the door, then moved on.

  Fraser was in the sitting room when we went in. He put down his paper and pretended to be absorbed in the TV. The boy switched his attention to Fraser — checking his reaction when he touched things. He touched the remote control like it was a live snake, then again, when there was no reaction. Then he picked it up, watching Fraser closely. I asked him if he’d like to watch something else, but he put the control down where he’d found
it and then went back to his tactile catalogue.

  In the kitchen, he climbed onto a stool and lifted the lids off every jar, taking a great sniff of each. He rearranged them — the only items he did not return to their original places. Coffee, then tea, sugar, mint tea, then the pastas: tagliatelle, penne, vermicelli, spaghetti. The herbs and spices he arranged in alphabetical order in the spice rack.

  I sat and watched him, offering the same commentary, neither approving nor disapproving his actions. It must have taken him an hour in all. He replaced the stool at the breakfast bar and clambered up onto my lap and rested his head on my chest. At first, I thought he was listening to my heartbeat, but he was crying silently, great rivers of silent tears, until I thought his little heart would break.

  ‘All right, Queen?’ The barmaid was standing over her, concern and curiosity both showing on her face.

  Shona found a tissue and wiped her eyes. ‘Don’t you sometimes wish you could take someone’s pain away from them?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve got enough of me own to be goin’ on with, thanks very much.’ The barmaid gathered the first empties of the night and retired, clinking, behind the bar.

  Shona smoothed out the crumpled sheet of paper before replacing it in her bag. The pain in her hands abated to a dull throb as she sipped her drink, but a deeper, yearning ache pulled at her heart.

  Chapter 6

  Lee-Anne picked up the handbag. ‘Credit cards,’ she said. ‘Purse.’ She handed both over to Lobo. ‘Fuck!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She moved.’

  ‘No, she never. It was the—’

  —Blood. It crept like a tidal flow, threatening to break over the tips of her shoes, heaving and sighing. She stepped back, appalled. Lobo clicked the purse clasp and his eyes opened wide. Blood bubbled and churned, rising and falling like the agonized breathing of the dying woman. Then it flowed over the clasp of the purse, over the green leather and down Lobo’s arms, dripping from his elbows. He threw back his head and laughed.

  She sensed another movement and looked down. The woman had rolled onto her back. Her neck was slashed and from the gash, more blood flowed, frothing, bright red from her lungs. Her mouth formed the words, but the sound came, hideously, a watery whisper, from the gaping wound in her throat.

  ‘Help me . . .’

  Lee-Anne screamed and sat bolt upright. She panted, terrified, watching blood course down the walls from the ceiling, congealing in lumps, slowing and stopping. Lobo slept on beside her.

  She whimpered, her heart hammering in her chest. ‘It’s a dream,’ she told herself. ‘Just a dream.’

  But the blood flowed on, forming rivulets like rain on glass. Its smell filled the room with its butcher’s-slab reek, metallic, rich, repugnant. She stepped out of bed and crept to the wall, stretched out a hand and, overcoming her revulsion, she touched it.

  It was dry.

  She woke a second time with the lumpy, uneven feel of woodchip wallpaper under her fingertips. No rivers of blood, no coppery smell. A dream, after all.

  * * *

  ‘Is this it, then? Have you had enough?’

  Lee-Anne looked at the clutter of bags around their table and giggled. She’d hardly even started, but Lobo was hungry, and she knew better than to push him when he was hungry.

  ‘Isn’t it great?’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Gettin’ what you want instead of what you can afford.’

  Lobo pouched a mouthful of steak pie into the side of his cheek. ‘What we want and what we can afford is one and the same thing now, Lee.’

  She felt a warm glow just below her rib cage. He only called her Lee when he was feeling mellow. ‘When I get home, I’m gonna throw out all my old togs. Every last stitch.’

  He laughed and stuffed another forkful of pie and chips into his mouth.

  ‘I never in my life thought I’d be out buying Hugo Boss and CK jeans.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got half a dozen to choose from now, eh, girl?’

  ‘I can’t wait till you try that suit on again. You look gorgeous in that suit,’ Lee-Anne said.

  Lobo shrugged. He’d only bought it to shut her up. If it was down to him, he’d’ve got more sports gear, but like she said, they’d bring out a new Liverpool strip next season and he’d be out of date. Anyway, if wearing a suit made Lee-Anne look at him like he was Leonardo DiCaprio, it was worth it.

  ‘Makes you sorry you’ve got to go back to all that manky furniture in the flat,’ Lee-Anne added, with a little grimace of disgust. ‘Dusty old tat.’

  She nibbled her tuna sandwich while she waited for Lobo to get the idea she wanted him to get. He’d nearly finished his meal and the extra calories and strong tea had restored his good mood.

  ‘What’s to stop us binning the lot?’ he said, waving the waitress over.

  ‘The landlord, for one,’ Lee-Anne said, feigning shock, knowing that thinking he was flouting all the rules was just the thing to egg Lobo on. ‘What would we sit on?’

  He laughed. ‘What would we sit on . . .’ The waitress arrived and he gave her his full attention. ‘Have you got any apple pie and custard, love?’

  ‘The waitress smiled. ‘How much d’you want?’

  ‘Just the two.’ The waitress made a note and left. ‘How much have we spent since Saturday?’ he asked. ‘A couple of thou’? More? No one’s batted an eyelid. She must be minted!’

  Have been, Lee-Anne thought. Past tense. She wished Lobo wouldn’t keep bringing her up. It took the shine off things, thinking about her.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ Lobo was getting sick of her moods. One minute she was up, spending like a pop star, acting like a Spice Girl, the next she was crying her eyes out and saying she couldn’t sleep — all over some bint she didn’t even know.

  ‘The stupid mare had her PIN numbers with her cards — she was begging to be ripped off!’

  ‘Don’t say that, Lobo.’ It didn’t seem right, taking her money and then calling her names.

  ‘Just ’cos she’s got money doesn’t make her better than you and me.’

  ‘She hasn’t got it no more, though, has she?’ Lee-Ann said.

  ‘No. We have. It was hers, now it’s ours. So, are we gonna spend it or mope over it?’

  Lee-Anne bit her lip. She did feel bad about it, but on the bright side, Lobo had taken the bait. She looked at the bags of shopping. ‘What else did you have in mind?’ she asked.

  ‘Something decent to sit on,’ he said. ‘A bed that doesn’t put holes in me when I lie on it. New lino for the kitchen, carpet for the bedroom.’

  Lee-Anne frowned. ‘That’d mean decorating.’

  ‘I’ll get our Kyle and the lads to lend a hand. It’ll only take a couple of days.’

  Blue, she thought. I want the bedroom blue, to wipe out every trace of the red and black Lobo had painted the room when they had first moved in. Blue and yellow. Sun and sky. She’d had that dream every night for three days, sometimes more than once in a night. A bit of blue and yellow wallpaper might not stop the bad dreams, but at least when she woke up she wouldn’t think she was still living them.

  ‘It would be nice . . .’ Lee-Anne said, putting just the right balance of doubt and timid appreciation into it.

  ‘Eat up,’ Lobo said. ‘We’ve got stuff to buy.’

  * * *

  Mr Wood sat in an armchair next to his daughter’s empty bed. He had paced up and down the corridor with frantic energy for half an hour after Jarmon, the charge nurse, had asked him to leave the ward because his exclamations and groans had begun to unsettle the children.

  Jarmon glanced up from his notes when Jenny came into the office. ‘How is he?’

  ‘He’s not wearing out the lino anymore, but he’s not coping well.’

  Jarmon shook his head. ‘When I suggested he should go for a walk, I meant outside the building.’

  ‘When’s Carla due back?’

  ‘She’s still in the operating room. Could
be an hour, could be more.’

  ‘I’ll make him a cuppa when I’ve a quiet moment,’ Jenny said.

  She went on her rounds, stopping to check Georgie’s temperature and pulse rate: it had surged alarmingly in the first half of the night, because of an adverse reaction to the anaesthetic. Her mother had gone home after seeing her come up from theatre — she had four others to look after and her husband was working nights. The staff had debated whether to bring her back in, but Georgie had rallied in the last hour and it looked as though she would be all right.

  She was a tiny, skinny little four-year-old, and the padded patch over her left eye increased the appearance of vulnerability. She moaned as Jenny pulled a sheet over her. Her unpatched eye half opened. ‘Mummy . . .’

  Jenny stroked the little girl’s face. ‘All right, chicken.’ Georgie’s pet name. ‘Everything’s fine.’ Georgie mumbled something and drifted off again.

  When Jenny looked up, Mr Wood was wiping his eyes. Carla’s Donald Duck sat on his knee and he stroked it compulsively. Jenny updated Georgie’s chart, then went and sat beside Mr Wood.

  ‘It may take a while yet,’ she said.

  Mr Wood nodded, pressing his lips together and frowning as if in physical pain.

  ‘I’ll make you a cuppa, shall I?’

  He nodded again, then looked up, puzzled. ‘What, love?’

  Jenny began repeating what she had just said, but he interrupted, seizing her hand and telling her in a whisper, ‘She’s such a bonny lass. If she loses her eye, what’ll I do? What’ll I tell her?’

  ‘Tell who? Carla?’

  He flung Jenny’s hand from him. ‘She’ll blame me! I told her if she was fretting so much, I’d tell Carla she wasn’t to play in the back till I got it cleared.’ His eyes, a pale, clear blue, were red and swollen at the rim. ‘But it was such a nice day, and I can’t let her play out the front with the traffic . . .’ He paused and sighed. ‘It was meant to be a surprise. She’s been on at me for months about Carla’s bedroom. I thought I’ll decorate her room and then sort out the garden, have it looking nice for when Sue — that’s my wife — for when she gets back.