Cath Staincliffe: Towers of Silence

“Oh, no.”

I told her what I always tell people who want to investigate a family member, spouse or otherwise. “Try and talk to him again. Tell him what you’re worried about and see if he’ll confide in you. Ask specific questions – start with the easiest – where did you go on Tuesday is easier than asking him what’s wrong. Perhaps find out if there’s anyone else he would rather talk to: a friend or a teacher.”

“We’ve tried that,” she sighed.

“Okay. I ought to warn you that there is a risk that this could backfire – bringing me in. If your son thinks he’s being spied on it may drive him further away. He’ll see it as a breach of trust. Have you thought about that?”

“Not really,” she admitted.

“Don’t get me wrong, I can definitely take the job on but you might want to have another go at talking first. You could even tell him that you’re thinking of getting help from someone else because you’re so worried – that’s up to you. Then if we go ahead I’d report his movements to you and you choose whether or not to confront him with what we find.”

“Yes.”

“Has there been any trouble with the police?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Any drug use?”

“I don’t think so, nothing we’re aware of.”

“What do his teachers say?”

“That he’s very quiet, withdrawn. His work is sporadic.”

“Is there someone at the college with responsibility for pastoral care?”

“Yes and I’ve seen them. They said they’d try and have a quiet word with him but nothing’s come of it. They say unless Adam goes to them they can’t interfere. Although if his attendance drops too low he’ll be asked to consider whether to retain his college place.”

“Okay,” I leant back in my chair, “going on what you’ve told me we could keep tabs on your son for a set period of time and give you a report – verbal and written – on his activities. We cost the job at an hourly or daily rate. Is there any pattern to his disappearances?”

“No. Sometimes he skips college but he’s back for tea, other times he’s gone all hours. The first couple of times Ken drove round trying to find him but now he refuses to go, we just lie awake worrying.”

“Might he be with friends… have any other parents said anything?”

“He hasn’t really got any friends. No one we see. He moved to the college in September and he doesn’t seem to have made any friends.”

So this wasn’t just a teenager getting drunk with his mates every so often and not making it home.

“And when you ask him where he’s been he refuses to talk?”

“He’s monosyllabic at the best of times but he just clams up and digs his heels in. He always was stubborn. I just can’t see why he won’t tell us. It seems so petty.”

“Where do you think he goes?”

I poised my pen to write. People often have suspicions that they don’t voice for fear of sounding silly or paranoid or because they might be wrong. Or because they might be right and they don’t want their fears to come true. It’s always worth asking.

“I don’t know. I don’t think there’s anywhere in particular but I really don’t know. He just goes.” She sounded tearful and I brought things back to the practical again. I established that he never left during the night which got me out of overnight surveillance. She agreed to try talking to him again and would come back to me if she wanted. At that point I would begin to follow her son. Tracking him from home to college or wherever. I told her my rates and warned her that it would soon mount up. There was silence.

“I’ll leave it with you,” I said.

“Yes,” she sounded subdued.

“Sometimes,” I suggested, “families can do the work themselves. Though of course the emotional impact can be difficult if you find out something upsetting first hand. But you could always try it yourselves.”

“No,” she said. “It’d be hard. I’m partially sighted so I don’t drive. Just getting about is tricky enough. And Ken has to travel with his work. He’s a rep and he covers the north east as well so he’s up there half the week. When he is here he’s out every day at work.”

“I see. Well, think it over and see how you get on. Get back to me if you decide you want to go ahead. I’m sure we can help.”

“Thank you. I think we’ll need it.”

She had little faith that her son would open up. It looked like another job was winging my way.

The room was stuffy. I turned the heater off. I filed the notes I’d made from the phone call and returned to work at the screen. After another hour I felt as though cement was seeping into the muscles that run from my neck to my shoulder. It’s always been a weak spot. Driving aggravates it too. And no matter how clear I am about the need for good posture at the computer; wrists relaxed, and level with the keyboard, one foot ahead of the other, knees lower than hips, back comfortably supported, when it comes to real life I end up hunched over the keyboard, head thrust towards the screen, neck horizontal, legs tangled, shoulders high with concentration, back rigid like some myopic emu.

I stood and swung my arms a bit, managed to bash the paper shade on the light. Cellars have low ceilings. I swung my head about more gently but nearly dislocated it when there was a sudden loud knocking from upstairs.

Through the spy hole I made out a distorted version of a face I knew. Close cropped grey hair, slate coloured eyes, generous mouth. I flung open the door.

“Stuart, you’re back.”

Observant, aren’t I?

He grinned. “Last night.” Stepped forward to hug me. Then stood back.

“I thought if you hadn’t had lunch…”

I rounded my eyes. Cheeky sod. Lunch was a euphemism. Oh, sure, there’d be something to eat but eating would be the hors d’œuvre or maybe the afters. I glanced at my watch.

“All over by three,” he said. He had children himself and was well-versed in the school run.

“I’ll turn things off.”

He waited in the car while I closed up. I felt like a kid playing truant. As I climbed in the passenger seat I recognised the thrill of excitement and the lurch of uncertainty that accompanied teenage dates. I hadn’t been going out with Stuart very long – just a couple of months. My friend Diane had introduced us; she had decided we would be a good match and engineered it so we met at Stuart’s cafe bar without telling me first. It was my first relationship for longer than I care to remember and I felt as though I was entering unfamiliar territory where the ground might shift under my feet at any moment.

I snapped my seat belt shut, turned and smiled at him. He leant closer and kissed me very, very softly. He ran the tip of his tongue along the edge of my top lip. My stomach rippled and my breasts tingled. The ache in my shoulder seemed completely irrelevant. I was starving. Mmmm. Love in the afternoon.

In between sorting laundry and refereeing the children who were in squabbling mode I rang and collected my answer phone messages. Patrick Dowley had rung, he gave a phone number. I wrote it down.

“You pig, you evil smelly pig.”

“Get off me! Sa-a-al,” Tom roared for help.

I marched into the lounge where the pair of them were glowering at each other. “He turned it over,” Maddie said pointing at the telly. “I was watching it.”

“I didn’t. She hit me.”

“I didn’t.”

“Leave the telly alone,” I told Tom, “and you don’t hit people,” I said to Maddie. “If there’s a problem, get me. And if there’s any more messing about, it goes off.” Maddie pulled a smirky ‘see’ face at Tom.

“Maddie,” I scolded her. “I need to make some phone calls for work and I can’t do it if you two are screaming and shouting.”