Little Boy Found: They Thought the Nightmare Was Over...It Was Only the Beginning.

by LK Fox

  Buckingham had parked and was heading to one of the ground-floor flats. He stopped before the scruffiest of all the front doors and rang the bell. I got out and walked to the corner, careful to keep my distance.

  This is where he belongs, I thought, happier that my assumptions about class had been borne out. He must have left without his keys. The door opened and he was met by a tall redhead in a skin-tight leopard-print T-shirt and grey tracksuit bottoms. She didn’t look too pleased to find him on her doorstep and quickly ushered him inside.

  I took stock of the place, an overgrown front garden covered in burnt patches and children’s plastic toys, valanced windows, little ornaments on ledges, brightly lit rooms. As I saw the redhead pass by the window, I realised there were kids inside following her about. They were maybe eight or nine years old, both plump, a couple of years apart. The thought that he might be their father – probably kissed these children goodnight – was enough to prickle my arms.

  A man who could steal a child away and return to that little home and family – none of it made sense to me. Perhaps I had the wrong guy after all? So he kept a crappy apartment on the other side of the city and got his car repaired as quickly as possible. It was hardly proof of anything. It just meant that he was most likely running a woman on the side.

  The blinds in the kitchen were undrawn, but it was difficult to see in clearly. Buckingham’s wife was following him about, keeping her distance and her arms folded, as if they were strangers or had just had a fight. This was his other life, the one that had nothing to do with kerb-crawling schools or stashing a mistress in a fleabag flat.

  Changing tactics, I approached Buckingham’s BMW. He had closed his car door but I realised I hadn’t heard him beep it shut. I thought maybe the appearance of his wife had distracted him from locking it properly.

  A yellow square of light illuminated the straggly bushes that lined the parking bay. I dropped to the passenger side of the car and pulled at the door handle. It opened, and no alarm went off. Checking along the dashboard, I looked for anything that would give me a clue to who this man really was. Several packets of antacid mints – okay, he was stressed. In the glove compartment there were some unreadable notes – mostly numbers that looked like times. And on a folded yellow Post-It note, a capital-letter scrawl that said: JUDEAN DATE. That was it, the sum total of his secret life.

  I raised my head to check on the family. There was no sign of Dad, Mum and the kids were still sullenly milling about in the living room. I searched the door pockets. On the driver’s side, I found a slim plastic slipcase and emptied its contents on to the seat. A few sheets of typed paper, one with a single word repeated several times: ‘Buckingham’. Some petrol receipts, an empty spectacle case, a red Sharpie. I pulled out my bashed-up phone and ran its torchlight over the top page.

  The document’s letterhead featured a small drawing of a Victorian building with a logo embossed beneath it: ‘The Foundling Charity’. I’d seen the same logo on the card in Buckingham’s flat. There was an inter-departmental note outlining a visit from another charity to discuss an upcoming initiative, and a brochure for a local church. Great, I thought, not only does he have a family, he works for the good of society. At this rate, I’ll find out that he also coaches kids for the Paralympics. Then I thought, That’s just the kind of job he’d take, being around vulnerable children. I slipped everything back into the door pocket and carefully pushed the door shut.

  Once more, I thought about going to the police. I imagined myself explaining what I thought might have happened, and knew it would all be entered in the system and, once I was in it, nothing could be stopped. They’d drag out my old file and whatever happened after that. I would be placing my career and just about everything else at risk.

  Nothing occurred for about a quarter of an hour. While I waited, I ran a check on the Foundling Charity. According to their website, it had been set up in 1876 to help children abandoned by their parents and was now one of the foremost independent children’s charities. A children’s charity. It kept getting better.

  I heard the front door being opened. I guessed Buckingham was coming back out. I could just see him skirting the street lamp, staying out of its light circle, as if he was up to something illegal. I saw his breath condense in the evening air. He was wearing his retro driving gloves again and pressed his hands against the pit of his stomach, as if it was hurting him. It was hardly surprising he had a bad stomach. He was leading a double – or possibly a triple – life, running between his wholesome family home and a respectable job, then heading over to his skanky girlfriend-shack and his second career as a kidnapper and child-killer.

  Now was the perfect moment. I started walking towards him.

  I glanced back at the house and saw his wife standing in the window, and I faltered. The last thing I wanted was a family brawl kicking off on the street. The confrontation would have to take place somewhere away from here, not on his home turf.

  There was a row of low holly bushes at my back, enough to provide cover. At least I was on the passenger side of the BMW. I waited while he crossed the front lawn to the car and opened the driver door. I found myself running for the Peugeot.

  I was going to jump into the car and tail him again, but I couldn’t find my bloody keys. I looked under the vehicle – nothing there – and had to retrace my steps to the spot where I’d been crouching. They’d fallen out of my pocket, along with most of my small change.

  By the time I had run back to the Peugeot, Buckingham was nowhere in sight. I had no idea in which direction he’d gone and didn’t know what to do next, so I was forced to give up and go home.

  I could come up with no explanation for his behaviour that made any sense. I needed to get him alone somehow and hear the truth. I had all the details I needed – his name, where he lived, what he drove, where he worked – but something was still stopping me.

  A terrible thought occurred. In all this chasing around to find out what had actually happened, what if it turned out that I was responsible for Gabriel’s death? I never treated him with kid gloves; I made him stand up for himself. He’d been scared of a bully. I had forced him to go to school that day because I wanted to make him tougher. What if it really had been my fault? Redditch had spent a good six months implying exactly that. What if he was right to have done so?

  When I got home, Ben was at the front door, waiting for me.

  Ella

  Yet another deadline passed. I found it impossible to tear myself away. It would be just my luck if something bad happened the moment I was no longer there. I simply couldn’t take that risk.

  Especially as Mrs Summerton was changing. She took to leaving Gabriel with her husband at the weekends while she went out. I felt sure she was having cocktails in a bar somewhere instead of looking after my child, probably partying with her old boss.

  She changed the curtains and had the kitchen repainted. Sausage either lost or gave up his job and became a house husband. He traded his Mercedes for a Volkswagen. He started buying more fashionable jeans. Something was happening to the family, but it was hard to tell what exactly; it was like watching time-lapse photography of flowers budding, blooming and dying.

  One evening, Mrs Summerton announced that she was feeling cooped up in the house and would go back to work as soon as she could. Sausage wasn’t keen on the idea, but eventually gave in, as he always did. Of course, I wasn’t one hundred per cent sure that this was what they were saying, but I could see them arguing in the living room, right over baby Gabriel. That had to be the problem, didn’t it? What else could they possibly be arguing about? My son was more important than anything else.

  I started to panic. What if they sold up and moved further out? What if they decided to leave the country? At night, I lay awake, trying to imagine every possibility. Buck, as ever, was the voice of reason. He suggested I was being obsessive and that maybe it was finally time to let go. We had our first big argument.

  The following m
orning, as I stood in my customary spot behind the wild corner hedges where no one in the street could see me, I told myself I was being stupid. Buck was right; it was time to admit defeat. These people may have their problems, but they had their own lives to live. The fact was that Gabriel was going to be fine.

  There was nothing more I could do. I had spent so many days and nights waiting for my life to start that any sense of joy had been crushed out of me. In my darkest moments, I decided that there was no way of ever getting Gabriel back and, even if there was, he deserved to be with somebody better than me.

  That was when the first seed of doubt was sown. What if it wasn’t them and the real problem was me? Where would all this end? I told myself I was just an observer and could see things from the outside that others missed. But when I thought it through I arrived at a point of absolute blackness. There was nothing I could achieve. Remaining close to Gabriel would only make me miserable and put me at further risk.

  That lunchtime, I handed in my notice at the jewellery shop and made plans to move on. I decided that the next day I would look in on my son one last time, then pack my rucksack and leave for good.

  *

  It was a miserable, ragged day at the end of March, so dim the world seemed in danger of flickering out altogether. From my usual position in the rhododendron bushes, I could see Mrs Summerton complaining about something. Sausage was standing his ground for once. Their argument rumbled from room to room throughout the house like a shifting storm cloud. Lights went on and off.

  The accusations went back and forth. I tried to decipher Sausage’s movements. I guessed he was accusing his wife of wanting to get with her old boss, Darrell. He lived in the centre of town, in a newly built penthouse with fancy tree-filled terraces. I was sure she was very familiar with the place. I did once follow her to his flat, but couldn’t see inside because it was on the seventh floor, and, besides, they had CCTV in the lobby. Who knows? It might have been innocent enough, but still –I could understand Sausage’s anger at the idea of his wife and Mr Smooth snuggling down with a nice bottle of plonk, discussing plans for future corporate mergers.

  The increasingly rancorous atmosphere of the day finally got to little Gabriel, and he started crying. After a few more bickering skirmishes, Mrs Summerton threw on her coat and thrust Gabriel into his buggy. She stood at the front door and called him ‘love’, but I could tell she meant it sarcastically. I couldn’t see the next part, but after another couple of minutes the front door opened and she emerged, pushing the buggy out on to the path.

  Gabriel was still crying, and the more he cried, the harder Mrs Summerton shoved the buggy up the road, jouncing it towards the high street. When she pushed it off the kerb, it very nearly overturned. It was the first time I had ever seen her like this. Normally, she was reasonably patient with Gabriel, but now she seemed intent on taking her anger out on him. My concern got the better of me, and I stepped out from the bushes into her path.

  ‘If you pushed him more gently, he wouldn’t cry,’ I said, but as soon as I spoke I realised the terrible mistake I’d made.

  ‘I’m sorry, what business is it of yours?’ she said, looking at me as if I was dirt.

  ‘You’re rocking him about, that’s why he’s crying.’

  ‘Do you normally go up to people and tell them how to look after their children?’ She tried to push past me.

  ‘But he needs loving kindness. I saw you arguing. You can’t do that in front of him.’

  ‘We weren’t arguing—’

  ‘But that’s why you made him cry.’

  ‘Excuse me, but is this your child? No, I thought not. Don’t tell me how to raise my – wait.’ I saw the light of recognition in her eyes. ‘I’ve seen you before.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Yes, I have. You’re the girl from the jewellery shop. And you were sitting next to me in Starbucks last Saturday. You’re always hanging around. What are you up to?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said hastily. ‘I live in the next street.’

  ‘Which street? Why are you always in this one? I looked out the other morning and saw you hanging about outside. What the hell do you think you’re playing at? Are you spying on us?’

  ‘It’s nothing – it’s nothing to do with me,’ I mumbled, backing off.

  ‘What do you want? Why—?’ She looked down at Gabriel and suddenly understood. ‘Are you—? You keep away from my son! I’m calling the police.’

  As she fumbled for her phone, I turned and jogged away. She was pushing Gabriel so she couldn’t easily follow me, but when I glanced back I definitely saw her calling someone as she smashed the buggy up another kerb.

  That night, I was unable to sleep for worrying about Gabriel. If Kate Summerton could get so angry with a complete stranger, what might she be like with him?

  *

  As dawn broke the next morning, I rose and stared out of the window at the crows in the bleak white fields. I could see no end to this miserable existence. I saw how selfishly I had behaved. Nothing good could come of my behaviour, but I found it impossible to stop. Even Buck seemed on the verge of leaving me. A whole week had passed since I last heard from him.

  There was a thick sheen of ice across the country roads and I was wearing Nike trainers, so I made my way carefully to Wellington Close. Within minutes of my arrival, the carport started to open. I slipped back behind the hedges, pushing much deeper into the leaves than usual. The Volkswagen emerged and turned into the street. Mrs Summerton was in the driver’s seat. Sausage didn’t come to the window to see her off.

  After she’d gone, I went around to the back of their house and looked in through the kitchen window. It was risky being there, as I was more exposed, but I wanted to see Gabriel one last time. He was seated in his blue polystyrene baby-chair, giggling and kicking his feet, without a care in the world. There was no sign of Sausage so I took a chance. The house had an alleyway running down the side, so I went around and tried the back door. It was unlocked.

  I pushed it open and approached Gabriel as quietly as I could, listening out for any sudden return. I blew him a kiss. He gurgled and bounced, rocking the baby chair he’d almost outgrown, always happy to see his real mother. I couldn’t resist reaching out my forefinger for him to grasp. Every time I saw the puckered scar on his hand I felt a stab of pain in my heart.

  And as he held on to me, he looked into my eyes, and this time I saw something else – I saw a sudden flicker of fear. He stopped smiling and his mouth began to open. I was backlit by the open door – he couldn’t see who I was. He started to wail.

  I heard a toilet flush, then a tap running. Sausage was about to come along the hall from the bathroom.

  I swiftly moved back to the door and tried to pull it shut behind me, but it wouldn’t stay closed. I couldn’t risk being there any longer. Gabriel was still howling. I looked at him one last time and ran out into the garden, holding the sight of his face in my mind. I knew that it was over, and there was nothing more for me here. As I watched, Sausage checked the baby-chair and grabbed his mobile. I fled.

  When I got back up to the high street I continued walking, my heart thumping. The rhythm of my shoes said Goodbye Gabriel Goodbye Gabriel.

  I saw no one. I felt no cold. I just kept going, following the main road out of the town, until the last of the shops disappeared and the landscape returned to its natural state. As I walked faster the rhythm of my shoes changed to Goodbye Goodbye Goodbye. Some people naturally know how to make the best of their lives. I had ruined every chance I’d been given. I didn’t deserve to live.

  A great archway of trees covered the twisting arterial road. Here there was hardly any traffic and everything was still and frozen. I wanted to lie down in the road and die, anything to be rid of this terrible empty feeling.

  That was when I decided to do it. No more suffering. I could just let it happen.

  I thought that if a vehicle came along and wasn’t moving fast enough, the dri
ver would have time to brake and it would merely injure me, and then there would just be more trouble for everyone.

  So I kept walking, looking for a better spot. Finally, I came to bend that followed on from a long, straight run of the road. A sign warned of black ice. Not many local cars seemed to use the route at this time of day, now that the rush hour had passed. It led to the wrong end of the high street, where there were only a few houses and charity shops.

  I heard the car before I saw its dark shape racing around the bend, barely holding the road, travelling too fast between the holly bushes and elm trees. The lighting was poor. I was sure the driver wouldn’t be able to see me in time.

  I whispered a final goodbye to Gabriel and pressed the tiny gold crucifix my mother had bought me against my breastbone until it hurt. Waiting until the last possible moment, I scrunched my eyes shut and ran out into the road. I dropped down into a tight ball on the icy tarmac and hoped for a quick end.

  I heard the driver slam on his brakes. Tyres grinding over tar and ice. A crackle of falling gravel. Then there was silence, an angelic lacuna in which, for the first time in an age, I felt at peace. I was entirely prepared for the impact and the release that would follow this small, still moment.

  Instead, I heard strange new noises: a slide, a creak of metal, snapping branches, a great rustle of leaves. Nothing very dramatic, just the wrong sounds. When I opened my eyes I was surprised to see that the car had completely disappeared, as if it had been lifted up into the heavens. The tyre tracks were there, torn through the ice, and then they suddenly vanished.

  Puzzled, I left the road, following the channels of churned brown earth on the verge, and found what appeared to be an angled sheet of grey metal lying in the bushes. The vehicle had overturned. Its doors were bashed in. One wheel was still slowly revolving, with little daggers of ice dropping off the rear tyre.