Silent Child

by Sarah A. Denzil

  “So the kidnapper enforced this?”

  Dr Foster shrugged. “Perhaps it was Aiden filling the days in the best way he could to stay sane. Or perhaps the kidnapper did it as a form of discipline.”

  “Rob said that Aiden could be suffering from Stockholm syndrome, that maybe he is sympathetic to his kidnapper. Maybe… maybe he’s working with the kidnapper and against us. Is that possible?”

  Dr Foster paused, a hint of uncertainty in her demeanour. She cleared her throat slightly and released her hand from a fist. To me it seemed she was stalling. She didn’t want to answer. When she did, she lifted a stuffed toy from the desk and poked at its eye with a thumb. “I think it is possible. It’s not a pleasant thought, I’ll admit. But the fact is that Aiden spent ten years in the company of this person and we don’t know what happened between them. We know there was abuse and neglect, but many children—I’m sorry to say—are abused and neglected by their own parents. Those children grow up to have a very complicated relationship with their parents.”

  I glanced across at Aiden, now working on another piece of art. His head was bent so that I saw the circular swirl of his hair. “Does that mean I can’t trust him?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know what it means. Aiden’s case is unique.” She leaned forward. “If you don’t feel safe, it isn’t your fault, and you should call me or DCI Stevenson right away.”

  *

  Her words echoed around the empty shell of my mind. If you don’t feel safe. What if I can’t trust my own son? I was tired that day. The effort of growing a human being in my uterus, coupled with the stress and strain of Aiden’s case, made me want to do little more than curl up in bed and pull the duvet over my head. I was running on adrenaline and sheer force of will. Instead of nesting for the arrival of my second child, I was driving my son to a therapy session for traumatised children, and dwelling on the fact that a paedophile who may have kidnapped my child was in police custody. All the time there was a sickly feeling in the pit of my stomach. I felt constantly nauseated by the world. I hated everything, and there was a part of me that didn’t even want to bring this baby into the world. How could I tell my daughter what had happened to her brother?

  Next, I took Aiden to the dentist. I’d finally found one willing to give him a check-up without him needing identification. Though I abhorred the word ‘luck’ when it came to my son, he had been lucky that his teeth had formed without being too crooked, and there wasn’t too much damage to them.

  But today he needed fillings.

  It took three of us to hold him down as the dentist injected anaesthetic into his gums.

  Afterwards I was shaking, and Aiden, though as quiet as always, walked briskly away from the dentist with arms held stiffly at his side. He let himself into the car and pulled the seatbelt across his chest. Though there was nothing I could put my finger on, I was certain he was angry.

  “I’m really sorry, sweetheart,” I said for the fiftieth time since setting foot in the dentist’s office. “It was to make you better.

  But Aiden didn’t look at me. He turned his head away and gazed out of the window as a blurry Bishoptown whizzed past.

  “I’m sorry,” I said again, with the distinct feeling that it was falling on deaf ears. “I don’t want to be afraid of you. If only you’d talk. I need to hear your thoughts.” I’d taken to doing this while we were alone. My brain to mouth filter turned off and I rambled at him. “Was it the duke? Was it him? If I showed you a picture would you react? Of course not. Maybe you’re in contact with him. Do you sneak onto the house phone and dial his number? Do I need to get an itemised bill just to check that you aren’t plotting against me? Why did you cut up the curtains? Now everyone can see into our home. Why would you do that?” I banged my palms against the steering wheel. “Why would you do that?”

  A car pulled out in front of me and I swerved into the right hand lane, almost directly into oncoming traffic. After swerving back into the left lane I sucked in a long, deep breath before wiping the sweat from my forehead.

  “I’m sorry we had to hold you down at the dentist’s. That must have been very frightening for you. But Aiden, you can’t hold a grudge with me about things like that. Promise me?” I sighed. “I have to make horrible decisions for you sometimes. But you know I love you and I will always keep you safe. No matter what. I’d die to keep you safe, I really would.”

  27

  It’s hard to remember what it was like when I was a regular teenager. Back when I was sixteen I had a future. I had options, and there is nothing so delicious as having options in life. My parents were not rich, but they were comfortable, which meant I could go to whatever university I wanted to go to. My grades were As, Bs, and Cs. But instead of the future I thought only of now. I wanted fun, laughter, friendship, and love. Who doesn’t? I didn’t know what a consequence was—at least not really. I just wanted to be in Rob’s arms, discovering the world through our senses.

  Life became more complicated after Aiden was born but I still managed to live in the moment. We lived like that together. That was how I got to know him and he got to know me, by playing and pulling silly faces and running through the park. My life stopped in one sense and started in another. But I didn’t just live in the moment with my son. Aiden was the most important part of my life, but I’d had a life before he came along. I’d had a wonderful, vibrant social life with my friends.

  There were a bunch of us. Rob, me, half a dozen other guys who ended up going away to university and never coming back, and then, Amy. She was never a best friend, but she was always part of the group. She was quiet, kind of mousy back then. I think she had a crush on Rob but she never really said anything. She was an inoffensive presence, sometimes overlooked for being so shy, but sweet enough to spend an evening in the pub with. Her connection with Aiden’s disappearance was always highlighted by the press. They often dragged out photographs of us both sipping bottles of lager in the Bishoptown local, our hair badly straightened and highlighted.

  And I’d always thought she hated that attention.

  But I was wrong.

  The day after I took Aiden to the dentist—while the police were still searching Wetherington House on a drab Saturday—I opened the newspapers to find Amy’s story in black and white. Perhaps the way I snapped at her on the street had affected her more than I realised. Perhaps Amy wasn’t quite the mousy girl I thought she was. Perhaps that doll she gave me at my baby shower wasn’t a sign of remorse, but of unhealthy obsession. Why else would she sell a story to the tabloids?

  According to her, Aiden had been a problem child. He was a troublemaker at school, always winding up the other students and acting the class clown. He was obstinate and unaware of danger. That was the part that upset me the most. She suggested I never taught my son to be afraid.

  “Aiden possessed a kind of blind indifference to danger. On school trips, I always had one eye on him. I didn’t like crossing the road with Aiden because he was likely to run straight into traffic,” so went the article. “But worse was how he’d encourage others to follow him blindly. He once convinced a young girl of five to climb the tallest tree at the bottom of the playground. Luckily, through a joint effort with other teachers, we managed to get her down again, but she could have hurt herself. Aiden was standing at the bottom of the tree when it happened.”

  Jake walked into the kitchen as I was holding my head in my hands, leaning over the kitchen table with the papers spread out over the surface. It was 7:30am and Denise was already pottering around us with fresh pastries, making coffee. I wanted her gone. I was sick of her. There was no reason for a police officer to see my husband in his dressing gown, but she’d brought the pastries as a gift, knowing full well that I’d be awake. I was up well before the sun these days.

  “What’s happened?” he asked.

  I pushed the open newspaper towards him and jabbed at Amy’s face with my finger.

  Jake rubbed his eyes and donned his glasses before r
eading the article. “That fucking bitch!”

  I glanced guiltily towards Denise. “Jake.”

  “Why is she saying these things?”

  “Money, probably,” I answered. My blood was boiling but I refused to let Denise see the ugly side of my temper again. “I wonder how much they paid her.”

  “All this stuff about Aiden, is it true?”

  In the background, Denise continued to faff around with plates for breakfast. I was aware of her presence but I didn’t want to seem like I had anything to hide.

  “I remember the tree incident, but it hardly appeared sinister at the time. Aiden told me he was telling her to come down.” It had been precocious child Rosie Daniels who had clambered up the high branches of the tree. I’d always thought that she was sweet on Aiden and had decided to do it to impress him. Aiden was certainly a little monkey when he was five, there was no argument there. He did enjoy climbing trees and he was adventurous, but he wasn’t reckless. He wasn’t flippant about crossing the road. I always made sure that he held my hand.

  Jake’s frown deepened as he finished the article and closed the newspaper. “This is the last thing we need.”

  “Why are they even talking about Aiden? They should be going after the duke, not my son. He’s the one who broke the law. He’s the one who took my son. He’s the monster.” I heard the rushing of blood in my ears as my heart sped up to double time. The baby moved inside me and I leaned forward. With the baby pressing on my bladder I’d already been up two or three times in the night and I was exhausted.

  “Decaf?” Denise offered brightly.

  I shook my head and tried my best not to glare at her. “Have you heard anything about the duke?”

  “Not yet, sorry.”

  Whenever I thought about Wetherington House looming over Bishoptown, the rage inside me was so strong I felt capable of tearing the mansion down brick by brick. The Graham-Lennoxes were rich, there was no doubt about that. We never really saw them in the town, and Wetherington House was partly open to the public, with some private wings cordoned off for their living quarters. The duke had the money to do whatever he wanted. He could have a dungeon filled with children for all anyone knew.

  “Emma? Emma, are you all right?” Denise asked.

  Jake rushed to my side as my knees buckled slightly. “Sit down.”

  “I’m fine. I’m just tired.”

  “Have a croissant.” Denise proffered a golden brown croissant on a plate Jake usually reserved for special occasions. I glanced at Jake before I took the plate. He was most likely torn between making sure I was okay and wanting to tell Denise to put that plate back and use one of the daily ones from the front of the cupboard.

  “You’re taking it easy today,” Jake said. “I’ve got a staff meeting I’m supposed to attend but I’ll call the school and tell them I can’t make it.”

  “No, don’t do that. The press will think it’s because of Amy and I don’t want them to think she’s got to us.”

  “I don’t want to leave you alone today,” Jake said.

  “Then I’ll get Rob to come watch Aiden while I have a lie-down.”

  “What about Josie?” he suggested.

  “Jo has her own shit going on at the moment. Stuff with Hugh.”

  Jake raised an eyebrow but he didn’t question anything. “All right. But make sure you have a nap today. Denise, will you keep an eye on her?”

  “Absolutely.” And off she went to put the kettle on again.

  *

  There was no reason for me to leave the house that day, and I admit, I didn’t want to. Amy’s article referenced people in the village, people who knew me and vice versa. Rosie Daniel’s mum certainly wouldn’t be pleased to have her child dragged into this, though Amy was at least careful not to use her name.

  About an hour after Jake left for the school I got a phone call from him. Amy had been suspended and sent home. It brought me no pleasure, but it did bring me some relief. I’d been dreading Jake getting into an argument with Amy over the article.

  Rob turned up with a football. “Thought me and Aiden could have a kick about in the garden.”

  “Good idea.” And I meant it. Why hadn’t I thought of trying exercise with Aiden? The doctor had suggested that some light exercise would be good for him. I had wanted to take him for walks, but the pressure from the media had grown too intense.

  It was a blustery day. There were leaves scattered over the lawn. Aiden had on a blue puffa jacket I’d bought for him when I kitted out his room with new clothes. It felt good to be outside, and it felt even better when Denise brought me a chair to sit on.

  “This whole mess is tearing the village apart,” Rob said, shaking his head sadly. “I was in the village shop earlier and heard someone calling out Amy as a traitor. They said she and that duke needed to be strung up. Then I overheard other people on the street arguing about whether we were good parents or not. Some of my mates called to see if I was all right when Aiden first came back, but now they cross the road to avoid me. I’m…” he lowered his voice. “I’m reaching the end of my rope, Em. I just want this to end.”

  Rob dropped the ball onto the dewy grass and kicked it gently over to Aiden. My heart was in my mouth as I waited. What would Aiden do, confronted with this alien object? Would he shun the game altogether and shuffle inside to sit himself down in front of the telly? Or would he break into a grin, and kick the ball back to his dad, laughing when Rob got hit in the crotch? The latter was the old Aiden. He loved to be cheeky and he loved playing football with Rob. That was one part of parenting that we always did well. We were young and energetic. There was so much running and jumping and messing around that I missed it so much I physically ached.

  I hardly breathed waiting for Aiden to do something. Anything. At first he stood and stared down at the ball like it was from another planet. Then, he took a step forward and nudged it with the toe of his trainers.

  “That’s it, mate. Kick it over to me,” Rob encouraged.

  This time Aiden retracted his leg and full on kicked the ball towards Rob. It was nowhere near as enthusiastic as he used to be, but it was a start. I found myself leaning forward and applauding like a ridiculous ‘pushy mother’ on sports day.

  “Nice one!” Rob exclaimed, dodging forward to stop the ball with the side of his trainer before aiming it back to Aiden.

  Though my son barely cracked a smile, there was a moment when it felt like a little of the old life had creeped in. It was a shame the old me wasn’t there to jump up and join in. With the stress of the two weeks, as well as my pregnancy, I couldn’t play at all that day. I’d exhausted myself to the point where keeping my eyes open was a challenge. I had to sit and watch, with my pregnant belly a constant reminder than in little more than a week my next challenge would arrive.

  And it was awful but that was how I saw my new baby. A challenge. I was beginning to think that life was set out to test me, and I was getting mightily sick of being tested. When the little one moved inside me, I winced and stroked the bulge of my bump.

  “Everything all right?” Denise asked.

  I hadn’t heard her approach, and her voice was something of a shock. “Just the baby moving.”

  “Not long now,” she said.

  “No.”

  There was an awkward pause. What do you say to a woman barely a week away from her due date whose son had recently come back from the dead? There was no standard reply for that situation.

  “I’m sorry it’s such a stressful time for you,” she said eventually. “But at least Aiden will have a little sister soon. I’m sure it will help a lot with his… development.”

  I watched as Aiden kicked the ball back to Rob. Each kick was the same. There was no enthusiasm or energy about what he was doing. I tried to remind myself that Aiden was weaker than most sixteen-year-olds but it was still painful to see him in a situation that should have been normal for a boy his age, behaving like it was the strangest thing in the world. Th
e more he kicked the ball, the more that fleeting moment of hope ebbed away. He moved like a robot, drawing his foot back and kicking the ball in a slow, repetitive motion. The smile slowly faded from my face as I sat there and watched them.

  The thing is, I should have been excited about having the baby and getting Aiden back. And I should have been encouraged by the fact that Aiden had chosen to join in with the game. But I wasn’t any of those things. Looking at the dull blankness of Aiden’s expression, I felt nothing but fear.

  28

  The Duke of Hardwick was pictured in The Sun, red-faced and blotchy on his way out of York police station. Alongside it were pictures of him on holiday with his children. The media raked him through the coals, too, dragging up an old allegation of sexual assault, and photos of him attending parties with women in bikinis flanking him on either side. I couldn’t stand to see their grinning faces. The photos of him with the scantily clad women came from the 70s, and there was something about his leering grin that turned my stomach. It was like looking at photos of radio DJs in the 70s and feeling the grime of rape accusations coating your skin. Looking at those old perverts makes you want to take a shower.

  But looking at a picture of the duke’s blotchy red face showed me one important point: He was old. He walked with a cane and his hair was snow white. Now, I didn’t know what kind of physical condition he was in ten years ago, but I did know that he would have needed to be fairly fit to abduct a child. Unless he had received some sort of assistance throughout the decade of my son’s incarceration. My mind wandered into the murky depths of paedophile rings. There could be more of these men. I was almost sure of it. I reached out to the photograph of the duke and clawed away his face with my nails.

  He was on bail.

  The Wetherington House search had proved fruitless. Aside from the duke’s computer there was nothing else incriminating. There was no hidden dungeon. There were no secret passages or rooms that had not been scoured by the police. Or so they said. I was dubious. Surely a man with so much wealth and so many connections could afford to pay a builder to work in secrecy. But then again, as DCI Stevenson had told me during a brief telephone conversation informing me of the duke’s release, any change to Wetherington House was a ball-ache for the duke and duchess. They had to jump through more hoops than the rest of us, and it would take an awful lot of effort to build any kind of addition to the house. There was, of course, the possibility that he had used his money and influence to pay someone off, but even then he would have had to hide the whole thing from his family.