Silent Child

by Sarah A. Denzil

  “Anyway, up here on the left is the downstairs loo.” I angled my face away from Rob to hide the way my cheeks had flushed.

  “Downstairs loo, you say? Very la-di-da.”

  I rolled my eyes at Rob. It wasn’t as if his parents didn’t have a nice place. He was being an inverted snob. It was cute when we’d been teenagers. I liked that rebellious streak in him, and the way he railed against his middle-class upbringing, but now it just seemed immature.

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” Rob added hastily, sensing my annoyance.

  “And up the stairs is where your bedroom is, and where my bedroom with Jake is. There’s a bathroom there, too, with a bath and a shower.” I took a couple of the stairs and glanced back to realise that Aiden wasn’t following us. “It’s okay, take your time.”

  I shared a look with Rob. Concern laid low in my belly along with a mouthful of the tea Denise had made me. I’d never thought of this. I knew that Aiden walked with a stiff gait, and that he hadn’t had much opportunity to move around over the decade of captivity, but I’d not even thought of the fact he might not have walked up stairs for years and years. It was one of those moments where the extent of Aiden’s trauma hit me with full force. This was what he’d been through. This was what he had been forced to endure. This. Not even able to walk upstairs. Any other sixteen-year-old would be able to run up them, taking two at a time. I saw them running up and down the stairs at school all the time. I usually chastised them for it and received a ‘sorry, Miss’ in return.

  Aiden stood there, with his gaze fixed on the bottom step. I walked down to meet him and hesitantly placed my hand on his arm.

  “Okay, so one big step and then another.” Gently, I coaxed him up the first few steps. There were beads of sweat forming on his forehead. His brow was furrowed in concentration, but after the first few steps, he got the hang of it, and I let go of his arm.

  Rob met us at the top with his arms folded and his mouth in a tight line. I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking about the things he’d do to the man who had taken our son.

  “This way, Aiden.” I was getting sick of the sound of my own voice. It was obvious that underneath the bright, cheery tone were the cracks of my own distress. I sounded sickly and weak, desperately trying not to burst into tears at any moment. Part of me wished that Aiden was still in the hospital just so I didn’t have to see his haunted expression in our home. It was worse here, somehow. Hospitals are full of sad or blank faces, but a home should be happy. Aside from the odd row, it should be filled with smiling faces and laughter, not the eerie quiet of the traumatised. “This is your room. I hope you like it. I’ve put some clothes inside the drawers, look, and the wardrobe. There are jeans in here, and underwear here. There are towels in the cabinet in the hall outside. And look, I know it’s silly, but here’s Walnut.” I lifted the dragon out from the covers and held it aloft as if it were some sort of precious artefact. Aiden just stared.

  “Come on, mate, you remember Walnut,” Rob said. “You used to sleep with him every night.”

  “Dad used to call him Wally sometimes, and Grandad used to call him…” I trailed off, remembering that I still hadn’t told Aiden his grandparents had died.

  Before I could say any more, Aiden took a step forward and took the dragon from my hand in a swift motion that seemed jarring after his stillness. He stared down at the dragon and my breath caught in my throat. Would this be the moment he broke his silence? I watched him turn the dragon over in his hands, waiting for something… anything. A squeak would suffice. A scream. One word. One letter. Anything to indicate that my Aiden was still in there somewhere, alive and kicking and waiting to tell his Mummy all the bad things that had happened to him.

  But he lifted his head and looked at me with the same blank expression on his face. His chestnut eyes were exactly the same as before, without any trace of emotion.

  “Okay, well, I’ll show you my room next,” I said, and this time my voice really did crack.

  *

  When my voice grew tired of filling the silences and Rob ran out of things to say, we put the television on in the living room and left Aiden watching a children’s channel. I made him a cup of milky tea along with toast and Nutella, and left him sitting on the sofa gazing at the colourful pictures on the screen.

  It was in the kitchen that I let myself go. I let the tears come, and I cried into Rob’s t-shirt until I couldn’t cry anymore. He made me a peppermint tea and sat me down on the bench next to the table. Denise hovered awkwardly around, mopping up spilled tea, washing the few plates we’d used since we’d been home. Marcus spent most of the time checking his phone or leaning awkwardly against a chair. After Rob glared at them both for a while Denise excused herself from the kitchen, and grabbed Marcus on the way out.

  “What the fuck am I going to do?” I ran a hand over my stomach and thought about my pregnancy with Aiden. It was hell. I threw up, I had back pain, I had a terrible labour. I never expected to bond with Aiden, but as soon as the midwife placed him in my arms I realised I’d never known love until that moment. The pain and the sickness melted away. It had been someone else throwing up in a bin near the school hall, someone else who had been in labour for almost twenty hours. That had never happened; my beautiful little baby just arrived and was plopped into my arms and that was that for the rest of my life.

  “He just needs time.” Rob sipped his tea and grimaced. “What is this shit?”

  “Badly steeped herbal tea. How long did you leave the bag in for?”

  “I dunno, Em. You’ve changed. Cream carpets, herbal tea? That’s not you. Remember how we celebrated Aiden’s birth?”

  “Half a bottle of vodka on the bench outside Rough Valley. I remember. I had to sit on a cushion because my stitches still hurt. We sat there with Aiden in a sling until it got cold and then ate mints before taking him back to my parents. It was a good job I expressed milk before we drank the vodka. But Jesus, Rob, do you think that was good? We were messed-up kids. Imagine if we were still sitting around drinking vodka now. Aiden needs stability.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Rob tapped on the ceramic mug and stared down at his tea. “It’s just how much you’ve changed. You’re… I dunno…”

  “What?”

  “Does this really make you happy?” Rob waved his arm around the kitchen at the neat shelves and the pristine finish on the cupboard doors. “Where’s the character? Where’s your influence? This is all him. There’s that one painting of yours, which, by the way, is the only bit of colour in this place, and everything else is just… sterile.”

  I hated the truth in his words and I hated him at that moment. I stood up, took his mug and emptied it into the sink. He wasn’t going to drink it anyway.

  “You’d better go.”

  “Don’t forget to rinse that mug.” The chair scraped as he moved away from the table. He snatched up his jacket from the back of the chair and began to yank it on over his arms. “You won’t want to leave any tea stains on the perfect cream surface. And for fuck’s sake don’t spill any on your grey dresses in your beige house. I’ll go and say goodbye to Aiden.”

  I put the mug down in the sink and sighed. “Don’t go.”

  He paused. The jacket came off, and almost immediately his arms were wrapped around my waist, stretching across my back with the baby bump between us. His head leaned against my shoulder.

  “I’ve missed you, Emma.”

  “No—that’s not… That’s not what I meant.” I pulled away, removing his hands. “No. We… We need to figure out what we’re going to do.” I ducked around him and avoided his eyes. I felt my cheeks, felt the flushed warmth of embarrassment. “I mean, we need to figure out a plan for how we’re going to deal with the press and how we’re going to cope with Aiden until he’s better.” I finally lifted my head and found his gaze. “I’m carrying his child, Rob. I can’t do this.”

  13

  It might surprise you to know that before
Aiden was taken during the flood, I never considered myself a bad mother. Not even when I was eighteen years old with a baby at my breast did I worry about whether I was a good or bad mother. I went with it. I nurtured when I wanted to nurture. I was fun when I needed to be. I was creative when I was in the mood. There were times when Aiden was crying or throwing a tantrum that I needed a deep breath and longed for more of the vodka I’d drunk with Rob on the bench outside Rough Valley Forest, but they were rare and I didn’t dwell on them.

  I was never the kind of mum who bought every gadget and new-fangled toy as soon as it came out to appease her little darlings. I was never the over-compensator because I felt guilty about snapping at my precious one or losing my temper after one too many glasses of Chardonnay. Not that I want to judge those people. We’re all getting by in this life. I won’t begrudge people their own methods for coping, but that just wasn’t me. Despite my age (or maybe because of it) I always felt secure about my parenting, and Mum always helped in her own, laid back style.

  But now… Well, now I was the opposite. I was an indulger. As part of Aiden’s recovery programme I was required to make him meals from Dr Schaffer’s suggestions, which I intended to, but I also wanted to make up for everything he’d been through. I wanted to prove to him that there were still good things in the world. I’d already racked my brain for Aiden’s favourite recipes. He’d been a boy with a sweet tooth and I had allowed him a few treats every now and then. But now I poured the treats into his hands: Mars Bars and Snickers bars and Kinder Eggs with Star Wars toys inside. I stocked up on all kinds of goodies. I made him hot chocolate and buttery toast. When Jake came home that Sunday evening, I made a hot-dog casserole with thick pieces of white bread on the side and some chips because I remembered how much he loved chips. And all the time I made this food, I had a ridiculous smile on my face, occasionally catching a glimpse of myself in the shining microwave door and wondering if I’d become possessed by the Joker from the Batman films.

  I found myself filled with electric nervous energy that spilled out as I moved around the kitchen. Even washing my hands was a frantic scrubbing rather than my usual quick rinse and dry.

  “Now, Aiden, I want you to know that this is your home and you’re welcome here,” Jake said as I busied around the two men in my life, trying not to think about the moment Rob had wrapped his arms around me in this very spot. “But there are some rules.” I turned and watched. Aiden appeared to be listening intently. I had been about to tell Jake to go easy, but he certainly had Aiden’s attention, and even though I didn’t particularly agree with giving Aiden ground rules so soon, it was good to see my son actually listening. So I let him continue. “We keep a tidy house here. We wash our dishes straight after using them and we put things away. But don’t worry too much, okay. Don’t get stressed out about it. We’ll help you out. Okay, kid?”

  I couldn’t help but smile. Jake really was trying his best to deal with the situation.

  As I stirred my casserole, Jake directed Aiden in setting the kitchen table. They unfolded a tablecloth together and put down the placemats. My damaged old heart fleshed out just a little bit as I watched them. If only Aiden had smiled, or said something. Perhaps listening would have to do for now. But the way Aiden quietly followed Jake’s instructions felt like progress, and I loved Jake all the more for the way he was handling my psychologically wounded son.

  “All right, who’s ready for hot dogs?”

  Jake stuck his hand up like the suck-up kid in class. “I certainly am. What about you, Aiden?”

  “I hope you’re both hungry,” I said, trying to fill the silence while Aiden ignored the question.

  As I placed the hot dish onto the table, the phone began to ring.

  “I’ll get it.” Jake started to stand, but I flapped my hands at him and shook my head.

  “I’m on my feet anyway. You two get your teas while it’s still hot.”

  I padded into the hall to pick up the landline. There were only a handful of people who bothered to call the landline, which could explain why my heart was pattering beneath my grey woollen jumper. I shook my head, trying to ignore the irrational heat of anxiety worming its way through my veins.

  “Hello.”

  “Emma, it’s DCI Stevenson; are you well?”

  “I’m fine. Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine, Emma. But I wanted to talk to you about an idea I have.”

  *

  The next morning, I stood on the edge of Rough Valley Forest with Aiden on my right and Dr Foster on my left. We’d always called it ‘going rough’ when we were teenagers. We’d drink in ‘Rough’ as a dare. To me the forest had always been a place of silliness, of youth and irresponsibility. That day, standing next to Aiden, could not be more different than ‘going rough’. I had an important job to do as a mother.

  I’d agreed with DCI Stevenson to keep our intentions quiet. Jake had wanted to come with us, but I advised him to go to school instead. The less fuss the better. I hadn’t called Rob, which I was trying not to think about. Would he understand? He’d want to be here, I knew that much, but I didn’t want to crowd Aiden.

  We all had on our waterproof coats against the rain. Aiden’s was brand new, bought only a few days ago. But I hadn’t thought to buy wellies, so trainers had to suffice.

  It was a grey, drab day. A nothing day. A day that should barely be a blip on our own personal radars. And yet… it was a something day, because of what was about to happen. There was also a hint of beauty in the low-hanging fog. The rain pattered against the hood of my jacket. The air was very still, without even a hint of wind, which brought the rain directly overhead. Mist clung to the branches and blocked the path to the forest.

  “I would have waited,” said Stevenson. “But with the story beginning to spread, I thought it would be best to try it now before the press start following us around wherever we go. How’s Aiden doing?”

  It was a loaded question and we both knew it. DCI Stevenson was, of course, desperate for Aiden to start talking. We all were.

  “Small steps,” I said. Then I added, “Still no words.”

  “It’s going to take time, Detective,” said Dr Foster. I was glad of her presence, though she had remained relatively quiet so far. It was nice to have another woman around sometimes, especially if she backed you up from time to time.

  Stevenson nodded, with his thin lips even thinner due to his sombre expression. The disappointment was easy to read on his face. “You know what I’d like Aiden to do today, don’t you?”

  I took in the sight of the team he had gathered. There were only two other officers because he’d wanted to keep it small to try not to spook Aiden. They were here to collect any evidence they found. I clenched and unclenched my hands, trying not to rub them anymore. There was a sore rash spreading over my hands and the constant rubbing was doing them no good.

  “I understand. I think it’s too soon though.” My gut told me that. If Aiden wasn’t ready to speak to us, I doubted he was ready to show us either, though I’d continued to let him have pens and paper in case he decided to. So far he’d drawn nothing but scribbles.

  “We need to try,” DCI Stevenson said. “But take your time.”

  I glanced from the trees to the narrow road on my left. We were deliberately close to the spot where the driver had seen Aiden staggering away from the woods. This was where they had picked him up and taken him to the police station. What if it was them, I thought, and then dismissed it. Of course the police would have checked that avenue already. Besides, why would Aiden’s kidnapper take Aiden to the police station? I berated myself for my own stupidity. I wouldn’t be much help on this case if I didn’t think logically.

  I turned to Aiden, who was as still as always, staring into the foggy woods. There was no indication that he even recognised his surroundings, certainly no indication that he had suffered some sort of psychological break after a traumatic event. It happened right here, in this spot
. Unless… unless he wasn’t speaking before. The doctors had taken an MRI scan of his brain to check for brain damage; there was none. Aside from not speaking, he understood us; he walked, put his clothes on, brushed his teeth all with perfect coordination. There was no evidence to suggest that he had learning difficulties, though the doctor did tell us that autism was a possibility. In my heart, I knew it wasn’t autism. At six years old before he was taken from me, Aiden hadn’t shown any indication of autism. This mutism had been triggered through the years of trauma. Years. How could I ever get used to thinking that? Years of systematic abuse. How was he even still a person?

  I wiped a sheen of sweat from my brow and pulled myself together. “Are you ready?”

  Aiden had his hood pulled down so I couldn’t see his eyes. The sleeves of his jacket were too long, covering his hands, but I had the impression that Aiden was clenching his fists inside the coat. He was even straighter than usual. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps he was reacting more to the woods than I thought.

  “Aiden? Can you show us where you came from? Do you remember the night you came out of the woods? You were walking down this road. It was raining then, too, but it was night-time and it was dark. You didn’t have a coat on like you do now. You just wore jeans and nothing else.” DCI Stevenson had told me to try and evoke Aiden’s sense of memory by mentioning as much detail as I could. “You came out of the woods from this direction.” I turned my body and indicated with my hand. “And then you walked down the road, except you were struggling to walk. I don’t think you’d walked that far for a long time.” I stopped to catch my breath.

  “You’re doing well, Emma. Keep going.” Dr Foster gave me an encouraging nod.