The Gift

by Louise Jensen

  Sam settles on a recent shot of Harry at school: he’s staring directly into the camera, beaming. Front tooth missing. Sam passes his phone over.

  ‘And his dad? Owen, was it?’ the policewoman asks.

  Sam shakes his head. ‘I don’t have a photo of him. Mum?’

  Kathy wipes her cheeks with her sleeve. ‘There’s one in Harry’s baby book in the bottom drawer taken at the hospital. It was the only time Owen ever met Harry.’

  Sam pulls out a book and swipes through the pages. ‘Here.’ He points at a picture of Kathy: exhausted smile, dark circles under eyes, cradling Harry while a dark-haired man stands to the side of her bed looking down at his son.

  As I stare at Owen’s face my chest burns as though the air has been sucked out of my lungs. Rain. Darkness. Blood. Images flash through my mind. It’s as if I’m thundering through a tunnel on a train catching glimpses of posters I can’t quite identify. Owen’s face is so familiar. I know I’ve never met him but it’s as if a bottle of champagne has been uncorked and fragmented memories froth and spill, and none of them are good. The fear builds and builds. A sense of helplessness. A thin film of sweat covers my body. What’s happening to me? I press my hands against my ears trying to block out the muttering in my head.

  34

  Oh my god. What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?

  35

  ‘Jen?’ I’m vaguely aware of Sam’s voice and my mind begins to still. ‘Are you OK?’

  I lower my hands from my ears. Everyone is staring at me and I’m caught between embarrassment and terror.

  ‘You’re sweating. Here.’ He pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs gently at my forehead, just like he used to do when I was sick. He pushes it into my hand and I curl my fingers around it. I know if I press it against my nose and inhale it will smell of humbugs.

  ‘Let’s go outside and get some air,’ he says.

  We sit on the back step. Our bodies in shadow, legs hot in the sun. The air is heavy with the smell of rosemary from Kathy’s herb garden.

  ‘What just happened, Jenna?’

  I breathe in deeply through my nose. Puff air out of my mouth. It seems ages before I feel able to speak. ‘I’ve never met Owen, have I?’ I confirm what I already know.

  ‘No. Not that I know of. Why?’

  How can I explain that as I looked at the photo I felt I’d seen those eyes before? There’s a feeling deep in my gut that tells me something very, very bad has happened but it’s like looking through murky water. Blurred shapes and movements. Instead, I say: ‘I’m so sorry. About Harry.’ I twist the corner of the handkerchief around in my fingers until it forms a point.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Sam says even though we both know that it is. ‘He’s seven. He knows better than to wander off. We’ll find him.’ There’s a quiver in his voice. He runs his fingers through his hair and it sticks up at all angles, and I have to suppress the urge to smooth it down.

  He stands and paces the small grey patio where we’ve spent endless summer days cremating sausages, caramelising onions; blackened smoke drifting over next door’s fence. ‘Sod what the police say. I can’t sit here and do nothing. I’m going to Owen’s.’

  ‘Does Harry even know where he lives?’ I ask.

  ‘Mum’s got the address in her address book. It wouldn’t be hard for Harry to find out. He’s a smart lad.’

  ‘But surely Owen’s will be the first place the police will check? They might be talking to him now?’ I can see the policewoman in the kitchen, speaking into her radio.

  ‘If Owen has taken him he’s not likely to answer his phone, is he? They say they’re doing everything they can but will checking Owen’s be a priority? Are they even taking it seriously? It’s not like he’s a baby or there was any… well, anything at the surgery.’

  He means blood, I think, and we fall silent for a moment.

  ‘Why would he go now? Today?’

  ‘Perhaps he’s been waiting for a chance. He can’t leave school without an adult picking him up and Mum watches him like a hawk at home. She still won’t let him play out. Fuck it. I’m going.’ Sam’s voice is firmer now. ‘Coming?’ He stretches out a hand and I take it. As he pulls me to my feet I fall against his chest and he holds me, steadying me for a moment too long after I’ve found my footing.

  Sam’s engine roars to life and I can barely hear him as he says: ‘Sorry about the noise. There’s a hole in the exhaust.’

  We sound as though we’re part of the Grand Prix as we race towards Owen’s house. Sam doesn’t speak, his mouth is a thin line as he weaves in and out of the traffic, accelerating as lights turn to amber.

  Owen’s house isn’t what I expected. Sam has such a low opinion of him I pictured him living in squalor. A bedsit, overrun with take-out containers and empty beer cans. We screech to a halt outside a small detached house. Weeds twist through the gaps in-between the block paving at the front.

  ‘Wait here.’ Sam flings open his door and races up the driveway, and the overwhelming panic I’d felt before when I saw the picture of Owen heats my blood and I struggle to control my breathing. I feel sick and I close my eyes. Thudding the door with my fists in the pouring rain. Crying. My heart feels it’s going to beat its way out of my chest. Begging. Screaming through the letter box: ‘I just want to talk.’

  My trembling hand unclips my seatbelt and I push open my door and swing my legs out of the car. Standing, I put a hand on the hot car roof to steady myself before approaching the house. Sam has stopped knocking on the door and is making his way around the back. The front is locked. Blinds closed. I crouch and look through the letter box. Post is piled up against the door. Sam is rattling the patio doors as I pick my way through the back garden. Weeds and nettles snag my legs and grasp at the laces in my trainers. This garden hasn’t been tended for a long, long time. I cup my hands over my eyes and press my face against the smeared glass.

  I scan the lounge, the sofa, the coffee table, the fireplace. My eyes linger on the hearth; there’s a dark stain.

  From nowhere I hear a scream. I totter backwards, almost falling. Not sure if it’s in my head but there’s no movement inside the house. Stretching out my hand I grasp Sam’s arm. Reassure myself he is here. He is real.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ I whisper.

  ‘Hear what?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. What is happening to me? What happened to Callie? She knew Owen, of that I am sure, and what’s more, she was scared of him.

  Back at Kathy’s, friends and neighbours arrive for the search. I keep busy, worried that if I stop moving my surroundings will fragment and I’ll be swathed in darkness once more. I make sandwiches that will sit and curl on the plate, lettuce wilting and egg congealing. No one is hungry. The TV flickers in the background and Kathy stares blankly at the screen but I know if I stand in front of it and ask her what she’s watching she wouldn’t have a clue.

  Sam is pacing up and down the hallway, making call after call. No one has seen Harry but people want to help. He’s told them all to come, and the printer whirrs out maps of the local area and he highlights places to search. My parents are on their way.

  ‘We’ll divide everyone into pairs when they turn up; we can cover more ground that way.’

  I rub my eyes, exhausted although it’s not yet 4.00 p.m. I can’t believe Harry has only been missing a few hours. It feels like days. I can’t settle. It’s as if seeing the photo of Owen has unplugged something in my mind, sparking pulsing images that vanish before I can fully grasp them. It’s like a game of Chinese whispers almost, and I’ve no idea how to interpret them.

  At a loose end, I text Nathan to let him know what’s going on. He offers to come and help but I hesitate, not sure I want my past and present in the same room.

  ‘Jenna?’ Sam says, and I put my phone away. He is a mantle of calm as he organises a search, his voice steady, but he blinks twice as much as usual and I know how scared he is. ‘Can you co
ver the area near the vets? You know it better than anyone.’

  A clipboard is being passed around and I scribble my mobile number onto the list of others; Sam’s going to copy them so we can all contact each other with news. ‘When we’ve found him,’ Sam says and we all smile and nod. ‘Of course we’ll find him.’

  I squeeze next to Kathy on the sofa while I wait for the list of phone numbers. ‘He’ll be OK,’ I tell her but she’s lost to another world. I pick up the remote, my finger poised to change the channel from the 24-hour news to something less depressing. But I’m drawn by the flurry of policemen swarming around a field. The reporter, face set in a serious expression, gestures with his hand to the yellow police tape behind him. The camera pans to a white tent before zooming in to the sombre face of the policeman guarding the entrance. Legs splayed, hands clasped in front of him. I turn up the volume and lean closer to the set.

  A woman’s face fills the screen. Her cheeks are flushed, grey hair escapes under a black beanie.

  ‘Could you tell us in your own words what happened?’

  ‘Yes.’ The woman’s eyes fill with tears and she rocks from side to side. The shot pans out. The reporter puts a hand on her forearm, whether to comfort her or steady her, I don’t know.

  ‘I was walking Barnaby.’

  ‘Your dog?’

  ‘Yes.’ She gestures to the King Charles spaniel leaping around her feet. ‘I got him from a rescue centre. I let my granddaughter, Chloe, name him.’ Her mouth flicks into a quick smile as though she’s just realised she’s on TV. That Chloe might see her. But her face droops as she glances over her shoulder.

  ‘That’s where I found it.’ Her voice cracks and she pulls back and wipes her nose, but the reporter is thrusting the microphone into her face again.

  ‘And what did you find?’

  Tears spill and she shakes her head from side to side. ‘It was Barnaby really. He wouldn’t stop digging. I tried to pull him away but he growled at me. That’s not like him and I thought he must smell something good. A bone perhaps.’ Her pupils dilate as she stares into the distance.

  ‘What happened next?’

  She visibly jumps as the reporter’s voice jars her back to the present moment. ‘Sorry. Yes. I grabbed Barnaby’s collar and I tried to drag him away, and that’s when I saw it.’ She screws her eyelids tight.

  ‘It?’

  ‘The hand. A human hand. I’m sorry. I can’t…’ She runs off and the camera zooms in to the reporter’s face.

  ‘Breaking news. A body has just been discovered by a dog walker at Burton Aerodrome. Stay tuned for live updates.’

  36

  You fucking, fucking bastard.

  37

  At first I think it is Kathy that has spoken but she is sitting on the sofa, arms wrapped around herself, rocking gently back and forth. The police are quick to reassure her that the body isn’t Harry but the ‘what-ifs’ hang in the air and the mood has changed. As I look around the room the shock on everyone’s face is apparent. Although no one says anything there’s been a collective shift in our thinking. We’ve gone from hoping Harry’s just wandered off to fearing the worst. People pull on shoes and zip up coats ready for the search. My head is reeling. Burton Aerodrome is the last place that Callie visited using her satnav but before I have time to think about it properly I hear a familiar voice call ‘Hello?’ from the hallway. The lounge door is pushed open, and at the sight of Mum and Dad, standing shoulder to shoulder, a hot lump rises in my throat. I’ve been desperate for them to be in the same room. But not like this.

  ‘Mum.’ I cross the room and kiss her powdered cheek. She smells of baking and as she tucks her hair behind her ear I notice she has flour and butter under her nails, and I am so touched she has dropped everything to come.

  ‘Dad picked me up. I thought it would be quicker than waiting for a taxi.’ Mum crouches down besides Kathy and pats her hands. ‘We’ll find him. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Hello, Sam.’ Dad shakes Sam’s hand but there’s no smiles. No ‘pleased to see you again’. This is not a happy reunion.

  ‘So he went missing at the vets? Does Linda know?’ Dad asks me.

  ‘I’m sure the police will have spoken to Linda if they need to,’ snaps Mum.

  ‘I didn’t mean that I—’ begins Dad.

  ‘Stop it you two. This isn’t the time or place,’ I almost hiss and both my parents stare down at their shoes, and I feel our roles have been reversed.

  We are heading out of the door when the police radio crackles and hisses and the policewoman holds her hand up as though she’s stopping traffic, and we stop mid-stride as she slips outside. Please let him be OK. When she returns, minutes later, she’s smiling.

  ‘We’ve found him. He’s fine and a car will bring him home shortly.’

  Kathy slumps back on the sofa – still and silent – and I step outside and pull out my mobile. There are several missed calls and texts from Nathan, all asking what’s going on, but I have to ring Rachel before I do anything else. She’s still at the practice, waiting for news.

  ‘Rach? It’s OK; he’s been found,’ I blurt out before she can even say hello.

  ‘Thank fuck for that.’ She exhales sharply. ‘I’ve been sitting here thinking how I’d feel if it were Liam. I think I’ve aged ten years this afternoon.’

  ‘Sorry. I owe you a stiff drink.’

  ‘You owe me more than that Jenna McCauley! See you tomorrow at work.’

  In the lounge, we sit and chat in low voices as the hands on the clock seem to move at half speed. It feels like hours before there is the thrum of an engine, the slamming of doors and Harry limps into the room, his pale face streaked with tears. Kathy envelops him into a hug and, for once, he doesn’t try to wriggle away.

  ‘Where was he?’ Sam asks.

  ‘Miller Road’, says the policeman who drove him home. ‘A young mum spotted him crying outside her front window and came out to check. Not many would nowadays. He has twisted his ankle but we’ve given him a proper check over and he’s fine. No harm done.’

  Kathy releases her grip on Harry although she doesn’t break contact as though afraid he might disappear again. ‘What on earth were you doing there, Harry? We’ve been worried sick.’ Her voice rises in pitch as she speaks and Harry breaks into fresh sobs and the policeman talks instead.

  ‘He said he came out the loo and went into reception looking for Jenna.’ I shift uncomfortably in my seat. ‘Harry saw someone outside in the car park. He waved and they waved back and Harry got this idea it might be his dad come to surprise him and so he slipped out of the unlocked’ – I cringe again – ‘door and followed them but he couldn’t keep up and tried to run but twisted his ankle.’

  ‘And this person,’ I say, ‘what did they look like?’

  ‘He couldn’t give a description beyond they were wearing jeans and a black hoodie, and that could be anyone, couldn’t it?’

  Over the next half an hour the lounge gradually empties of people and Dad asks if I want a lift home.

  ‘Stay for a bit?’ Sam says, and I nod and hug my parents goodbye. ‘Thanks for coming.’

  ‘I’m always here if you need me,’ Dad says but he’s looking at Mum as he speaks. ‘Shall we make a move, Daph?’

  ‘I can get a cab, Ken,’ she says.

  ‘If I drive you, I could mow the lawn while I’m there, and afterwards perhaps we could talk?’

  She stares up at the sky as if seeking guidance before she answers. ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘Only a bowl of cornflakes.’

  ‘That’s not a proper dinner. I’ve made a pie.’ Without looking at him she turns and walks stiffly out of the door and we watch from the window as she waits at the car. Dad opens the passenger door for her and, although she shrugs him off when he brushes her shoulder as he passes her the seatbelt, I think it might be the start of something.

  As Sam drives me home his hand rustles inside a bag of humbugs and he pulls one out and fumbles to u
nwrap it as he steers. There was a time I’d have twisted off the plastic for him, popping it into his mouth but that feels too intimate now. The engine thrums as we wait at the traffic lights, and I study the red-bricked cottage that doesn’t quite fit in with the rest of the street we’re on. Honeysuckle weaves in and out of the trellis either side of the front door and a pale pink clematis climbs to the dusky sky.

  It all looks so achingly beautiful. So achingly normal. If something awful had happened to Harry today I know I’d never have been able to see the world in quite the same way again.

  Sam’s reached the chewy bit in the middle of his sweet now and his teeth grind together before he swallows.

  ‘Jen, I’ve been wanting to talk to you.’

  I turn to look at him but his face is impassive as he watches the road ahead.

  ‘It’s about your… fixation with Callie.’

  ‘I don’t have a fixation. I have Secondary Traumatic Stress Syndrome.’

  Sam twists his head to look at me and the surprise on his face is apparent.

  ‘You’ve already talked to someone?’

  ‘I went to see Vanessa on Friday. I know I’ve been a little bit… preoccupied.’

  ‘So you’ve taken them down, the pictures in your kitchen?’

  ‘How do you know about those?’ I try to keep the sharpness out of my voice.

  ‘Rachel told me. She’s so worried about you. We both are.’

  ‘You’ve been talking about me behind my back? Very bloody cosy.’ Jealousy bubbles like acid in my stomach. Rachel hadn’t mentioned that earlier.

  ‘It’s not like she was gossiping. She was really upset after she’d seen them. She said it was like a shrine almost.’

  ‘It’s not a bloody shrine. I’m interested in Callie, that’s all. Who wouldn’t be?’

  ‘So you’re not embroiling yourself into her family thinking you can somehow…’

  ‘I’m not embroiling myself anywhere. They want to see me too.’