The Missing: A Novel

Chapter 1

Wednesday, August 5, 2015

What do you wear when you peer into the barrel of a camera and plead for someone, anyone, to please, please tell you where your child is? A blouse? A sweater? Armor?

Today is the day of the second television appeal. It’s been six months since my son disappeared. Six months? How can it be that long? The counselor I started seeing four weeks after he was taken from us told me the pain would lessen, that I would never feel his loss as keenly as I did that first day.

She lied.

It takes me the best part of an hour before I can look at myself in the bedroom mirror without crying. My hair, cut in a short elfin style last week, doesn’t suit my wide, angular face and my eyes look dark and deep-set beneath the new fringe. The blouse I’d deemed sensible and presentable last night suddenly looks thin and cheap, the knee-length pencil skirt too tight on my hips. I select a pair of navy trousers and a soft gray sweater instead. Smart, but not too smart, serious but not somber.

Mark is not in the bedroom with me. He got up at 5:37 a.m. and slipped silently out of the room without acknowledging my soft grunt as I peered at the time on the alarm clock. When we went to bed last night we lay in silence side by side, not touching, too tense to talk. It took a long time for sleep to come.

I didn’t say anything when Mark got up. He’s always been an early riser and enjoys a solitary hour or so, puttering around the house, before everyone else wakes up.

Our house was always so noisy in the morning, with Billy and Jake fighting over who got to use the bathroom first and then turning up their stereos full volume when they returned to their rooms to get changed. I’d pound on their bedroom doors and shout at them to turn the music down. Mark’s never been very good with noise. He spends hours each week driving from city to city as part of his job as a pharmaceutical sales rep but always in silence—no music, audiobooks or radio for him.

Mark? It’s 7:30 a.m. when I pad into the kitchen, taking care to step over the cracked tile by the fridge so I don’t snag my knee-highs. Three years ago Billy opened the fridge and a bottle of wine fell out, cracking the tiles that Mark had only finished laying the day before. I told him it was my fault.

Mark?

The kettle is still warm but there’s no sign of my husband. I poke my head around the living room door but he’s not there either. I return to the kitchen, and open the back door that leads to the driveway at the side of the house. The garage door is open. The rrr-rrr-rrr splutter of the lawnmower being started drifts toward me.

Mark? I slip my feet into a pair of Jake’s size ten sneakers that have been abandoned next to the mat and slip-slide across the driveway toward the garage. It’s August and the sun is already high in the sky, the park on the other side of the street is a riot of color and our lawn is damp with dew. You’re not planning on cutting the grass now, surel—

I stop short at the garage door. My tall, fair-haired husband is bent over the lawnmower in his best navy suit, a greasy black oil stain just above the knee of his left trouser leg.

Mark! What the hell are you doing?

He doesn’t look up.

Servicing the lawnmower. He gives the starting cord another yank and the machine growls in protest.

Now?

I haven’t used it for a month. It’ll rust up if it’s not serviced.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

But Mark, it’s Billy’s appeal.

I know what day it is. This time he does look up. His cheeks are flushed and there’s a sheen of sweat that stretches from his thick, unkempt eyebrows all the way up to his receding hairline. He passes a hand over his brow, then wipes it on his trouser leg, rubbing sweat into the greasy oil stain. I want to scream at him that he’s ruined his best suit and he can’t go to Billy’s appeal like that, but today isn’t the day for an argument, so I take a deep breath instead.

It’s seven-thirty, I say. We need to get going in half an hour. DS Forbes said he’d meet us at eight to go through a few things.

Mark rubs a clenched fist against his lower back as he straightens up. Is Jake ready?

I don’t think so. His door was shut as I came downstairs and I couldn’t hear voices.

Jake shares his bedroom with his girlfriend Kira. They started dating at school when they were sixteen and they’ve been together three years now, sharing a room in our house for the last eighteen months. Jake begged me to let her stay. Her mum’s drinking had got worse and she’d started lashing out at Kira, physically and verbally. He told me that if I didn’t let her live with us she’d have to move up to Edinburgh to live with her grandfather and they’d never get to see each other.

Well, if Jake can’t be bothered to get up, then let’s go without him, Mark says. I haven’t got the energy to deal with him. Not today.

It was Billy who used to disappoint Mark. Billy with his I don’t give a shit attitude about school and his belief that life owed him fame and fortune. Jake was always Mark’s golden boy in comparison. He worked hard at school, gained six A- to C-grade GCSEs and passed his electrician course at college with flying colors. These days it’s phone calls about Jake’s poor attendance at work that we’re dealing with, not Billy’s.

I haven’t got the energy to deal with Jake either but I can’t just shrug my shoulders like Mark. We need to present a united front to the media. We all need to be there, sitting side by side behind the desk. A strong family, in appearance if nothing else.

I’m going back to the house. I’ll get your other suit out of the wardrobe, I say but Mark has already turned his attention to the lawnmower.

I shuffle back to the path, Jake’s oversized shoes leaving a trail in the gravel, and reach for the handle of the back door.

I hear the scream the second I push it open.

Chapter 2

Jake, give me that! Kira’s screech carries down the stairs and there’s a loud thump from the bedroom above as something, or someone, hits the floor.

I kick off Jake’s shoes and take the stairs two at a time, cross the landing and fly into his bedroom without stopping to knock. There’s a flurry of activity as Kira and Jake jump away from each other. Barely five foot tall with blond hair that falls past her shoulders, Kira looks tiny and doll-like in her pink knickers and a tight white T-shirt. Jake is bare-chested, naked apart from a pair of black jockey shorts that cling to his hips. His shoulders and chest are so broad and muscled he seems to fill the room. At his feet is a shattered bottle leaking pale brown liquid onto the beige carpet. There are shards of glass on the pile of weight plates beside it.

Mum! Jake steps toward me, planting his right foot on the broken bottle. He howls in anguish as a shard of clear glass embeds itself in his sole.

Don’t! I shout, but he’s already yanked it out. Bright red blood gushes out, covering his fingers and dripping onto the carpet.

Don’t move! I sprint to the bathroom and grab the first towel I see. When I return to the bedroom Jake is sitting on the bed, one hand gripping his ankle, the other pressed over the wound. Blood seeps between his fingers. Kira, still standing in the center of the room, is ashen. I pick my way carefully through the broken glass on the floor, then crouch on the carpet in front of Jake. It stinks of alcohol.

Let go.

He winces as he peels his fingers away from his foot. The wound isn’t more than half a centimeter across but it’s deep and blood is still gushing out. I wrap the towel as tightly around it as I can in an attempt to stem the flow.

Hold it here. I gesture for Jake to press his hands over the towel. I need to get a safety pin.

Seconds later I’m back in the bedroom and attempting to secure the makeshift bandage around my son’s foot. There are dark circles under his eyes and the skin is pulled too tight over his cheekbones. Mark and I weren’t the only ones who didn’t sleep last night.

What happened, Jake? I ask carefully.

He looks past me to Kira who is pulling on some clothes. Her lips part and, for a second, I think she’s about to speak but then she lowers her eyes and wriggles into her jeans. Downstairs the back door opens with a thud as Mark makes his way back into the house, then there’s a click-click sound as he paces backward and forward on the kitchen tiles. In a minute he’ll be up the stairs, asking what the holdup is.

I sniff at Jake. His breath smells pungent. Were you drinking that rum before I came in?

Mum!

Well? Were you?

I had a few last night, that’s all.

And then some. I pluck a large piece of glass from the carpet. Most of the label is still affixed. What the hell were you thinking?

I’m stressed, okay?

I haven’t got enough for a taxi, Kira says plaintively, reaching into her jeans pocket and proffering a palm of small change.

Claire? Mark’s voice booms up the stairs. It’s eight o’clock. We have to go. Now!

I need to leave, Kira says. There’s a college trip to London today—we’re going to the National Portrait Gallery—and I’m supposed to be at the train station for half eight.

Okay, okay. I gesture for her to stop panicking. Give me a sec.

Mark? I step out onto the landing and shout down the stairs. Have you got any cash on you?

About three quid, he shouts back. Why?

Doesn’t matter.

Right. I step back into Jake’s bedroom. Kira, I’ll give you a lift to the train station. And as for you, Jake . . . There’s no blood on the towel I’ve pinned around his foot but he’ll still need the wound to be cleaned and a tetanus jab. If there was time I’d drop Kira at the station and then take Jake to the doctor’s but it would mean doubling back on myself and I can’t be late for the appeal. Why did this have to happen today of all days?

Okay. I make a snap decision. Jake, stay here and sober up and I’ll drive you to the GP’s when I get back. If you need anything, Liz is next door. She’s not working until later.

No, I’m coming with you. I need to go to the press conference. Jake grimaces as he pushes himself up and off the bed and hops onto his good foot so we’re face-to-face. Unlike Billy who shot up when he hit twelve, Jake’s height has never crept above five foot nine. The boys couldn’t have an argument without Billy slipping in some sly jab about his older brother’s stature. Jake would retaliate and then World War III would break out.

Claire! Mark shouts again, louder this time. He’ll fly off the handle if he sees the state Jake is in. Claire! DS Forbes is here. We need to go!

You’re not going anywhere, I hiss at Jake as Kira pulls an apologetic face and squeezes past me. She presses herself up against the linen cupboard on the landing, pulls on her coat and then roots around in the pockets.

Billy was my brother, Jake says. His face crumples and for a split second he looks like a child again, but then a tendon in his neck pulses and he raises his chin. You can’t stop me from going.

You’ve been drinking, I say as levelly as I can. If you want to help Billy, then the best thing you can do right now is stay at home and sleep it off. We’ll talk when I get back.

Claire! Mark shouts from the top of the stairs.

Mum . . . Jake reaches a hand toward me but I’m already halfway out the door. I yank it shut behind me, just as Mark draws level.

Is Jake ready?

He’s not well. I press my palms against the door.

What’s wrong with him?

Stomach upset, Kira says, her soft voice cutting through the awkward pause. He was up all night with it. It must have been the vindaloo.

I shoot her a grateful look. Poor girl, getting caught up in our family drama when the very reason she moved in with us was to escape from her own.

Mark glances at the closed door behind me, then his eyes meet mine. Are we off then?

I need to drop Kira at the train station for her college trip. You go on ahead with DS Forbes and I’ll meet you there.

How’s that going to look? The two of us turning up separately? Mark looks at Kira. Why didn’t you mention this trip last— He sighs. Never mind. Forget it. I’ll see you there, Claire.

He hasn’t changed his trousers. The greasy oil stain is still visible, a dark mark on his left thigh, but I haven’t got the heart to mention it.

Chapter 3

Neither of us say a word as we pile into the car and I start the engine. The silence continues past the Broadwalk shopping center and down the Wells Road. Only when I stop the car at the traffic lights by the Three Lamps junction and Kira pulls her iPod out of her jacket pocket do I speak.

What was that all about?

Sorry? She looks at me in alarm, as though she’s forgotten I’m sitting next to her.

You and Jake, earlier.

It was just . . . She stares at the red stoplight as though willing it to change to green. Without her thick black eyeliner and generous dusting of bronzing powder her heart-shaped face looks pale and the sprinkle of freckles across her nose makes her look younger than she is. Just . . . a thing . . . just an argument.

It looked serious.

It got a bit out of hand, that’s all.

I’m guessing Jake didn’t go to bed last night.

No. He didn’t.

Oh God. I sigh heavily. Now I’m even more worried about him.

Are you?

I feel a pang of pain at the surprise in her eyes. Of course. He’s my son.

He’s not Billy, though, is he?

What’s that supposed to mean?

Nothing. Sorry. I don’t know why I said that.

I wait for her to say more but no words come. Instead she reaches into her handbag, pulls out a black eyeliner and flips down the sun visor. Her lips part as she draws a thick black ring around each eye, then dabs concealer on the raised, discolored patch of skin near her right temple. It looks like the beginning of a bruise.

The red light turns amber, then green and I press on the accelerator.

Neither of us speaks for several minutes. I glance across at Kira, at the lump on her temple, and my stomach lurches.

Did Jake hit you?

What?

When you were fighting over the bottle. There’s a bruise on your head. Did he hit you?

God, no!

So how did you get the bruise?

At the club last night. She flips down the visor and examines the side of her head in the mirror, prodding it appraisingly with her index finger. I dropped my mobile and hit my head on the corner of the table when I bent down to get it.

Kira, I know I’m not your mum but you’re the nearest thing I’ve got to a daughter and if I thought anyone was hurting you—

She slaps the visor shut. Jake didn’t hit me. All right? He’d never do something like that. I can’t believe you’d say something like that about your own son.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel.

Sorry, she says quickly. I know you’re trying to look out for me but—

Forget it. I slow the car as we approach the roundabout. Just tell me one thing. How long has he been drinking in the mornings?

She doesn’t reply.

Kira, how long?

Just today. I think.

You think? I can’t keep the incredulity out of my voice. They spend every waking minute together. How could she be unsure about something like that?

Yeah. She zips up her makeup bag and gazes out of the window as the car swings around the roundabout and we approach Bristol Temple Meads. As I signal left and pull into the station and park the car, I can’t help but scan the small crowd of people milling around outside the station, smoking cigarettes and queuing for taxis. I can’t go anywhere without looking for Billy.

Do you think he’s got a drinking problem?

No. She shakes her head as she unbuckles her seat belt and opens the door. He’s not an alcoholic, if that’s what you mean. He opened the rum when we got home from the club. He was wired and couldn’t sleep.

Because of Billy’s appeal?

Yeah. She lifts one leg out of the foot well, places it on the pavement outside and gazes longingly at the entrance to the train station.

Kira? I reach across the car and touch her on the shoulder. Is there anything you want to talk to me about?

No, she says. Then she jumps out of the car, handbag and makeup bag clutched to her chest, and sprints toward the station entrance before I can say another word.

Chapter 4

It’s a small conference room, tucked away in the basement of the town hall with a striplight buzzing overhead and no natural light. It’s a quarter of the size of the one where we made our first appeal for Billy, forty-eight hours after we reported him missing. Unlike that first appeal, when every single one of the plastic-backed chairs in the rows opposite us were filled, there are only half a dozen journalists and photographers present. Most of them are fiddling with their phones. They glance up as we file in with DS Forbes, then look back down again. A couple of them begin scribbling in their notebooks.

Mrs. Wilkinson looks somber in a pale gray sweater and trouser ensemble while Mr. Wilkinson looks surly and distracted in a dark suit, the leg of his trousers stained with what looks like dirt or oil.

I have no idea if that’s what they’ve written. I’ll find out tomorrow, I imagine. I can’t bear to read the papers, particularly not the online versions with the horrible, judgmental comments at the bottom, but I know Mark will. He’ll pore over them, growling and swearing and mumbling about the bloody idiot public.

I didn’t know what a double-edged sword media attention would be back when Billy disappeared. I was desperate for them to publish our story—we both were, the more attention Billy’s story got the better—but I couldn’t have prepared myself for the barrage of speculation and judgment that came with it. I looked pale and distraught, those were the words most of the reporters used to describe me during that first press conference. Mark was described as cold and reserved. He wasn’t reserved—he was bloody terrified, we both were. But while I quaked, twisting my fingers together under the desk, Mark sat still, straight-backed, his hands on his knees and his eyes fixed on the large ornate clock on the opposite wall. At one point I reached for his hand and wrapped my fingers around his. He didn’t so much as glance at me until he’d delivered his appeal. At the time I felt desperately hurt but later, in the privacy of our living room, he explained that, as much as he’d wanted to comfort me, he hadn’t been able to.

You know I compartmentalize to deal with stress, he said. And I needed to deliver my appeal without breaking down. If I’d have touched you, if I’d so much as looked at you I would have crumbled. And I couldn’t do that, not when what I had to say was so important. You can understand that. Can’t you?

I could and I couldn’t, but I envied his ability to shut out the thoughts and feelings he didn’t want to deal with. My emotions can’t be shut into boxes in my head. They’re as tangled and jumbled as the strands of thread in the bottom of my grandmother’s embroidery basket. And the one thought that runs through everything, the strand that is wrapped around my heart is, Where is Billy?

Claire? DS Forbes says. They’re ready for your statement now.

A television camera has appeared in the aisle that runs between the lines of plastic-backed chairs. The lens is trained on my face. We decided some weeks ago that I should be the one to make this appeal.

The public respond more favorably when the mother does it, DS Forbes said. He made no mention of the horrible comments that had appeared online when Mark made the last appeal six months ago. Comments like: You can tell the father’s behind it. He’s not showing any emotion and I bet you money it was the dad. It always is.

Ready? DS Forbes says again and this time I sit up straighter in my chair and take a deep breath in through my nose. I can smell DS Forbes’s aftershave and the faintest scent of motor oil emanating from Mark, who’s sitting on the other side of me. I can sense him watching me, but I don’t turn to look at him before I pick up the prepared statement on the desk in front of me. I can do this. I no longer need a hand on my knee.

Six months ago today, I say, looking straight into the camera lens, on Thursday the fifth of February, my younger son Billy disappeared from our home in Knowle, South Bristol, in the early hours of the morning. He was only fifteen. He took his schoolbag and his mobile phone and he was probably dressed in jeans, Nike sneakers, a black Superdry jacket and an NYC baseball hat . . . I falter, aware that some of the journalists are twisting around in their seats, no longer scribbling in their notebooks. Mark, beside me, makes a low noise in the base of his throat and DS Forbes leans forward and puts his elbows on the desk. We all miss Billy very much. His disappearance has left a hole in our family that nothing can fill and . . . I keep my eyes trained on the camera but I’m aware of a commotion at the back of the room. One man is wrestling with another in the doorway. Billy, if you’re watching, please get in touch. We love you very, very much and nothing can change that. If you don’t want to ring us directly, please just walk into the nearest police station or get in touch with one of your friends.

The producer standing next to the cameraman taps him on the shoulder and signals toward the back of the room. The camera twists away from me and a shout emanates from the doorway.

Get off me! I’ve got a right to be here! I’ve got a right to speak.

Chapter 5

What’s Jake doing here? Mark stares over the heads of the journalists and several flashbulbs fire at once, lighting up the corner of the room where Jake is remonstrating with a male police officer. I thought you said he was ill.

He was . . . is. Let me deal with this.

Mrs. Wilkinson, wait! DS Forbes shouts as I hurry across the room and shoulder my way through the circle of journalists that has formed around my son. I can just about make out the back of Jake’s head. His fair hair is wild and tousled without a liberal application of hair gel. He disappears as a policeman steps in front of him, blocking my view.

Excuse me. Excuse me, please.

The TV cameraman hisses as I push past him but he’s shushed by his producer. That’s the mum, get her in the shot.

I push past a couple of council officials and approach the policeman who’s shepherding Jake toward the open doorway. Tapping him on the back of his black stab vest has no effect so instead I pull on his arm.

He doesn’t so much as glance at me. Instead he keeps his eyes trained on Jake; Jake, who’s a good six inches shorter, with his hands clenched at his sides and the tendons straining in his neck.

Please, I shout. Please stop, he’s my son.

Mum? Jake says and the police officer looks at me in surprise. He lowers his arms a fraction.

He’s my son, I say again.

The policeman glances behind me, toward the poster of Billy affixed to a flipchart beside the desk.

No, not Billy, I say. This is Jake, my other son.

Other son? I wasn’t told to expect any other relatives . . . He looks at DS Forbes who shakes his head.

It’s all right, PC George. I’ve got this.

DS Forbes has met Jake before. He interviewed him at length, the day after Billy disappeared, just as he and his team interviewed all our extended family and friends.

Show’s over, guys. He signals to the producer to cut the filming and gestures for the journalists to return to their seats. No one moves.

Jake! A female journalist with a sharp blond bob reaches a hand over my shoulder and waves a Dictaphone in my son’s direction. What was it you wanted to say?

Jake? The producer proffers a microphone. Did you have a message for Billy?

My son takes a step forward, shoulders back, chin up. He glances at PC George and raises an eyebrow, vindicated.

What happened to your foot, Jake?

A short, balding man with hairy forearms that poke out of his rolled-up shirtsleeves points at Jake’s sneakers. The instep of his right shoe, normally pristine and white, is muddied with brown blood.

Jake? Mark says.

The room grows quiet as my husband and son stare at each other. They’re waiting for Jake to speak. I wait too. I can feel Mark bristling behind me. This is his worst nightmare—our respectable, measured appeal transformed into a barroom brawl.

I hear a click and a whirr from the camera to my left and I imagine the lens zooming in on Jake’s pale, drawn face. He passes the heel of his hand over his damp brow and then, with only the briefest of glances at me, turns on the heel of his good foot and limps out of the room.

Monday, August 11, 2014

Jackdaw44: Fuck my life.

ICE9: Don’t say that.

Jackdaw44: Why not. It’s true. My dad is a hypocritical wanker and my mum is fucking clueless.

ICE9: Have you talked to your dad about the weekend?

Jackdaw44: Are you fucking kidding?

ICE9: You should give him the chance to explain.

Jackdaw44: What? That he’s weak, spineless, a liar and a lecherous bastard? No, thanks.

ICE9: Maybe it’s not how it seemed.

Jackdaw44: You’re taking the piss, right? You saw me. You saw what I did.

ICE9: That was stupid.

Jackdaw44: It was sick. I wish I’d seen the look on his face when he saw his car window. When he got home he told Mum that vandals did it. Ha. Ha. Ha. I’m the fucking vandal.

Jackdaw44: You still there?

ICE9: Yeah. Sorry. Bit busy.

Jackdaw44: No worries. Just wanted to say thanks for cooling me out. I would have totally lost my shit if you hadn’t turned up.

ICE9: You did lose your shit.

Jackdaw44: Could have been worse.

ICE9: Hmm.

Jackdaw44: Anyway. Thanx.

Chapter 6

What the hell were you thinking? Mark is standing in the center of the living room with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s loosened his tie and popped the top button of his shirt. The skin at the base of his throat is mottled and red.

Sod this. Jake moves to get out of his armchair, wincing as he puts weight on his bad foot.

You’ll stay where you bloody are, Mark shouts and I grip the cushion I’m clutching to my chest a little tighter. This is my house and as long as you live here you’ll do what I say.

Yeah, because that worked out well with Billy, didn’t it? Jake doesn’t raise his voice but Mark stumbles backward as though the question has been screamed in his face.

He seems to fold in on himself, then quickly recovers. What did you just say?

Forget it.

No, say it again.

Please! I say. Please don’t do this.

It’s all right, Mum, Jake says. I can take Dad.

Take me? Mark laughs. Aren’t we the big man now we’ve grown a few muscles? Steroids making you brave, are they, son?

I stare at Jake in horror. You’re not taking steroids, are you?

Dad doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

One more word from you, Mark says, and you’re out.

Please! I say. Please! Please stop! Mark, he’s your son! He’s your son.

A tense silence fills the room, punctuated only by the sound of my own raggedy breathing. I brace myself for round two. Instead Mark’s shoulders slump and he exhales heavily.

Always the villain, he says, looking from me to Jake. I’m always the villain.

I want to say something. I want to contradict him. To support him. But to do so would mean choosing between my husband and my son. It’s like the night Billy disappeared all over again. My family is disintegrating in front of my eyes and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

Mum, Jakes says as the back door slams shut and Mark leaves the house. I can explain.

Later. My throat is so tight I can barely speak. I’ll talk to you later.

Chapter 7

Here you go. Liz places a steaming mug of tea on the table in front of me, then pulls out a chair and sits down. A split second later she stands