by Tess Stimson
I realize she’s right. No point worrying about Guy’s privacy now. We just need to find him. Reluctantly, I hand my son’s phone to the cop and watch his expression change from sceptical to grim as he watches the short clip.
‘Where did this come from?’ the cop demands after he’s watched it through twice.
‘Someone sent it to Guy’s phone,’ Agness says tearfully. ‘It’s gone viral. I don’t know who actually shot it, but anyone could’ve forwarded it to him.’
‘Did your brother discuss this . . . incident with you?’
She bites her lip. ‘Guy doesn’t really talk to anyone. I knew he was being bullied a bit at school, but he said he could handle it. He didn’t want anyone else to get involved. He knew it’d just make it worse.’ She turns to me. ‘I didn’t know it was this bad, Dad, I swear.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ I say firmly.
I must be the shittiest parent on the planet. Why didn’t I know about any of this? I had no bloody idea Guy was being bullied. And this is way beyond the usual schoolboy head-down-the-lav stuff. This is criminal sexual assault. Possibly even rape. Poor fucking bastard. Why the hell didn’t he come to me?
I suddenly remember him standing in the doorway of my office two days ago. He did come to me, and I gave him the brush-off. Christ. If I’d only known.
All of a sudden, everyone is taking this very seriously. The Laughing Policeman disappears, and five minutes later a far more senior officer escorts me into an interview room while a female uniform minds Agness. For the next two hours, I’m bombarded with a thousand questions – what are the names of Guy’s friends, where does he like to hang out, does he have a girlfriend? Boyfriend? – exactly as I was when Kate disappeared. I suppose at least this time no one thinks I’ve buried him under the floorboards.
In a way, though, I feel even worse. As the interview progresses, it becomes clear I don’t know the first thing about my own son. I can’t name a single one of his friends, I haven’t a clue what he does outside school, or even if he’s passed his driving test. I haven’t thought to bring a photo of him with me to the station. In the end, we have no choice but to fetch Agness. She handles all the questions I can’t answer, and has even brought his most recent school picture to give the cops. Once again, I feel surplus to bloody requirements.
‘Guy’s particulars will be circulated on the Police National Computer,’ the senior cop says finally. ‘Any police officer nationally, or internationally, for that matter, will be able to contact us to find out more in-depth details should the need arise.’
I put my hand on his arm as he goes to leave. ‘Tell me the truth. No bullshit. What are the odds we’ll find him?’
He glances at Agness, who rolls her eyes at his delicacy, as well she might, given her involvement up to now. ‘With young runaways, it’s always more difficult,’ he says carefully. ‘They tend not to have credit cards we can trace, and obviously your son didn’t take his phone with him, so we can’t triangulate his position from that. But we’ll do our best, Mr Forrest. I promise you that.’
‘He’s not a runaway,’ I say. ‘Not the way you mean. He’d never have left if he hadn’t been driven to it. I hope you’re going to catch the bastards who did this to him. If anything happens to him, they’re the ones responsible.’
‘Dessler’s the one you want to talk to,’ Agness interrupts. ‘He’s behind this, I know it.’
‘Who the hell is Dessler?’ I demand.
‘Some homophobe at Guy’s school. He’s always beating up on him—’
‘What did you say?’
‘Guy’s gay, Dad,’ Agness sighs. ‘Hello?’
Gay? My son’s gay? This is the first I’ve bloody heard of it!
‘Are you sure?’ I ask doubtfully. I mean, my own son. Surely I’d have known?
‘Like, get with the programme, Dad,’ Agness mutters.
I’m not sure how I feel about this, to be honest. I’ve got nothing against poofs. Each to his own, and all that. As long as they stick to the privacy of their own bedrooms. I’ve got no time for the raging queers who parade down the high street in studs and black leather hot pants, shoving it in our faces. But if Guy’s gay, fine. Makes no difference, really. It might explain why he’s always had more of a rapport with Kate than with me, though.
The cop scribbles something down in his notes. ‘We’ll talk to the school on Monday. If this boy Dessler is behind this, we’ll be wanting to have a serious talk with that young man.’
It’s early evening by the time Agness and I leave the station and drive home. I put down the car windows, resting my arm on the ledge as a balmy summer breeze drifts through the vehicle. At least Guy won’t freeze to death if he ends up sleeping on a park bench, I think grimly.
‘I wish Mum was here,’ Agness says quietly.
I pull her against me, my free hand on the steering wheel. ‘I know,’ I say.
I haven’t told her Kate might be coming home. There are no guarantees, after all. She’s left us to sink or swim on our own for the past three months, so who’s to say if she’ll come back now? I’m not sure I even want her to. We’ve coped perfectly well on our own without her. I don’t need her swooping in to rescue us at the eleventh hour. We can handle this just fine between us.
But as I pull the car into the driveway, a taxi is just leaving. And standing by the kitchen door, looking taller and slimmer and younger than I remember, is Kate.
Agness throws herself into her mother’s arms like a small child. ‘You’re back! You’re back!’
Kate buries her face in her daughter’s hair, holding her tight for a long moment. ‘Hey, sweetheart, let me look at you,’ she says finally, disentangling herself and holding Agness at arm’s length. ‘Your hair’s grown longer. It’s very pretty.’
‘Harry says he likes it this way,’ Agness says, glowing with pleasure.
‘And you’re so tall! I almost wouldn’t have recognized you!’
‘It hasn’t been that long,’ I say irritably.
Kate glances across anxiously. ‘Any news?’
‘No.’
I unlock the kitchen door and go inside, not bothering to wait for Kate to go first.
She follows and dumps her bag on the kitchen table. ‘Have you called the police?’
‘That’s where we’ve just been.’ Pointedly, I move her handbag onto the table by the door our guests use. ‘Agness, can you tell Eleanor we’re back? She had a bit of a headache, but I’m sure she’ll want an update.’
Kate follows me round the kitchen. ‘But what did they say? Did you tell them he’s been missing two days? Are they going to—’
‘Kate,’ I say levelly, turning to face her. ‘You abandoned this family three months ago without even saying goodbye. You didn’t even bother to call and tell us you were OK. You just left. We didn’t know if you were alive or dead. For three months, we’ve had to manage on our own without you. What makes you think you can just march in now and pick up where you left off?’
‘He’s my son. I’m worried about him . . .’
‘He was your son three months ago, too. You gave up your right to be worried about Guy when you walked out and left him.’
Her face pales under her tan. ‘You called me,’ she protests. ‘You must have wanted me to come back?’
‘I thought you had a right to know, that’s all. As you say, he’s your son.’
‘Ned . . .’
‘Katherine!’ Eleanor stops dead at the sight of her daughter. ‘Where did you come from?’
‘Surprise!’ Agness carols behind her.
‘Didn’t you tell anyone I was coming home?’
I shrug.
‘Would you like some tea?’ Eleanor says politely. I have to hand it to the old bitch: she knows how to stick the knife in. In five words, she’s managed to convey just how much everything’s changed in the last three months: Kate isn’t in charge any more. She doesn’t have the right to put on the kettle and make her own tea. She’s a g
uest here; no more, no less.
From the expression on her face, Kate hasn’t missed it either. ‘That would be lovely,’ she says carefully.
‘Where are your bags?’ Agness demands.
‘I haven’t got any,’ Kate says awkwardly. ‘I was out having lunch with Julia when Dad called me, and I went straight to the airport.’
‘But you’re staying, right?’
‘We have to find Guy, don’t we?’ Kate says, giving her daughter a quick hug. Agness doesn’t notice she hasn’t answered the question, but Eleanor throws me a sharp look.
I go to the fridge for a beer, needing the distraction. I thought I wanted Kate to come home on any terms, but now that she’s here, all the old anger and bitterness have come flooding back. I literally can’t bear the sight of her.
Is it possible to love someone more than you thought possible, and hate them at the same time?
‘Is it OK if I go up and find a sweater or something?’ Kate asks, rubbing her bare arms.
I don’t reply, and she takes my silence as a yes. From the corner of my eye, I watch her go up the stairs, her pale blue skirt – new, I take it – swishing around her brown knees. She’s wearing heels, too: spindly silvery ones. Kate never used to wear heels during the day.
Agness runs after her mother like a puppy. She doesn’t even glance in my direction. For three months, I’ve held this family together on my own. Kate’s been in the house three minutes and I’m out in the cold.
‘Katherine’s her mother,’ Eleanor says, watching me.
‘Not for the past three months she hasn’t been.’
‘I know you’re angry,’ she says, ‘but now isn’t the time.’
‘Kate can’t just come swanning back in here expecting everything to be the same! Who the hell does she think she is? She fucking walked out on us, Eleanor! She’s lucky we let her in the bloody door!’
‘I’m sure she doesn’t expect everything to be the same. But what would you like her to do, Ned? Her son is missing. Did you expect her to wait for an engraved invitation?’
‘No, of course not . . .’
‘Your priority is finding Guy. Whatever you two need to sort out comes afterwards.’
Eleanor’s right, damn her. And frankly, I could use some breathing space to get my head together. Seeing Kate again has unsettled me more than I’d expected. Clearly she hasn’t been pining for me, I think bitterly. Underneath the obvious worry about Guy, she looks better than I’ve seen her in years. I can’t put my finger on it. It’s more than the tan and the new haircut and the sexy clothes. She seems more confident somehow. More like she used to be when we first met.
‘Ned,’ Kate says, coming back into the kitchen. ‘Where are all my clothes?’
‘I needed the room,’ I say coolly.
She blanches. ‘You didn’t throw them out?’
‘Keep your hair on. They’re in a trunk in the loft. They may be a bit creased, but you can always iron them.’
I meet her gaze head on, shocked to discover that I suddenly have an erection that could stop traffic. I can tell she’s bursting to say something, but she keeps a lid on it. Fine by me.
‘Where would you like me to stay tonight?’ she asks stiffly.
‘Here, of course!’ Agness laughs. ‘Right, Dad?’
‘Of course,’ I say easily. ‘I’m sure you must be suffering from jet lag, so I suggest you use Guy’s room. I’d hate to disturb you.’
‘That’s very thoughtful of you.’
I incline my head, praying she doesn’t notice the tent pole in my trousers.
‘I’ll cook us all dinner tonight,’ Agness offers eagerly. ‘I’m really good in the kitchen now, Mum. I do this really cool zucchini and sausage stew. I got the recipe off the Internet. It’s delicious, isn’t it, Dad?’
‘Sounds great,’ Kate says brightly.
‘Let me get you one of my fleeces,’ Agness says, already halfway up the stairs. ‘You must be freezing. Dad can bring all your stuff down from the loft later.’
‘I’ll put some fresh sheets on Guy’s bed,’ Eleanor says with a shudder. ‘Teenage boys. You don’t want to catch anything.’
‘You don’t have to do that . . .’
‘Of course I do,’ Eleanor says. She touches her daughter’s arm briefly. Coming from her, it’s the equivalent of a fullblown hug. ‘It’s good to have you home, Katherine.’
Eleanor too, I think bitterly as she follows Agness upstairs. Fucking turncoats, the lot of them.
Kate turns to me. ‘I know this is difficult,’ she begins. ‘But—’
‘You can stay here till we find Guy. That’s the only reason you’re here, right?’
She hesitates and then nods. ‘I am sorry, Ned. I never meant—’
‘This doesn’t change anything, Kate.’
Her tone is suddenly as cold as mine. ‘I wouldn’t expect it to.’
‘Good. Just so long as we understand each other.’
‘Yes,’ Kate says, her expression unreadable. ‘Yes, I think for the first time, we do.’
Kate
I didn’t expect Ned to welcome me back with open arms. The divorce petition made it pretty clear what kind of reception I could expect. But it’s still a shock to be faced in person with this much hostility from the man I have been married to for fifteen years. Ned really does hate me.
The tension in the kitchen is tangible. It takes all my self-control not to bolt back out of the door and run after my disappearing taxi. Eleanor is stiffly polite, Ned simmering with rage; only Agness seems oblivious. If it weren’t for Guy, I’d be on the next plane home.
Except this is home. Or it was.
I shiver, rubbing my clammy palms against my bare arms. The sleeveless silk top, high silver sandals and flimsy chiffon skirt I wore to lunch with Julia are out of place here: in every respect.
‘Is it OK if I go up and find a sweater or something?’ I ask, heading for the stairs.
Ned doesn’t even look round, so I take his silence as acquiescence. Upstairs, everything is so disorientingly familiar, even the usual pile of clutter on the landing: Guy’s trainers, a couple of Agness’s fashion magazines, a pair of comfortable pink slippers that belong to Eleanor. I have to force myself not to pick everything up out of habit.
The door to our bedroom is closed. I hesitate for a moment before opening it. Unlike the rest of the house, this room does look different, and it takes me a moment to realize why. Ned has removed everything that belongs to me. The Mucha print over the bed. The bottles of perfume and jewellery on the dresser. Even the scatter cushions on the chaise longue by the window. It’s all gone.
‘I borrowed some of your make-up,’ Agness says, following me into the room. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Of course not, darling. Just don’t overdo it at school, will you?’
‘Mu-u-um,’ Agness groans, but she’s smiling.
My heart warms. Given the state of our relationship when I left home, I wouldn’t have been surprised if my daughter had refused even to talk to me. But it’s the old, open-hearted, generous Agness who greeted me ten minutes ago, not the hard-edged, sullen teenager I left. I know I don’t deserve it, and I offer up a quick prayer of thanks.
I go to the wardrobe. My neat piles of sweaters and folded T-shirts are no longer there. Instead, the shelves are crammed with messy heaps of Ned’s pullovers. I check the chest of drawers. It, too, is filled with Ned’s clothes.
Another slap in the face.
Did you expect him to preserve everything untouched the way you left it, on the off-chance you might come back?
‘I’m sorry I was such a bitch before you left,’ Agness says suddenly. ‘It was way uncool. I’ve really changed, Mum, I promise. I came top in school last term, and I tidy my own room now and everything . . .’
I cup her sweet face between my hands. ‘Agness, sweetheart, I didn’t leave because of you. You’re not to think that.’
‘I know,’ she says awkwardly.
‘You’re not going to go again, are you?’ she asks, her voice small.
I hesitate. ‘I’m not leaving you.’
‘Are you and Dad going to get a divorce?’
‘We’re talking about it, yes,’ I say honestly. ‘But I’m not going to disappear on you again, Agness. I promise. Now, come on. We’d better get back downstairs or they’ll be wondering where we are.’
I ask Ned where he’s put my clothes, and am relieved to discover they’re in the loft, not the bin. He stares defiantly at me like a truculent child, and I want to slap him. Our son is missing, and all he can do is play these ridiculous games. It’s the same when we discuss sleeping arrangements. Once again, it’s left to Agness to settle things by insisting I stay here. To my complete astonishment, Eleanor offers to put fresh sheets on Guy’s bed for me. I can’t remember my mother lifting a finger to help around the house in all her life.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ I say, touched.
‘Of course I do.’ She squeezes my arm, and my throat tightens. Her support is all the more precious because it was unlooked-for. ‘It’s good to have you home, Katherine.’
Ned smoulders in the corner of the kitchen. Despite – or perhaps because of – his obvious animosity, I feel an unexpected wash of tenderness for him. He has single-handedly kept the show on the road for the past three months. Whatever mess he’s made of everything else, particularly our finances, he deserves some credit for that.
‘I know this is difficult,’ I say carefully. ‘But—’
‘You can stay here till we find Guy. That’s the only reason you’re here, right?’
My sympathy evaporates. He hasn’t changed at all. He’s still the same spoilt child he always was. He still can’t get past how he feels, even now. Not once has he asked how I am. He can’t even bear to look at me.
For the first time, it truly hits me that my marriage is over.
The sound of my bedroom door opening wakes me. I struggle up from a deep sleep, assuming it must be Agness. But to my surprise, it’s Ned who’s silhouetted in the doorway.