The Missing

by C. L. Taylor

  The good thing, if it can be called that, about working for members of your family is that I didn’t have to explain my absence when Billy disappeared. John and Stephen didn’t go to work either. They spent the best part of a week driving around Bristol, plastering posters of Billy’s face onto lampposts, hoardings and billboards. Our house was a hive of activity, every room crammed with friends, neighbors and family. Mark was the epicenter, taking charge and instructing people where to search and post fliers. He took down the mirror above the fireplace and replaced it with a huge map of Bristol which he stuck pins into—red for areas the police had searched, green for the places we’d be combing.

  He ran everything by DS Forbes. “That’s the correct terminology, isn’t it, DS Forbes?” “It’s important we have a chain of command, right, DS Forbes?” “What’s the latest, DS Forbes?” I was proud of him, assuming control, role-playing the career he’d so desperately wanted but part of me felt like screaming, “This shouldn’t be happening. Why is this happening? What did we do to deserve this? What did Billy do? No one should feel this kind of fear.”

  Now my mobile phone bleeps impatiently in my bag and I snatch it up.

  “Claire Bear!” I hold the phone a bit further away as Liz’s voice booms into my ear. “Are you at work?”

  “Nearly. I’m parked up outside.”

  “You don’t have to go back, you know. I know it was my idea but—”

  “It’s all right. I can do this.”

  “Did you tell Mark you were going back to work?”

  “Yes, this morning.”

  “And?”

  “He said, ‘Do what you need to do, Claire.’ Then he walked out of the bedroom.”

  “Supportive. Oh, shit. Sorry, lovely, early shift today and I’m due back on the tills. I’d better go. I’ll give you a ring during my next break, okay?”

  “Thanks, Liz.”

  “Good luck. You’ll be fine.”

  The line goes dead.

  I look at the screen. 9:25 a.m. It’s not too late to text Stephen to say I won’t be in after all.

  A thumping sound on the driver’s-side window makes me jump.

  “Claire!” Stephen makes a “wind down the window” gesture. “Good to see you!” he shouts. “You coming in?”

  The second I step through the wide double doors, every pair of eyes in the building swivels in my direction.

  “All right, Claire!” Wendy, one of the cashiers, raises her hand. Her smile is tight, nervous.

  “Good to see you back, Mrs. W.” Tony, the timber specialist. He gives me a nod, but it’s short and sharp. The kind of nod you give someone at a funeral—nice to see you but not in these circumstances.

  “Morning!” One of the regulars, whose name I don’t know. He glances away before I can acknowledge him.

  “Stephen, could you excuse me for a second.” I sprint away before he can object and head for the ladies’ restrooms.

  When I emerge from the cubicle I am shocked by the reflection that stares back at me from the tarnished mirror. My hair is wet with sweat around the hairline and my cheeks are flushed. This wasn’t how I imagined coming back to work. Not that I’ve given Wilkinson & Son much thought since Billy left but this place has always represented normality. I come in, I do my job, I banter with my colleagues and the regulars. We swap stories about the weather and the traffic and how we spent our weekend. Will I ever be able to do that again?

  I tidy myself up the best I can with my comb and the pressed powder I find in the bottom of my bag but it’s a losing battle and Stephen’s eyebrows twitch upwards in surprise as I walk into the office. To his credit he doesn’t ask if I’m okay. Instead he pulls back the chair from my old desk and points at the steaming cup of coffee to the right of the keyboard.

  “Milk, one sugar. Just how you like it.”

  I sit down, wrap my hands around the mug and gaze about the office: same furniture, same carpet, same tea-stained countertop, same JCB calendar on the wall. Over six months have passed since I last sat at this desk and the only thing that has changed is me.

  Stephen plunks himself into the chair on the other side of the room and picks at the top button of his shirt, sighing as it finally comes free. He is about the same height as Mark, but he’s heavier and he looks as though he’s put on even more weight since I left. He gave up smoking when he and Caroline were trying for a baby and she would pack him off to work with a Tupperware box full of carrot sticks and celery to crunch on. These would mount up in the fridge, box piled upon box, until the end of the week when Stephen would tip the contents into the bin, hiding the packets of Maltesers he’d demolished instead.

  “So,” he says. “What . . . uh . . . what prompted the decision to come back to work then?”

  “Liz suggested it and it didn’t seem like such a terrible idea.”

  “Right. Right.” He nods. “And how is Liz? Did she ever find out if Lloyd was having an affair?”

  I almost laugh at how out of the loop he is but then I remember, we’ve barely spoken since Billy disappeared.

  “They haven’t spoken in a while. Last thing I heard he was still denying there was anyone else involved.”

  “But she found texts on his mobile, didn’t she? Explicit ones.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And she never rang the number?”

  “She did but it went straight to voicemail. It was the generic one. You know, the one that your phone’s set up with.”

  “Ah.” Stephen shifts in his seat. His lips part, then he closes them again. I think he’s run out of small talk. “Okay, cool. So, I’m not going to throw you in at the deep end today. There’s a bit of invoicing to be done and a stack of orders in the in-tray. We’ve taken on a contractor for the cleaning since you were last . . . since . . .” He pauses to swipe at the bead of sweat that trickles down the side of his face. “Anyway, the cleaners were cutting corners so we got some new ones.”

  “I’ll do a bit of invoicing,” I say. “Thank you.”

  The tinny radio in the corner of the room plays pop songs as Stephen and I fall into companionable silence. The first order form I pick up takes me forever to turn into an invoice because I can’t remember my password for the computer or which buttons to click to make the accounting software add everything up. But then, like riding a bike, it becomes instinctive and I complete invoice after invoice and the fraught thoughts that have been whizzing around my brain like angry bees grow silent.

  “Another coffee?” Stephen asks and I’m surprised when I look at the clock in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. Half an hour has passed since I turned on the computer.

  “Please.”

  Stephen cracks his knuckles, stands up and crosses the room to turn on the kettle. It bubbles and then whistles as he unwraps a packet of biscuits. Out of the corner of my eye I watch him put two into his mouth in one go. He chews quickly, crumbs falling from his lips in his haste to eat them.

  “Any news after the appeal?” he asks as he turns his back to pour the boiling water into two mugs.

  “No, not yet.”

  He says nothing. The spoon clanks against the mugs as he stirs the coffee. His hand shakes when he adds the sugar and half of it ends up on the countertop. Is he uncomfortable with me back in the office? Is that why he seems so twitchy? Or is it because we’re talking about Billy?

  He was distraught when Billy disappeared. He kept asking me, over and over again, to tell him what had happened the night he’d disappeared. Billy was always his favorite out of his two nephews. They both shared a love of Formula 1 and Billy would spend every Sunday at his house when it was racing season. Jake went along too the first few times but he said it was boring, watching cars whizz around and around the track, and he asked to stay at home instead. When I pressed him he said he thought Uncle Stephen was weird. He said he didn’t like the way he hugged him—he squeezed him too tightly. Jake’s never been keen on physical affection but his comment made me nervous. I star
ted quizzing Billy about his visits to Stephen’s house, and I looked for abnormal behavior like lying or bed-wetting or night terrors, but Billy seemed fine. If anything, he seemed happier on leaving Stephen’s house than he had been when he went in. I needed to be sure, though, so I went to pick him up an hour early once, just so I could peep through the window before ringing the bell. There was nothing worrying going on. Just Billy and Stephen sitting beside each other on the sofa with a can of Coke each, a tub of Roses chocolates between them, the TV blaring in the corner of the room and Caroline sitting at the table reading a magazine.

  I still thought it was odd, the way Stephen had bonded with one of the boys and not the other, but there was no denying how much they had in common. As well as Formula 1 they both adored Top Gear, The Gadget Show and anything to do with robots. Stephen said he could relate to Billy more than Jake, being a younger son too. He said he saw a lot of himself in Billy, even though they weren’t related by blood. He tried not to show his favoritism but you could see it in the presents he bought for the kids. Billy’s were always more expensive, something he’d “desperately wanted” while Jake’s were generic “boys’ toys” that you might give to one of the kids’ friends for their birthday. I hated seeing the hurt look in Jake’s eyes so I started putting his Christmas card from Stephen in a different envelope, along with a tenner from my purse. I had to stop when Jake thanked his uncle for the money and Stephen said he didn’t know what he was talking about.

  Billy’s visits to his uncle’s house increased when he started getting into trouble at school. He said Uncle Stephen understood what it was like to be the black sheep. I told him that was rubbish. If Stephen got on so badly with his family why was he working for his stepdad? I tried to get Billy to open up about what he and Stephen talked about but he refused. “Aren’t I allowed to have any secrets, Mum?”

  “And how’s Jake?” Stephen asks now. He texted me to ask if everything was okay after he saw the appeal on TV. I didn’t have the energy to get into what happened so I replied obliquely, saying Jake hadn’t been feeling well.

  “Yeah, he’s fine. Doing well with his apprenticeship and his weights. He’s quite big now, muscles on top of muscles.”

  “He’ll get that from Dad. Size of a house he was, even as a teenager. I was a pipsqueak compared to him.”

  “Yeah, Mark said.”

  Stephen’s back stiffens at the mention of his brother’s name.

  “And how’s Kira?” he asks.

  “Still living with us. She’s still at college, doing well on her photography course by all accounts.”

  “She took a few photos of me last year, can’t remember why. Some project or other.”

  “Yeah, she’s always got her camera on hand. She took a lovely one of Mum on her birthday. You know she got her tongue pierced a few months ago. Kira, not Mum.”

  He doesn’t laugh. “Tongue piercing, eh? She’ll be getting a tattoo next. What is it with girls these days? It’s like they’re desperate for attention. Tits out, lips plumped, skirts barely grazing their arses. You’re a very trusting woman, Claire Wilkinson, that’s all I’ll say.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well”—he continues to stir the coffee—“it’s temptation, isn’t it?”

  “What is?”

  “Letting a nubile young thing like that into your home.”

  My jaw drops. Nubile? Just the sound of the word makes my skin crawl, never mind the flash of damp tongue as he rolls it around his mouth.

  “Look”—he holds up his hands—“if you’re comfortable with Kira parading around your house half-naked in front of your husband then good for you. There aren’t many women who’d be so trusting.”

  My horror switches to amusement and I laugh. Has he been saving that one up since he fell out with Mark this time last year? Oh, I know. I’ll put the boot into my brother by implying that he’s been leching over his son’s girlfriend.

  “Is that some kind of joke?”

  “No.” He shakes his head, genuinely confused, then the mist seems to clear. “Oh, I get it. You think I’m having a dig? I’m seriously not. Ask Caroline. She said there’d be no way she’d let a young woman live with us, wandering about in a towel and so on.”

  “And you agree with her, do you?”

  “Yeah—” He stops abruptly as he realizes what he’s just said.

  “Well, if you can’t trust yourself . . .” I leave the sentence hanging and smile sweetly as I get up from my chair. “Do you know what, Stephen? I think perhaps I made a mistake coming in today. I’m not ready to go back to work just yet. I need to be with my family and I’ve got a mountain of laundry to wash. I think Kira had a shower this morning. I’d better get her towel in the machine before I catch Mark sniffing it.”

  I stroll across the office, reach for the door handle, then turn back. “Bye, then!”

  Stephen doesn’t reply. He’s slouched back in his seat, gawping at me, his mouth a perfectly formed “o.”

  I slip into the car and take my phone from my bag. I can’t believe I ever sided with Stephen over my own husband. Mark always said Stephen was jealous of him and I thought it was his ego speaking. But Mark was right. For Stephen to keep taking potshots at him, this long after their argument, and with Billy missing too, he must be seriously screwed up. I won’t let him draw me in. Not anymore.

  My thumb slides across the screen as I tap out a text.

  Mark. I’m sorry. Going into work was a mistake. Can we talk when you come home tonight? Maybe go out for dinner, or to the pub?

  I’m just about to start the engine when the phone bleeps in my hand. But the text isn’t from Mark, it’s a voicemail message. I must have missed a call when I turned my phone to silent before I went in to work.

  “This is a message for Mrs. Claire Wilkinson. This is Hartfield Road Surgery, just ringing to let you know that your test results are in. If you could give us a ring back on—”

  I stab my index finger onto the green phone icon to return the call.

  “Hello, this is Claire Wilkinson. I’m ringing about my test results. Yes, I’ll hold . . .”

  Chapter 18

  “Cheers, son,” Mark says as Jake picks up his empty dinner plate from the table beside his armchair and adds it to the pile of dirty dishes he’s carrying.

  Kira follows in Jake’s wake, collecting the glasses before they both disappear through the living room door. Thirty seconds later I hear the clunk of the dishwasher door being pulled open and the clash-clang of plates, glasses and saucepans being roughly stacked. Since Mark and Jake’s argument they’ve pretty much avoided each other. They’ve been cordial but any warmth between them has gone.

  “Good dinner, love,” Mark says as the stairs creak under the weight of Jake and Kira’s steps as they disappear up to their bedroom.

  I wait until the sound of footsteps on the landing fades away before I speak.

  “Mark?”

  He grunts in reply. Neither of us has mentioned the fact that I went to Wilkinson & Son earlier today. When he got in from work I was peeling veg in the kitchen. He gave me a perfunctory kiss on the forehead and then, just as I was about to tell him about my day, he went upstairs to get changed. We haven’t had a moment alone since.

  “I heard back from the doctor’s today.”

  His eyes remain fixed on the flickering screen directly in front of him. “Did you?”

  “The test results are back. From my blackout.”

  The program he’s watching freezes onscreen as he hits the pause button. “Oh?”

  “The receptionist couldn’t tell me whether they’re good or bad, just that I need to discuss them with the doctor. And I’ve got to wait until next week for an appointment.”

  “Next week? Bloody hell. Well, it can’t be anything serious. I’m sure they’d see you quicker than that if it was something to worry about.” He studies my face. “You’re worried, aren’t you?”

  “I’m scared it�
�ll happen again.”

  “Oh, love.” He grunts as he pushes himself up and out of his armchair. I half-rise, hoping he’ll give me a hug. Instead he slumps onto the sofa beside me and rests a heavy hand on my knee. “You haven’t said anything about it so I assumed you were coping.”

  I almost smile. It won’t have crossed his mind to ask me how I feel about what happened. Once the A&E doctor gave me the all-clear and Mark realized I was in no immediate danger he filed the experience away in a box in his head marked Claire amnesia episode and then went to work the next day. Because I haven’t mentioned it since there’s been no need for him to reopen the box. It must be so nice to live in his black-and-white world where you only have to react when people tell you there’s something to react to, when you don’t spend your whole life second-guessing how the people you love feel.

  “I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “You should have said something.” He tightens his grip on my knee. “I do care, Claire. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” I place my hand over Mark’s and meet his gaze. He doesn’t look away and, as the TV glows in the corner of the room, something—sadness, hope, regret, I can’t be sure—swells in my chest. I used to be able to read Mark’s emotions as though they were my own but I have no idea what is going on behind his eyes. All I can see is my own concerned face reflected back at me.

  “Can I talk to you about something else?” I ask.

  He tenses. He thinks I’m going to mention Stephen. I can just tell.

  “Can you make things up with Jake? Please.”

  His hand slips from my knee and he leans back into the sofa. “Do we have to do this now? I’ve had a hell of a day at work and I just want to relax.”

  “But he’s not happy, Mark. We had a chat the other day, in the garage. He’s worried about his relationship with Kira and I know he’s hurt by the things you said last week.”

  “Jake’s hurt?” He shifts across the sofa and angles himself toward me. “Seriously, Claire? He gets drunk and causes a scene at the press conference and you’re having a go at me? What did you expect me to do—pat him on the back?”