C.L. Taylor - The Missing

I push past a couple of council officials and approach the policeman who’s shepherding Jake towards 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, towards 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 blonde 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 trainers. 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 bar-room 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.

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.

‘What the hell were you thinking?’ Mark is standing in the centre 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 backwards 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,’ Jake 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.’

‘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 up again, crosses the kitchen and rummages around in the back of a cupboard bursting with tins, jars and packets of pasta and rice. It’s the day after the appeal. I was going to pop in on Liz yesterday but, after everything that happened, I didn’t have the energy.

‘Ah! Knew I had some.’ She brandishes a 100-gram bar of Galaxy at me and returns to the table. ‘Hidden from Caleb and for emergencies only,’ she says as she sets it in front of me. ‘And days when I decide to skip Slimming World.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Mind if I do then?’ She runs a nail along the gold wrapper and snaps off four pieces. She bites into the chocolate, takes a swig of tea, then smiles broadly. ‘That’s better. Caleb was in a pig of a mood this morning, whingeing about the lack of clean socks in his drawer. Hellooooo, we both work and you’re twenty. Wash your own bloody socks. I thought he’d make more of an effort with his personal hygiene now he’s met someone. Did I tell you about the new boyfriend?’

I shake my head.

‘He met him in a pub in Old Market. Eighteen, works in House of Fraser. I haven’t met him yet. Caleb said he doesn’t want to scare him off by introducing him to me. Cheeky shit. Anyway, sorry.’ She leans back in her chair and folds her arms across her chest. ‘How are you? I meant to watch the appeal but next door’s cat got into the garden again. It was primed to take a shit on the lawn so I chucked some water at it. I thought I’d pop in after you got back but I spotted Mark storming out the back door looking really pissed off and figured it wasn’t the best time.’

That’s the thing I love about Liz; Billy’s disappearance hasn’t changed our friendship in the slightest. Whilst everyone else awkwardly avoids the subject or cross-examines me about the latest developments Liz is just Liz. You crave normality after something terrible happens. Everything reminds you of what you’ve lost – everything – and sometimes you just want to stop thinking about it. I love hearing Liz bitch about Lloyd. I enjoy her little rants about her son Caleb or Elaine, her boss at the supermarket where she works.