by C. L. Taylor
By the end of the trip we were both fed up and irritable. He refused to wear the shoes I bought him, preferring to slump around in his old worn-out pair with the worn-down heels.
“I found the photo album under his bed, facedown,” Mark says. “I saw what he’d done to the photos.”
“And you didn’t mention it when we got home? Not to me or Billy? It’s not like you to avoid pulling him up on something like that.”
Mark exhales heavily. “You’re not the only one to get sick of the arguments, Claire.”
“I don’t buy that. Not for one second.”
“My dad was still recuperating from his heart attack, work was a nightmare and we were arguing. I didn’t need the stress. Neither did you. I thought the best thing to do was to hide the album until I had the time to go through the photos and take out the ones Billy had defaced and then put it back on the bookcase.”
“Why hide it in the boxes in the garage?”
“Because they were there. I just shoved it in the bottom where no one would see it. I didn’t want it to upset you.”
“What if I’d taken the boxes to the charity shop?”
Mark shrugs. “I didn’t think. It was just a temporary thing. I was going to get it out again and then . . . stuff happened, life carried on and I forgot. I just forgot, Claire.”
I give him a long look. He was incredibly stressed a few months before Billy disappeared but Mark being Mark he refused to discuss it with me. Maybe finding the photo album was one step too far. “But why would he do that? Why would he black you out of the photos and write those things?”
He unknits his fingers and gazes down at his hands, as though the answer lies in his cupped palms. “Why did he stop wanting to go to football with me? Why did he start walking out of the room whenever I walked in? I don’t . . .” Mark’s voice cracks and, as he coughs to try and regain it, a well of sadness opens up within me. “I keep telling myself that it’s one of those things that happen between fathers and sons. I clashed with my dad when I was in my teens. I called him far worse things than ‘wanker’ and ‘tosser’—never to his face though—and I told myself that would never happen with my sons.”
“It didn’t happen with Jake.”
“No, it didn’t happen with Jake. That’s why I couldn’t understand it. Imagine, Claire. Imagine if you opened up that album and saw what I saw but it was you he’d blacked out. Imagine if it was you Billy hated?”
Was it the Sunday lunch? Was that what sparked such anger in our younger son? When Mark tore the two boys apart, bellowing that they were an embarrassment to the family? Or was it when Mr. Edwards called us in to the school to tell us about the graffiti incident and Mark said to Billy, “What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you just toe the line and do what you’re fucking told?” Mr. Edwards was visibly shocked. He said he didn’t think swearing and accusations were a helpful way forward, but I could see the effect Mark’s words had on Billy. When he was younger he had such a strong sense of justice. Once, when Jake came home from school with a black eye, Billy was so upset that he burst into tears. Mark was horrified and kept telling him to pull himself together, repeating over and over again that only girls cried and he needed to toughen up if he wanted to be a man. Billy looked up into his daddy’s face and fought to control his wobbling chin, swallowing back the tears that shook his little body.
“Good boy,” Mark said when he finally quietened. “Proud of you.”
Billy’s little face lit up and my heart twisted with pain. Why shouldn’t he cry? He was only eight years old.
“You should have . . .” The sentence dries up on my tongue. I want to tell Mark that he should have talked to Billy about it, that he should have got to the bottom of whatever it was that upset him so much he felt the need to deface the photo album, but I can’t bring myself to say the words. It’ll just rub salt in the wound. It won’t make him feel any better about it. If anything, it will make him feel worse. And it won’t bring Billy back.
I slump back against the sofa, suddenly exhausted.
“Are you sure?” I say. “Are you absolutely sure that nothing happened to make Billy do that to your photos? An argument you haven’t told me about? A fight? A grounding I don’t know about? Something you took from him?”
He frowns down at his hands, then turns his head to look at me. He blinks slowly, several times, and his frown deepens. “What are you accusing me of, Claire?”
I don’t know. Mark has never raised his hand to Billy; he’s never hit either of the boys. He’s lost his temper countless times but he’s never done more than shout at them.
“You think I’m behind his disappearance, don’t you?” he says. “You meant what you said the other day.”
When I received the phone call from the school to say that Billy hadn’t been in I assumed he’d skipped with some mates, something he’d done several times in the preceding few months. When he didn’t return home that night I still didn’t panic. He was sulking after the argument he’d had with Mark the night before, I told myself. He was hiding out at a friend’s house, nursing hurt feelings and dented pride. But when he still wasn’t home by half eleven I began to worry.
I went up to his room and looked through his things. His schoolbag was missing. His mobile phone too. I rang him several times but each time my call went straight through to voicemail. I tried texting him but there was no answer. I had the numbers for the mums of several of his old primary-school friends so I rang them and asked if their sons had seen Billy but none of them had.
When Kira got back from college and Jake returned from work, horribly hungover after a session in the pub the day before, Mark asked if either of them had heard from Billy. They both said they hadn’t. Jake said we were overreacting.
“This is exactly the sort of reaction Billy was hoping for,” he said. “He’s deliberately staying out late to make you worry. Then you’ll be relieved, not pissed off, when he finally gets home.”
Jake’s comment seemed to reassure Mark but I wasn’t convinced. Billy wasn’t that manipulative. There was no way he’d put me through the wringer to punish his dad and, as the living room clock ticked from midnight to 1 a.m. I became increasingly frantic, insisting that Mark drive around with me to try and find him.
“I will fucking kill him when we find him,” he muttered as he fitted the keys into the ignition. “I need to be up for work in five hours’ time.”
We drove around and around, stopping at all Billy’s known haunts—all the parks and the underpasses where he’d practice skateboarding with his mates—and everywhere else we could think of where a fifteen-year-old might shelter from the bitterly cold wind that had caught my skirt and wrapped it around my calves as I’d climbed into the car: bus stops, McDonald’s restaurants, the train station and the doorways of the cinema and bowling alley in Avonmeads.
“I bet he’s staying the night on a mate’s sofa,” Mark complained as I insisted we drive around Knowle and Totterdown one last time. “Probably one of those losers he hangs around with. If he’s still not home by morning we’ll call the police.”
“And if he isn’t?” I could barely bring myself to ask the question.
“Then the police will talk to everyone he knows and find out where he’s hiding. Claire, he’s fine. I guarantee it.”
He sounded so certain, so definite, that I agreed to ignore the knot of fear in my gut and go home.
Mark passed out the second his head hit the pillow. I lay awake beside him, ringing Billy’s number over and over again, finally passing out somewhere around 5 a.m., the mobile pressed between my ear and the pillow.
“Is that a yes?” Mark says now. The sharp tone to his question makes me clutch at the cushion. “You think I did something to Billy, don’t you?”
I want to believe that my husband would never do anything to hurt our children but you hear that all the time, don’t you, about men like that. “He didn’t look the type.” “He was always so good with the kids.” “They l
oved him.”
The police questioned everyone after Billy was reported missing: his friends, his teachers, his relatives, even Liz and Caleb next door. I spoke to Josh, one of his friends from school, who told me what they’d asked him. “How long have you known Billy?” “When did you last see him?” “Do you have any idea where he might have gone?” “What social media does Billy use?” The police spoke to his granny and granddads, his uncle Stephen, Mr. Edwards and Miss Christian at the school.
Mark.
They spent a lot of time talking to Mark, with me and on his own. They asked him to talk them through the argument the night before, word for word, and asked him question after question about Billy’s reaction and whether he thought what had happened might be enough to prompt him to run away.
A child doesn’t disappear for no reason, that’s what I kept telling myself. But there was never a reason. Not until I found the photo album. I don’t . . . I can’t . . . let myself believe that Mark would ever hurt Billy but I’d never be able to forgive myself if the truth lies between the covers of that gray album. I need to tell the police. I need to give it to them.
“For God’s sake, Claire, say something!”
I force myself to look him in the eye. Then I tell him a barefaced lie. “No, I don’t think you were responsible.”
“Thank God.” He sags into himself and runs his hands over his face. “Thank God for that.”
Neither of us says a word for several minutes, then I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. I turn it over in my hands.
“Mark?”
“Hmm.” He makes a low guttural noise from behind his hands.
“Did you run into anyone while you were at work today?”
His fingers slip from his cheeks and he twists his face toward me. “What do you mean?”
“Did you bump into anyone we know?”
He closes his eyes and rubs the thumb and forefinger of his right hand over his temples as though it hurts to think. “Yeah. I . . . I bumped into Billy’s form teacher. Um . . .”
“Edie Christian.”
“Yeah. I bumped into her outside one of the practices. Nevil Road Surgery, I think. Why?”
I place the phone on the arm of the sofa. “No reason, just wondered.”
“What is it?” He gives me a searching look.
“Nothing.” I glance at the photo album, propped up on the sofa between us. “Nothing at all.”
We eat our dinner in silence, a defrosted shepherd’s pie that I push around my plate with my fork as a game show burbles away on the television in the corner of the room and we attempt to keep up the pretense of a normal Friday night. I keep glancing at the clock, hoping Jake will come home earlier than he said so there’s someone else in the house. Not because I’m scared of Mark. I’m not. Never have been. I’m just scared I’m going to blurt out something awful if I stay silent a moment longer. When Jake turns up we can talk about normal things, like how hard his boss has worked him or how demanding the client is. As soon as he comes back I can stop imagining the look on DS Forbes’s face when he turns the pages of the photo album.
My phone bleeps at me from the arm of the sofa. A text from Liz.
How are you?
I type back.
Tired. And my head is totally screwed.
I’m not surprised. Have you spoken to you know who?
Yes. He said he found the album in B’s room and hid it in the garage so I wouldn’t get upset. He says he doesn’t know why B did it.
Do you believe him?
I glance across the room, at the plate on the side table beside Mark’s armchair. He’s barely touched the shepherd’s pie, there’s a lump of mash on his abandoned fork.
I don’t know, I type back. I think I’m going to take it to the police station tomorrow but I keep changing my mind. What if they call him in and it turns out to be nothing?
Then you’ll have peace of mind.
I look back at Mark, at the slight curve of his belly swelling beneath his shirt, the shock of white hair at his temples and the gray hue to his skin. He’s aged so much in the last six months. We both have. I move my thumb over the keyboard on my phone:
It might mean the end of my marriage, Liz.
Would that be the worst thing in the world? (Don’t hate me for saying that.)
I don’t reply. Instead I stare at the phone and will myself not to cry. You read about it all the time in the papers, the number of marriages that don’t survive a tragedy like a child going missing or being murdered. I don’t want to be part of that statistic.
Is that my pride speaking or is it because I still love my husband? It felt as though we were drifting apart, long before Billy went missing. We were living in the same house and sharing the same bed, but so little else. I don’t know if it was because we’d got to that stage in our relationship where we were taking each other for granted or if it was more serious than that. We clung to each other in the weeks and months after his disappearance but the gap between us has widened again. There are moments when I feel close to him but I’m so tired. So incredibly tired. The harder I try and hold this family together the weaker I become. I’m crumbling on the inside. If Mark is responsible for Billy’s disappearance I think it will finish me off.
The mobile vibrates with a new text from Liz.
Have you told him about the blackout?
No.
So many things have been whirling around in my mind this evening but what happened to me isn’t one of them.
Liz sends another text.
Do you want me to come to the police station with you tomorrow?
Thank you, I’d appreciate that. I’ll knock for you at 9 if that’s OK? Xx
I tap the phone’s back button and look at the list of text messages I’ve been sent recently. Stephen’s name is near the top. He’d be so unbearably smug if he knew about the photo album.
“I’m going to the pub,” Mark announces as he eases himself out of the armchair. He picks up his plate and then reaches for mine. He raises his eyebrows at my untouched food. “You all right?”
All right? Isn’t he the slightest bit worried about what I might do with the photo album? How can he have no idea what’s going on in my mind?
“I’m not hungry.”
“About me going to the pub, I mean. Shouldn’t Jake and Kira be back by now?”
Oh God. Kira. I’d completely forgotten I’d asked her to go out so I could talk to Mark. I need to text her and tell her it’s okay to come back.
“Jake’s working late and Kira has gone to a friend’s house. You go to the pub.”
His gaze flits toward the photo album, still propped up on the sofa beside me. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“What for?”
“Laughing. When you asked me in the kitchen if I knew anything about it. After everything we’ve been through in the last few weeks I didn’t think anything else could go wrong. And then when I saw the album and the look on your face, I thought, here we bloody go again. I’m going to get accused of something I didn’t do. And I laughed. Not because it was funny but because it seemed like a sick joke. I’m sorry, Claire. I shouldn’t have laughed. It freaked you out.”
“I’m too tired to talk about this anymore.”
“I know. That’s why I’m going to the pub. Give us both some space.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Okay then.” His gaze lingers on my face. “I’ll be back by ten. I’ve got an early start in the morning and—”
He’s interrupted by the sound of the doorbell ringing.
I move to stand up but Mark shakes his head.
“It’s okay. I’ll get it.”
As he disappears into the hallway the chat show host on the TV skips across the set as though the soles of his feet are on fire. I hear the clatter of plates in the sink and the low rumble of my husband’s voice as he answers the door.
Seconds later a man appears in the doorway to the living room.
“Hi,
Claire,” says DS Forbes, “sorry to call so late. Mind if I sit down?”
Chapter 28
DS Forbes knows what I did. I can see it in the grave look in his eyes and the tight set of his mouth. He’s come to arrest me for assaulting the cyclist. They reported me, him or the woman in the car that stopped. I need to tell him about the blackout, the one I haven’t told Mark about yet. I’ll tell DS Forbes to talk to Dr. Evans. And Liz. She knows what happened. She saw the state I was in when she picked me up. She’ll testify that I wasn’t in my normal state of mind.
“I didn’t mean to hurt him.” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“Hurt who?” DS Forbes takes a step toward me. Mark follows behind him.
“The cyclist. I didn’t mean to knock him off his bike when I opened my car door. I genuinely didn’t see him.”
“Claire.” Mark darts past DS Forbes and joins me on the sofa. He wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me in to his side. “DS Forbes is here to talk about Billy. He’s got news.”
“Billy! Oh my God.” My hands fly to my mouth.
A cold chill runs through me and a thousand goosebumps prickle on the surface of my skin. It’s bad news. I can tell by the look on DS Forbes’s face. In his eyes.
“Do you mind if I sit down?” He lowers himself into Mark’s armchair without waiting for a reply.
“Claire. Mark.” He glances at the TV, still flickering in the corner of the room. I can’t remember him using our first names before. “Do you mind turning that off?”
I hear the sound of Mark’s voice but it’s lost in the white noise that fills my head.
The TV goes black. DS Forbes clears his throat and then licks his lips, the pink tip of his tongue peeping out of his mouth as it moistens his upper lip. Each gesture, each tiny gesture he makes seems huge. I feel as though I’m looking at him through a TV camera that’s zoomed in on his face. I want to press “stop” and rewind him out of the room. Then I want to rewind my life back to the night that Billy left and skip past me storming out of the house, past the argument, past the visit to the police station to pick him up, past his first day of school and back to the moment he was born. When he was in my arms. When I wouldn’t let him out of my sight, not even for a second. When he was safe.