The Hoax

by Paul Clayton

  First Edition published 2021 by

  2QT Limited (Publishing)

  Settle, North Yorkshire BD24 9RH United Kingdom

  Copyright © Paul Clayton 2021

  The right of Paul Clayton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him/her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that no part of this book is to be reproduced, in any shape or form. Or by way of trade, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser, without prior permission of the copyright holder.

  Cover Design by Charlotte Mouncey with images from iStockphoto.com and Unsplash.com

  Printed in Great Britain by Ingram Sparks

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN - 978-1-914083-05-1

  Author/Publisher disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental. The place names mentioned are real but have no connection with the events in this book

  Paul Clayton is best known to television audiences for five series of the award-winning sitcom Peep Show. Other appearances include Him and Her, Hollyoaks, Coronation Street, Doctor Who, The Crown, Shakespeare and Hathaway and This Time with Alan Partridge. This is his second novel.

  He is a regular columnist in The Stage and patron of the children’s literacy charity Grimm and Co.

  For Richard

  and

  Les Quizerables

  Chapter One

  There was no way of telling the time, no clock on the wall, and they’d taken her watch and phone. Truth be told, it was the narrowest bed she had ever seen. Lying on it, she could touch both sides of the room with her hands. Cool, smooth walls. Unadorned. She could see the stained grey ceiling where a murky glass sphere held a single bulb. In one corner of the room stood a small metal cupboard bolted to the wall beneath a tiny window. Too high to see out of. Hard for her to tell if it was day or night. Something about the room seemed eerily familiar.

  This isn’t the place I should be. These are not my clothes. Hell, this is not my life. Why did I let them bring me here?

  Her fault. Standing naked, being searched, handing over her clothes, her bag and some paltry possessions in exchange for a grey tracksuit, a pack of basic underwear, socks and trainers.

  At what point had this room become hers? Was it yesterday, when she learned the truth? Or did her journey begin a long time ago?

  She pulled the sheet towards her chin. A faint stench of unwashed clothes filled the air. This was, after all, a bed in which murderers had lain awake. A bed where killers had rejoiced in their deed. A bed where she had time to reflect upon what she had done.

  Dispossessed of her clothes, stripped of her rights, stranded in this concrete box, the principle of innocent until proven guilty had never been so meaningless. They had taken away her world beyond these walls. A tiny darkening window, no clock, no watch, no phone. No friends, no family, no one. And she knew she could be here for a long time.

  Possibly forever?

  Chapter Two

  One Year Earlier

  Frankie Baxter loved her kids. Jonny, Shannon and little Henry were her pride and joy. She adored them a little less than normal by the Friday of half-term week.

  Having run out of the money she kept in a beer glass in the kitchen cupboard for outings and treats, Friday loomed long and large in front of her. She never failed to try and do something special on each day of half term. Taking the week off work to be with her kids was one such example. It cost her wages but saved on childcare. Yet by the time she had woken early on what was the last day of the week, she had run out of ideas about keeping them busy.

  The grocery cupboard was bare too, and the lunch she’d prepared of tinned soup and crusty toast hadn’t gone down well.

  ‘What d’ya mean no yogurts?’ said Jonny, prone on the sofa in front of Bargain Hunt.

  ‘I mean no yogurts.’ Frankie moved through to the living room of the flat and switched off the TV. ‘I haven’t had a chance to get down to the supermarket this week.’

  She cast a glance at her eldest son. Lanky like his dad, her first husband, Frankie often found it hard to see any of herself in him. ‘Do you have no homework you need to do for school on Monday? You could get that done this afternoon so the weekend’s clear.’

  ‘Done it.’

  Jonny reached onto the floor, picked up the remote between his feet and lifted it back to the sofa in a rare show of athleticism, before turning the telly back on.

  Frankie picked up the soup plate from the coffee table in front of him and took it back into the kitchen. ‘Anybody like to do the washing up today?’

  ‘How much?’ said Shannon.

  Frankie looked at her daughter. How did a fifteen year old understand the need for money so well? ‘A walk in the park and a game of crazy golf?’

  ‘You serious?’ Shannon laughed.

  ‘Yes I am, Miss. I took time off for your holidays so we could do things as a family. You’ve barely moved your arse from that sofa for the entire week.’

  ‘I’m on holiday.’ Shannon reached for her headphones.

  Frankie reached over and whipped them out of her hand. ‘Oh no, you’re not. We are having a family walk with ice cream at the café and crazy golf. And if you don’t like it, you can kiss goodbye to any thought of clothes shopping next week for that party you’re dying to go to.’

  ‘It’ll be fun, Shan,’ said Jonny, ever the diplomat. ‘And think how much easier things are when Mum is happy.’

  ‘For all of us,’ Frankie interjected. She was sure she had a tenner in her purse. If not, she hoped the crazy golf shack took cards.

  ‘Yeah!’ yelled Henry. He rushed up and gave Frankie a hug. She loved it that Henry still liked to cuddle her, even though there was so much more of her to cuddle these days. She knew Henry’s cuddles almost always meant that he wanted something. ‘Can we take Dimwit too?’ he asked. ‘Please, Mum. Can we?’

  Hearing his name, Dimwit stirred in his basket in the corner of the kitchen. One day the smelliest, ugliest and stupidest dog imaginable had turned up on their doorstep. Frankie had made the mistake of allowing the kids to feed it. Unsurprisingly, it had never left. Six years on and the dog ate its way through a healthy portion of her housekeeping money every week; an appropriate introduction for it would be as a food-processing machine that occasionally walked. Frankie had no idea as to Dimwit’s breed and she couldn’t care less.

  ‘Let’s get coats and do this.’ She dried her hands and emptied the sink.

  ‘Mum!’ yelled Shannon in horror. ‘Mum, you can’t go out like that.’

  Frankie glanced at her clothes. ‘Like what?’

  ‘You’ve got pyjama bottoms on.’

  Frankie spent as much time in pyjamas and track suits as she could – sweatshirts, tops and pants, anything a size too big. She didn’t have a problem with being a bit on the large side but didn’t want to emphasise it by wearing anything fitted. ‘They’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘Big coat, big boots. No one in the park will be looking at me.’

  ‘Change them, Mum. Per-lease,’ implored Henry.

  ‘You do know that people talk about you when you take us to school.’ Shannon bounced off the sofa and stood facing her mum.

  ‘What if they do?’ The last thing
Frankie cared about was what other people thought. After all, she kept herself to herself and her family.

  ‘Trisha’s mum says you look a mess,’ Shannon continued.

  Frankie pursed her lips. As far as Tricia’s mum’s clothes were concerned, Frankie just hoped she’d kept the receipts. But she could certainly do without a needless row with her daughter, especially with the weekend to go and then back to school. ‘Okay. I’ll pop upstairs and put on some trackies then, Miss Fashion Pants.’ She headed for the hall.

  Shannon flopped back onto the sofa with Jonny. Battle won.

  Frankie stopped in the doorway and turned back to her three children. ‘You do know that Trisha’s mum looks like a man in drag, right?’

  Even Jonny couldn’t resist laughing at that one.

  ***

  The February afternoon threatened to darken as the small, bedraggled group plus dog approached the park. This was not looking good, and already a fine mizzle was soaking into Frankie’s large woollen jumper and sweatshirt.

  Sloping down from the main road, Kelsey Park divided itself into two routes: Dogs and No Dogs. Dimwit knew the way and pulled Henry to the right-hand path around the lake. This was the way to the crazy golf course. Frankie followed them down the path.

  ‘It won’t be open, Mum,’ insisted Jonny.

  It looked like he was right. ‘Let’s check. If not, we can always go to the café.’

  ‘It’s a shit caff, that one,’ said Shannon. ‘Like totally crap.’

  ‘It’s cheap, love. That’s the main thing.’ Frankie smiled at her daughter, desperately hoping she might understand how things were for once. ‘It means we can all have something in there. Tea, cake, pop.’

  ‘Pop!’ spluttered Shannon. ‘What you on, Mum?’

  ‘I’m on the edge of my patience, that’s what I’m on, love. Now, are you coming or not?’

  Jonny stepped up to join his sister. ‘Mum, what if Shan and I go for a walk round the lake, up the No Dog path and meet you and Henry back at the café? How would that suit?’

  Despite his general lethargy, Jonny’s ability to be the peacemaker always impressed Frankie. The elder brother stepping in. How could she say no? ‘Okay. Back at the café in half an hour. We all agreed?’

  Jonny gave a quick wink. Shannon set off with no acknowledgement, and Henry grabbed Dimwit’s lead and headed off down the dog path.

  ‘See you at the café,’ called Frankie to their disappearing backs.

  A little further into the park along the dog path was a clearing amid the leafless trees. Separated from the lake by a rack of weeds were some twenty benches, each with a memorial plaque. Frankie loved sitting here. Whenever she strolled in the park, she’d find five minutes’ peace and contentment on one of the seats. She loved the stories that the inscriptions told. One bench was dedicated to Ivy Tillson and gave the date of her death. Then there were the words, Margaret, daughter, and a date three years later. Frankie could see Margaret staring out of a lonely kitchen window after Ivy had gone and letting go to be with her mother.

  She couldn’t imagine Shannon troubling herself with grief. Tough, independent Shannon, very much her father’s daughter, Frankie rarely found love in her eyes. Her mother had always said, ‘When you find love in their eyes, keep them safe in your arms forever and they’ll do the same for you.’ Frankie couldn’t see her name on a bench with Shannon’s.

  A few birds skimmed the lake as the afternoon darkened. Frankie stood up, pulled her hood around her and started towards the café. The lake stretched away down the centre of the park and she assumed Jonny and Shannon were walking round it. Henry had long since run off with Dimwit, who was no doubt getting filthy chasing sticks through the undergrowth. In front of her stood the children’s playground, which all her children now considered themselves much too old for. Once the steel tube of a slide that coiled its way down from a yellow trapezoid climbing frame had been the main pleasure for Henry. Now it was of no interest at all.

  The café was a low hut with a corrugated iron roof, magnolia paint peeling from the outside walls. As she pushed open the doors, Frankie was grateful for the warm fug of steam from the counter.

  There was no sign of the kids. She bought herself a tea and settled in the seat by the window from where she could see the lake. The whole park was a place of memories. It was around this lake that she had pushed little Henry in his pram, Jonny and Shannon in tow; hot, sunny Sunday afternoons when she thought they would be a family. Henry’s father hadn’t been there to help her push in the maternity ward – he’d barely been there at the conception. She didn’t mind. Somewhere inside her was enough unconditional love for the three of them. She was the eye of their storm, quiet and still. She knew she was the one who would walk with them through life, her only reward being that of keeping them safe.

  As she took a sip of her tea, she saw Jonny and Shannon running towards the café. The doors burst open. Frankie gave Jonny the last of her change to buy drinks and they joined her at the table with their Coke. ‘Good walk?’ she enquired.

  ‘Boring,’ said Shannon, without looking up.

  Jonny took a large swig of his drink. ‘Yeah. Tried to kill a duck for tea but no luck.’

  ‘I don’t think we’re that desperate yet. There’s lasagne in the freezer.’ Frankie smiled at her eldest boy who could be remarkably understanding at the strangest of moments.

  ‘Look.’ Shannon’s voice told Frankie something was wrong.

  Through the window, she saw Dimwit running across the grass, turning round and round on himself. Jonny was out of his seat and through the café doors. Frankie followed him with Shannon lumbering behind.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ asked Shannon.

  ‘He’s chasing his lead,’ replied Jonny. ‘Why’s he got his lead on?’

  Frankie stopped, out of breath. Looking at the dog, she immediately knew what was wrong. ‘Where’s Henry?’

  Chapter Three

  PC Oliver Ashley made his way up the path outside the building in search of Flat 23C. The small block stood on the corner of a major road opposite the railway station. A visit to this area on the edge of the council estate usually meant trouble, but on this occasion there had been a call to the station and his sergeant had dispatched him to take the relevant details.

  Flat 23C had a frosted-glass panel at eye level in the front door. Lights were on in the hall and he stood for a moment looking through the glass. Everything seemed quiet and still. Pressing on the doorbell, he heard no sound; assuming it broken, he rapped on the door. A shadow appeared in the hallway and the door was flung open.

  The woman facing him was small, about five three, thought Oliver. Flame-coloured hair, which didn’t seem particularly natural, and a shape that could be described as dumpy. She wore some patterned pyjama bottoms and a sweatshirt top, and from the redness of her eyes she seemed to have been crying.

  ‘Mrs Baxter? Mrs Frankie Baxter?’

  ‘Yes, that’s me, officer. You want to come in?’

  Oliver stepped inside. At the far end of the hallway, he could see the face of a teenager with floppy blond hair peering around a door. ‘In here, please, where our Jonny is.’

  Tucking his cap under his right arm, Oliver reached into his top pocket and pulled out his notebook. It made him feel a little more in charge. He followed the teenager into the room.

  The place was a tip. The furniture seemed too big for the room; two armchairs and a sofa were fighting for space and faced a television which, at a conservative estimate, must have had a fifty-inch screen. Clothes lay scattered around, and mugs and drink cans covered a cheap coffee table in the centre of the room.

  The boy Oliver had seen looking down the hall was sitting on one end of the sofa. In the armchair opposite him, engrossed in her phone, was a younger girl with cropped hair. Both of them looked up as he walked in. The woman followed hi
m and gestured for him to sit. He perched on the other end of the sofa.

  ‘Mrs Baxter, you rang the station. Your son has gone missing?’

  At first Frankie could hardly speak but then the words started coming and wouldn’t stop. ‘He wouldn’t do this. He’s never done this before.’

  Several times Oliver had to ask her to slow down while he made notes. Most of what she told him she’d reported on the phone. He knew his colleagues at the station would be going through the details, but this was his chance to double-check the information face to face. ‘And you’ve rung his phone?’

  The teenage boy, who Oliver learned was called Jonny, told him they’d rung the number and left several messages. ‘He’s always running out of battery. It’s an old phone. His battery’s shit. He’s probably just gone off with some mates.’

  ‘Jonny! We’ve rung his mates, officer, the ones we have numbers for. No one has seen him, not since Dimwit came running back without him.’

  PC Ashley made a note. ‘And is this Dimwit a mate of his?’

  The girl in the armchair laughed. ‘It’s a dog. Dimwit.’

  Oliver made a note, keeping his head down to hide his blushes.

  ‘Shannon! Show some respect. The policeman is trying his best to help,’ Frankie snapped. ‘I’m sorry, officer. She’s upset. We’re all upset. I just keep thinking the worst. He could be lying hurt somewhere.’

  ‘Mum, it’s much more likely he’s been abducted.’ Shannon realised it was the wrong thing to say as soon as the words left her mouth.

  Frankie turned white and fell into a chair.

  Chapter Four

  Henry was cold. Cold and wet; cold and wet and miserable, and ready to go home. But this was a challenge, something he knew he had to do. One night, that would be enough. The rules on Facebook said forty-eight hours. You had to stay away from home without telling anyone where you were for forty-eight hours. It was the Blue Whale Challenge, and Angus McKinnon had challenged Henry. Angus McKinnon was not a person you could let down. Henry knew life would be easier if he were in Angus McKinnon’s favour.