Falling Suns

by J. A. Corrigan

  ‘You know how I feel about my mother,’ I said finally.

  Jonathan nodded. ‘And your dad?’

  ‘He’s looking after her. That’s the way it’s always been.’

  ‘Being alone isn’t good.’ His eyes wandered towards the end of the garden. ‘You’re acting... ’

  ‘Out of character? I have no character now. Whoever I was has gone, and she’ll only return if Joe does.’

  ‘When Joe returns. It’s not over until...’

  Again, I searched his face looking for optimism, but despite what he was saying, it was hard to find. ‘Until what? Until they find Joe’s body?’

  Satisfaction at seeing another’s discomfort soothed my guilty soul for a few seconds. It was my fault for arguing with Liam in front of Joe; my fault for wanting to go back to work. My fault that Joe had run away.

  ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’ he said.

  I picked up my coffee and sipped, burning my tongue. Pain from the blister that was already forming inside my mouth gave me comfort. Perhaps if I felt pain, Joe would be safe. ‘How do you know so much?’

  ‘I don’t, I’m guessing. I’ve spoken with some of the PCs who are involved with Joe’s case. They’re surprised.’

  ‘Surprised?’

  ‘That you’ve been ... “meek”.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake. I stopped being a detective seven years ago. Joe is my son. Tom and his team are doing all they can.’

  Jonathan leaned towards me. ‘I know, but your reaction to the investigation is out of character.’

  I pulled my knees towards my chin and held them tight, resting my heels on the edge of the seat. My wedding ring glinted in the last strand of sun. ‘I want to tell you something. I have to tell someone.’ He moved his chair nearer. ‘This is off the record, right?’

  ‘You know.’

  ‘The day Joe went missing he was at his friend’s house. Melanie, Ben’s mother, we take ... took it in turns on Wednesdays, you know, reciprocal.’

  ‘But I know all this, Rachel.’

  ‘Stay with me, please. Mel picks Ben and Joe up from school and takes them to hers for tea. Joe walks home alone afterwards – gives him independence, you know? I was always so worried that because of the job I’d done, I’d be too protective with Joe – a boy. He’s ... was ... sensitive. Liam’s sensitive. I wanted Joe to be independent ... stronger.’

  ‘Stop using the past tense.’

  My shoulders slumped forwards, and I nodded forlornly.

  ‘That Wednesday, I had a meeting with Tom Gillespie, to talk about me going back to work. I forgot to remind Liam I’d be back late. He didn’t know I was meeting Tom. He would’ve been angry: perhaps that’s why I forgot to remind him. I’d told him the day before though, that I’d be late, but he’s got a terrible memory when he’s painting, working. Liam’s car was here; Joe would have thought Liam was home.’

  ‘He would have thought that.’

  ‘As you know, that day Joe didn’t walk home alone. Melanie walked with him. Chloe, her youngest, had swallowed one of Ben’s toy soldiers, well, the soldier’s hat actually.’ I smiled sadly at the detail. ‘Chloe was OK, but Melanie wanted to take her to the doctor – just to make sure. She walked with the boys and Chloe, dropping Joe on the way. I’m guessing that when Joe found no one was home, he didn’t tell Melanie: he wouldn’t have wanted to trudge to the doctors with her. Besides, Melanie would’ve been distracted; she was distracted. She told the police ... Tom ... that she hurried on to the surgery as soon as Joe reached the door. She didn’t actually see him go in. She feels so bad about it.’

  I glanced at him, carrying on, ‘Joe knows where Liam keeps the key to his den, underneath an old plant pot.’ My eyes wandered to the bottom of the garden. ‘You know what boys are like with “dens”. And Joe loved ... loves his dad’s.’ I rotated my wedding ring around my finger, making the skin a furious red, matching the vermilion colour of the scar that was now on fire. ‘Joe was upset when I dropped him at school that morning. I should have come home on time. I should have remembered to remind Liam. I’m so stupid.’

  ‘Nothing’s been said about Joe being upset; that’s one of the reasons why his disappearance is such a mystery. Gillespie’s assuming Joe went off for a walk, waiting for his mum and dad to come home. Joe would have known you wouldn’t be long in arriving, he’s a sensible boy.’ Jonathan touched my knee lightly. ‘Why do you think Joe was upset?’ He asked the question quietly; the journalist in him knowing instinctively that important information was coming.

  ‘Liam and I have been arguing a lot. About a lot of things. He didn’t want me to go back to the force in the same capacity, he wanted me to carry on staying at home, be a proper mum. He couldn’t understand why I wanted to go back to work. You know what Liam’s like, obstinate when he thinks he’s right.

  ‘I do know what Liam’s like.’

  When we’d worked together in the past, I’d made a point of not talking too much about Liam to Jonathan, but he’d never liked the sound of my husband, and after meeting him, liked him even less. I knew Jonathan’s feelings for me went deeper than they should. And my feelings for him were ones I had always buried. I was married. I had a child.

  ‘There’s something I need to get out, tell someone,’ I said.

  He moved closer. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I think Liam’s having an affair.’

  ‘Christ, Rachel...’

  ‘I think that’s where he was the day he should have been here.’ I faltered, ‘But he didn’t know he had to be here for when Joe returned ... because I forgot to tell him.’

  ‘This is not your fault. Liam forgot.’

  ‘I should have been here. He categorically denies having an affair, even though it’s obvious he is. But as well as arguing about that, we were also having words about me going back to work. Joe had been listening to us at each other’s throats for weeks. And that morning’s argument was particularly intense. When Joe came home that day I think he was still upset.’

  ‘Do you have any evidence that Liam’s playing away?’ Jonathan wavered. ‘And who with?’

  ‘No hard evidence. But I’m certain that’s where he was that day. With her. And no, I don’t know who it is.’

  ‘You know how these cases work. The more the police know about the emotional background of the missing child, the better.’ He smiled dimly. ‘And you might have the wrong idea regarding Liam?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter now.’ For the thousandth time I ran through the events of the day Joe disappeared. ‘I got home soon after Liam had returned from the walk he said he’d been for. He said he was struggling with the painting he was working on, needed air. He’d thought Joe was still with Melanie. Melanie had popped into ours on her way back from the doctors. And that was when I stepped through the front door. When my life fell apart. Melanie told us Joe had come home, that she thought Liam was in the house. I’d thought then that Liam would be angry with me for not reminding him to stay home, but he wasn’t, he seemed distracted. Of course he was distracted. Our son had disappeared. Off the face of the earth.’

  ‘You’ve said nothing to Gillespie about Liam?’ Jonathan’s brow was tight.

  ‘No. My head was all over the place. All I could think about was Joe: where he was, and how guilty I felt for both Liam and I. What appalling parents we are ... were.’ I looked towards the Judas tree. ‘I thought we’d find Joe. I thought Tom would find him, Jonathan.’ I rubbed my stomach, remembering Joe had once lain there.

  His brow puckered. ‘Do you think Joe went to the den after Melanie dropped him off?’

  ‘Liam said no. The key hadn’t been used. He always knows. But Tom’s gone through all this. He just doesn’t know about the arguing, me suspecting Liam’s having an affair.’

  ‘It’s irrelevant whether Liam’s having an affair or not; what’s important is that Gillespie and his team know that Joe was in a fragile state of mind.’

  The hunger that had been gat
hering inside my body while telling Jonathan the facts was now unprecedented – like a thousand knives stabbing. I felt the roaring of grief and guilt, a real sound inside my head. I felt my breathing becoming faster; I choked for air, and, bending forwards, I thought that maybe in the garden, near to the Judas tree, in front of Jonathan, I would die.

  Jonathan moved towards me, gently guiding my head downwards to my knees and, slowly, my breathing calmed.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I needed to talk it through.’

  ‘I wish you’d told me before – but now – we have to move forwards. Promise me you and Liam will tell Gillespie?’

  I nodded. For the first time in six days a tiny fragment of direction settled within me. ‘Have you interviewed any of my family yet?’

  ‘I saw your mum and dad a couple of days ago.’ He smiled. ‘I think I can see why you don’t get on with your mother. Our conversation was short. Surprised she let me in the house.’ He pulled at his jacket. ‘Your dad could hardly speak.’

  ‘He loved Joe.’

  ‘He loves Joe.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, watching him.

  If Jonathan thought there was a chance for Joe; if Liam thought there was chance for Joe, then why couldn’t I have this thought? Were both men deluding themselves, and me? I searched his face looking for signs of an untruth, and saw none. He believed what he said. And I tried to believe him.

  ‘I visited Sam and Bridget, too.’

  ‘How were they?’

  ‘Upset, distressed.’ He looked at me. ‘I asked about their son, Michael. I remember you mentioning him. Lives up north now, Chester? Bridget says she hasn’t seen him for more than two years.’

  ‘She wasn’t the best mother, difficult for her, I’d imagine.’ I did remember telling Jonathan about Michael Hemmings. I’d probably told him more than anyone about my cousin and my childhood, including Liam. Jonathan had always been someone I could confide in and trust. Someone I felt comfortable with.

  ‘Yes, from what you said, he was an oddball,’ he said.

  ‘I like Sam and Bridget, though. I paused. ‘But Michael ...’

  Snatches of memory – me coming home from school and Michael Hemmings getting ready to leave. Mad Michael, I’d called him. His visits always happened when Dad was away, or so it seemed to me, and when I was out the house. I didn’t like him, never had. I tried to tell Dad about the visits, but that was another of those half-spoken conversations, going nowhere.

  Jonathan and I spent another half hour recounting the facts that we knew about the case, both deciding that something had to happen soon. He was back to being a journalist and, briefly, I became the person I had once been: a police officer. As we talked about leads, the media and investigative techniques for a few moments, I stopped feeling the savage hunger that had begun the day Joe disappeared.

  Jonathan made to leave, and a sense of something grabbed at me. It was the look of concern that covered his features, a look that travelled beyond friendship and professional camaraderie.

  I watched him walk to the other end of the street, towards the alley that led to open fields, and I knew he would soon go back to being a reporter, getting a feel for the scene.

  Police were still combing the expanse of land.

  Although I’d told Jonathan everything about what had happened the day Joe went missing, I hadn’t told him what Tom had told Liam and I the previous night. I didn’t want to jinx any news, any developments.

  Tom and his officers had found numerous cigarette butts in the nearby fields. It was a known place for men to meet up and, sometimes, women too. I’d heard this when I attended the neighbourhood meetings. They were petitioning for lighting and patrols along the land that had been attracting ‘unwanted, indecent behaviour’. The more recent butts had been taken away for analysis and the DNA was being matched up against offenders in the area.

  Suddenly I realised where Liam had gone; the prescribed drugs were taking their toll on my reasoning. Liam and I had arranged to go to the station to see Tom, who’d said the results from the DNA tests would be available later in the day. Liam had gone early.

  Re-scraping my hair into a ponytail, I called the PC who’d been assigned to me, asking him if he would take me to the station to see Tom Gillespie.

  I was there in half an hour.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It had been a long while since I’d sat in Tom Gillespie’s office. The last time I’d seen him, on the day Joe went missing, we’d met informally in the pub to talk about me returning to work. In the years since giving up my job, after having Joe, we nearly always met in this pub, near to the police station, or sometimes at his home where Rosie Gillespie cooked Liam, Joe and I the most amazing Sunday roasts.

  Liam was sitting on the corner of Tom’s desk. Tom sat behind, perched on the edge of his chair. Liam had combed his hair but looked tired and agonised.

  I walked towards Liam and he held his arms out like a blue-eyed bear. It was the first proper embrace we’d shared for weeks.

  ‘You should have called me,’ I said.

  ‘I wanted you to sleep,’ Liam replied.

  ‘How are you?’ Tom said.

  ‘Crap,’ I said.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rachel, but I haven’t got the results back from the lab yet. They’re still working on it. I think that we’ll find something, though,’ Tom said.

  ‘Something I don’t know about?’

  ‘Yes – only came to light this afternoon.’ Tom threw a look towards Liam.

  ‘You can tell me, you know, I am Joe’s mother.’

  ‘Calm down,’ Tom said, ‘I am going to tell you. Sit down.’ He chewed his thumbnail. Rosie was always telling him off about it. Liam and I used to laugh at her scolding. ‘Someone’s come forwards.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The day Joe disappeared, Rachel, was he upset? We’ve spoken to Melanie on three occasions and she said Joe was fine when she dropped him at home.’

  ‘We’ve been arguing a lot recently,’ Liam said, looking at me. ‘Joe heard. He could have been upset.’ Liam’s eyes dropped downwards towards the carpet.

  I looked at Tom pleadingly. ‘Liam and I are ... were having a few problems. Tell me what you know about Joe. Please.’

  ‘The man who’s come forwards, he’s a regular “punter” on the field near your house. There most weekends, trawling for sex. He didn’t come forwards before, for obvious reasons. But, in fairness, he’s been out of the country since this all broke – got back yesterday. He’s a businessman.’ Tom allowed himself a skinny smile. ‘He had a positive sighting of Joe. Described what he was wearing, everything. Petrol blue jumper, jeans, black trainers. He said the boy was upset. The man, Gareth Summers, isn’t normally on the field, or, should I say, in the bushes, on a weekday. But that Wednesday he’d arranged to meet a “newie” in the area. He met the “newie” and they did have sex.’

  ‘Did Summers speak to Joe? See anyone with Joe?’

  ‘Yes, as weird as it seems, Summers, our only witness, asked Joe if he was all right. Apparently, so Summers tells us, Joe wasn’t crying then, but it was obvious that he had been. Summers told Joe to go home ... Joe didn’t, and carried on across the field; it would have been getting dark at that time of day. Summers began to follow Joe, to encourage him to go home, but then he saw someone in the distance, and Joe run towards that someone. Joe seemed OK to go with the someone.’ Tom paused. ‘Summers later said the someone was the same man he’d had sex with earlier in the evening.’

  ‘Do we know the name of the man Summers had sex with?’

  Tom nodded. Liam was watching me closely.

  ‘The guy told Summers, after the sex, that he lives up north. Chester.’

  And then my heart plunged downwards.

  ‘Michael Hemmings?’ I said quietly.

  Tom nodded.

  ‘Have you sent anyone up there?’ The strange hunger returned. Tom knew about my cousin, Michael Hemmings, and his criminal record.

&nbs
p; ‘Yes, I have.’ Tom put his arm around my shoulder. ‘He’s not at his flat in Chester, hasn’t been seen for over two weeks.’

  I tasted sick in the back of my mouth, and felt contractions inside my stomach. I rushed over to where Tom kept his wastepaper bin and emptied the small amount of food that was in my gut into it; and then felt Liam’s hand on my back.

  An hour later, and still cocooned inside Tom’s office, the results for the DNA analysis came through.

  The evidence was conclusive, placing Hemmings on the field where Joe was last seen.

  I didn’t sleep that night. Distorted images travelled in infinite circles inside my head. Mostly, the images were of Michael Hemmings: mosaic, kaleidoscopic-flash depictions of him in our house, always about to leave, when I got home from school.

  Sweat saturated my side of the bed. I’d put a T-shirt on to sleep in; it had been freezing in the night. The drop in temperature mirrored the feeling inside my body. Nothing mattered anymore. Only Joe.

  When I got up and made my way to the bathroom I saw a razor blade sitting awkwardly on the sink. It would be so easy. I thought about taking the pills that were nestled in the bathroom cabinet, knowing that swallowing the whole packet would stop my breathing. Yet the part of me who was Rachel, the mother, Rachel, the police officer, realised that suicide wasn’t an option. Not yet.

  Standing in the cold bathroom, I knew. I felt it. A visceral knowledge to which only a mother has access.

  It was the first time I’d smelt toffee popcorn since my son had gone. And I knew Joe was dead.

  As I opened the cabinet, a silent scream came from my lips; I emptied several of the pills into the palm of my hand, hoping they would quieten the deadened howl that would not leave me.

  The day after: 7.30 a.m.

  I saw the tall form of Tom Gillespie passing my kitchen window. A female PC followed closely behind. I heard the quiet knock on the door, and like the falling suns from the fridge my heart fell in my chest as if it was escaping my body. My throat constricted and, for too long, I didn’t take a breath.