Every Missing Thing

by Martyn Ford

  At the end of this long, emphatic sermon, Diane thanks a few people in the crowd, shaking hands as they shuffle single file out of the community centre. The final man queueing at the exit is wearing a shiny, green polyester jacket and a pair of jeans, torn at the knees. His trainers, once white, are now stained damp brown. And his hair, a fluffed mass of grey, has been cut with little concern for style.

  Hunched and timid, this short man steps towards the door. His meek hands, held at his chest, pick at themselves as Diane arrives by his side. She smiles and places her palm on the top of his head. He seems too shy to maintain eye contact, addressing the floor instead of the blessing. But when she whispers something in his ear, his chin lifts, his shoulders drop and, for a brief moment, these recreant mannerisms fade away – banished by a few reassuring words only they can hear. Diane is taken aback when he leans in for a hug, but she returns it nonetheless. Stroking his back, she nods – because it’s OK, it really is OK.

  When this exchange is over, the old man begins to leave again. And, in the gloomy doorway, he turns back towards the camera. We see it for perhaps half a second but, below his messy grey hair, rough, pink skin covers much of his face. A terrible injury from long ago, complete with a strip of wafer-thin scar tissue bridging his nose to his scaled cheek.

  This video, like much of Diane’s work, is online. Although it’s a few years old, it is not hard to find. It might buffer with a spinning circle, or turn into tiny squares from time to time, but still we stream it with ease.

  And, at the end of the recording, on the other side of the edit, when the hall is filled with empty chairs and the electric hiss of the camera’s cheap microphone, only we can see Diane strolling back towards the stage. She seems calm as she collects her things and buttons up her coat. Maybe she thinks she’s alone. Maybe she hasn’t noticed, in the doorway, a shape is still watching her. A figure. A man who never left. His pixel eyes shine yellow, like grains of mustard seed, and his scars are hidden now, healed by the shadow.

  Chapter 34

  Robin was on her knees in her bedroom, searching through the art box. There were all kinds of different paints, pencils and brushes, which clattered around inside. In a folder, clipped to the underside of the lid, she found a plastic booklet. When she lifted it out, stencils came tumbling on to the floor. Ah, she thought, that explains the spray paint. She unwrapped one of the small cans and shook it, hearing the hard ball bearing clink and bounce around inside the metal. She liked the sound it made. As a test, she squirted a quick streak on to her open sketchbook – creating a faint leaf. It went over the edges, so it was a good job the carpet in this corner had been lined with old newspaper.

  For a while, she sat cross-legged on the floor, tilting the can left, then right – dink-dink, dink-dink. It smelled nice, and could be a lot of fun, but the sketchbook was only A4 – she wanted a larger surface. What she really needed was a . . .

  And Robin smiled.

  She stood, shook the spray paint and went to the wall. Holding the stencil flat with her thumb, she streaked it with a short squirt of black. It felt naughty, like doing graffiti. But Julius had said she was allowed to decorate her room however she wanted.

  ‘Even the walls?’ she’d asked.

  ‘Especially the walls.’

  There were lots of stencils in the art box, but the animals were the best. She spent ages filling the side wall, all around the bathroom door, with falling leaves and hedgehogs and eagles and more. They looked really good – there was no way she could paint them this well all by herself.

  Even though he’d said it was fine, when Julius arrived in the main doorway, Robin stood upright and turned round, hiding the spray can and stencil behind her. She hummed a little song and walked across the carpet, pretending she had nothing to do with the pictures. Julius seemed to like this – obviously it was a joke, he had caught her red-handed. Or, rather – she looked down at her fingers – black-handed.

  ‘Wait there,’ he said.

  A few minutes later he returned and shuffled sideways into the room, carrying . . . a stepladder? He pitched it in the centre of the carpet and held it steady.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m sure the ceiling is boring,’ he said.

  Her tongue poked from her mouth as she shook the tin again and climbed, squeezing his hand at one point for balance.

  Together they painted at least a hundred birds above her bed, over the open door and the television. They all seemed to fly from the very first one she’d sprayed, down on the wall, near the art box. A brilliant eruption of silhouettes spread across the ceiling. The problem was, when using stencils, sometimes the paint went around the edges. This meant lots of the pictures had slight borders. At first, Robin didn’t like that. She even tried to colour them in with a white pen. But now it looked OK – like the frames were done on purpose. Little birds in little squares.

  ‘It would be cool if it glowed,’ she said when they’d finished, turning full circle, looking up at their creations. ‘Do they do glow-in-the-dark spray paint?’

  ‘Probably, but you leave the lamp on all night.’

  She turned to him. ‘Otherwise it’s too dark.’

  Julius left the room again and came back with a hand drill. He knelt on her bed, then removed the screws from the planks of wood covering her window, pulling them carefully between the bars and throwing them down on to the floor. The last one clattered on top of the pile and Robin smelled sawdust in the air.

  ‘And then there was light,’ Julius announced, brushing splinters off her duvet.

  She could tell he wanted her to look out the window and appreciate the view. But Robin couldn’t take her eyes away from that drill – it might work on the metal bars. Her plan had not changed. Although she didn’t want to upset Julius, she would still escape when she got the chance. She watched as he left, and then listened to him downstairs – trying to imagine which room he was in. Where was he putting the drill? The kitchen. But then she heard the back door.

  With the boards gone, she could now sit on her bed, put her elbows on the windowsill and look outside – it was sunny today. She saw him walk down the garden, to a shed at the end. If only she could get out there – she could easily climb over that fence. But where would she go? It seemed they were in the woods, very far away from any other houses. Robin could see none – it was just trees. This makes sense, she thought – if she were going to build a prison, she would do it somewhere secret. Maybe no one even knew this place existed. It was just her and Julius. Sometimes she felt like they were the only people in the whole world.

  At the back of the garden, by an overgrown bush, Robin saw a low mound. And, near the top of it, there was a wooden cross sticking out of the grass.

  It looked like a small grave.

  Maybe he’d had a pet that died? Mum said that, one day, Button would pass away because he was so old. And when he did, they would bury him in their garden, just like her hamster – Pillow. Robin had called him that because he was soft and white; although she was only four at the time, she now thought the name was kind of silly. But when she’d found dead beetles, or spiders, or even ants, Mum said she shouldn’t bury them. Only mammals get funerals. Although, Emma’s brother had a lizard, and they’d buried her. She was a reptile. Maybe it depended on how big you were.

  The grave in Julius’s garden looked about the size of a fairly large dog. There was something etched into the wooden cross – probably a name – but she couldn’t read it from up here. Robin decided not to ask him about this – in case it made him sad.

  Over the past few days, he had been extra nice to her and seemed happy most of the time. But it wasn’t all fun games and painting. As well as the art box, he had bought a stack of textbooks. He said they were all the proper ones, so he could teach her everything she would be learning in her normal lessons. Robin never, ever thought it would be possible but, she had to admit, she kind of missed school. Not as much as she missed her parents and But
ton though. She’d lost count of the days – she guessed she’d been here for about a week. But it felt so much longer.

  Robin had been staring at clouds above the trees for around ten minutes or so, imagining they were faces and frogs and mountains, when she noticed something out of the corner of her eye.

  ‘Well, hi there,’ she whispered.

  A caterpillar was crawling calmly across the windowsill, near her elbow. He was green and furry, with small black spots, and wriggled a bit like a worm. She watched the wave of his body – he lifted his front legs, then his tummy, then finally his tiny feet right at the back, moving forwards a little bit at a time.

  ‘Why are you indoors?’ she asked, letting him walk over her finger, which she held perfectly still. ‘I wish I had a butterfly stencil. Then I could show you what you’ll be soon. Are you excited? Can you hear me?’ She leaned in closer. ‘Do you even have ears?’

  ‘So,’ Julius said, coming into the room behind her, ‘art is done – we need to do maths and then maybe . . . What have you got?’

  ‘This is . . . Patty,’ she said, holding him delicately in her hand. ‘Say hello.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘To him, not to me.’

  ‘Oh.’ He looked down. ‘Hello.’

  ‘I think he wants to go outside.’

  ‘I’ll put him in the garden.’ Julius extended his hand.

  But Robin pulled Patty closer to her chest. ‘Please may I come?’

  ‘Maybe you can look out your window – and point to where he should live?’

  ‘OK,’ Robin said, hiding her disappointment. She rested her little finger on Julius’s hand and let Patty climb across. ‘Be careful.’

  Julius walked slowly down the stairs and she watched him through her window, her face against the cold metal. Near a bush at the far end, to the right of the grave, he turned and looked back to her. She gave him a thumbs up. Then he crouched and put the tiny green caterpillar on the grass. That’s a good place for Patty, Robin thought.

  ‘You should plant some flowers for him,’ she said, when Julius returned. ‘He will be a butterfly soon.’

  ‘Maybe you can.’

  ‘I would love that. Please can we do it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘One day.’

  Robin sighed. That was always his answer. One day. Earlier, when he was reading to her about adjectives (describing) and verbs (doing words), she interrupted him. She knew going home wasn’t an option, but she’d wondered if she could at least speak to her mum on the phone. And what did he say? That’s right. One day. Always one day.

  Robin knew why he was uncomfortable with this subject – because he was breaking the law. He was not a policeman, or a doctor, so keeping her prisoner was illegal. She hadn’t been brave enough to tell him that though.

  However, yesterday, she had plucked up the courage to question him a little bit. They had been speaking about her parents – Julius wanted to know what they were like. She told him the truth – that they loved her very much and would be missing her.

  ‘Are they nice to you?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Mostly. They sometimes shout if I’ve been naughty. But not often.’

  ‘Surely you’re never naughty?’

  Robin smiled – she had felt relaxed. ‘Julius?’ she’d said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why do I have to live here?’

  He said it was the best place for her and that he would keep her safe. She didn’t really understand this – there must be a proper reason. Something he wasn’t telling her.

  In a way, she felt sorry for him. Sometimes, when he was reading from textbooks, he would get to a word he didn’t know and ask her to read it for him. But some of the words weren’t even hard. Maybe, Robin joked, she should be teaching him. He seemed upset when she said that – and she apologised straight away.

  After their maths lesson, Robin lay on her bed and doodled some pictures. She drew Patty as he was now – a tiny green thing, like twenty peas with legs, all joined together in a row. Next to that, she sketched what he would look like when he transformed. She clattered the pencil in her mouth, then went for a brand-new packet of fluorescent felt tips. The wrapping crinkled as she dropped it on the floor.

  When he changed, she imagined he would have dark-brown wings, with red stripes around the edges and little specks of blue that would shimmer like the inside of a muscle shell on the beach. And so, that’s what she drew.

  We see the living room – all cleaned up now. No more pictures of beasts with hooves and forks and fire roaring beneath them. No more crosses. No more dolls. No more photos of the Clarkes. Aside from the bars on the windows, this could be any rural home. Julius has done a good job of making it more accommodating for his guest. He enters, holding a cup of tea in one hand and a small plate with a single biscuit in the other. Under his elbow, he carries a book. He steps towards the coffee table, keeping the mug level, lowering it carefully so he doesn’t spill a drop.

  Now he’s seated, the book’s title comes into view, English Grammar: A Pocket Guide.

  Julius lifts the plate beneath his mouth and, just as he’s about to take a bite, his phone rings – buzz-buzz, buzz-buzz – on the sofa by his thigh. He places the plate back down and hesitates – alarmed at the intrusion. Finally, he picks his mobile up and answers. But he does not speak.

  After a few seconds, a female voice says, ‘Hello? Julius? Are you there?’

  ‘Diane?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you get my message?’ he says.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And? Can I come and see you?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  There’s a pause. ‘So,’ he asks, ‘why are you calling?’

  ‘I wanted to let you know that the police may make contact.’

  His hand goes over his mouth. ‘Why?’

  ‘They are looking for Robin Clarke.’

  A tear runs down his cheek, and then another. But he does not make a sound. Julius can cry in absolute silence. ‘Oh. I see.’

  ‘Do you know anything about that?’

  ‘No,’ he lies.

  ‘Well then, you have nothing to fear.’

  Julius stands and goes to the window, moving the curtain aside. ‘Will . . . will they come to the house?’

  ‘I suspect so, yes.’

  He lowers the phone. His hands shake – he doesn’t know what to do with them. Stretched in dismay, his lips begin to tremble – but, still, not a peep. Then he brings the mobile back to his ear. ‘Do . . . do you remember the story, about the shepherd and the wolf?’ he says.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The shepherd sacrifices his most precious lamb, to save it from being eaten . . . Did . . . did the lamb go to heaven?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think she did . . . Tell me again, tell me what heaven is like?’

  ‘Oh, Julius, it is the most beautiful place you can imagine. It is paradise.’

  Nestling himself into the corner of the room, he shields his mouth with his free hand, cupping the mouthpiece. ‘I . . . I don’t think God loves me any more,’ he whispers, as if to keep this worry secret.

  ‘The Lord loves all his children.’

  ‘Will He forgive me, if I have to sin?’

  ‘All men are sinners, Julius . . .’

  ‘Can I see you again, please?’

  ‘One day,’ she says, and the call comes to an end.

  He looks at his mobile. But he’s weak and it falls from his grasp, bouncing on to the carpet. Back to the sofa, he pulls his knees to his chest and leans away from everything, his face pressed down, hands over his head, arms in his ears. Hysterical, desperate, he rocks and groans and cries. Then he kneels on the floor and whimpers, hitting himself again and again with clenched fingers.

  ‘No, no, no,’ he says, on every strike.

 
He tugs at his grey hair with both hands, then they turn to fists – he pushes them into his eye sockets. Finally, his palms come together.

  ‘I am so, so sorry,’ he whispers, tilting his head to the ceiling – or perhaps beyond, to the most beautiful place he can imagine. ‘Forgive me.’

  And then fast, Julius goes to his kitchen, moving from camera to camera. He takes a knife from a drawer, walks with purpose down the hall and stands at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘No, no,’ he says, hitting himself again, this time with the knife handle.

  Back to the kitchen, he puts the knife away.

  ‘She was happy,’ he whispers to himself. ‘She wasn’t scared. She just goes to sleep.’

  He removes a first aid box from under the sink. Inside, there’s medical equipment, syringes, drugs in small glass vials, latex gloves and pipettes and tubes and other things he should not have. His hands are jittery as he pokes one of the needles into a bottle and draws his thumb up, filling the entire chamber with transparent liquid. But then, once more, he hesitates. He places the items on a tray and covers them with a tea towel.

  And to the freezer, where he pulls out a tub of ice cream. He puts three large scoops into a bowl. From the first aid box, he takes a pot of pills. He pours two, no, three, on to the kitchen counter and reaches up to a cupboard. Then, with the bottom of a tumbler, he presses and twists – crushing the tablets into a fine powder. He sweeps it all into the bowl and brushes white dust from his palm. To hide the drugs, he squirts a spiral of whipped cream and drizzles chocolate sauce over the top. For the final touch, a sprinkling of chopped nuts.