“What do you need to think about?” I was on my feet, anger and frustration bubbling to the surface. He was supposed to be the man who had saved me. But here he was, with these secrets and badly hidden animosity towards my own son. Here he was, and I couldn’t stand the sight of him.
He spun to face me. “Don’t you remember that day?”
I lifted a hand to cut him off. “Of course I do. I don’t want to talk about it though.”
“There were two knives. One you had stuck through the painting, and the other was slitting your wrist. Remember that? Remember how I found you in your mother’s house? That was what you were before I saved you. I saved you. If it wasn’t for me you’d be dead. You wouldn’t even be with Aiden right now.”
20
My most shameful day had started with a glass of Pinot Grigio. Back then, I’d thought that if I drank wine, it wasn’t like being an alcoholic. Vodka or whiskey was the drink of choice for alcoholics, not wine. Not white wine. That was civilised. You don’t put a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc in a brown paper bag and sit in the park.
I was at home on my own. My parents had been dead six months. I sat on the floor in the living room of Mum and Dad’s cottage with a smorgasbord of disgusting items littering the floor. Leftover cartoons of Chinese food that had barely been touched, crusted over with congealed grease along the rim. Bowls of cereal strewn across the carpet heavy with clotted milk. Half-eaten sandwiches attracting flies. I sat in the middle of the mess and I drank my wine. Who was I kidding? I knew what I was. I saw the mess and I knew that I was at rock bottom; despite the Pinot I’d bought from the Bishoptown newsagent with a pair of sunglasses over my smudged, shadowed eyes, I was an alcoholic. A depressed mess.
After draining the last of the wine, I wandered into Aiden’s room. It was untouched. Every now and then I’d come in and dust away the cobwebs. I’d sit on his bed, lift up Walnut and still smell the faintest scent of my son. But I hadn’t cleaned his room for a long time and there was a thick layer of dust along the windowsill. Worse still, a large, fat spider sat on top of his pillow. The sight of it was so wrong, so jarring, that I lunged forward, punching the pillow. The spider scuttled away before my fist connected, probably running under the bed. But I kept going. I punched the stuffing out of Aiden’s pillow, and then I threw back the duvet cover and threw the mattress to the side. A roar built up from my chest as I ran my arm along the window sill, knocking away his trophy from sports day—third in the egg-and-spoon race—and a framed photograph of when he’d met his favourite footballer.
I ripped down his poster of Iron Man. I threw his clothes out from the wardrobe. I tore the covers from his books. And then I stopped. I wiped my eyes. A sense of calm washed over me and I knew what I needed to do.
There was a second bottle of wine in the fridge so I opened that and took a long swig. There was no need for glasses anymore. Who did I need to impress? Who would care? There wasn’t anyone left. On my way through the house, I picked up a picture of us all together. Aiden was at the front wearing his Superman cape. I was behind him with my hands on his shoulders. And on either side of me were my parents. Dad on my left, Mum on my right. I didn’t cry, I just smiled and cradled the photograph to my chest.
I’d already turned my bedroom into something of a studio. There were a dozen or more paintings stacked up along the walls. I picked one up. It was a self-portrait. I hated this portrait. It was angry and torn-up. I’d used reds and blacks. My teeth were bared. I was ugly and ill in this painting, with booze-soaked eyes because I’d painted it while wasted, barely able to see the canvas with my blurred vision. I hated it. Setting down the wine bottle, I picked up the box-cutter knife I used to trim my canvasses and stabbed the knife into the canvas. Slowly, I dragged the knife down.
A great fire burned inside of me and I knew it was time to extinguish it. What was the point of life if it was just pain? I felt like I was standing inside a burning building and my only choices were to jump or let the fire consume me.
I was sick to death of the fire.
I collapsed onto the ground, dropping the torn-up canvas next to me, before taking out a second knife and placing it on my lap. Then I swigged from the bottle of wine. I was so numb from the alcohol, I figured it wouldn’t hurt at all. I thought of the fire roaring within me. I thought of all the shit I’d been through. I thought of Aiden’s coat pulled from the river and how the river continued on, rushing and gushing through the country while my son was rotting somewhere. I didn’t even get to bury him. I didn’t even get that much.
I cried out before I plunged the knife into my wrist. I screamed before it even hurt. The pain wasn’t from the gushing wound, it was from the fire.
Burning. Burning. My skin on fire. I screamed and I screamed until the flames finally died down. When I looked down, the blood poured out of the wound and I began to feel deliciously woozy. This was it. This was how I stopped the fire. If only I’d known sooner that it would be so simple. I started to fall back onto my bed, smiling. Finally, I had stopped the pain and finally I had found the inner strength to jump from the burning building.
But in my woozy state I didn’t hear the banging at the door, or the frantic voice calling my name. The door must have been open because Jake managed to get in within seconds. There were clattering footsteps and then my door was open. A face blurred before my eyes as he hooked his arms underneath my body, calling my name over and over again. There was pressure on my wrist and I was vaguely aware of the blood oozing between his fingers. I was vaguely aware of him saying ‘no, no, no, this wasn’t supposed to happen’ and then I woke up in a hospital bed.
It took me a long time to find gratitude for what Jake did for me that day. When I first woke up in that hospital room I hated him more than I’ve ever hated anyone. Hate was an emotion I’d never discovered before Aiden was taken from me in the flood. If you get to live your life without ever experiencing hatred, then count yourself lucky. Count your blessings. Hate isn’t something to crave or wish for. Never say you hate someone or something unless you really mean it, because hate is not finding a presenter on the telly annoying, or losing your temper with a sibling—it’s an all-consuming living thing that starts in your bowels and infects your blood until it blackens your heart.
And I hated myself. That’s the worst kind of hate.
I cried for a while. I went through shivers and shakes as the alcohol worked its way out of my body. I scratched at my bandages and refused to talk to Jake as he sat at my bedside reading from his art history books. He came day after day, reading to me as I sat sullenly with my head turned away. He read about the Renaissance, about Caravaggio and his brutish tendencies and murderous temper. He read about Picasso and his painting of Guernica. He read to me every day and soon enough I started to listen.
Instead of picking at my food I began to eat it. I requested water and orange juice rather than sipping on whatever was available when my throat went dry. When it was quiet in the hospital I turned on the television and watched a few daytime soaps. I even started replying to the nurses when they asked me how I was feeling.
When they released me, I found Mum and Dad’s cottage cleaned up and sparkling. Jake had sorted it all. He’d cleaned up my mess, removed all the alcohol from the house, hoovered, swept up the broken items and thrown them away. He’d even fixed up a few photograph frames I’d destroyed in my rage.
On the coffee table was a stack of books about Picasso, Caravaggio, Monet and more. John Singer-Sargent, Rembrandt, Da Vinci. There were brand new DVDs on the same subjects piled up next to the DVD player. I thumbed through the books, flicking past the text to get to the beautiful portraits, some of which I’d never seen before. Then I found a new set of paints on the dining room table with a get-well-soon card standing next to it. On the other side of the paints was an application form for a part time administration job at the school. I sat down and completed it.
I know some people might have been put off by the extraordinary length
s Jake went to, to aid my recovery. There are some women who might have found him creepy or overbearing, but it was everything I needed. Without even a hint of anything more than a platonic relationship, this man had taken his time to see me through the worst possible point of my life. I wasn’t capable of love at that moment—I was too dried out by all the hate that had burned inside me—but I was close to loving him. There was a strong sense of affection blossoming in my blackened shell.
Which is why I allowed myself to become swept up into his life so suddenly. It’s why I failed to see what he really was.
21
It was Friday and there were still no leads about what had happened to Aiden. Marcus, the family liaison officer, informed me that fingerprints and DNA were being collected from various men in the area. Jake and Rob were to be included. I wasn’t sure why they were bothering, since nothing had been found on Aiden the night he was found. Both Jake and Rob were questioned about the day Aiden went missing. Jake had been teaching at the secondary school on the day Aiden was taken. He’d been walking around the school checking the leaking roof. Various members of staff had seen him at that time. Rob had been making his way home from the building site, stuck in traffic outside Bishoptown. I didn’t suspect either of them, but I understood that the men closest to Aiden were likely to be the first suspects.
But watching them go into questioning made me think about the case differently. It had to be someone local. And that meant it might be someone I know.
Aiden was taken from somewhere between Bishoptown school and the river Ouse between 1:15pm and 2:10pm. I had crossed the bridge at around 2:10pm. That was how close I was to my own son being snatched from my life. Sometimes I still lie awake at night and wonder—if I’d just reached out, I might have found him, grabbed him, and kept him close to me. But I could never go back and relive that day. I could never turn back the clock, run to the river, and stop the monster who stole my son. It’s the helplessness that gets to you in the middle of the night, the fact that no matter how safe you think your child is at any given time, there is always someone out there who wants to hurt them.
In the days that followed, in between battling with bureaucracy to get Aiden an identity, I began forming a list of possible suspects. There were five male teachers at the local school, two of whom I’d always found a bit creepy: Simon, the IT teacher, a man in his fifties with a potbelly and dirty fingernails, and Chris, a young PE teacher who made crude, un-PC jokes in the staffroom. Then there was Gail’s weird son, Derek, who ran the local bakery with her. He’d never moved away from home, even at the age of forty, and never had a relationship with either a woman or a man.
They were horrible thoughts, toxic and prejudiced, but I couldn’t help it. Once I pulled at that thread it went even further. I spent the weekend cooped up in the house, still fuming with Jake over his apparent betrayal, passing all the names of those I suspected to Denise and Marcus, telling them in guilty whispers that perhaps this man was capable of such a crime, or that one. Denise was the one who spent most of her time with us, and she became my main confidante when I had a light-bulb moment about yet another local man. Her response was always, “It could be anyone. We’re doing the best we can.” Once she said, “We don’t even know for sure that the suspect is male.” Of course I’d presumed that it was a man, but she had a point. Though there was evidence of sexual assault, the police hadn’t found any traces of semen on Aiden’s clothes or in his body, and without knowing where he had been confined, it was impossible to know if he really had been abused by a man. Though the thought made me feel physically sick, there was a chance that the kidnapper could be a woman. It might even explain how Aiden was able to escape. He would have had more chance of overpowering a woman than a man.
In those days I rarely left the house, but there were times when it was needed. On Monday, I took Aiden to his second therapy session, and all the way there I couldn’t stop myself from making mental notes of yet more suspects as we drove through the village.
Dr Foster met us with a bright smile, but her gaze lingered on me for a little longer than usual. She could tell I was wired. She sat me down and let Aiden draw. When he was settled, I took more of his artwork out of my bag and showed it to her. She spread the paintings out over one of the tables, but seemed more distracted by me.
“Has something happened, Emma?” she asked. “You seem a little on edge.”
I rubbed one hand over the other. “I read the newspapers. I’ve been reading them all. The stories are insane. They keep insinuating that it’s my husband, Jake, who took Aiden.” I swallowed but my mouth was dry. “It can’t be. I know him.”
“Take your time, Emma. No judgement here, remember. If you need to talk you can.”
I shook my head. “It’s not just about whether I think it’s true; it can’t be true. He had an alibi. He was working in the school at the time. It’s not possible, but they keep pointing the finger and dragging up some stupid business from his old school.”
“What business is that?” Dr Foster asked.
“Some stupid photograph of him with his arm around a student. They were Facebook friends. But that doesn’t mean anything, does it?”
“Do you think it means something?” Dr Foster asked patiently.
“No. I’m letting myself get caught up in the game. The one played by the press. They’re spinning tales that will sell newspapers, finding culprits who don’t deserve to be accused. They’re printing lies about my family.” I took a deep breath and stroked the bump. My back ached, my legs ached, and I was tired.
“I know this is hard. But you need to try and relax. Those stress levels are not good for the baby. Have you been to see your GP recently?”
I shook my head.
“You should go. Just for a check-up.”
I nodded my head and rubbed my eyes, realising she was right. With everything that was going on I hadn’t concentrated on looking after myself or the baby. I was letting down my unborn child. I hadn’t even thought to concentrate on how often the baby was kicking.
“Now, about Aiden’s art.” Dr Foster stared down at the paintings. “I’m seeing more expression here. He’s forming more shapes and pictures than before. I think this is a door.”
I peered down at the picture she was pointing to. I’d had it the wrong way around before, horizontal instead of vertical. I turned the picture around and examined it properly for the first time. She was right. There was no handle, but it did look like a door. Aiden had used light grey paint to almost completely fill the page, but there was some shading on the sides that indicated hinges. Wherever this door led to, it was almost certainly made from some sort of smooth metal, like a large fridge in a restaurant kitchen.
*
The next morning I managed to get to the doctor’s before 10am to get an impromptu appointment. Aiden sat next to me on the chair, quietly looking at a magazine for women. Next to us was a mother with three children, all of them climbing up over the seats like monkeys and throwing the toys from the play area onto the floor. It began with the mother glancing up at me every now and then, as if trying to figure out where she knew me from. Then there was a longer stare, and her eyes widened in recognition. I squirmed in my seat, adjusting my weight and trying to ignore the way she watched me from the other side of the room.
“’Oribble what happened to you,” she said.
Though I didn’t owe her anything, I found myself offering her a thin-lipped smile in response.
“Is this ’im then?” She indicated with her chin, moving her acne-scarred face in Aiden’s direction. When Aiden didn’t react she waved her arm in the general direction of her kids and ushered them closer to her. “Sick what happened to ’im.”
The blood whooshed in my ears as I tried to remain calm. What right did this woman have to bring up the things that had happened to Aiden? Who did she think she was? I tried to ignore her, but found myself rubbing my hands more frantically than before. I gritted my teeth, clenching my j
aw harder and harder.
“Kieran, come ’ere,” she said, gathering her brood, clearly wanting them away from Aiden. Every now and then her eyes flicked over to Aiden and I saw fear in them. Perhaps she thought Aiden had been turned into a monster by what he had been through. Maybe she thought he was going to harm her children, in some sort of by-proxy paedophilia.
While she manoeuvred her children away from us, I found that I couldn’t stop staring at her. She had a greasy ponytail pulled back so tightly it gave her skin a stretched, glossy appearance. She openly swore at her children when they misbehaved.
“What makes you so special?”
The room went very quiet. An elderly man placed his newspaper back down on his lap and turned towards me. I hadn’t meant to say the words out loud, and certainly not with as much venom as I’d uttered them. But looking at that woman I couldn’t believe she’d been given the gift of normal, healthy children, when my child had been to hell and back.
“Excuse me, love?” she said, in her rasping, ugly voice.
“I said, what makes you so special? Why do you get to have everything?”
“What the fuck’s that s’posed to mean, eh?”
I turned my head away, scowling at the health pamphlets and a poster about heart disease. The doctor called my name and I stood. With Aiden following me, I walked straight past the woman and tried my best not to look at her again.
“I only tried to be nice to you, miserable cow,” she muttered, which I figured was typical of the British public. They want gratitude for caring. A little boy was kidnapped and tortured for a decade and they feel sad about it. Good for them. So after feeling all this sadness they see the boy in question out with his mother and they just have to tell them the obvious—they feel sad. Wasn’t it awful? Yes, yes, it’s very sad and it’s very awful, thank you for feeling like that. But if you don’t placate them then fuck you and your son. Fuck right off, you deserve it.
Silent Child Page 13