I grip the study doorframe to steady myself.
Nathan reaches for the phone on his desk. I stare at the painting on the wall, the hunting scene, those men in their flat caps contemplating the lifeless stag. I try and block out the image of Charles Cardew, sitting in the chair, turning the gun towards his face.
‘There’s a message,’ he says, pointing at the phone on his desk, on which a red light pulses ominously. ‘Why didn’t you check?’
I don’t know what to say. I never check for messages. They are never for me. The only person who ever calls me is Vicky and she never uses the landline in case Nathan picks up and she is forced to talk to him.
Nathan puts the phone on speaker. He taps the keypad. Plays the message.
‘Good morning. This is a message for Mr or Mrs Cardew. It’s Mrs Foster at William Brownley. I’m calling to ask if you could telephone the office to confirm Alex is off school today. You can register an absence on the school website if you log on to the parent portal and click absences.’
My stomach hits the floor.
Nathan silences the answerphone and picks up the receiver and dials.
‘Who are you calling?’ My voice, like the rest of me, is weak and shaky.
‘I’m calling the bloody police, of course.’
Chapter Twelve
Hannah
I assumed the police would reassure us. Tell us not to worry with breezy nonchalance: Oh, you mustn’t worry. Teenagers do this all the time and nothing bad ever happens.
But they don’t reassure us.
Nathan places the receiver down and takes a breath. His face is grave, mouth twitching, fingers tapping his thigh with agitation. ‘They’re sending over two officers.’
I nod and walk out of the study, with its tight, stale air, hideous painting, and lingering stench of death, and pull a chair over to the Aga. It’s June but I’m cold. Cass quietly gets out of her basket and lies down at my feet, her body, the warmth of it, is comforting. I sit still and focus on my breathing, on drawing air in and out of my lungs, concentrating on the rise and fall of my ribcage, anything to push back recollections of our argument. Why did I shout at him? Why did I take Nathan’s side over his? What’s wrong with me? I should have never been a mother.
I’m struck by an overpowering urge to walk out of the door. Leave right now. Run. If something has happened to Alex, if he doesn’t come home, there would be no reason to stay. The threat of losing Alex has always loomed large. Nathan’s voice in my head – threatening to take me to court if I tried to leave again, assuring me he’d win custody, after all who would choose an unstable woman like me over a solvent, respectable lawyer like him – has been there ever since he snatched Alex from my arms at Penzance Station. I’d asked Vicky about custody cases. She said judges always went with the mother, but I could hear the hesitation in her voice. She didn’t trust Nathan or the authorities to do the right thing any more than I did. People like us always lost out to people like them. It was just how it worked. But if he doesn’t come back, I know, hand on heart, that I’ll be gone in the time it takes to grab Cass’s lead.
It takes forever for the police to arrive, but at last there’s a car on the lane. It draws to a halt outside the house. Headlights move across the kitchen ceiling. I walk along the hallway and peer through the glazed window beside the front door. The glass is uneven and old, and the two figures appear distorted, eerie alien forms approaching the house. My heartbeat quickens and I feel the phantom bite of metal as their handcuffs close around my wrists.
Nathan moves towards the door, hand on the latch, and glances back at me. ‘I’ll do the talking,’ he says in a low voice.
I nod mutely and retreat back to the kitchen, sit myself down on the chair, fold my hands in my lap and wait.
Two voices introduce themselves.
‘My wife is in the kitchen,’ Nathan says. ‘She’s,’ he lowers his voice but not enough so I can’t hear, ‘distressed.’
‘Of course,’ says one of the men in a gruff Bristol accent.
Both men are big and make our kitchen feel over crowded. One is tall and lean, the other shorter, more muscular, with a misshaped boxer’s nose.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Nathan asks.
The one with the bent nose says, yes, they would, both with milk, one with no sugar, one with three.
‘Hannah?’ Nathan says. ‘Would you mind?’
I make the tea and listen to the three of them completing a missing persons report. So many questions. As I drop tea bags into the bin, my inner voice screams, ‘Bloody hell stop wasting time and find him!’ I can’t hold my tears in any longer.
‘Has he gone missing before?’
‘No, it’s out of character,’ Nathan replies, glancing my way briefly. ‘Though he is prone to storming off after an argument.’
‘Are there many arguments?’
Nathan smiles, unfazed by any intended or unintended insinuation. ‘Not many. He’s generally a calm child.’
I hand them their teas. They thank me and I return to the armchair. My hand falls instinctively to Cass’s head.
‘Might he have been drinking?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Drugs?’
‘He’s not that kind of child.’
The policemen exchange a glance. They’ve heard this response many times before. Parents, shocked, taken aback, offended, everybody believing their child is not that kind of child.
‘Anxiety disorders? Depression?’
‘No,’ Nathan said. ‘I mean, he can be withdrawn. He struggles in certain social situations.’
I should interrupt. I should tell Nathan he’s wrong. Alex has plenty of friends. I’ve seen him with them, laughing and joking and playing football, like a normal kid. It’s just around Nathan he struggles.
‘He’s reserved,’ Nathan continues. ‘An introvert. Good student. Recently, however, well, he has become rather…’ Nathan hesitates and chooses his word carefully, ‘volatile.’
Both officers glance up when he says this. ‘Volatile when you’re arguing?’
‘He’s a teenager,’ I say quietly. ‘He can be argumentative, especially with his father, but it’s nothing unusual.’
Nathan’s eyes burn into me.
I pick at a tag of skin on the edge of my thumb. I want our kitchen back to normal. I want Alex home and these bulky, intimidating men with their dark uniforms and loaded glances and never-ending questions gone.
‘Do you know how much money he has with him?’
‘Money?’ Nathan asks.
‘A debit card? Savings account?’
‘He doesn’t have anything like that.’
‘Cash?’
‘None.’
‘What about money from a job?’ Both men are staring at Nathan now. The one with the bent nose is studying him with a furrowed brow.
Nathan speaks carefully, his eyes locked on the man with the bent nose. ‘Alex doesn’t have a savings book and he doesn’t have a job because we want him to concentrate on his exams.’
The tall police officer writes something in his notebook.
‘What about an allowance or pocket money?’
I shift awkwardly as heat flares on the back of my neck.
‘If he wants something, he comes to us and we discuss it. If we decide it’s something he needs we buy it for him.’
His use of the word we is infuriating. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve brought up the subject of an allowance for Alex. I realise I’m glaring at Nathan too late to stop the officer from noticing. He writes something in his notebook and I avert my eyes quickly.
‘Giving children money without monitoring how they spend it is bad parenting,’ Nathan says. ‘Too many children these days get exactly what they want when they want it.’ He pauses and shakes his head. ‘Not in my house. I’ve no interest in raising an entitled child with no regard for where money comes from. Teaching a child how to manage money and, most importantly, be responsible with it,
is vital.’
The policeman with the bent nose gives Nathan a tight smile.
‘And have you checked to see if any cash has gone from either of you?’
‘He wouldn’t steal.’
Another glance at each other.
‘Mr Cardew, I appreciate your son is very well-behaved, but he’s gone missing, which you yourself said is out of character. We need to be realistic about whether or not he has money. He can get much further if he does.’
My stomach turns over as an image of Alex’s tin comes at me.
Nathan shakes his head. ‘Look,’ he snaps. ‘I don’t keep cash in the house, something I imagine you lot would encourage, and I had my wallet with me, so he can’t have taken any from there.’
The policeman turns to me. ‘And your purse, Mrs Cardew? Have you noticed money going from it?’
‘My wife has no cash in the house either.’
Humiliation overwhelms me and I drop my head.
‘What about cash cards? Does he know the PINs to your cards?’
‘Of course not,’ Nathan says flatly. ‘That’s illegal, isn’t it?’
Any respect the men might have had for Nathan has now evaporated and both are eyeing him with dislike. I admire them for this. It’s unusual.
The taller man gestures to the door through to the stairway. ‘Do you mind if we have a quick look around his room?’
‘I’ll take you up,’ I say quickly. I need to get them on their own. I have to tell them about the tin.
The policeman smiles. ‘Kids have no idea how much we worry,’ he says gently.
I nod and pull repeatedly at my sleeve. I think of Alex paying for a train ticket, a bus ticket, counting out coins to buy a burger, walking the streets of London watched by drug dealers and thieves and gangs with knives, and feel sick.
I step to one side and allow the men to walk into his empty room. My heart hammers. Nathan has followed us and has no intention of leaving us alone. I have no choice. I have to tell them.
‘Excuse me?’ My throat is dry and catches my voice. The two police officers turn and look at me expectantly. I can tell by their expressions they’ve been waiting for me to speak. ‘It’s… well…’
‘Hannah?’
I glance at Nathan who is staring hard at me.
‘It’s just… He – Alex – he has money.’
I walk over to his desk and bend down.
‘What do you mean?’ Nathan says sharply.
I open the bottom drawer and rummage at the back. My fingers find the tin and clasp it. I pull it out and face the three men. ‘He keeps it in here.’
‘Where did he get it from?’
I hesitate. Give the policemen a weak smile. ‘My friend Vicky.’
‘Vicky?’
I ignore Nathan and continue to talk to the officers. ‘She gives Alex money on his birthdays. Christmases, too. Not a lot. But enough to buy himself a few bits. A magazine or sweets. A cinema ticket, sometimes. He bought a penknife last year. He watched something about whittling on the television…’ Tears prickle and I have to pause for a moment. ‘He doesn’t buy much,’ I whisper. ‘He likes to save it.’
‘Jesus,’ Nathan breathes.
I remove the lid from the tin. It’s empty. I hear Vicky’s voice as she hands him his birthday card, ‘There’s a little something inside, sweetheart. Spend it on something fun and pointless.’
‘Do you know how much he had?’ asks the policeman with the bent nose as he writes in his notebook.
‘I’m not sure,’ I say, careful to avoid Nathan’s eyes. ‘Maybe seventy pounds?’
‘Seventy pounds!’
It’s almost comical to see how livid Nathan is but also how hard he’s having to work to contain his anger in front of the policemen and, despite the fear and the worry and the sadness, I have to stifle a laugh. As I do, my gaze falls to Alex’s desk, and a piece of paper lying on its surface. It’s a page torn out of an exercise book with his handwriting on it. I reach for it and trace the words with my fingertip, the writing so even, so neat. Even when he was tiny. Always such neat writing.
I read it and the words blur in my tears, then I hand it to the officer with the bent nose.
Dear Mum
I’m fine. I’ll be back soon. I need a bit of space. Sorry not to tell you first but I didn’t want you to stop me.
Love you,
Alex
Chapter Thirteen
Hannah
I should feel happier. Relieved. He planned to go and if he planned it there’s less chance he’s been abducted or murdered or left for dead in a hit-and-run. But I don’t feel reassured. This is proof that there isn’t an easy explanation. He isn’t with friends. He hasn’t ‘just lost track of time’. He has left me on purpose.
The floor dissolves beneath me.
I’m vaguely aware of the police officers reassuring us they are still taking the situation seriously. They mention his status. High to medium risk. They will update the police national computer. Units will be on the lookout for him. They want him home safely. I’m aware of Nathan offering to show them out. Aware of them saying goodbye, of them walking away, their feet crunching on the gravel. The sound of their patrol car ignition jumpstarts me and I run down the stairs and fling myself at the front door, fumbling hopelessly with the catch. I want them to promise me they’ll find him. They have to bring my son home. They have to.
Nathan reaches over my shoulder and presses my hand flat against the metal lock which digs into my palm. ‘Enough now.’
I try and shake his hand off me, but he presses harder.
‘Enough.’
His face is devoid of even a scrap of sympathy. ‘They have to find him, Nathan.’
He turns his back to me and slides the chain across, bolts the door, top and bottom, then locks the Chubb and drops the key into his pocket. He faces me, his expression glacial. ‘Behaving like a lunatic isn’t going to bring him home. You need to calm down.’
My body is trembling. He doesn’t take his eyes off me. I try to control my breathing. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. ‘I feel so helpless.’
‘He has a lot to answer for.’
‘I just want him to be OK.’
For a moment or two he says nothing, only stares, slow-blinking and angry. But then he takes a deep breath through his nose and intensifies his gaze. ‘Vicky should never have given him money.’
‘It was a present,’ I whisper. ‘That’s all.’
‘That’s not all, though, is it? Do you see the damage she’s done? How far do you think he’d have got without money? If she hadn’t given it to him he’d still be here, Hannah. Do you see that? You should never – never – have let him accept it. What were you thinking?’
This is a rhetorical question and I make no attempt at an answer.
‘If he doesn’t come back…’
Nathan’s half sentence hangs in the air around me like a poisonous gas. When I look at him I can see the unsaid words in his eyes.
… it’s your fault.
He walks into his study and closes his door. The hallway is dark and silent. The walls inch in on me, the ceiling creeps downwards. Claustrophobia takes hold and my chest tightens, my fingers turn numb. Anxiety has made me jittery. I need to get out. I need to breathe fresh air. I need to walk. I think of my cigarettes behind the washing powder and my log in the copse. But I can’t leave the house in case Alex or the police call. The helplessness is paralysing. I need to do something. I need to keep myself occupied. I tread the stairs, as quietly as possible, not wanting to alert Nathan to my movements. I want him to leave me alone. I don’t need his anger or his judgement or blame. I open the door to Alex’s room. I scan the mess and the ache in my stomach throbs violently.
I decided to tidy his room. At least it’s something to do. I begin by making his bed. The sheets could do with a change, but I leave them; I don’t want to wash away the smell of him. Not yet. Just in case. The musty odour of teenage boy mi
ght be all I have left of him. I sweep rubbish from his desk into the waste bin and put three coffee-stained mugs outside the door on the landing next to the pile of dirty clothes I’ve assembled. I straighten the papers on his desk, tidy his pens away, and return the tin he kept Vicky’s money in to the bottom drawer. I stand, hands on hips, and tip my head back and sigh. Cleaning his room was supposed to make me feel useful. I’d hoped it might ease the gnawing fear, but it only intensifies my feelings of inadequacy. As a mother, the only job which matters is keeping your child safe. If I haven’t managed that, I’ve failed. Everything else is meaningless.
I sit heavily on the edge of his bed and grip the duvet either side of me. The empty silence hums in my ears.
‘God, Alex,’ I whisper. ‘Where are you?’
Chapter Fourteen
Hannah
Exhaustion has crept into the centre of my bones, but there is no way I can sleep. Visions of him out there, God-knows-where, plague me, cold and hungry, huddled in a doorway in a faceless city, miles away from me, fending off predatory advances from tough-lads after Vicky’s roll of five-pound notes. I consider taking the car out to search for him, but it’s a fleeting thought. Being stopped without a licence in a car I’m not insured to drive or, worse, being involved in an accident, won’t help anybody. Plus I have absolutely no idea where he might have gone, so here I sit, impotent and useless in a chair beside the Aga, mobile phone in one hand, landline in the other, watching the door until the sun pushes into the night sky and dilutes the darkness with gauzy light.
At seven-thirty Nathan’s footfalls descend the stairs. He goes into his study. Papers rustle. His briefcase clicks open. Clicks closed. He approaches the kitchen and I straighten myself in the chair and instinctively smooth my hands over my hair and pinch the skin of my cheeks to give them some colour.
‘You look shattered.’ He fills the kettle and takes two teacups from the cupboard. ‘You should have slept. Stupid to stay up all night.’
The Storm Page 9