Jenn Ashworth - Cold Light

‘Police reports have been coming through to us all afternoon concerning the recent disappearance of a local man: Daniel Wilson, from the Longton area of the City.’

They put his picture on the screen. Wilson, in his red paper party hat, grinning open-mouthed and missing. Missing since the afternoon of the 26th when he went out for a walk after a late breakfast. Vulnerable adult. No sign. And in this weather.

It was all I could do not to nudge Chloe but her eyes were glued to the screen anyway. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you , I wanted to say.

‘While his parents have been postering the City with their son’s likeness for the past few days, the police have only now taken up the case. The missing man, after all, is an adult,’ Terry said. He leaned back into the couch. This was run of the mill news, hardly connected to his story of the moment, and so of little interest to him. Fiona, as if a switch had been flicked, sparked into life, smiled and picked up the autocue where he’d left off.

‘We’re running a phone number along the bottom of the screen right now,’ she gestured lop-sidedly with her fingers pointing downwards, ‘and if you’ve got any information – anything at all, give us a call and we’ll make sure to pass it on to the police. The City Today has a long history of harnessing the goodwill of the community to resolve cases like this, don’t we, team?’

The camera swung around suddenly to reveal the backside of the studio, where the laminate flooring and cream partitions gave way to chalk-marked black felt and a gaggle of camera men and production staff, in jeans, nodding furiously.

‘The police are working on retracing Wilson’s steps as he left home that morning and walked across town – and anything you can give us will be helpful. According to his parents, Wilson was a bit of a local legend, wasn’t he, Terry?’

‘He was a well-known member of his local community,’ Terry said mechanically. ‘Despite his obvious challenges he was a keen fisherman and rambler and would often be seen out and about walking through the area. He was especially interested in football, following no particular team but enjoying a kick about in the park most weekends.’

‘We’re told he was particularly fond of striking up conversations and meeting new people,’ Fiona said, ‘which means lots of you out there will be familiar with his face. Can we show that photo again?’

The telly was a rubbish one – just a mini-sized colour portable. The picture jumped and fizzed.

‘Move the aerial,’ Chloe said. Nathan obeyed her. ‘It’s all your fillings, interfering with the reception.’

I ignored her because with Chloe, the sooner she had the last word, the sooner she’d stop. Nathan pushed the thin hoop of wire backwards and forwards until the picture resolved itself and the crackling stopped.

We settled on her bed. I imagined Wilson, wandering around town and introducing himself, asking questions, trying to be friendly and getting on people’s nerves.

And then dropping out of the world as if he’d never existed.

Terry outlined Wilson’s last known movements – tracing his appearance on the CCTV cameras that had tracked him on his long walk through the City. They broadcast grainy black and white footage of Wilson standing in front of a petrol station watching a man fill his tyres with air. The camera seemed to loom up on Wilson, its eye catching him in a private moment as he tenderly pulled something out of his pocket, unwrapped it, and started to eat it.

‘That,’ Terry informed us, ‘was a sausage roll left over from the Christmas Night buffet – wrapped in a piece of kitchen roll by Wilson’s mother, and very possibly his final meal.’

Chloe snorted with laughter. I started at her. She was engrossed with the pictures on the screen – staring intently. Even though she’d only seen him for a minute it just wasn’t possible that she didn’t recognise him – didn’t she realise that the three of us were probably the last people to see him?

‘While the police aren’t expressing grave concern just yet, they’d still like to speak with the individuals connected with a,’ he used his fingers to scrape a pair of speech marks in the air, ‘ vigilante gang seen gathering in the grounds of a nature reserve across town later that afternoon. This group, made up largely of the fathers, uncles and elder brothers of the young girls who’ve been attacked recently, has vowed to scour the City’s dark and out of the way places until this man is found.’

Terry paused meaningfully. Fiona, next to him on the couch, shuffled papers reverently. ‘Our phone lines are open,’ he added, in a subdued tone.

I was sitting right next to Chloe. Could feel the lump of her knee against the small of my back. I turned my head, tried to catch her eye, but she was pulling a lock of her hair straight and examining it for split ends. When I nudged her, she hissed at me.

‘Shut up!’

Chloe laughed. I think it was nerves. When I looked at her, she looked away. Nathan stood up, and there was a chorus of chatter and complaints from the other beds and their visitors. He hunched, like he was making an exit in the cinema before the closing credits had stopped rolling.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said, ‘just need to phone work. Tell them when I’m next in.’

‘Buy me some pop while you’re out there,’ Chloe demanded. Amanda looked over her shoulder at Nathan as he left, counting the coins in his palm.

‘He won’t know what to get,’ she said weakly. ‘I’d better do it. Won’t be two ticks, girls,’ she said, her heels clacking on the hard floor as she hurried after him. ‘You’ll look after her, won’t you, sweet?’

I didn’t get time to answer before she was gone.

‘No fucking way he’s ringing work,’ Chloe said bitterly. ‘Bet you any money he’s on the phone to that primary school teacher.’ Something occurred to her and she smiled. ‘I bet I’ve ruined his plans. He was supposed to be at a,’ she drew a heavy pair of quotation marks in the air, copying Terry, ‘health and safety presentation tonight.’

‘Chloe, that’s that man we saw on Boxing Day,’ I said.

‘Oh, be quiet,’ she said, shaking her head.

‘It is,’ I said. ‘I talked to him. He had a football. It was definitely him.’

‘So?’ She shrugged.

‘What if he’s dead? What if we were the last people to see him? Carl chased him off, didn’t he? You can’t let him—’

‘You heard what they said,’ she interrupted me. ‘He probably ran into those vigilante guys and got duffed up a bit. He’ll be too embarrassed to go home.’

‘Chloe…’

‘Not. My. Problem.’

Was it possible? Could it be that Wilson really had run away from Carl straight into that group of men and got himself into trouble that way?

I thought about them, standing around near the camper van in the Asda car park. They were cold, and lazy, and there to get their pictures taken and rant a bit to the journos, and then go home and get a pat on the back from their wives and girlfriends. I bet they’d spent more time on the sign on the side of the van than they had on the actual search. It wasn’t likely they’d actually find the flasher, not like Terry was saying.

And if they did find someone, what would they do to him? Rough him up a bit, certainly, but kill him? These were adults Terry was talking about. A community action group he’d endorsed himself. It wasn’t possible. But I knew, one way or the other, Wilson had never made it out of those woods. And I knew, and the knowledge was sneaking into my gut like cold water, that it wasn’t the group of lazy vigilantes we’d seen in the Asda car park that day who were going to be held responsible – but that it was me, Chloe and Carl.