John and I sit side by side on the sofa. The curtains are still open and the night stares in. I don’t want to move. If I move I will be changing things, accepting this new reality. Forty-eight hours. Does the clock start ticking from when he vanished, or from when I first reported him gone? Either way it’s unimaginable. There’s no way I can get through that amount of time without knowing where my son is.
After a minute, John reaches out and takes my hand. When I turn my face towards him, he’s silently weeping.
Because the police have told us to, we go to bed. We’re still secretly convinced that the key to finding Joel is to stick to the rules, follow procedures, go by the book, be the good boy and good girl we’ve both been all our lives. Why would we think anything else? It’s worked for us up to now. In the bathroom, a pale stranger stares back at me from the mirror. She has my face, but her eyes show me a different, darker woman. I climb in beside John and lie quietly on my back with my eyes closed. We do not touch.
“Do you blame me?”
Words spoken out loud create their own sweet shock in the deep cold silence of the sleeping hours. I’m so surprised that I almost forget to answer. And in the pause between my forgetting and then my remembering, the sound of my breath as I try to shape the words I know I must speak, the sound of my silence as I fail to speak them, I feel the tender shell of our marriage crack and splinter a little.
“No,” I say quickly. “No, of course I don’t blame you.”
At six o’clock we give up our pursuit of sleep and creep downstairs like thieves. The first night has passed and my lungs have not ceased their tireless labour of pulling down oxygen into my blood, my heart has not yet stopped its steady insistent work behind my breastbone. My son’s been missing for eighteen hours now and I’m still alive. I have no idea how this could have happened.
The day crawls on. A second night. Police officers disrupt our house with their brief shocking strangeness. Nick disappears and returns, disappears and returns, his calmness a narcotic that dulls me to the pain of questions like surgical instruments. I cling to every word he speaks, every gesture he makes, more passionately attentive than if he were my lover. Accustomed all my life to getting what I want from men by charm and flirtation, I have to discipline myself to keep my behaviour within bounds. I would do anything if it would help Nick bring Joel back, I would smile shyly every time he spoke, I would bend a little lower than necessary as I passed him a mug of tea, I would rest my hand on his arm as I spoke to him. I would fuck him right here on the floor of the living room if that’s what it took. I would kill John in front of him if Nick asked me to: kill him and eat his raw and bleeding heart.
But this is not what he wants. This is not what it will take. So instead I learn a new discipline. I learn to speak concisely and with accuracy, to remember times, dates and incidents, to answer the same question asked a dozen different ways with patience and without resentment. To accept that nothing I say can be taken on trust.
John’s slower to learn than I am. He grows impatient at the relentless repetitive rhythms of interrogation. He doesn’t understand why DI Armstrong and DC Wood are here in our home, going over and over the same information, when Joel is not here but elsewhere. He doesn’t understand why they’re not out looking for him. He doesn’t yet realise that his job is not to dominate and criticise and sigh and demand to know what the point is since he’s already answered this a dozen times, but to sit quietly, cooperate, accept there is a purpose and answer the questions. He’s an alpha male who has never had his word seriously questioned before and he doesn’t realise how his behaviour is making him look.
The police need access to Joel’s phone bill; something we can do easily. All our bills are together in one real-time online inventory, all the numbers we’ve ever called and all the connections we’ve ever made in a slow itemised list that has caught Joel out several times before (I know you were on your phone in class because I can see the data usage, okay? There’s no point pretending with me).
The numbers are quickly identified: me, John, the few boys Joel classes as friends. Only one number refuses to give up its secret. It belongs to an unregistered pay-as-you-go phone bought from a shop in the City Centre just over a year ago, and a call to this number always precedes one of Joel’s periodic disappearances from school, including the day Joel disappeared.
This should shock me, but instead my heart bounds with unreasoning secret gladness. This is a drugs thing, after all. Joel is off taking drugs somewhere. The places where the addicts go are known to the police, who prefer them corralled into known locations. And that means that Joel can and will be found.
Another deadline passes: the completion of the forty-eight hours in which seven out of ten lost boys are found and returned. Our own lost boy remains a blank. He’s not at any of his friends’ houses and despite repeated reinterviewing, no one has cracked and told us where he is, where he’s hiding from us. Instead, one of them drops a single treacherous truth like a small pebble dropped into a pool of dark still water, sending out ripples that will distract everyone. Joel was scared of his dad.
And like that, everything changes.
I am not under arrest. I am free to leave at any time. I can have a solicitor with me if I want. I do not have to answer the questions they ask me, but it may harm my defence if I do not mention when questioned something that I later rely on in court. Everything I do say may be given in evidence. I lie and say that I understand. I vow to myself that this is the last lie I will tell them. No, I don’t want a solicitor present. Yes, I’m aware that I can change my mind at any time. Is John in a room next to me, having the same conversation? Has John requested legal representation? If he asks, will it count against him?
The questioning is deceptively gentle, knives wielded by a kindly assassin in velvet gloves. How was Joel’s relationship with his father? When I say it was good, what does good look like? What does doing his best mean to me? How do I know they were happy with each other? Were there any problems in their relationship? What would I say is the usual teenage stuff? Did Joel ever talk to me about his relationship with his dad? How did he describe it? Was John ever violent towards Joel? How did I know John was never violent towards Joel? Were there times when John expressed disappointment with Joel? Did I know that John had said during his first interview that he was ‘about ready to wallop Joel into next week when he came home, and if he didn’t watch out he’d find himself with something to be really sorry about’? I can’t hide the shock on my face as Nick tells me this. Is he lying? Surely he’s not allowed to lie. But how would I know if he was? The spooling of the tape recorder in the corner reassures me. Nick can’t lie while there’s someone else listening.
I’ve been thinking of Nick as our friend, or at least as someone on our side. It’s hard to remember that he is only here to find Joel, and that finding Joel includes the possibility that we are the enemy.
For a time, I’m included in the category of people who might have done harm to Joel. The precise anatomy of my own personal Day One is delicately dissected, each moment and movement recorded, accepted, abandoned and then suddenly recaptured, like a cat that lets a mouse run briefly free only to pounce on it again. When did I turn my phone off? Why did I turn my phone off? Wasn’t I expecting Joel to truant from school, given his history and what had happened that morning? I cry when they ask me this, because the answer is that yes, I suspected Joel would truant, but for once, I didn’t want to know. I wanted my lunch with Melanie, my precious two hours in a chic little restaurant, and I couldn’t bear for Melanie to witness the school calling to tell me Joel had bolted. I couldn’t bear to look like a bad, failing parent in front of my sister. They absorb this as they have everything else, pass me a box of tissues and keep going.
What time did I come home from lunch with Melanie? And then what did I do while I was at home? And can anyone verify that at all? And can I talk them through the details of exactly what housework I did? Did I watch any televisio
n? What did I watch? Read a book? Which book? How far did I get with it? What happened? I endure it because I know I must. I’m trapped in the mills of police procedure, and now it’s my turn to be ground into dust.
“Please,” I beg Nick, during a brief respite when the tape recorder is turned off and his companion has gone to fetch more coffee. “Please. I know you have to do this, I know you have to be sure it wasn’t me. But promise me you’re still looking for him as well?”
“This is just a chat, remember? You’re not a suspect, we’re just talking. You haven’t been arrested. You’re free to leave at any—”
“But you’re still looking?”
“We’re pursuing all lines of enquiry.”
“Please,” I repeat. “I know he’s still out there. Promise me you won’t stop looking.”
When he looks at me, something dark and electric flows between us. If we could touch, just a moment of flesh against flesh, we would be able to understand everything about each other. My fingers creep across the table towards his. His eyes are fixed on mine. We are both holding our breath.
“All right,” he whispers. In the waiting silence of the interview room, the words are like a shout. “I promise.”
When DC Wood returns, she beckons Nick out of the room for a minute. Something must have happened. What have they found? And is it bad, or good? When they come back in, I find I’m clutching the edge of the table.
“There’s no news about Joel,” says Nick, and my spine turns to limp string. “But we’ve finally made contact with Mr Palmer. Your next door neighbour,” he adds, seeing my confusion.
“He spoke to you?” The thought is astounding. In all the years we’ve lived side-by-side, I’ve never heard his voice.
“He wrote us a note,” says DC Wood. “It says, I would like to confirm that on the day her son disappeared. Susannah Harper arrived home alone at around two o’clock and did not leave her house all afternoon and no one else came to the house. I am rather lonely and pass my time by watching the neighbourhood comings and goings and for this reason I am confident that I am right. I am happy to testify to this in court. So we can probably wrap this interview up for now.”
She glances sharply at Nick and then at me, as if she senses that something important might have happened in the few minutes she was out of the room. I’m unnerved by her intuition. Is she simply sensitive to the atmosphere? Or was she watching us through the mirror, to see how we might behave when we thought we were alone?
Chapter Seven
Thursday 16th November 2017
“I just hope you’re being careful,” Melanie says in my ear, and sighs.
Being careful used to mean don’t get pregnant, in the days when a younger, fresher Melanie watched her older sister groom and preen before the mirror with the breathless attention of a devoted acolyte. I enjoyed showing her how to copy me, dreaming of the day when I would finally retire in a froth of tulle and orange-blossom, leaving Melanie to bask in my reflected glory, and captivate the drooping and lovesick suitors who I had chosen to leave behind. Be careful, she used to say to me in her best old-lady voice, when I finally turned away from the mirror. Be careful. I would always laugh and say Okay, Mum. But now she doesn’t mean don’t get pregnant. Now she means don’t get too close to Jackie.
“I’m fine. What are you worried about?”
“I thought you had an online forum for people who wanted to talk to you, like a support group.”
“I did. I do.”
“So why does she need to come round to your house? I thought you were going to keep everything online?”
“Look, she’s a friend as well, all right? I’m allowed to have friends.”
“Suze.” Melanie’s voice is like a reproachful kiss. “You need to protect yourself. You’ll end up getting hurt.”
“I know all that. You don’t need to tell me. I’ve been blogging for years, I know how to deal with nutters.”
“Then why aren’t you taking your own advice?”
The skin of my ear is burning. I switch my phone to the other side and try to think of something to say. Melanie waits, waits, waits.
“We’ve got things in common,” I say.
“You’ve got one thing in common and that one thing could be dangerous for you.”
“How could it be dangerous?”
“Just because her son’s missing doesn’t make her a nice person. You don’t know what she might have done, her and her husband.”
“How can you say that? That’s a horrible thing to say! You haven’t even met her.”
“I saw them on the news last night. I’ve heard them speak. And have you seen the husband? He must have had something to do with it. It’s what everyone thinks. Even the police. You could see it in their faces at that news conference.”
I made myself watch the news last night because Jackie begged me to, although I couldn’t bear to hear the words and had to have the sound turned down. A manager who had stolen the money from her colleagues’ Christmas savings club; a cheery piece about the switch-on date for this year’s festive lights; and sandwiched between them, my friend, looking faintly unreal. Jackie’s make-up was like a smooth bronze mask, with traces of her own pale skin just visible around her hairline, like a geisha. Her nails, a flawless startling teal, caught the lights of the cameras as they flashed, like baubles.
“Don’t talk about her like that. You don’t know her at all. Every word of this is just snobbery.”
“I’m not being snobby, I’m being honest. What kind of a woman gets herself done up like that when her son’s missing? I don’t think you even took a shower for the first few weeks, you were such a mess—”
“Don’t.”
“Okay, I’m sorry. I won’t. But you’ve got to admit it looks a bit strange. I mean, even her nails were immaculate. I haven’t had nails like that since before Thomas was born.”
Jackie, who put on her make-up like war paint, a way of commanding the attention of people who otherwise would never give her a second glance. Jackie, confessing that she sat up each night filing and painting her nails because she had to fill the silent hours somehow, and with the house clean and the baby asleep, what else could she do? I used to walk the streets, but I had no one at home who needed me.
“You don’t know what it’s like.” My voice is unexpectedly hoarse.
“Suze, I’m sorry I’ve upset you.”
“You don’t know what it’s like,” I repeat. “But she does. She gets it. And I need to talk to someone who gets it.”
“You could talk to me.”
“And what would you know about my life?”
“Suze, that’s not fair.”
“You know what’s really not fair? You get everything. You get two children without any effort and you get to see them both grow up, and you get to keep your husband and you get to live with your whole life with everyone you love, you get the perfect family Christmas to look forward to every single year, while I’ve got nothing and no one and when I finally find someone who understands, all you can do is go on about what colour their nails are and tell me they’re not good enough for me to know!”
In the early days of telephones, there was a receiver you could slam down and storm away from. Even a clamshell allowed you the pleasure of snapping something shut, a definite final gesture of rejection. But there’s no drama in ending a phone call on a touchscreen phone, just the uncertainty of did it hang up properly? Has she gone? Yes, it’s ended. I want to throw my phone at the wall but I can’t risk it. I need to keep my phone safe, just in case.
I watch the screen, waiting for it to ring. Melanie always rings me back when I throw a tantrum. She understands how hard things are for me. She’s always there for me, never grudging, always generous. Although I’m older I often feel now that I’m the younger one; or rather, than I’ve been frozen in place while everyone else keeps growing, changing, discovering new things. Will I accept her call when she rings? Of course I will. The screen blinks and
flashes. Melanie Mobile.
“I’m sorry,” I say as soon as the call’s connected.
“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just tired, that’s all. We all had a horrible night again. Thomas was awake with a stinking cold and Grace is still having nightmares about being taken away by bad people.”
“Oh, that’s a shame.”
“She was really upset, going on and on about how these bad people were going to take her away and she’d never see any of us again.”
“We used to believe that too, do you remember? The child-catchers of Hull Fair. Can’t believe it’s still doing the rounds.”
A deep, exasperated silence. Strange how the absence of words can express itself so differently even when the silent one is connected to you only by a phone call.
“Susannah, we both know that’s not where she got it from. Look, I know things are difficult, but I’ve got to say this. You really frightened her that night at the Fair.”
“I… I what?”
“At the Fair. You remember.”
“No, wait, hang on a minute. I never told her that story about the Fair people taking kids away, why on earth would I do that? She’ll have heard it in the playground just like we did.”
“Not the Fair people, bad people. And she definitely got it from you, Susannah. You were watching them on the carousel, and then suddenly you were sobbing behind the bins and going on about Joel.”
“No! No, I didn’t, I never mention Joel to them, either of them, never ever, I never would. I know I was upset but I wouldn’t—”
“Well, trust me, you did! You were hysterical, it was awful, you kept saying his name over and over, they were both terrified. God, I don’t know how we ever got home, and now Grace is convinced someone’s going to take her away and she’ll never see us again. Do you honestly not remember this?”
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