Every Missing Thing

by Martyn Ford

  Isabelle wore a tight-fitting black top and charcoal jeans. Her slender hands were feminine despite her solid, defined forearms and sturdy collarbone. Dark, worn eyes. The kind of smoky make-up some women spent hours brushing on to their eyelids – she achieved the look with nothing but exhaustion. Tired Isabelle.

  There was a stern formality in the way she spoke and moved. But, every now and then, when she turned her gaze to the wall between her calm blinks, Francis discovered an intense vulnerability. This weary dejection had aged her – added lines to her face, depth to her eyes. Still, it was undeniably attractive.

  ‘I thought I should tell you in person,’ she said, stepping around the desk. ‘The remains at the house do not belong to Jacob.’

  Francis sighed, because he knew what that meant. Sitting opposite, she confirmed it with a nod. This was unfortunate. Robin had described her saviour simply as ‘the man who came’. Amid the trauma, she didn’t quite appreciate the gravity of her rescue. Sweet Robin might never understand. And maybe that was for the best.

  ‘I hope he found peace,’ Francis said. ‘He was one of the good ones.’

  Isabelle exhaled, then sat up straight. ‘Sam killed four people.’

  ‘Protecting his son? Saving my daughter? Adults keep children safe, that is our job. In his position, would you have done any different?’ There it was – that shimmer of instability – a diffident hesitation. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I let him do it,’ she said.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I had the chance to stop him.’ Unsettled, sorry Isabelle. ‘And I didn’t.’

  ‘Good – imagine the alternative . . . Do your colleagues know?’

  There was a pause and she shook her head.

  ‘And in the inquiry, what will you say?’

  ‘I’m . . .’ Isabelle took a deep breath. ‘I’m going to tell the truth.’

  ‘Well, I think he would have liked that.’

  She got back on track and ran through the other things they’d found at the house.

  ‘What about the garden?’ Francis asked.

  ‘Nothing. Dog bones. Collar reads “Eli” – Diane Marston’s old number on the back.’

  ‘And your gut – what does it say? You think Jacob took Ethan as well?’

  Isabelle just shrugged. Then she showed him a series of photos. Diane, Max, Gregory and Henry Marston. Francis did not recognise any of them.

  As she slid the pictures back into a folder, she said, almost in passing, ‘I wanted to ask you about the Clarke Foundation.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘It’s had financial . . . difficulties?’

  ‘Yes, some.’

  A piece of paper arrived on the desk. Isabelle pointed to charts and numbers. ‘Over the past few years, the foundation’s made some unusual payments, which seem like grants.’

  Francis nodded. ‘Could be grants.’

  ‘But they’re not – the trail goes dead. Look at this. Offshore accounts. Funds are concealed.’ She spread more sheets out in front of him. ‘And these?’

  He glanced down at the figures. ‘You think it’s been stolen?’

  ‘I don’t know. But someone went through a lot of trouble to frame you. It would be nice to know who and why. These paths often lead to money.’

  One document had members of staff and stakeholders listed next to their respective roles. He tapped it. ‘Daniel Aiden is a founder, he’s a senior trustee . . . and, as we know, the sneaky fucker’s not averse to lying . . .’

  Isabelle took this point, turning her head to show him that she too had considered it. ‘Have you spoken to him, since your release?’

  ‘Briefly.’

  ‘And . . . ?’

  ‘This isn’t my area of expertise, Isabelle, but there’s a motive – he’s the only person who could access the house, he knows the Wi-Fi password. He’s smart.’

  ‘It’s a leap.’

  ‘Who else has benefited so much from Ethan’s disappearance? The Clarkes did wonders for his career.’

  ‘What did he say, when you spoke to him?’

  ‘He was kind, supportive. Although he did ask us for an interview. Can’t resist the airtime.’

  ‘Did you agree?’

  ‘No. It’s the last thing Anna wants.’

  Isabelle thought for a few seconds. ‘Do it,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You still haven’t confronted either of them?’

  ‘About the affair? No.’

  ‘Daniel’s spent his whole career making films,’ she said. ‘Proving that, if you let people talk, they expose themselves. He just gives them enough rope.’

  Francis had to admit he did very much like the idea of beating him at his own game. But could clever Daniel ever be clumsy Daniel? Foolish Daniel. Backed-into-a-corner Daniel.

  The fake studio skyline, the plain sofa, the Clarkes waiting for the camera to roll. Francis has his hand on top of Anna’s – he holds it at his left thigh. Dressed in beige chinos and a pale-blue linen shirt, Daniel Aiden moves into the frame and sits opposite the couple. He adjusts a microphone clipped by his chest as someone says, ‘Thirty seconds.’

  Everyone who shouldn’t be seen scatters away into the shadows, like roaches under light. And then, with a final countdown, we are live.

  Daniel doesn’t reference notes, or the scrolling text on the teleprompter. Because he knows this story. He’s told it before.

  ‘On August the twelfth, two thousand and ten, a ten-year-old boy disappeared from his home,’ he says, speaking directly into the lens with his trademark delivery. His voice is open, sincere – an authority to every word. ‘Since that day, his mother and father have lived in a state of limbo, not knowing the fate of their first-born child. His name is Ethan Clarke . . . Believing there could be no greater pain, an all-too-familiar tragedy struck the family again earlier this month, with their daughter declared missing in almost identical circumstances. Now, Robin Clarke is home and the family is, once more, attempting to rebuild their life. Today, the parents in the eye of this storm have been brave enough to share their side of this extraordinary tale. Francis, Anna, thank you for taking the time.’

  Anna’s eyes wander to the floor – she is uncomfortable. It is obvious she does not want to be here. But Francis remains engaged as they discuss the recent weeks – he answers every question, considers each response.

  ‘For you, perhaps more than anyone,’ Daniel says, shaking his head in awe, ‘this . . . this must have been like some kind of living nightmare?’

  ‘It’s not been an easy ride, no.’

  ‘What passes through your mind? What keeps you going through something like that?’

  ‘Honestly, Daniel – hope.’ Francis leans forward and maintains eye contact. These two men look as though they’re speaking only to each other. We see the intensity, the stand-off, the tension in the air. Anna, between them in the frame, simply listens. ‘A long time ago,’ Francis says, ‘an old friend told me something I’ll always remember. He said the truth is a kind of prey – a creature that has to be pursued and dragged into the light. But I think of it more as a predator. I think, given time, the truth will take up the hunt itself. All we have to do is wait – because, Daniel, sooner or later, it will come and find you . . .’

  The following day, Francis was seated at the dining table, rewatching the interview on his phone. Scrolling back and forth through the video, he studied him for any chinks. But he was impenetrable. Total composure throughout.

  He was so engrossed he didn’t even notice Anna behind him, until she reached down and put her arm around his neck.

  ‘Why are you watching that?’ she asked.

  ‘Dad, do you like it?’ Robin said. She’d been drawing at the kitchen table and was now presenting a picture of a felt-tip butterfly.

  ‘Very good, lovely – Mummy will put it on the fridge.’

  Still holding his mobile, Francis stood and went to the bathroom. He placed the phone on the
shelf below the mirror and looked at his face. Both the real him – wrinkled, fatigued – and the television version – well lit, made-up.

  However, just as the final comments arrived, the video disappeared – wiped clean off the screen by an incoming call. Black glass. White text. Number withheld.

  Francis clicked the hands-free button on the earphone wire to answer. He did not recognise the voice but, when it spoke, he realised who was talking. And the earth shook, every word drummed with midsummer heat, shock and thunder. A hollow squeeze replaced his heart as he held eye contact with himself and tried to find some breath amid the adrenal hurricane. But, like this moment, it was impossible.

  ‘Dear God,’ he whispered. ‘Ethan?’

  Chapter 41

  Francis did exactly what Ethan said and told no one about the call. Instead, he travelled alone, as instructed, and left his car where he always used to – in the top right-hand corner of the forest visitor centre parking lot.

  Those arduous hikes, the scout-badge expeditions – years ago now but all so familiar. These woods hadn’t changed and still stirred colourful, happy memories from the moving branches – the leaves like brush bristles, painting murals as he passed. Despite the hypnotic landscape, Francis felt his armpits had dampened his shirt, not from exertion, but nerves – sheer confusion about the unruly future waiting for him at the end of the long, winding track.

  As he walked, he followed Ethan – small, running ahead, throwing sticks for Button and finding trees to climb. A revenant in his imagination, smiling in columns of sun that cut down through the canopy, lighting the thick air, dense with wildlife. Insects, butterflies, occasional rabbits that loiter in the undergrowth and seem bold – as indifferent to his presence as the projections themselves. ‘This way?’ the picture asked. But there was no answer. Francis simply could not see himself in these memories.

  He arrived at their meeting place ten minutes later than scheduled, having forgotten just how far it was from any roads or registered footpaths. Twigs crunched beneath his trekking boots as he clambered down the slope and over the protruding roots. Around the rocks, resting his hand on the rough surface for balance, he saw the secluded spot for the first time in almost a decade.

  The hazel tree had grown – now a giant shroud of golden leaves dominated the area. Backlit in the sun, it gave the space an eerie glow – the saturation tweaked up a few notches, brightness just a touch above reality. Subtle enough to believe. Different enough to know something fundamental had changed.

  Before he found anyone, past or present, he noticed a pile of dry mud – a spade stuck in the top, like a single candle on a birthday cake. Someone had dug a hole and, all around it, fallen leaves on the ground created a soft, golden carpet. But, at odds with the heat and the grave, this illusion dissipated as he crept further through the outlying trees, into the unveiling scene.

  And Francis stopped. A full-grown man stepped into view and stood over the fresh pit – hunched shoulders, a green coat, scraggy, grey hair. Even when he turned, Francis could not believe the bounding ghost he’d imagined on the way here had appeared. Surely this was something else.

  The scarring was worse in the flesh than in the digital gradients – the composite artist had sketched him from a memory of a shaded glimpse and, as such, omitted most of the damage. For someone who knew that face so well, reality’s effort was a work of pure horror. Perplexity came first, followed by a feeling Francis rarely encountered. It had all the physical tells of fear.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ he whispered. ‘Is . . . is that you?’ But as he moved in for a closer look, the stranger reached behind and drew a black object from beneath his coat. It was a handgun. ‘Hey.’ Francis stood still, his arms slightly raised. ‘Where . . . where did you get that?’

  ‘From a man.’ The broken voice – a deep impersonation of Ethan’s – even more harrowing than on the phone. Having missed the transition, the low-pitched words boomed straight from the uncanny valley – a sound that was, in every conceivable sense, absolutely wrong.

  Ethan. Strange, ruined, ugly Ethan.

  ‘What . . . Where . . . where have you been?’

  ‘I was hiding.’

  ‘You . . . ?’ In the early days, they had considered this an option – Ethan’s bed was made, some things were missing. Although, even if he had run away, it would have been short-lived. Engineering his own disappearance, for any longer than a week, was incompatible with survival. And yet. ‘Why?’

  Snarling with what was left of his lips, Ethan aimed the pistol. ‘You know why.’

  Again, Francis opened his posture, showed his palms. ‘I’m . . . I’m sorry,’ he said, lowering his head for eye contact. ‘But no, really, I don’t.’

  They shared a short silence, until Ethan looked away and asked, ‘Did you touch her?’

  ‘Calm down.’

  ‘Did you touch her?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know who.’ He came forwards, gun high. ‘Robin.’

  ‘I . . . Of course, hundreds of times a day. I kiss her goodnight. Ethan, please.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean. Did you do . . . did you do to her . . .’ he closed his eyes ‘. . . what you did to me?’

  ‘Pardon?’ Francis took a long, slow breath, lifted his finger and glared. He was pleased to see it still worked – the child cowered, visibly shrinking, right on cue. ‘What, are, the, rules?’

  ‘I’m . . . I’m not allowed to say it.’

  ‘And I won’t warn you again.’

  Bolstered by some new courage Francis had never seen before, Ethan composed himself. ‘Answer the question.’ But he couldn’t look at Francis. Too frightened. A puppy that knows it’s been very, very naughty.

  ‘How can I answer the question, when I don’t know what you’re talking about? Now, if you’d like to ask me something specific, I’m sure I—’

  The pistol cracked – dirt and leaves spat into the air near Francis’s boot. Canopies erupted – birds taking flight.

  ‘Put, it, down.’

  ‘Just tell me.’ He raised the barrel. The next bullet would kill.

  Francis opened his mouth to speak, but stopped, sighed and smiled. ‘I . . .’ He laughed. But there was uncertainty here – it was possible he might not wield dominance any more. Wild volatility and a loaded gun. His options were limited. And, clearly, he didn’t have long to pick one. ‘Honestly,’ he said. ‘No.’

  With the seal broken, the forbidden topic was now fair game, dead centre on the table. ‘Why?’

  ‘Look, let’s not do this,’ Francis said. ‘Just relax, please—’

  ‘Is she not pretty enough? Too old? Surely not too young?’

  One more stab at the warning – the rage and wrath that makes most of them tremble. But armed Ethan was now immune. Francis heard his own heavy breath and swallowed. This situation was not in his control – and it scared him beyond measure.

  Ethan turned, gestured up at the trees. ‘Do you remember bringing me here?’

  ‘Stop.’

  ‘You were so cruel.’

  ‘Is . . . is that why you’ve done all this? Tried to destroy my life?’

  ‘You started when I was her age. I can’t let you hurt her.’

  ‘I . . . I won’t.’

  ‘You’re sadistic. That’s where you find pleasure. It’s not just power – you like to punish.’

  Hopeless, startled Francis. He just stared back at him. It was unnerving to hear a deranged teenager summarise what should take many therapist hours – and so concisely too.

  ‘There are others, aren’t there?’

  Once again, it felt as though Ethan was delving right inside him. Reading thoughts Francis was yet to have.

  ‘Fuck . . . I . . .’ He had to smile.

  And Ethan did not like it – he stormed forwards, gun up, now just a couple of metres between them. ‘Answer me.’

  ‘All right.’ He flinched. ‘Fine. Yes. There have been . . . there have been others.’
<
br />   ‘The Clarke Foundation?’

  Hands out, shaking, Francis saw lies fall off his short list of options. So, he bowed his head, and nodded.

  ‘Is it like a dream?’ Ethan whispered. More curious than angry. Perhaps even fascinated. ‘Hundreds of them. Are you spoiled for choice? How many children has the charity helped? How many orphans, how many private hospital wards? How many quiet voices? Can you come and go as you please? So famous, so kind. All this generosity. Who could even suggest it wasn’t real?’

  Francis’s tooth throbbed out a quick pulse, as though the injury had heard its name. It felt like that size-three Converse trainer, emblazoned on the heel with cartoon penguins, had kicked up hard into his face all over again, splitting the root of his lower left molar. A vibrant redhead – he should have known she’d come with a side of fire. But a slight toothache and his snowballing affinity for prescription painkillers were well worth the cost – both hurt far less than the itch of unsated desire.

  Still, reality seemed to flood him – his lungs filling with the truth as he began to suffocate in these unthinkable things that never even happened. Except, of course, they did.

  He thought of Isabelle and her perusing the foundation’s books, peppered as they were with the other occupational hazard – the bravest companions and their tall tales about Mr Clarke’s unusual games. Silence was ever so expensive. Again, he told himself that he must not worry, everything was neat, orderly, loose ends tied up well – none of those avenues led anywhere worth going. All still under control. The only genuine risk was right here, backlit from the dead in yellow and gold, holding him at gunpoint.

  ‘Look, Ethan,’ he whispered – gentle voice now. A different strategy – let the beast sleep. ‘What can I do to make this better?’

  ‘Get in.’

  ‘No, please.’