The Missing

by C. L. Taylor

  “Stephen’s in a bad place,” I say. “He’s drinking too much. His marriage is on its last legs and he’s torn up about Billy.”

  Mark hooks his thick fingers through the handles of several mugs and transfers them to the mug tree by the kettle.

  “I think he’d talk if you reached out to him.”

  “And why would I want to do that?”

  “Because you miss him. Because you both need someone to talk to. And because your argument is eating away at you as much as it’s eating away at him. Don’t you think Jake would go back and sort things out with Billy if he could? He’d do it in a heartbeat. Don’t leave it too late to talk to Stephen. That’s all I’m saying.”

  He reaches for the saucepan, then rests his hand on top of it.

  “I’m just so tired, Claire. I’m tired of fights and tension and not knowing from one day to the next what shitty thing is going to be thrown at us next. I just . . . I just want to rewind time and go back to when things were good. You know?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Remember that time?” He looks at me, his eyes lighting up. “When the kids were little and they wanted to go camping but we couldn’t afford it so we borrowed a tent off Dad and set it up in the garden. The boys said they were going to stay in it all night but we knew they were both secretly scared and neither of them wanted to be the one to admit it and come in?”

  “We threw marbles at the tent through our bedroom window!”

  “They couldn’t get out fast enough!

  “They were good times.” His smile disappears and sadness fills his eyes. “When did it all go wrong?”

  “They grew up. We did too. We were so young when they were born, not much more than kids ourselves.”

  “You haven’t changed at all.”

  “Haven’t I?”

  “I meant it as a compliment.”

  “I know.”

  “Claire.” Mark takes a step toward me and his fingers brush the skin on the back of my hand. “I never wanted to hurt you. Not then, not now. I’ve only ever wanted you to be happy and what—”

  “All right, Mum? Dad.” Jake steps into the kitchen, followed by Kira who raises her hand in a half-hearted wave.

  “Hello, sweetheart.” I take a step toward him and give him a hug.

  “Kira.” I reach for her too but her shoulders twitch away so I plant a kiss on her cheek instead.

  “DS Forbes just left,” Mark says and they both stiffen. “Jason Davies wasn’t responsible for Billy’s disappearance. It was all bullshit. He made it up to get attention.”

  Jake stares at him. “What?”

  “It’s true,” I say. “The police looked into it and he was nowhere near Bristol the day Billy vanished. He was in Aberdeen. He was there for the two weeks.”

  “Do they know that for sure? Maybe he traveled down here? You hear about it all the time, murderers randomly driving somewhere just to kill someone and then—”

  “Jake.” Kira pulls on his arm. “Jake, please don’t—”

  “Don’t what? Don’t get angry? My God. I could have . . . I nearly . . .” He looks at me and shakes his head. “I’m so sorry, Mum.”

  He walks back out the back door without saying another word. Kira runs after him.

  “Should we go after him?” Mark asks.

  I shake my head. “No, let him go.”

  Tuesday, January 27, 2015

  Jackdaw44: You can’t ignore me forever you know.

  Chapter 56

  It is the morning after DS Forbes’s visit. I didn’t stay long after Jake left. The decision to go back to Mum’s didn’t come easy. I wanted to wait for him to return, to check he was okay, but that would have meant more time alone with Mark and I knew he’d ask me questions that I’m not ready to answer yet. Questions about the future. Questions about us.

  Seven months ago there’s no way I would have left my home when my family needed me. My place was in the heart of the family. I had to know where everyone was, what they were doing and why. Nothing got past me.

  At least that’s what I thought.

  The kids called me a control freak. Mark did too but only ever in a jokey way. I’m no psychotherapist but I can’t help wondering if I’m like that because of my childhood. Mum’s crap was everywhere, life was chaotic and I lived in a constant state of insecurity, never quite sure when the next argument would be or if it would all get to be too much for Dad and he’d leave us. I promised myself that my kids would never feel like that. Their mum and dad were going to stick around, no matter what. I’d stick around, no matter what.

  My first fugue, when I went to Weston, was the first time I’d gone anywhere alone for a long, long time. Sometimes, when the kids were fighting and screaming and Mark was hiding away in the garage, I’d fantasize about running away. About how I’d go to the train station and buy a ticket to St. Ives or Brighton or Weymouth, and book a room in a hotel with a double bed just for me and spend the weekend walking along the seafront, drinking coffee in quaint cafés and lying on the beach reading books. I’d breathe in the sea air and I’d daydream about my other life, the one where I turned left instead of right. Me, single and childless, training as a nurse and then going to work for the Red Cross or Médecins Sans Frontières.

  I never did jump on a train to St. Ives but I did let myself daydream about a different kind of life. I never told anyone about those daydreams, not even Liz, because I didn’t want to appear ungrateful for the life I had. We all have secrets. Most are guilty, a few are wretched and some are too precious to share.

  My mobile bleeps, snapping me back into my childhood bedroom where piles of boxes and bags are stacked up beside the bed and a floral duvet that smells of lavender washing powder is pulled up to my chin. It’s 8:05 a.m. and Mum and Dad are moving around in the kitchen. Mum’s singing along to a tinny tune on the radio.

  Two text messages. One from Stephen. One from Kira.

  Stephen: I had a text from Mark asking me to go to the pub with him tonight. Do you know what he wants?

  Kira: Hi Claire. I hope you’re OK. Just to let you know that Jake’s all right. He’s gone to work. Only trouble is Ian has asked him to work on a job in Cheltenham so he’s had to take his van and he was going to let me borrow it to help my friend bring in her sculptures for the exhibition, ready for the opening on Monday. I don’t suppose you know where we could rent one for cheap? K x

  I text them back:

  Hi Stephen. I think Mark wants to sort things out between the two of you. You should call him. Life’s too short. C.

  Hi Kira. Glad to hear Jake is OK.

  I pause. Has he told her what happened in the car park that night? He can’t have. She wouldn’t have stuck around if she knew, not when her own mum is so violent. Jake must have decided not to tell her until after her exhibition.

  More secrets. Will they never end?

  You can borrow my car, I tap out. I’m not planning on going anywhere today. Pop around to my mum’s and I’ll give you the keys.

  A text from Stephen appears the second I press “send.”

  Is he angry? I’m not going to meet him if he’s angry.

  He’s not angry, I type back. He wants to put things right.

  Another text from Kira.

  That’s very kind but I don’t know how long I’ll need it for and I wouldn’t want to put you out. K x

  It’s fine. Honestly. It’s insured for other drivers. Come around.

  Will you be there? Stephen types back. I’d prefer it if you were.

  “Claire!” Mum calls up the stairs. “Dad’s making some bacon sandwiches. Would you like one?”

  I am up to my elbows in bubbles, scrubbing at an oven tray shiny with bacon fat, when there’s a knock at the front door.

  “I’ll get it.” Dad shuffles out of the kitchen in his slippers. At the same time Mum appears from the living room with her laptop in her hands. She joins me at the sink and lifts it up so it’s at eye level.

  “C
laire, I know you said you didn’t want to hear about any more psychics but someone called Athena Larkin has been in touch. She said she’s helped the police in a number of high-profile cases and—”

  “Claire! It’s Kira. She says she’s come to collect the car.”

  “One second, Dad!”

  Mum paws at my shoulder. “At least read the email she sent. She says that—”

  “Are those the keys?” Dad shuffles back into the room and points toward the kitchen table where my car keys are lying on top of my handbag.

  “Yes. Hang on a second, though, because there’s something I need to— Mum, could you get the laptop out of my face? It’s going to get wet and anyway, I told you I’m not interested in—”

  “Got them.”

  “But we’re back at square one now, aren’t we? And it’s not like the police have got any new leads. Not from what you said last night, anyway. Look at this part.” Mum takes one hand off the base and points to the screen.

  “Careful!” I reach for the laptop as it lurches toward the sink. The oven tray I’ve been holding drops back into the washing-up bowl, spraying me with soapy water.

  I’m vaguely aware of the front door closing with a click and the sound of Dad walking back to the kitchen but I’m distracted by my T-shirt clinging damply to my stomach.

  “Claire!” Mum whips the laptop away from me. “You nearly knocked it into the water.”

  “I was trying to stop you from dropping it!”

  “What the hell’s going on in here?” Dad stops in the doorway to the kitchen. “Claire, there’s half a swimming pool on the kitchen floor! Bloody hell, girl. That’s what happens when you get a dishwasher. You forget how to do the washing-up.”

  “Dad.” I look from the kitchen table to my dad’s empty hands.

  “Yes, love.”

  “Did you just give Kira the keys to my car?”

  “Yeah. She said you’d given her the okay to borrow it.” He glances back toward the front door.

  “Claire!” he shouts as I sprint down the hall. “Claire? What’s the matter?”

  I wrench the door open and stare out onto the street but my red Polo is no longer parked behind Dad’s blue Peugeot. It’s gone. Along with Kira, the tote bag tucked under the passenger seat and the knife.

  Tuesday, January 27, 2015

  ICE9: Don’t you EVER do that again.

  Jackdaw44: What?

  ICE9: You know damned well what.

  Jackdaw44: Twat now, am I? You changed your tune quickly enough.

  ICE9: You were out of order and you know it.

  Jackdaw44: You were ignoring me. How else was I supposed to get your attention?

  ICE9: Someone could have seen.

  Jackdaw44: They didn’t though, did they? I like touching you up when other people are around. Turns me on that they have no idea what I’m doing.

  ICE9: You’re the only one it turns on.

  Jawdaw44: Liar.

  ICE9: I’m not talking about this anymore. You obviously don’t think you did anything wrong.

  Jackdaw44: So you’re going to start ignoring me again?

  ICE9: No shit.

  Jackdaw44: Let’s see how well that works out for you.

  ICE9: What’s that supposed to mean?

  Jackdaw44:

  ICE9: You’d better not be talking about what I think you’re talking about.

  Jackdaw44:

  ICE9: You’re lying. I looked through your phone after you said you’d deleted them and they were gone.

  Jackdaw44: You didn’t look in all the folders though, did you? You didn’t look in the one called Graffiti? {file uploading . . .}

  ICE9: You fucking arsehole. Delete that photo NOW.

  Jackdaw44: OK. Deleted. Do you like this one better? {file uploading . . .}

  Jackdaw44: Still planning on ignoring me?

  ICE9: I fucking hate you.

  Jackdaw44: No, you don’t. Tell me you love me.

  ICE9: No.

  Jackdaw44: Looks like I’ll have to press “send” then . . .

  ICE9: I love you, OK. There. I said it. Now delete the photos.

  Jackdaw44: You’re such a bad liar. Good fuck, bad liar.

  ICE9: What do you want?

  Jackdaw44: Sleep with me. There’s some stuff I want to try out.

  ICE9: What kind of stuff?

  Jackdaw44: Stuff in videos on the Internet. Hardcore shit. Looks fun.

  ICE9: No.

  Jackdaw44: OK. *presses send*

  ICE9: Stop!

  Jackdaw44: Changed your mind?

  ICE9: If I do what you say how do I know you’ll delete the photos? How do I know you haven’t got them backed up on a memory disk or something?

  Jackdaw44: You don’t. You’ll have to trust me.

  ICE9: That worked out well last time.

  Jackdaw44: That’s because I wanted to keep the photos to look at when we weren’t together. I don’t need them anymore. I’ve got the Internet.

  ICE9: I don’t trust you.

  Jackdaw44: I’ll delete the photos in front of you and let you take a photo of me.

  ICE9: Naked?

  Jackdaw44: Yeah. Keep it on your phone. Call it collateral.

  ICE9: You’d let me do that?

  Jackdaw44: I told you. I want to see you again. I want to touch you. I want to fuck you. Let’s do it one more time then I’ll leave you alone. I promise.

  ICE9: Just once? You swear? And you’ll delete the photos in front of me and let me go through your phone?

  Jackdaw44: Yes.

  ICE9: I’m not doing anything involving shit or piss.

  Jackdaw44: How twisted do you think I am? (Don’t answer that. )

  Chapter 57

  I call Kira’s number over and over again but each time it goes straight to voicemail.

  I type her a text.

  Hi Kira. There’s something I need to get from the car. Where are you?

  Then I delete what I’ve written. If I tell her there’s something I need in the car she might look for it. The tote bag is tucked out of sight beneath the passenger seat and the chances are she won’t even notice it’s there. But what if she gives someone a lift? What if they shift the seat forward or backward and notice it? They wouldn’t open it. Kira would assume it was mine and tell them to put it back. But what if they left it in view when they got out of the car and an opportunist thief walked past and spotted it?

  I lay the phone down on the duvet and take a deep breath. I’m overthinking this and there’s no need to. The bag will be fine. It’s been under the seat for days and nothing bad has happened. But no one else has been in the car other than me. Oh God. Why didn’t I just leave it in the wardrobe? Why didn’t I throw it away when I had the chance?

  I’ll wait. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll just wait here at Mum and Dad’s until Kira brings the car back and then I’ll get the bag and I’ll drive to Chew Valley and throw it in the lake.

  It’s fine. I can do this. I can wait it out. Nothing bad’s going to happen.

  “Jake,” I say into my mobile as the taxi pulls up outside Bristol School of Art. “I’ve been trying to get hold of Kira and she’s not answering her phone. Have you spoken to her this morning?”

  “One second, Mum. Scott needs me to . . . What?” His voice becomes muffled. “Yeah. Tell Ian I’ll give him a ring in a second. I’m just on the phone. Hi, Mum. I can’t be long. Ian needs to talk to me. What’s up?”

  “It’s Kira. I’m trying to get in touch with her but she’s not answering.”

  He sighs. “Her phone’s shit. She’s had it so bloody long the battery only holds a charge for a couple of hours before it dies. I keep telling her I’ll get her a new one but she won’t have it. She says she’d rather have the money and buy it herself.”

  “I’ve been trying to ring you too, all morning. I was getting worried.”

  Four hours. That’s how long I managed to hold out at Mum and Dad’s. Four long, torturous hours wh
ile a hundred different scenarios ran through my head, including one where Kira wasn’t answering her phone because she was in the police station, handing over the knife. That’s when I rang the taxi cab.

  “Signal’s shit here,” Jake says. “I’ve got like one bar worth of reception. Sounds like Ian’s been shitting a brick because he couldn’t get hold of any of us. Look, I’m going to have to go now, Mum. Are you all right? You sound stressed. Is it because of what DS Forbes said? I’m sorry I freaked out. I just . . . I can’t talk right now. I’ll come around to Gran’s after work. Okay?”

  “No,” I say quickly. “No, don’t do that. Uncle Stephen and Dad are going to the pub to sort things out tonight. I’d like you to be there. You can be the peacekeeper.”

  “Me?” He laughs. “You’re kidding me, right? That’s your job!”

  “Not anymore. I need you to do this, Jake, for your dad, for our family. It’s important.”

  He falls silent for a couple of seconds, then says, “All right. If that’s what you want. I’ll go along but don’t be surprised if they come to blows. Kidding!” he adds quickly. “It’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

  The taxi driver coughs and glances meaningfully at the meter.

  “I’ve got to go,” I say. “I love you, Jake.”

  “I love you too, Mum. See you later.”

  I’d expected to be met at the entrance by a receptionist or a security guard but it’s remarkably easy to stroll into the School of Art building and no one gives me so much as a second look. I don’t know if it’s because it’s a Saturday or if it’s always this quiet. After five minutes in the lobby I approach an Asian girl in a headscarf who’s walking past carrying an armful of fabric.

  “I’m looking for Kira Simmons. Do you know where I might find her?”

  “Is she staff or a student?”

  “A student. She does photography.”

  The girl shrugs. “Sorry, can’t help. I’m textiles.”

  “She’s putting on an exhibition,” I add as she turns to leave. “Do you know where that might be?”

  “There’s a gallery through there.” She tilts her head to the right. “Looks like it’s being set up for an exhibition. Someone in there might know.”