Gilly MacMillan - What She Knew

Nicky and Laura had persuaded me to wear a skirt, boots and shirt, so that I would appear presentable. They hadn’t been able to do anything about my forehead. The gash was too angry and raw. I didn’t care what I looked like.

None of us had spoken much, just a few murmurs of advice from Laura about how to face a camera from her college media training, which I hadn’t been able to concentrate on, but had nodded just the same.

In the kitchen, just before we left, they’d left me alone momentarily, and I saw the notepad Nicky had been using the night before. It lay face down on the table. I flipped it over, knowing I shouldn’t, unable to stop myself.

‘Notes’ Nicky had underlined and then she’d jotted down some statistics: ‘532 missing kids UK 2011/12.’

I read on: ‘82% abductions are family kidnappings. Of non-family abductions, 38% kids taken by friend or long-term acquaintance; 5% by neighbour; 6% by persons of authority; 4% caretaker or babysitter; 37% by strangers; 8% slight acquaintances.’

There was more: ‘Crime is most often a result of interactions between motivated offenders, available targets and lack of vigilant guardianship to prevent crime.’

I couldn’t stop reading. I was transfixed by it, carried along by the dry academic tone, and the horror of the content. The next paragraph began: ‘First law enforcement response is CRITICAL.’

She’d underlined that, two lines drawn so hard that they’d gouged the page. What I started to read next was worse: ‘When abducted child is killed, killer-’

Before I got further Nicky came back into the room and snatched the notepad from me.

‘Don’t look at that!’ she said. ‘Not now.’ She ripped off the pages of notes and put them in her handbag. ‘You mustn’t look. We’re not there yet. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left it out.’

‘How the hell are you finding this stuff?’ I asked. ‘What is it? Where’s it from? Show me!’ I held my hand out for the notes, but she wasn’t having any of it.

‘Don’t concern yourself with that. Honestly, Rachel, don’t think about it. Let’s go. It’s time to go. Let me look at you one more time.’

She held me gently by the shoulders, looked me over, a frown fleetingly crossing her brow when she looked at my forehead, and all the while I searched her eyes for clues to what she’d read, to how and where she’d found the information so quickly and to the side of her personality which allowed her the detachment to look at the darkest side of this in a way that I simply couldn’t contemplate.

At the police station they showed me into the same room as the previous day. Somebody had arranged four Jammie Dodgers on a plate for us. The centres of the biscuits were crimson and resinous, like excretions from a wound. The room smelled of stewed tea.

I sat there with Nicky, Zhang and Clemo going over a statement that he wanted me to read out, an appeal to Ben’s abductor. I looked over the words with a sense of detachment and surrealism. They didn’t resemble my speech in any way. I felt deeply uneasy.

Clemo was like a coiled spring.

‘Are you going to be OK with this?’ he said.

‘I think so.’

‘It’s important that you’re calm, and clear, as much as possible. It’s absolutely paramount that we don’t alienate the abductor.’

I took shallow breaths, focused on the page in front of me. The words swam across it.

‘Are you sure you can do it?’ he asked again. His voice sounded pressured, desperate for a ‘yes’.

‘Do you want me to do it?’ Nicky asked. I looked at her, her face straining with the need to help.

What could I say? I was his mother.

‘No. I want to do it. I have to do it.’

‘Good girl.’ It was enough for Clemo. He was up out of his chair, checking his watch.

‘Will you be ready to go in fifteen?’ he said.

I nodded.

‘I’ll see you in there. I’ll be sitting right by you. Emma, bring them down in ten minutes. Cabot Room.’

In Zhang’s wake Nicky and I travelled carpeted corridors until we reached a set of double doors labelled CABOT ROOM. Inside, I was invited to take my place behind a narrow table that was set up at one end of the room. The line-up was Zhang, me, Clemo, DCI Fraser and John, who acknowledged me with a nod, his jaw set in an effort to control his emotions.

Nicky found a place at the side of the room. She had to stand because every chair was taken. The room was packed with journalists. TV cameras were set up at the back, photographers beside them. There were more lenses trained on me than I could count.

Those who were sitting had laptops, or tablets, or recording devices, which they were busy checking. Behind us the wall was emblazoned with a large Avon and Somerset police logo, and on each side of that two identical posters had been put up, showing Ben’s photo, and a phone number and email address for information.

On the table in front of us was a bank of microphones, wires snaking from the back of them. I poured myself an inch of water from a carafe and sipped it. My mouth was dry, my heart thumping. The noise in the room was oppressive. Motor drives and voices meshed together to make a messy ball of sound from which my name sometimes erupted.

Clemo called the room to order on a signal from DCI Fraser. I clutched my script, forced my eyes to run over the words. I hadn’t really come to terms with what they wanted me to say. The carefully modulated phrases that they’d written for me made me recoil.

Clemo started things off and he was concise and authoritative. He spoke briefly and then introduced me, telling the room that I was going to read out a statement. I put my script on the table and smoothed it out, cleared my throat.

‘Please,’ I said, but my voice died away. I started again: ‘Please can I appeal to anyone who knows anything about Ben’s disappearance to contact the police as DI Clemo has requested. Ben is only eight years old, he’s very young, and the best place for him to be is at home where he can be with his family and friends because we all love him very much and it is making us very anxious not knowing whether he is safe and well.’

I felt tears running down my face. I heard my voice get twisted up by my grief. I felt Zhang’s hand on my back, saw Clemo shift uneasily in his seat beside me. I took a deep shuddering breath and went on:

‘If you are the person who is with Ben then please make contact. You don’t need to ring the police directly, you can talk to a solicitor, or someone you trust, and they will help you get him home safely. This is an unusual situation for all of us…⁠’

I dried up again. I’d reached the bit of the speech I hated. Clemo’s words ran round in my head: ‘Remember we want to humanise the situation,’ he’d said, ‘that’s why we’re offering the abductor a chance for forgiveness, so that they aren’t afraid to get in contact.’

I tried to gather myself. Clemo whispered something in my ear, but I couldn’t hear what he said, because it was then that I heard John sob. He was hunched over the table, his head in his hands, his face red and distorted. He began to cry noisily, his shoulders heaving, his grief physical and terrible.

I gave up trying to read. I couldn’t do it any more. I couldn’t say the words on the script and, most powerfully of all, I couldn’t fight the idea that had crept into my head with a certainty and clarity that almost took my breath away.

I carefully folded up the script, placed it in front of me.

You see, the thought that I had was this: that Ben and his abductor were watching. They were watching John break down and watching me speak words that weren’t mine: submissive, tame words.

I was sure of it, and I couldn’t stand it any longer.