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

by LK Fox

  I wondered if he had come back at night for something connected with the charity’s Israel branch, the one with the Judean date symbol. Above our heads, a large glass sign was engraved with a notice.

  The Foundling Charity helps those who cannot afford to support their children in thirty-six countries around the world. The statement seemed grotesquely ironic.

  Around the entresol, more tall glass panels held illuminated photographs of children in dire need of assistance, and there were snippets of history beside them. One read:

  The Romans used to ask their gods for assistance in times of crisis, and left offerings at the sites where they were going to raise sacred buildings. Their talismans took the form of shields, jugs, spears, badges and charms; to this day, a coin is still placed in the mast-step of a ship as it is being built. One of the most famous complete sets of talismans was found in the original timbers of the Golden Hind.

  The Foundling Charity had its other office near the replica model. It continued:

  When the city’s paupers could no longer support their children, they dropped them off at foundling charities with talismans attached to them. Sometimes, they left a bracelet, a piece of embroidery, a badge or even the label from a gin bottle. Often, they left a single coin.

  I thought of the dragoon. A talisman. Buckingham needed remembrances. He was superstitious. I could feel him starting to come into focus, but just when I thought I had him the image slipped away again.

  Buckingham was climbing the stairs, searching the filing cabinets. But at the top he turned left, and I could immediately see he had made a mistake. He was starting from the wrong end – wasn’t he supposed to be looking for ‘I’ for ‘Israel’?

  I rose from my crouching position behind one of the displays and headed for the stairs, climbing them and turning right through the gallery. I quickly managed to lose myself among the cabinets. None of the cases were sealed or locked in any way. Either their contents weren’t especially valuable or someone hadn’t done their job properly; probably a combination of both.

  When I thought about Buckingham, I still couldn’t make the equation work. There was no connection between the guy in the scuzzy flat and the philanthropic carer who worked here.

  I reached the right section, knowing I had only moments to locate the drawer containing the file on the Israel branch before Buckingham discovered his error and came back around the balcony.

  I found the drawer and slid it out. Inside were dozens of old-fashioned cardboard files, arranged by date. It was impossible to tell what any of them contained. I realised I had no time to go through them all. I was screwed. I stared madly into the drawer, wondering what the hell to do. I didn’t even know what I was looking for.

  I closed the drawer and something made me turn around.

  There it was, standing in a white plastic tub. A spindly green palm with some round red seeds at its centre. A small sign attached to the tub read: Judean Date, the world’s oldest surviving tree.

  I pushed my hands down into beige volcanic pellets and my fingers closed around a knobbly object in a plastic bag. My pulse rose fast. As I pulled it out and turned the bag over, I recognised the scuffed uniform and the delicately repainted buttons on the tunic. The dragoon guard, the one Gabriel had taken to school on the day he had vanished, the one item he’d had with him day and night throughout his short life.

  Why had Buckingham chosen to keep any evidence at all? First the drawing, now the dragoon – which was far more damning. If he couldn’t let go, why keep it at his place of work rather than leaving it in a drawer at home?

  No matter. It would be enough to reopen the case. All I had to do was take it and get out as fast as possible.

  I pulled the bag free, scattering gravel, but had hesitated too long at the sight of the dragoon. I was turning away with it in my hand when I saw Buckingham standing behind me.

  ‘This belongs to me,’ I said, raising the plastic bag and holding it before me, barely able to get the words out. ‘My son’s name was Gabriel,’ I called into the shadows. ‘He had just turned seven. He was the boy you choked to death and dumped on a piece of waste ground.’

  As I spoke, my fingers curled around the soldier and I put it back in my pocket. Nothing would allow me to part with it again. I wanted to tear off his baseball cap and stare in his eyes, to see if I could see the murderous impulse there. I didn’t dare. I turned and started to walk away from him.

  The sound of Buckingham coming at me was enough to give me ample time to move aside. I avoided the swinging arm and he turned around, skating across the polished floor and into one of the glass panels, which tipped slowly backwards and hit the marble floor without breaking.

  I thought it best to simply push him away from me and trip him over, leave him lying on his back for a few minutes so he could fully consider his attitude. But before I could do that, Buckingham gamely tried to knee me in the spine, which only resulted in us both falling backwards in the dark. I hadn’t been expecting it, and went down as he rose and kicked me in the side of the head with the tip of a hard leather DM.

  As I started to rise, I grabbed at Buckingham’s right leg and continued moving upwards, taking it with me. I lifted him clean into the air, then dropped him. That took the wind out of his sails a little. He rolled over on to his stomach and had trouble getting up. I thought perhaps he was ready to stop being stupid.

  I ran for the staircase, but it was too dark to see the edges of the steps. Ahead was a glass door that led outside, to one of the scaffolded landings. I was far enough ahead to thump down its steel catch and make a run for it, swinging the door inward. Outside, I needed to find the down-ladder.

  I heard Buckingham behind me, but it’s hard to really know what happened next. Perhaps his leg didn’t support him as much as he thought it would. As he came along the scaffolded boards he seemed to lose his centre of balance and stumble sideways. A single pipe provided a low railing; the workmen hadn’t fitted all the steel guard-rails yet. Far from being prepared to attack me, he now seemed utterly confused. I moved forward to grab at his sleeve, but he jumped away in alarm, missing his footing on the top step.

  I tried to stop his fall, but he just went over the edge.

  He twisted as he dropped. It wasn’t far, no more than twelve or thirteen feet, but it was a bad angle and he landed squarely across the top of some of the concrete slabs that had been stacked upright, ready for repaving the main pathway. I could see only Buckingham’s boots and trousers from where I was standing, but I could tell he was pivoted over the paving stones. It seemed obvious even from that distance that he would have damaged his spine. His legs kicked once, then he slid off the top and hit the stone floor head first. A thin dark spray shot out from under his hood, across the path. The scene was grotesque. His twisted body was caught in a single shaft of light from the ground floor, the cotton jacket blossoming red, one black boot still kicking out, the wind rising noisily in the trees that surrounded us.

  I didn’t know what to do. But then boots were pounding behind me, somewhere on the first floor. The security guard must have been alerted by the noise. He was just a skinny kid. There didn’t seem to be anyone else around.

  No more than a few seconds had passed since the beginning of my encounter with Buckingham. I ran for the end of the scaffolding, finding the ladder just as the guard climbed outside.

  Moments later, I had stumbled down to ground level and was skirting the only camera in the forecourt. I had to wait for what felt like an age while the gate opened, but then back I was on the street, off around the corner and at my car, finally fishtailing on empty, wet streets, getting as far away from the building as I could, heading south in the direction of the river. I drove too fast, clipping traffic lights. My heart felt like it was going to burst.

  The lead dragoon was safely tucked in my pocket.

  I knew that my first instinct had not been to go and help him. It had been to cover my tracks. As I drove, the truth hit home.

/>   I had killed the man who had killed my boy. I had the creepy sketch he had made of my son, I had the dragoon Gabriel had been holding; even the plastic bag in which he had placed the soldier was identical to the one that he’d left in the safe at his flat. Together it was more than enough to link him to the crime, to make him the man I’d been looking for.

  But now that I had caused his death, I would never be able to hear the truth in his own words.

  Ella

  By my fourth morning in the village, I had established a routine.

  I dressed as a tourist but was careful not to wear anything that would make me memorable to a casual observer. I found an old brown sweater in a charity shop to pair with my ratty jeans and even bought some disgusting second-hand green wellingtons, mainly because they were necessary for getting across the muddy fields.

  After breakfast with Ray we drove out past Six Trees Farm to see if there was any activity on Ryder’s property. When I saw that the curtains were still drawn and nothing much was happening, we went back and took a tour of the high-street shops.

  Ray was starting to get bored, and I was worried that if I stayed too long the storekeepers would begin to recognise me. The woman in the local bakery had already started to wish me good morning. Actually, I desperately wanted to talk to her because I thought she might know Ryder, but it was too risky so I resisted. I needed to return to Bristol by the weekend because the Tequila Sunrise Diner was busiest on Saturdays, and that was when I made most of my tips; I was running low on money and it didn’t feel right to keep trading on Ray’s seemingly inexhaustible goodwill.

  It was one of those magical country mornings when the sky was so blue it made your eyes ache to stare at it. Sunlight carved the landscape into a harsh emerald patchwork. The air had weight; I could smell grass and earth and cows and sea. After breakfast Ray went back to our room. I finished my second cup of tea and was coming out of the village café when I saw the Range Rover pull up. It looked just as I had imagined it, olive-coloured and muddy, long past its best, with a battered dog cage in the back. And Ryder was behind the wheel.

  My first impression was confirmed; he had cleaned up his act and was more handsome than ever. His face, neck and waist had thickened. Any sign of his former drug-fuelled life had been scoured away, and yet he was recognisably the man with whom I had once been obsessed. There was a shadow in the back of the vehicle – it looked like he had brought the dog with him, although I hoped not. I just needed to get a little closer in order to see exactly . . .

  That was when a voice behind me called out, ‘Miss!’ I turned. The café owner was holding something up. ‘Miss, you forgot to pay.’

  I went back and handed over some coins from my purse, feeling foolish for having drawn attention to myself. When I returned to the edge of the pavement, the vehicle was empty and Ryder had gone. He hadn’t left the dog in the car. I began checking the stores one by one. I had just reached the newsagent’s when the door opened and he came out. He didn’t have the dog with him. He was laughing at something a man just behind him had said. The shop door opened again and a child in a hooded top ran between them.

  My mouth opened and shut, but no sound came out. All I could do was stare and stare. I didn’t believe the evidence of my eyes. It was one of those juxtapositions that didn’t make any sense.

  Ryder was with Mr Summerton.

  I followed behind them, hardly daring to breathe. They stopped at the café I had just left and went to the counter. Obviously, I had to follow them inside.

  I had an ancient copy of Hello! in my bag and pulled it out now, pretending to be engrossed in an article. I moved in closer and listened as hard as I could. I thought perhaps I was mistaken, and he just looked a bit like Kate Summerton’s husband. I sneaked another glance. It was hard to forget the face of the man I had accidentally widowed.

  Clearly, I was going mad.

  I heard Mr Summerton say, ‘If you could get the last week off, we could finish the other bedroom.’

  Then Ryder spoke. ‘You know you have to be in town, Ben. You’re the one with the schedule. Besides, Gabriel can’t afford the time away from school. Mrs Arnold would be on my back in a second.’

  ‘I know. It’s just so great to get away.’

  ‘We can come back down for a long weekend. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Gabriel?’

  ‘Nick, you know what will happen. I’ll go back to work and then nothing – you two will go off to some kind of model-soldier exhibition and you’ll forget all about our plans.’

  My head swam. Ryder’s real name couldn’t be something as ordinary as Nick. Of all the names he’d made up for the music press, I’d never heard that one. And if the other man was Ben Summerton, it meant that the child . . .

  I lowered the magazine and walked down the pavement, getting closer. Ben Summerton took Ryder’s hand. An old man in a tweed hat who looked like a cartoon caricature of a farmer passed them, saw them holding hands, and muttered something under his breath.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Ben shouted after him cheerfully. ‘Mr Maddox and I are legally married.’

  Nick Maddox. The boy was walking happily between them now, holding both their hands. ‘Hey, Gabe,’ Ryder/Nick said, ‘you know, there’s a cool zoo near here. We should try and go tomorrow, before we have to go home. You’ve got to be back in Long Lane by Thursday.’

  I moved closer for a view of the little boy’s left fist and saw the angry red ring that marked the flesh between his thumb and forefinger.

  The world tipped. I looked again, but the puckered scar remained. How was it possible? How could he get the child that I had lost? How could he get his own son back when Gabriel could never be mine?

  Ben Summerton and Nick Maddox and Ben’s adopted son Gabriel were heading off along the pavement to the end of the parade, in the direction of the butcher’s shop. Nick was swinging Gabriel about and making him laugh.

  I thought back to Ryder’s constantly changing stories about his identity. I thought he’d done that as a kind of ironic statement on fame, because he was smarter than any of the people who tried to manipulate him. That’s what infatuation does; it convinces you of some hidden alignment. It never crossed my mind that he’d invented a colourful past because the truth was too boring.

  I was barely able to see. Anger washed over me. Without thinking, I walked back to where the Range Rover was parked, trying not to lose my balance. I dug in my jacket for the Japanese kitchen knife I always carry around. Passing the vehicle, I stabbed out at one of the kerbside tyres, digging so deeply into it that I cut my hand on the end of the blade. I wanted to smash the windows, too, but knew I couldn’t without getting caught.

  And what was the point, really? He could afford to replace the tyres, the windows – the whole damned car. This was just a summer home. He had everything he could wish for: a new life, a home, a beautiful relationship and his son – my son.

  At first it seemed so cruel that I thought it had to be some kind of a trick. Then I saw that it wasn’t chance at all. It was my fault. I had gone out of my way to engineer everything. If I hadn’t intervened, Ben would still have been unhappily married to Kate. But no, I managed to widow Gabriel’s adoptive father.

  Ben Summerton – a man who had once been called ‘Sausage’ by his wife – had the life that had been intended for me. Ryder was no longer a junked-up singer. Somehow, he had been led to his boy without even realising it. I asked myself how the hell he had he managed to meet Summerton. He’d come a long way from Ryder to Nick Maddox, from performing in run-down music pubs to discussing decorating ideas with a hot husband. And instead of being punished, his world was now perfect.

  The more I thought about it, the less of a coincidence it became. What are cities but a collection of neighbourhoods to which people return again and again? That meant they knew the same people, frequented the same bars, the same stations, the same cafés, the same newsstands. In the city, you can get on a bus and find yourself standing beside the off
ice worker you see all day, your old classmate, your mother’s best friend, but it’s not just coincidence, it’s a whole set of other things: class, age, tribes, social groupings – call them whatever you want. Ben Summerton’s marriage must have been falling apart when he lost his wife. After her death, he must have returned to his old territory.

  And when the man I had only ever known as Ryder met his own son, what if he sensed a connection? Could he have recognised his own genes in a gesture, a look, a mutual attraction? What if he felt a bond he couldn’t explain, the pull of heredity over environment?

  The irony taunted me. I longed to be with my son again but would be forever denied the chance. Instead, that privilege had fallen to the father who hadn’t even been aware of his birth.

  In that one brief moment, everything changed.

  I was no longer prepared to walk away and leave Nick Maddox with a life of perfect happiness, because if I did, knowing what I knew now would destroy me.

  I wanted the bastard to experience the same pain I had suffered – for what he did to me, and for taking away my son.

  Nick

  Am I a murderer?

  The image of Buckingham lying bloody and broken-backed on top of a stack of paving stones at the foundation made my gorge rise. I headed home – driving like a very old lady. If anyone had stopped me, I think I would have broken down and told them everything. It had been a very long day.

  When I surfaced the next morning, the first thought that filled my head was It’s finally over. A barrier had descended, closing off the limbo of the last year, sealing it into my past. As I tried to stand, my damaged hamstring sent a shock through my left leg. I’d reopened the tear during the scuffle at the institute. I’d just wanted Buckingham to admit what he’d done to the authorities. To explain how and why, nothing more. I didn’t mean for him to die.