“Making a show of you in front of the neighbours, am I?” Jackie asks, saccharine-sweet. “Bit short on entertainment round here? Maybe you’d better let me in before they call the coppers on us.”
I’m about to refuse and shut the door and take the consequences, but then we both make the mistake of looking straight at each other for a moment – not at our clothes or hair or jewellery but straight into each other’s eyes – and I see her and she sees me and I finally understand that despite the bravado, despite the rudeness and the shrillness and the aggression, we’re the same, trapped in the same Hell. Jackie makes a strange little noise in her throat, somewhere between a gasp and a growl, and turns her gaze away from me, staring up at the towering trees that whisper above us like benign suburban spies, waving her hands before her eyes to try and dry the tears before they roll down her cheeks and ruin her make-up.
“Of course you can come in,” I say, and hold the door open.
She follows me into the hallway, glancing dubiously at the polished wooden floorboards.
“You want me to take off my boots?”
“No, it’s fine, don’t worry about it.”
“Don’t be soft, I’ll wreck your floor with these on.” A long smooth tug of her lacquered fingernails, a slither of leather and Jackie is suddenly three inches shorter, her feet in Mr Grumpy socks small and vulnerable.
“They’re Ryan’s,” she says, seeing me looking. “Daft, but—”
“It’s not daft.”
“I like feeling close to him. I’ve got his old T-shirt in bed with me an’ all.” Her voice wobbles.
“This way.”
The room at the front looks out onto a triangle of grass where three huge willow trees shiver and shed their yellowy leaves in the chill October breeze. The duck-egg velvet of the sofa is scarcely worn, the cushions on its matching chair undented. The blue-and-copper rug with its faded shadowy pattern still has that faint new-carpet scent. When I first told John what I wanted this room to look like, he laughed and asked how I thought it would fit into our lives with a young child. ‘I don’t know,’ I remember saying. ‘We’ll use it if the living room’s a mess and the police come round or something.’ And he instantly christened this room The Policeman’s Room. Although when the police actually came, I was afraid that this room would make us look like a cold and unloving family, so it wasn’t to the front room that I led them.
“Sit down. I’ll make us a drink.” I scurry off to the kitchen, realising too late that I’ve forgotten to ask if Jackie wants tea or coffee, milk or sugar. I’ll make up a tray instead. It will take longer but I don’t mind, and it will make me look like a prissy fifties housewife with too much time on my hands but I don’t mind that either. I need to compose myself. I rummage in the cupboard for the cafetiere. Might as well do the thing properly. Perhaps if I take long enough, Jackie will give up and go home again.
I spin out the preparations as long as I can. When I carry the tray through, Jackie has claimed one end of the sofa, her feet neatly together on the floor and her hands in her lap, as if she’s here for a job interview. She gives the overcrowded tray a shrewd assessing look and moves her handbag so I can get to the coffee table.
“I forgot to ask if you wanted tea or coffee so I—”
“I’ll have tea, please.” I try to pick up the teapot but my hand betrays me, giving a curious spastic jerk so that the lid rattles and the spout knocks against the mug. “It’s all right, you get your coffee and I’ll sort myself out.”
I do better with the cafetiere, filling my mug without too much trouble. Jackie adds an inch of milk and three teaspoons of sugar to her mug and looks at me over the top of it.
“Thanks for letting me in. Wasn’t sure if you would.” She curls her fingers around her mug and I notice again the perfection of her nails, which are now a rich damson. She must have found time to repaint them since I saw her at the station.
“Is your little girl with your husband?”
“Georgie? She’s with my mam. Lee’s at work, he won’t be back till lunchtime. You only had one, didn’t you?”
“Just the one.”
Her eyes wander to the mantelpiece where Joel, wide-eyed against a white background, stares wonderingly out at the room.
“He looks like you.” She puts her mug down and fumbles in her bag. “Here’s my Ry.”
Ryan has his mother’s colouring, dark and dramatic, and his mother’s sharp features, coated with a light speckling of acne. The wide low forehead and thick neck, the roll of pudge beneath his chin, presumably come from his father. The photographer has done his best, but the boy who stares out at the camera looks tough, scrappy, working-class in all the ways we don’t value any more, the kind of boy you see coming towards you and make a point not to make eye contact with, a boy who if he was with his mates you’d cross over to avoid having to pass him too closely. Ryan, in short, looks like trouble.
“He’s a good-looking boy,” I say.
“No, he’s not. Not in that picture, anyway. But he’s a good lad. He’s really good to his little sister. He kisses her every time she smiles at him.”
“That’s sweet.”
“He looks like a little thug, I know he does, but he’s really not. He’s my boy. He’s been gone for a month now. And the coppers are winding down the search and that, because he’s been gone so long they think he’s—” She disguises her shudder with a mouthful of tea, tries again. “They think he’s -” Her hand is shaking. “They think they’re looking for a—” A slop of tea slings itself out over the side and splashes her leg and the rug beneath her feet. “Oh, shit, your lovely rug.”
“It’s fine.”
“I didn’t come here to wreck your house.”
“Honestly, don’t worry, it doesn’t matter.”
“Course it matters. Just tell me where the stuff is and I’ll clean it up. I just need a minute—”
“Just forget about the rug, will you?” She looks as though she’s about to cry. If she breaks down in front of me I think my heart may shatter. What can I say so she can get herself back under control? “Tell me why you came here. You said you’d got proof about something?”
“Yeah. And I have.” She fumbles in her bag. “I got this email last night.”
Dear Ms Nelson (Jackie),
Forgive me for contacting you out of the blue like this. My name is Marcus White and I’m a professional psychic. I believe I can help find your missing son, Ryan.
Of course, Jackie, you’ll want some evidence that I can do what I promise. So here are three predictions of events that will shortly come to pass. When you’ve experienced the truth of these predictions, and you feel ready to reach out to me, together we can work to bring Ryan back to you.
My predictions are:
- A woman will soon come into your life in connection with Ryan’s disappearance (or perhaps she already has). You will initially reject her help, but she has good intentions.
- Someone close to you will offer you reassurance and advice. However, you will soon discover that they may not be all they seem.
- Some unexpected evidence or information surrounding Ryan’s disappearance will come to light within three days of you receiving this message.
Jackie, I strongly believe we are meant to work together to bring Ryan home. You’ll find my contact details as well as details of my fees on my website which is listed below. Please call at any time of day or night.
May the kindly spirits watch over you, Jackie.
With love and light,
Marcus White
“Jackie,” I say, as gently as I can. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear. But this definitely isn’t real psychic powers. It’s just guesswork. I used to get emails like this all the time. It’s not even a very good one.”
“But look!” Jackie taps the paper with her damson fingernail. “That first bit. The woman that’s going to come into my life. I thought of you straight away. When we met at the police station, and I
was real angry cos I thought they’d brought you in to meet with me. I thought they were trying to set us up together, two mams with missing kids.”
“No, it wasn’t that, I promise, they’d never do that to either of us. I was there for… for something else. It was just a coincidence.”
“Well, that makes it more believable then, doesn’t it? There’s no way he could have predicted it.”
“But what he said could apply to hundreds of people. If you hadn’t met me, you might have thought it was one of the police officers.”
“He couldn’t know for sure one of them was going to be a woman, how could he?”
“No, he couldn’t, but it’s a good bet, close to fifty-fifty. Maybe higher when you think about the kind of case yours is. That’s what psychics do, you see. They play the percentages. You see how he’s said will shortly come into your life, OR perhaps she already has? If you hadn’t already met someone who fitted, you’d just assume it hadn’t happened yet. And if it didn’t happen, you’d forget about it, because he’s got a sure bet in the list as well.”
“But—”
“You see that last one, new information within three days? That’s his banker. He’s included that one because it’s time-bound, and that means you’ll look out for it and really remember it when it happens. And you can guarantee there’ll be something new in three days at this stage of the investigation, even if it’s just CCTV searches coming back or something. So the mystery woman won’t matter either way, she can turn up or not, because he’s proved himself, right? But it’s the second one he really wants to reel you in with.”
I’m almost forgetting that Jackie is here listening to me.
“This one, about someone who offers advice but they’re not all they seem? That’s his hook. It sounds so specific but it’s actually incredibly vague. It could apply to someone in the police, or a reporter, or, God, I don’t know, all the other psychics who’ll start bombarding you with messages even. Neighbours who want some gossip. People you knew at school who just fancy getting involved in the drama, so they get in touch and ask if they can help. Basically anyone you’ve talked to recently.”
“But there’s got to be summat in it or people wouldn’t—”
“And because he’s said they’re not all they seem, he’s making you feel like he’s got some special inside knowledge, and there’s something he can tell you no one else can. So when you go to see him, that’s the one he’ll start working on. I’ve been feeling very strongly that there’s someone in your life now whose intentions you shouldn’t trust. Who do you think that might be? And then he’ll start picking away at you. Anyone who suddenly showed an interest? Anyone asking a lot of questions? Anyone trying to make you look bad? And eventually he’ll get a hit, and he’ll start feeding stuff to you about what their motivations might be, and he’ll probably even be right because people are pretty predictable really, and that’ll be it, he’ll have you. And you’ll pay him. And that’s all he wants.”
Hunched against the arm of my plushy duck-egg sofa, Jackie looks very small.
“I’m sorry.” I risk patting her arm.
“You used to believe though.”
“I did. I wasted so much time and money and effort. God, I wanted, so much, for there to be this special magic trick I could use to find Joel. But there isn’t. There really isn’t. All we can do is wait and let the police get on with their jobs.” She’s looking at me as if she’s hoping for something more, but I don’t know what else to give her. “I hope they find Ryan soon.”
“Yeah. Me too.” She reaches for her handbag. “Thanks for the tea. I’d better go. Do you mind if I use your toilet first?”
“Course you can.” I lead her out into the hall. “Up the stairs and on the right.”
Jackie is a while in the bathroom. She must be freshening her make-up. That immaculate mask she puts on like armour, but that will do her no favours and win her no sympathy. People prefer the mothers of lost children to look wilder and more unkempt. How much longer will she be? I hope her son is found soon. But I doubt he will be found alive. I hear the click and scrape of the ironwork gate on the front path.
The postman has already been. Melanie is coming to see me later to bring a homemade cake and her children, but she always phones ahead. John never comes here any more. So who—?
Then I see the wavery shape outlined in the glass, the hand coming up to knock on the glass, and I’m across the hallway in a single bound. This is it, the moment I’ve waited and dreamed of for so many nights and days, all the pain made worth it for this one single instant of longing fulfilled, because it’s happened, it’s happened, it’s finally happened, my love, my darling, my only boy…
But there’s no one there. The garden gate is shut. The doorstep is empty. I’m alone in the hallway, just me and my shadow, and a stranger’s footsteps on the stairs as Jackie comes down in a hurry.
“Are you all right? I thought I heard you scream.”
“No! No, it’s nothing, it was just I thought there was someone at the door.”
“Someone knocked and ran away? Trick-or-treaters?”
“No, they didn’t knock, I just thought I saw someone coming up the path. My mistake.” I swallow my fright. I won’t share what I thought. It’s no one’s business but mine.
I want Jackie to put her boots back on and leave but she won’t. Instead she’s hovering at my elbow. “It’s shook you up, hasn’t it? You want to sit down?”
“What? No, I’m fine, it’s nothing.” I can cope with anything but kindness. Why won’t she go away? “I’m fine. What time’s your bus?”
“Did you think it was Joel?”
“Of course I didn’t think it was Joel!”
When our eyes meet, I know she knows I’m lying. And as we stare at each other defiantly, I suddenly know something else. Jackie was lying too. She knew the email she showed me was a poorly written fraud. Her grandmother did not have gypsy blood; she never made predictions. Jackie came here for something else entirely.
“That first year,” I say slowly, “I used to hear him coming back home all the time. I’d wake in the night and hear him creeping into the house. I used to run down the stairs to greet him. But he was never there.”
“I do that about eight times a day.” Jackie wipes fiercely at her mouth. “I act like I’m coping but I’m not. I can’t do this. I don’t know how much longer I can stand it. I can’t sleep at night, so I get up and clean. My house has never been so clean, you’d think I was trying to sell it. And ironing, I iron everything, even sheets. And when I run out of housework I do my nails. Different colour every night, just so I’ll have summat to think about that’s not listening for the door and praying it’s Ry. I can’t help it, when Lee comes home I have to get up, I can’t be in the bed listening to him sleep while I lie awake and I think about all the things that might have happened. I sometimes wonder if… if…”
“For a while,” I say, “the police thought that John might have hurt Joel. Or that I might have. They never managed to prove that John didn’t. I know he didn’t, but in the night sometimes I still used to wonder… no wonder he left me.”
“Lee was supposed to be out at work,” Jackie whispers. “The day Ryan went, I mean. He’s a taxi driver, he normally works mornings and nights, but he was going to do the afternoon as well, and stay out and work straight through. And I was taking Georgie to my mam’s. Ry knew the house was going to be empty. So he twagged off school. Only the school called me, you know the way they do – I can’t believe Ry thought he’d get away with it, I was so angry – so I came home early from my mam’s to catch him out. But when I got home, there was just Lee in the house. Work was dead quiet so he’d come home after all.” She looks at me imploringly. “I mean, I know he didn’t hurt Ry. I know he never would.”
“I knew straight away something was wrong. But I didn’t dare call the police until John came home. Because if I called them, that made it real. And now I wonder, if I’d called as s
oon as I thought there was something wrong, would they maybe have found him—”
“I knew too. But I didn’t know what to do. I mean, I tried to call his mates, but I don’t even know who half of them are. I rang all the ones I knew but there was only about four of them, and then I went out looking in all the places they hang around, and then… but Lee said we had to wait at least twenty-four hours before we called the coppers or they’d do us for wasting their time.”
“Sometimes,” I say, “I dream they’ve found Joel’s body. I get the call in the middle of the night and it’s Nick’s voice saying, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. And it breaks my heart, but it’s a relief too, because it’s over.” Jackie’s face is crumpled and ugly with pain. “Then I wake up and he’s still not found. And I think, I wish today they’d call. Even to tell me he’s dead.”
“Me too,” Jackie whispers. “It’s only been a month and I’m already having times when I wish they’d tell me he’s dead, just so I can stop wondering. I’m so ashamed—”
I put my arms around her and hold her, absorbing the sweet shock of holding a strange woman so intimately, feeling her resist and hold herself rigid at first, then give in to the comfort of my embrace. She lays her face against my shoulder and howls, her make-up coming off in smears and streaks against my T-shirt. I sit quietly on the stairs and let the grief pour out of her and watch the sunlight stream in through the stained glass and cast lozenges of light on the polished floorboards, and feel glad that no one is here to see us. We mothers of lost children are not pretty criers.
Life Without Hope:
The Monsters Among Us
On 20th January 2014, from ConcernedFriend:
I know the people who have your boy, he is being held for use as a sex worker and it will cost you $8250 to buy out his contract form the people who have him. I will be in touch by email within three days to discuss further
On 8th March 2014, from JoelIsLost:
Mum it’s me Joel. I’m in San Francisco. I’m so sorry I ran away and I’m sorry it took me so long to get in touch. I guess I was embarrassed about all the fuss. I’ve been working in a bar to save the $$ to come home but I was just laid off and I can’t make my rent so I will be evicted soon. Please please please can you wire me some money so I can come home to you mum, I miss you so much and I am so so sorry
The Winter's Child Page 6