Paul studied John from across the kitchen table, wondering how he would react if this was his family secret being brought out into the open. ‘What are you going to do?’
John looked over at him, mouth hinged open, held in a mute state by the enormity of it all.
‘How could your parents not let you know?’ Paul asked. ‘You got nothing from them? No hints?’
John worked at a knot in the surface of the table, circling it with his index finger.
‘Things are starting to make sense,’ he said. ‘Mum was always terrified when we were late. A minute beyond the time agreed and she was on to the local police station.’
Paul recalled John stealing glances at his wristwatch. ‘Yeah, you used to get a bit fidgety when it came close to hometime.’
‘There’s only the one article about his disappearance in here…’ He pulled everything out and scanned through it, paper rubbing against paper whispering in the quiet. ‘There’s nothing to say what happened next. Did they continue appealing for witnesses? Did the police keep the case open?’
‘You mentioned the sandshoe with the blood on it…’
‘Aye.’
‘Perhaps they accepted that as proof that something horrible happened?’
‘Jesus,’ John said and leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms as if he was guarding himself against the thought. ‘And I can’t say anything to my mother.’ John sent Paul a warning glance. ‘Imagine what that would do to her. How does anyone get over the disappearance of their child? She would have gone through enough at the time … and I don’t want to set off another stroke.’
Paul pursed his lips. Opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again.
‘Go on. What were you going to say?’ John asked.
‘Well, if you’re not prepared to ask her … is there any point in you looking into this at all?’
‘I can’t explain why, Paul.’ John said, his expression held in certainty. ‘I just need to know.’
Next morning, I phoned in sick again, not before I noted I’d had another late-night call with Angela. My sore head and dry mouth suggested it was another drunken one.
I dialled her number, and before I could say sorry, she started talking.
‘Can’t talk. I’m getting Cathy ready for school … and we’re running late, Cathy.’ She shouted this last part, aiming it at her daughter. ‘Got to go.’ She hung up.
As I showered and dressed I considered the tone of her voice. Just how pissed off was she at me? I vowed to keep my phone out of the bedroom so late-night drunken chats were less likely to happen. I must have phoned to tell her about the birth certificate. I prayed I hadn’t made a pest of myself.
I drove back over to the nursing home, really wanting to see Harry, but first I had to call in on my mother. A nurse was coming out of her room just as I reached to pull open the door. She smiled at me and spoke quietly. ‘Your mum had a troubled night’s sleep, Mr Docherty, but she’s just settled down now.’ She stepped to the side. ‘If you want to sit quietly with her, I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. And with a stab of guilt I tried to ignore the feeling of relief at what she’d said. It meant I wouldn’t have to try and work out what to say to Mum while I was there. I could simply sit in the chair and work out what I was going to say to Harry.
Half an hour later and my mum was still asleep. Her head was turned to the side, away from the weak light coming in from the window, and as I watched her I became all but hypnotised by the slight lift and fall of her chest, lulled by it into something approaching relaxation. At one point I leaned over and carefully wiped some drool from the corner of her mouth. I allowed myself a small smile at this. Doubtless she’d be mortified if she realised.
‘Don’t ’av to sit ’er all day,’ Mum mumbled.
‘You’re awake?’ I asked.
‘Just,’ she replied after a long moment as if she’d been sorting through the appropriate responses in her mind.
‘I was just thinking I needed to be going,’ I said. ‘So I’m glad you’re awake before I do.’
‘Oh,’ she said, and seemed to look a little disappointed.
‘I’ll be back tomorrow though,’ I said, then leaned forwards and lightly pressed my lips against her forehead. A touch that I held for as short a time as was possible before I moved away. And despite telling myself I had a good reason for leaving, I slipped out of the room, hunched over, like a man leaving a church service too early.
Harry was sitting up in his bed when I arrived, working on a laptop placed on his over-bed table. He peered over his spectacles and addressed me with a nod.
‘Do you use that Facebook computer thing?’ he asked.
‘I’ve got an account,’ I answered, ‘but I rarely use it, to be honest.’
‘Marvellous thing, son. Marvellous. I’m on this … a page they call it, where I can blether with a bunch of retired cops.’ He closed the lid. ‘Means I can get out into the world while sat within these four walls.’
I took a seat. ‘Mum’s looking a wee bit better today,’ I said.
‘That’s good, son.’ He studied me as if that wasn’t what he expected to come out of my mouth.
‘The doctors say she’ll never be able to live independently again, but if she can at least speak and make herself understood…’ I paused. ‘Kinda like you with your Facebook page. Making contact.’
We chatted some more about inconsequentials until Harry pierced me with a look. ‘You’re not for giving up, are you?’
‘When I was last here I got the impression you didn’t want to betray a confidence…’ I began.
‘Your old man was a good friend to me.’
‘I get that, but if you could just—’
‘I can’t, John.’ His voice held a tenderness I’d not heard from him before.
‘I found his birth certificate,’ I said, trying to keep the challenge out of my voice. ‘So I know Thomas is … was real.’
‘Right.’ He looked away from me out of the window, and then back. His face was heavy with regret and sadness. ‘I came across a quote the other day. Nietzsche, whoever the fuck he was.’ He grinned to show me he knew exactly who he was. ‘“You can judge a man’s spirit by the amount of truth he can tolerate.”’ Pause. ‘Can you tolerate the truth, John?’
I felt a massive weight of pressure across my forehead. Resisting the urge to stroke it, or to show I was in any discomfort, I answered, ‘I need to know, Harry. I had a brother. My parents lied to me.’
‘They were protecting you,’ he said, but I could detect a note of uncertainty as if he couldn’t quite understand what keeping this from me would protect me from.
I remembered one of the cards I read in the box. From the gang at Maryhill.
‘They weren’t living here when the … my brother disappeared?’
He was surprised by this turn in the conversation. ‘No. They had a flat in Partick.’
He cocked his head to the side. ‘My, aren’t we the great detective? I believe it was Maryhill, yes.’
I said nothing, hoping Harry would rush to fill the silence.
After a long pause he said, ‘Glasgow born, bred and buttered was how your dad used to describe himself. Until Thomas disappeared. Then your mum pushed your dad to get a transfer, said she needed to get away from all of the memories.’
‘Who found the shoe? Did it really belong to Thomas?’
Harry nodded as if his head was suddenly too heavy for him. ‘It did. And it was your dad who found it. He said there was a grassy area at the corner of his street where the kids used to play. There was a big fence that ran along a railway. The shoe was down by that fence.’ Harry crossed his arms as if guarding himself against the memory of the pain his friend had suffered. ‘That crushed your dad. That was the point when he decided your mum was right, that they had to move.’
‘And they found nothing else?’
‘That was it,’ Harry sighed. ‘It was if he never existed, was how your dad described it. Vanished into thin air.’
‘Did he ever talk about leads? Suspects?’
‘Only when he’d a drink in him. Usually he kept a lid on it. Which…’ he made a face ‘…is probably what gave him a heart attack at such a young age. It’s not good for you to bottle all that shit up.’ He began coughing and was looking like he’d never stop. I was about to pull the cord at the side of his bed when he lay back on his pillow, exhausted.
‘Can I get you something,’ I asked, half out of my chair.
He grimaced in discomfort. ‘Can you hand me that box of tissues?’
I did so, and he plucked one from the box and wiped his mouth. ‘There was something about the Shows being in town the week Thomas disappeared, but as I recall nothing came from it.’
The Shows. That was an expression I hadn’t heard for a while. It was what Scottish people called the travelling fairgrounds that used to pitch up in an area for a weekend or so, with thrill rides such as waltzers, and stalls where you could win a goldfish or a cuddly toy if you knocked over a couple of tins.
‘Among the sympathy cards I found at home I found one from David Collins. You recall Dad ever talking about him?’
‘Met him a couple of times.’ Harry nodded. ‘Didn’t have time to get much of an impression … enough, mind you, to think he was a bit of a walloper.’
I smiled. ‘Heavy handshake?’
‘You got that too?’ Harry laughed. Coughed. Then he waited until he’d recovered. ‘I’m pretty sure Davie was your dad’s contact for what remained of the investigation. They’d keep in touch and Davie would let him know what was happening.’
‘Maybe I should chase Davie up, then.’
‘Gimme a second.’ He reached over towards his laptop and opened it up. He typed with an ease that surprised me and then read from the screen. ‘Aye, David Collins. He’s in this Facebook group as well, would you believe?’ Then silence as he read the screen. ‘He hasn’t posted for a good while. Maybe he’s dead. Or maybe he can’t be arsed with Facebook.’
‘God forbid,’ I replied.
‘Leave it with me.’ Harry acknowledged my sarcasm with a smile. ‘I’ll track him down for you.’
Something occurred to me: ‘About Mum and Dad moving away – wouldn’t they have wanted to be there in case he found his way back home? I mean, if he had disappeared, and there wasn’t a body or anything. Wouldn’t a parent want to stay in the same location in case he returned?’
Harry’s expression was heavy, as if he was back in that moment when his old friend accepted his oldest son was never returning.
‘The official line was that Thomas was dead. And they didn’t want to be reminded of him all the time. Couldn’t face their neighbours’ faces. Couldn’t deal with the questions – any news yet, all that stuff. So when your dad heard about a vacancy down by the coast, they went for it. Moved somewhere nobody knew them, where they could make a fresh start.’
‘But why the big secret? Why wouldn’t they even tell me and Chris?’
‘Who knows, son? Speaking about something bad, even years later, can still take it out of you. And when should they have broken it to you? When you were ten? Eleven? When’s the right time to tell your kids you’ve been holding back something that fucking huge?’
I heard the sense in Harry’s words, but still felt an injustice in the fact our parents hadn’t been honest with us.
‘Why are you helping me now?’ I asked Harry.
‘That cat isnae going back in the bag, son.’ He scratched at the side of his face. ‘Your dad told me all about it not long after we started working together. Asked me to tell no one in the village that I knew about this. He didn’t want the tragedy to follow him down from Glasgow. And that’s what I did … but you found out anyway.’ He clasped his hands and let them lie on his lap as if satisfied with his decision. ‘Your mum and dad were in denial for years, and I saw how it tore at them. Maybe it’s time for this mystery to be solved.’