by Ayre, Mark
On he went, down the dark, silent street and through the alley, even darker and somehow even more silent. As he reached the space where Mohsin had lay, he lifted his leg, stepping over the body that had been removed some time ago, trying not to look at the dark stain on the ground.
Out the end of the alley, feeling that fresh air effect again, James turned to Megan’s home. Door closed, looking much like any other house on the road except for the light shining through the curtains, bathing the front lawn in a glow somewhat stronger than the moon high above could manage.
For too long he watched this, then crossed the drive, his mind slipping back to earlier in the evening. The walk home with Megan. The way they had connected. The way his heart had fluttered at the thought they might kiss. How long ago had that been? A couple of hours, max. How things had changed in that time. Seismic events causing the Megan incident to feel a thousand years ago. Recalling them now still churned his stomach, though. Made him think about her. Made him want her.
Trying to turn the thoughts aside he held his hand to the door like a greeting. Mark had been kind to him. Mark had seemed nice. That’s what he had to focus on. A glimmer of anger and a suggestion that Megan wasn’t all that happy wasn’t reason enough to fall in love with her. Besides, curse yourself, he thought, for thinking on this when a little boy is missing.
The thud of his knuckles on the door seemed to arrive ahead of the knocking. As though, for once, sound had put a spurt on and travelled faster than light. Or maybe it was the mellow darkness of the night that had acted on light like wine on James’ mother. Making it dopey, slow, and lulling it to sleep in lieu of whatever job it was supposed to be doing.
Footsteps came from within. Someone moved from the comfort of the living room, their shadow appearing behind frosted glass as the hall light clicked on. Seeing his knuckles were still raised, ready for a fight, he dropped them, took a defensive step back from the door and checked the letter was still there. Part of him expected to see Megan as the door swung back. Part of him wanted to see Megan. Her gorgeous face and beaming eyes. Yet, when the door opened, it was not she with the injured ankle, but the perhaps more predictable Mark.
“James,” he said. “You didn’t need to come round, mate. Unless… did you?” He seemed unable to finish the question, and James couldn’t hesitate much longer anyway. He held out the letter, pressing it into Mark’s hands as though it was a bomb he wanted rid of.
“You need to read this.”
The letter was downstairs. The Barneses - Christina and George had been sitting in the living room with Claire when he followed Mark in - were deliberating. Poring over it. Those same few words. In the quiet of the dark, spare room in which he now lay, he could almost hear them, passing it around, turning it again and again, half expecting something more to be written on the other side, knowing they would always be disappointed. Then back to the original words. James could see them when he closed his eyes. Though he no longer had the letter to look at, they were as clear as ever they had been with it in his possession.
Mum, Dad, Mark, Emma, Claire
The boy’s with me now.
We’ll be fine without you. Don’t come looking.
Luke
It sent chills down his spine. There was something so insidious about the situation. Boy goes missing after an innocent bystander is attacked in the street outside his house. Mum comes home in the dead of night to find her son gone, and the only evidence of where he has disappeared to lies in an abandoned shack in the middle of woods. Those few words to say that father has taken son - the boy, as Luke had described him - and would never be coming back. It was enough to make James want to cry.
Yet, there had been little surprise from the family. Mark had taken the letter. Read it twice, his eyes rolling over each word at half speed, as though any one might contain a shocking secret. Once he was satisfied, he’d gestured for James to follow him in. No more words. James had stepped into the house, and Mark had closed the door, then they stepped into the living room.
In the spare bedroom, James sat up. He was restless. Finding it challenging to stay still for long. There was little free space between the double bed at one side, desk in the corner and cupboard and drawers in between, but he used what he had to pace back and forth, recalling the looks in the living room as the letter was passed around.
Claire had been the first to speak, before she had seen the letter. Mark had walked into the room and handed the note straight to his mother, then stood in the middle of the floor while James hung by the door, feeling like an unwanted intruder. Christina had taken the note and read it twice as Claire began to fidget in her seat next to George, who did little to comfort her.
“What is it?” she asked, looking at Christina, then to Mark. “Mark? Is it to do with Charlie?”
Mark hadn’t spoken, and James thought he was shaking. Overcome with fury that his brother might have dipped in and kidnapped his son under all their noses. Christina read the letter three or four times more, but her expression remained calm, together. Her back remained straight and the only sign circumstances had changed was a little exhale of breath as she folded the letter and stood. James couldn’t have respected her more for that.
“Christina, what is it?” Claire asked, her voice tinged with desperation. Now Christina looked to her husband, and he responded with a nod before putting an arm around Claire, squeezing her shoulder. She seemed to find little comfort in the move but didn’t shake his hand away.
“Tell me.”
“Charlie is safe,” Christina said, though Mark's expression suggested otherwise. “Mark, go and make us all another drink, would you? Then we’ll talk. James -“ she stepped towards him - “you found this?”
He could only nod. She came so close he thought she was going to kiss him. Then she spoke.
“You only met us tonight,” she said, “but already you’ve walked my son’s girlfriend home after she hurt her ankle. You’ve found that poor boy in the alley and reacted admirably. Now, with my grandson… well, you have gone above, and beyond what could have been expected of you. For that, I could not thank you enough.”
He stopped his pacing long enough to smile. Sure, he had only done what anyone should have, yet it filled him with pride. The way she had spoken. The affection and thanks she had given. More than he had come to expect from his own mother, no matter what he did. Enough to make him believe he could be involved in the family discussion, but he was getting ahead of himself.
“We need to talk about this,” she said. “As a family. You understand I’m sure. But it’s late. I wouldn’t have you trudging all the way home. Mark won’t mind if you stay in the spare room for now, will you Mark?”
Mark hadn’t minded, and here he was. Christina had said he could sleep, but that was nonsense. He collapsed onto the bed after another spell pacing but had no chance of sleeping with all that was going on. With that letter being discussed downstairs.
They hadn’t seemed surprised, and maybe that wasn’t surprising. The picture in the living room came to him once again. Cut off at the edge, as though someone had been removed. Luke had done something to get cut out of the picture. To get cut out of the village altogether, perhaps. Now he had returned to reclaim his son.
Mohsin came to mind and James could believe Luke would have attacked him, but he thought of the girl they had seen. It had been easy to believe she was the attacker but was that the case? It still could be, sure, but it was as likely - if not more likely - that she had been out for a walk and had stumbled upon him. James had seen her running and crying, and maybe that was the effect of seeing the body. He had stayed calm and called the cops, but Megan had been there. On his own, could he see himself freaking and running? Sad enough, he could.
He stood once more, repeating the cycle of pacing a while, sitting, pacing a while, sitting. His mind buzzed with ideas, and he needed a distraction.
Crossing the room to the desk, he found it almost bare. Computer screen, mouse
mat, mouse. A pen and a blank sheet of paper at one edge, sneaking away from the action. Beneath the smooth wood sat a tucked in chair and cabinet with two drawers, each with a blank card slotted above the handle where the contents might have been written.
Beyond the closed bedroom door, he heard a creak, turned his head, listened. Heard something else.
Water. Trickling like a peaceful stream, but coming from the hallway. The throbbing took up in James’ head again, and he dropped to his knees with a groan, resting his forehead against the cool of the cabinet before him.
It helped, a little, but the sound of the water was growing stronger. The peaceful stream becoming a rushing river, running down the hall and hitting the door, seeping under it, into the room, gurgling on the carpet.
He tapped his head on the cabinet. Then bumped it. Hit it. Three, four, five times. He grabbed the handle as the river began to roar, smashing against the door. He turned to it, preparing to scream as -
It opened.
“Hello,” Megan said.
The water stopped. James rose fast, releasing the cabinet and stepping back. Megan looked from him to it.
“Snooping?” she asked. “Mark keeps his work stuff in there. Very private. Even I’m not allowed in.”
“I wasn’t,” he said, though he could understand the misunderstanding. “I got a headache. Hit it against the cabinet. It’s cool.”
“Or painkillers are good.”
He nodded, feeling stupid. A rough silence came between them, and he noticed the way she stood awkwardly, one foot raised.
“Sit here,” he said, perching on the bed and patting the space beside him.
“Better not.”
His spirits lifted. Could she not trust herself with him? Was the attraction more than imagined? He stood.
“We can swap -“ but she already had her hands out, gesturing back onto the bed and, as though she possessed telekinesis, he fell with her gesture, nodding to show whatever she wanted, he would be happy to provide. Pathetic as that was.
“Is it better?” he asked, nodding to her leg. She nodded back.
“Getting there. By morning I’ll be able to walk almost normal, I guess. Couple of days and it’s nothing but a memory. Like you, maybe.”
That hurt, and he was sure it must have shown because she gave a sympathetic smile, though made no move to ease his pain with words, speaking instead of the confab downstairs.
“What’s happening? I was dismissed to the bedroom the moment Christina and George showed. Not quite family enough to be involved.”
There was bitterness there, and she tried a smile to show there was nothing to it, although it was too late for such manoeuvres.
“It’s Luke,” he said, and watched her eyes widen with more than just recognition for her boyfriend’s brother. Recognition of dark acts. Coupled with a fear that made him feel uneasy. What exactly had Luke done?
Rather than asking, he spoke. Telling her about Mark’s and his search. How he had initially thought Charlie had run after seeing Mohsin attacked and moving onto his belief that Luke had attacked Mohsin before taking Charlie. He ended with the note - exhibit A, and current topic of discussion a floor below.
Megan didn’t respond right away. She perched her bum on the desk, hands gripping the edge on either side of her. One foot down, the other raised a couple of inches, forever twirling hypnotically, showcasing long legs, bare beneath a tiny pair of pyjama shorts. She digested what she had been told then spilt the first word that came to mind.
“Shit.”
That hung there a while, the only word between them. The best to sum up the situation as it stood. James clung to the bed frame as Megan clung to the desk and felt the obvious question bubble inside him like gas until he could no longer hold it.
“What did he do?” he asked, feeling better for the question being out there. “Before he left, I mean.”
Megan examined him, as though not sure what he truly was. Fair enough, he supposed, seeing as they had only known each other a couple of hours. Still, after what they had been through in that short time, he hoped he might have earned some answers. But she shook her head.
“He’s not a great guy,” she said. “A real black sheep and before he left he caused a lot of problems for a lot of people. It’s been better for everyone with him gone. Especially his family. It’s best they don’t have to think about him, and it’s best the rest of us don’t talk about him unless we have to.”
That put it clear enough. He wasn’t in the club. Didn’t deserve to be told. Part of him wanted to argue, but he’d never do that. It wasn’t his place to push for information and, in a way, he had everything he needed. Luke was a bad guy. Luke wasn’t wanted. Luke was missing from the family photos for a reason. James might have wanted to know what that reason was, but he had no inherent right to such knowledge. He nodded, accepting her assessment.
A quiet passed over them as they each regressed into thought. He didn’t know what troubled her, but his mind slipped from Luke and Charlie to Megan and back again. It was during a Megan phase she broke the silence, standing as she did.
“We need to talk about earlier.”
A step towards him, and it was clear it pained her. He saw the grimace as she took another, and this time, when she stopped, she buckled a little, almost going down. He got up fast, stepping forward, but she held up her hand, steadying herself and standing tall.
“I’m fine.”
“You wanna rest it,” he advised, but she shook her head. “What about earlier?”
“I appreciate you walking me home,” she said, avoiding his eye. Feeling unsure of herself. “It was sweet. I mean, you knocked me down, but you didn’t have to help.”
“Really?” he couldn’t help it. “Didn’t feel as if you were giving me much choice.”
“There’s always a choice.”
He nodded. She was right. There was always a choice. The way she had spoken to him, kept close to him, looked as though she might kiss him. That had all been a choice. What choice would she have made in the end, if the mysterious girl hadn’t burst from the alley? He didn’t know and wondered if she did. Whether she knew or not, she was feeling guilty. That he could see.
“I won’t say anything,” he said, trying to help as she struggled to form the question.
“We didn’t do anything,” she returned.
“Then why do we need to talk about it?”
That stumped her. She wanted to tell herself nothing had happened. She hadn’t done anything wrong. But she needed to tell James to keep his mouth shut, and those two things didn’t work in conjunction.
“It’s Mark,” she said. “He gets jealous. If he thought we were closer than we are. That it wasn’t just two people becoming friends he might… well, he wouldn’t like it, and I don’t want to fight.”
“I don’t want you to fight,” he said. “I don’t want you upset.”
“You’re sweet.”
He shrugged. Not so much, he didn’t think. He was as selfish as the next man because he liked Mark. Thought he seemed nice. But if Megan had tried to kiss James, he wouldn’t have stopped her. He wanted her. That thought stuck out clearer than anything else.
“Mark’s lucky,” he said. “And if you want to avoid him thinking anything -“
“- I do -“
“- Then I won’t say anything. I promise.”
‘Thank you.”
More silence, and maybe she wanted to say something else. It was the way she looked at him. The way her eyes lingered when she could have left. Perhaps she would have but, at that moment, there was movement, and the door downstairs opened.
“Moment of truth,” he whispered, more to himself than her, and not sure why he was saying it. Megan ignored the comment anyway or didn’t hear it. She turned and opened the door, taking herself out of sight, but far from out of mind.
He thought he would be sent away. That Christina would say it had been great to meet him, and he’d been a fantastic help
, but her family needed to be alone.
The following day he would return to the village to make a statement, but he wouldn’t see them again unless he was lucky enough to bump into one of them. He could pray for that, but it seemed unlikely.
Then she stood over him with kind, soft eyes. Sitting in bed with her above him, it was impossible not to think of a mother, as a mother should be. Had his mother stood over him with eyes like that? He couldn’t imagine she would have. Indeed, she wouldn’t have sympathetically asked him if he had been able to sleep.
“No,” he admitted. “Too much going on.”
“You’re a sweet boy,” Christina said, unknowingly repeating Megan’s claim. “Do you live close?”
“I’m in a B&B," he admitted and named the place outside the village.
Christina shook her head, although he had made no suggestions and asked no questions.
“You can’t go there. No point at this hour when you’ll have to come back tomorrow morning to make this police statement. You’ll stay at ours. Mark’s old room will do fine.”
No questions there. James had the impression Christina was the kind of woman who said what she expected then waited for it to happen. James, who didn’t particularly like engaging in debate or making decisions, was more than happy to be led. And could not have admitted, though part of him wanted to, how pleased he was to be invited back to the Barnes house.
“Thank you,” was all he could manage, and Christina smiled.
“Not at all. Grab your things. Let’s get going.”
Other than his phone and wallet, neither of which had left his pockets, he didn’t have any ‘things’. Still, he let Christina leave the room as though he might have to get his stuff together, then waited thirty seconds before following. As he went, he tried to keep the smile from his face. He was going back to the Barneses’. They wanted him to. They were happy with what he had done.