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March 11th 2000
Sutton Coldfield, UK
From the kitchen window I watched blond hair and a sliver of petrol-blue fabric move inside the garden studio. ‘Joe,’ I whispered.
The distinctive colour shifted again and I strained to see the Doctor Who motif embroidered on both of its ends.
But it wasn’t Joe; it was Liam wearing our son’s scarf.
‘Big seller with the young’uns,’ the shop assistant had said as she placed it in a bag. I knew Joe would use the scarf only occasionally, to please me. He hated things wrapped around his neck. It had become a joke between the three of us that Liam took to wearing the Doctor’s scarf, ‘waiting for Joe to get over his phobia’. I’d purchased it on a whim, and only because the colour perfectly matched the jumper I’d bought Joe three months before. For his seventh birthday.
The same jumper my son wore the last day I saw him.
And then the deluge of emptiness swallowed me again. Was Joe scared? Was he lonely? Missing his mum? And the other question, clawing its way to the surface, despite all my efforts to keep it buried: was he still alive? For long seconds paralysis settled and only noise from the landline brought me back. The caller was persistent, and, stirring myself, I picked up.
‘Rachel?’
I recognised the voice and relaxed. ‘Hello, Charlotte.’
‘How are you, lovely? And Liam?’
‘We’re not good.’
‘I know – is he there?’
‘In the den ... studio. Avoiding me.’
Charlotte cleared her throat. ‘Have you heard anything?’
‘Some news. We’ll know later today, hopefully. I’ll call you when we find out.’
‘You two need to carry on talking. I know what you’re like, known you long enough. You have to open up. You can’t hold it all in.’ She paused. ‘Are you sure it’s not you avoiding Liam?’
I remained silent. I was avoiding him as much as I could.
‘Is there something else?’ she probed, anxiety in her voice.
‘Christ, what else could there be?’
‘Sorry. Nothing else.’
‘It’s OK.’ I circled the kitchen three times with the phone lodged between my chin and neck, ending up back next to the sink and gazing into the garden. ‘He thinks we’ll find Joe.’
‘You will find Joe.’
‘I know the scenario. It was my job, remember?’
‘Look, I’ll come over tomorrow. Sort you both out.’ Her laugh was brittle.
‘Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.’
Charlotte didn’t answer immediately. And I knew, or I thought I knew, what she was thinking. You are so not fine. I would tell her about Liam when I saw her. I had to tell someone.
‘Get out of the house, if only for a few hours,’ she said finally.
Looking through the window, I watched him closing the door of the den. ‘I’ve got to go, Liam’s on his way up the garden.’
‘Good. Talk to each other.’
I watched Liam’s careful movements as he negotiated the slippery decking. We hadn’t spoken properly for weeks, since long before Joe had gone missing: only argued. Rather than come inside he began sweeping the wooden floor of the patio. Staring past him I watched the Judas tree sway in the wind, its buds ready to open.
Liam went about his task vigorously. It was the way he was dealing with this. Keeping busy.
Many times in my former job I saw how people reacted so differently in tragic situations. Liam’s grief manifested itself in putting rubbish out for the refuse collectors, opening blinds to welcome another horrendous morning, sweeping the decking. In a few terrible days we’d managed a complete role reversal. To deal with Joe’s disappearance, my husband became tormented with the details of a domestic life in which previously he’d been utterly uninterested. My suspicions about him seeing another woman had become inconsequential.
Waiting for Liam to come inside I sat down and pretended to read a magazine, rubbing the inflamed skin on my hand. It always bothered me more when agitated. Old scald scars were the worst; the GP had said long ago. Today mine were scarlet, and painful.
My eyes drifted away towards the fridge, and, like every other family’s fridge in the western world, it was covered in a child’s paintings. Joe’s paintings. The last one he’d brought home took centre stage. It was a bright red and orange sunset. Or, I should say, ‘sunsets’. Three suns of differing sizes were painted cleverly, seeping into Joe’s horizon. Liam had said it was a mini masterpiece, proud that his son was showing the same artistic leanings as himself. Joe’s teacher had given him three house points for the ‘unusual’ picture. I’d given Joe a big cuddle and a promise to visit the nearest theme park. I bought the tickets the same day. My eyes settled on the calendar hooked onto the right side of the same fridge. Today was supposed to be our day at the theme park, and the disbelief at what was happening pooled around me like uncontained mercury.
Would I ever go to a theme park again? Would we add more paintings to the fridge? I searched for hope, for understanding, for an answer.
Last night my old boss, Tom Gillespie, who was leading Joe’s case, had attempted to skew the statistics. As if giving a different slant on a list of numbers could give me hope. He’d tried hard to say something positive, as he would have done easily with any other victim’s mother, but I wasn’t convinced, and neither was he. I saw it in his eyes.
‘Are you staying home today?’ Liam’s voice was tight and weary.
I hadn’t heard him come through the patio door. His honey-coloured hair was uncharacteristically unkempt and tufts jutted out from the top his head. His deep blue eyes seemed sunken and the skin taut over high, triangular cheekbones. He’d been nowhere the past week, only to see Tom. I knew he hadn’t seen her, whoever she was. Now, I didn’t care about her and I suspected Liam didn’t either.
‘I guess so,’ I said, noticing the stubble that was growing into a beard. It had taken six days to transform him. He wasn’t wearing Joe’s scarf, and had probably left it in the den. ‘Still reporters camped out at the bottom of the street. Tom managed to move them from the front of the house.’
‘I know. That’s good,’ Liam said.
‘I wish they’d piss off.’
He stood behind me and rubbed what felt like tangled metal wires in my shoulder muscles. ‘They’re just doing a job.’
I pushed his hand away. ‘I know.’ Turning my head, I looked up at him. ‘How’s the new painting going?’
‘It’s not.’
‘You shouldn’t be working.’ I said it automatically; Liam would work and paint through a nuclear holocaust.
‘We have to talk,’ Liam said.
‘About Joe?’ I watched the face of a man I’d loved since my twentieth birthday and forgot, for a moment, the other woman inside our marriage.
‘Of course about Joe. We’ll find our son. You have to believe it.’
He pulled me towards him and I resisted.
‘I know that’s what you want to believe. But we have to face the truth,’ I said.
He let go of me. ‘You deal with it your way, and I have to deal with it in mine.’
‘Liam ...’ We did have to talk, and not about Joe.
He was already heading towards the patio door. I wanted to tell him I still loved him, but could not. It would help him. But not me.
‘I love you,’ he said.
Liam returned to his den.
As I spooned coffee into the filter machine, my breathing became shallow and too quick. I listened to the grumbling of my empty stomach. How could I be hungry? My son was God knows where and my body told me it needed food. I pushed my fist into the flesh beneath my protruding ribs, pressing hard until it hurt. I stood doing nothing for long minutes, not wanting to feel the sickening hunger. I wanted to feel nothing.
I picked up the jug of freshly brewed coffee and threw it onto the floor. Liquid and shards of glass covered the kitchen and, as a strong smell of Arabica diffused through the room, I finally felt some sort of relief. But it was short-lived. I sank onto the cold tiles, into the pool of coffee, and watched as Joe’s picture fell downwards, like a leaf floating from an autumn tree. I wanted to catch it, save it, save Joe, but I could do nothing.
Only watch the falling suns.