In the summer of 1976 it never seemed to rain at all. There was a nationwide hosepipe ban, water rationing in Wales and fires in the New Forest. A specially appointed Minister for Drought demanded that Britain halve its water consumption. Car washes were outlawed, fountains were shut off and most people were unable to find an open swimming pool. Sidney noticed in The Times that the Kensington Institute was taking advantage of the conditions to advertise a course in ‘water divining’. He wondered who would sign up.
He was on a train to London to see Gloria Dee’s ‘Farewell to Europe’ tour at the club owned by his brother-in-law, Johnny Johnson. He had first heard the great singer over twenty-five years ago when she had been a still-youthful firecracker. Now she had turned into a diva, ‘the Cleopatra of Jazz’.
Hildegard was with him, and they opened all the windows in their carriage to create as much of a breeze as possible. Outside lay the wilting flowers, parched earth and brown lawns of England’s once-proud gardens. There were a few exceptions, where owners had either been canny with their bathwater or had taken to illicit watering at night, but there was enough green grass and blooming roses to make Sidney remark that if only it was as straightforward to spot a murder suspect then his life, and Geordie’s, would be a lot easier.
‘Do you ever stop?’ Hildegard asked.
‘I’ve stopped now.’
‘You promise?’
‘Always on duty. You know that.’
‘As a priest. Not as a detective.’
‘I am always on duty as a husband.’
‘Good.’ Hildegard smiled. ‘I am intrigued to see the woman you once admired so much. I hope she does not distract you.’
Sidney was glad that he could take his wife to hear the legendary performer before she retired. He only hoped that Gloria was not ill. Weren’t jazz singers supposed to go on until they dropped?
There was no air conditioning in the club, but Johnny had installed a series of fans and kept the doors open between acts. It was still, however, a hot and crowded occasion, with men in summer shirts and women in light cotton dresses, sleeveless tops and billowing skirts. There were few young faces. Gloria’s fans had aged with her. And so, as Sidney sat beside his wife and sister Jennifer, he wondered if jazz music was becoming rather like the Church of England, an acquired taste, soon to be out of date, replaced by an easier, popular, secular culture?
Gloria was wearing a yellow silk trouser suit with a matching rose in her dark hair that had been swept up to give her height an extra three inches. Sidney remembered how intoxicated he had felt when he had first met her, the exhilaration of her presence, the sensual smell of sweat, gardenia and tuberose, and, as she sang, he surrendered once more to a voice that had mellowed like a 25-year-old malt whisky. It was all honey-smoke, peat and flame.
The first set was a straight run through some of the old standards – ‘Satin Doll’, ‘The Girl from Ipanema’, ‘How High the Moon’, ‘Caravan’, ‘Mean to Me’ – and although she took them at what was, perhaps, a slower tempo than her recordings, Gloria replaced speed with a languorous seductiveness that seemed to suit the Alabama heat of the evening.
Hildegard was impressed by the singing and amused by her husband’s adoration, and remembered that this was what it had been like the first time they had gone to a jazz concert together, the Eric Dolphy Quintet in Berlin in 1961. It was when she had first known for sure that she would marry him, and as she recalled that night, her husband seemed fifteen years younger, the man she had found at last and knew that she would always love. She reached for his hand and held it as Gloria sang, smiling as her husband occasionally clicked his fingers and even, at one point, shouted out: ‘Yeah!’
In the break between sets, as everyone cooled down and ordered more drinks, Jennifer took them to meet the great performer backstage. Every time Sidney saw his sister he was perplexed at how similar and fond they were of each other and yet how little time they spent together. How could it be that families could drift apart so easily over the years?
As soon as Gloria spotted Sidney she put her hand to her mouth in mock-horror at the sight of him. ‘Careful, boys, there’s been a murder.’
‘Nothing like that, I’m pleased to report.’
‘You surprise me, Preacher Man.’
‘You remember me?’
‘You’re kinda hard to forget. I only hope you haven’t brought trouble. I seem to remember how it follows you around.’
Twenty years ago, Gloria had been singing when there was a murder in the toilets. She informed Sidney that she had seen plenty of suffering and it was always about love or money. ‘Those things go together the whole damn time.’
Now he told her that he hoped London wasn’t proving too hot. The weather had been extremely oppressive lately.
‘Too hot?’ Gloria almost spat. ‘Do you think a woman who comes from where I’m from can ever be too hot? Is there such a thing as being too darn hot?’
‘I’m sorry. I should have expressed myself differently.’
Hildegard changed the subject by saying what a pleasure it was to be there. As a musician she appreciated both Gloria’s voice and her piano playing.
‘Perhaps you should accompany me, honey?’
‘I’m only a teacher. It’s nothing glamorous. I trained as a classical pianist.’
‘And so did I. Studied classical. I can play that stuff too.’
‘I can tell.’
‘You’re too kind, sweetheart. Although I’m not sure if I can keep it up for much longer. I’m too old for touring. Going to be seventy come December.’
‘You don’t look it,’ said Jennifer.
‘I used to lie about my age in the past,’ Gloria continued. ‘I had to say I was so much older than I really was so I could play in the clubs that served liquor. Then I started to lie that I was younger than I was so no one would think I was past caring. That’s what my life has been, honey, a pack of lies.’
She turned back to Hildegard. ‘So you’re the woman that tamed the preacher?’
‘And you’re the woman that got away?’
‘He didn’t run fast enough to catch me, baby.’
‘It didn’t feel like that at the time,’ said Sidney.
‘Oh, you know, preacher, I was only kidding you. That flirting never meant a damned thing.’
Gloria returned to do her final set – ‘April in Paris’, ‘How Long Has This Been Going On?’, ‘Let’s Do It’, and ‘Ain’t Nobody’s Business’ – while Hildegard smiled at her husband and gave him a little nudge.
‘“Never meant a damned thing” . . . Poor you.’
‘She also said she was an habitual liar.’
‘Are you disappointed?’
‘Of course not. I love you and only you.’
‘It’s so good to hear you say that.’
‘You think I don’t say it often enough?’
‘I think we should remind each other as much as we can. It’s my fault as much as yours.’
They looked steadfastly at each other, surprised by the moment, and kissed each other on the lips.
Despite the exhilaration of the music Sidney felt nostalgic, thinking that this celebratory liveliness was locked in the past, already swept away by relentless disco and the emerging anger of punk. Gloria’s singing seemed like the end of an era or the conclusion of a holiday in a beautiful landscape to which he would never return.
She finished with three encores, the last being ‘It Don’t Mean a Thing If It Ain’t Got That Swing’, and it was almost two in the morning when the family finally got back to Kentish Town. Sidney was still holding the gardenia his heroine had thrown to him at the culmination of the show.
‘Let me put that in some water,’ said Hildegard. ‘Unless you’d like to take it to bed with you?’
‘Thank you,’ her husband replied, handing it over. ‘You know you’re all that I need.’
‘You say the nicest things when you’re feeling guilty, Sidney.’
They were awoken next morning by a commotion at breakfast. Jennifer was quizzing her youngest son Dan about his elder brother’s whereabouts. It seemed that Louis Johnson had not come home the previous evening.
‘He’s not allowed to stay out overnight without asking us first,’ said Jennifer, ‘even in the school holidays. What the hell’s he playing at? Do you know where he went?’
Dan was finishing his bowl of Weetabix. ‘He didn’t say.’
‘When did you last see him?’ Sidney asked.
‘It was after Are You Being Served? He said he wouldn’t be long but I shouldn’t wait up.’
‘Was Louis supposed to be your babysitter?’
‘I’m not a baby.’
‘Sorry. But he was responsible for looking after you.’
Jennifer interrupted. ‘It’s bloody irresponsible, if you ask me.’
‘Are you taking me to tennis coaching?’ Dan asked.
‘You can get the bus,’ his mother replied.
‘I’ll be late.’
‘Don’t you care about your brother?’
‘He’s probably with Amy.’
‘I thought they’d split up.’
Once Dan had left for tennis and Amy’s mother had been telephoned and expressed surprise, and not a little anger, that the Johnson family would think their son would be allowed to stay over with her daughter on any night at all, let alone the last one, it was clear that something was wrong.
‘Where the hell has that little shit got to then?’ said Johnny.
‘Don’t call him that,’ said Jennifer.
‘Well, he is. Selfish bastard. Only thinks of himself.’
‘I wonder where he gets it from.’
The Johnsons spent the rest of the morning ringing round everyone they knew.
No one had seen their son.
He was fifteen years old.
Missing.
‘Please,’ said Hildegard, ‘let Sidney stay and help you.’
‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ her husband replied.
‘Will you stay, though?’ Jennifer asked. ‘I’m worried.’
Sidney looked to his wife for an answer. Hildegard had to get home for her teaching and to pick up Anna from her friend Sophie’s house. She offered to let the dean know about the situation and cancel Sidney’s appointments for the next twenty-four hours. Members of the cathedral staff were all too familiar with such absences, but they could hardly object when this was a family matter and, in any case, most of them were away in August.
Sidney searched his nephew’s room for clues. There was a corkboard with Louis’s ticket to a free festival at Watchfield; a Polaroid photo showing some friends gathered around a punch bowl in the kitchen at a party; and a Shoot magazine centrefold of the Arsenal team for the season 1975–6.
As well as his O-level textbooks (biology, maths and physics) and files for English, history, French and geography, Louis’s bookshelf contained Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Kerouac’s On the Road and Sartre’s Nausea. By his bed and on the floor were scattered old copies of NME, punk fanzines, leaflets and alternative magazines – Black Flag, Freedom, Outa Control – together with a 30p handbook for student militants: The Little Red Struggler.
In the rest of the room, despite the overwhelming evidence of teenage taste, there were still reminders of Louis’s younger self: a junior athletics trophy, a framed family photograph from a Normandy holiday and a teddy bear that had been given a punk make-over with an eye-patch, slashed T-shirt and a pair of safety pins.
Sidney noticed the Hendrix recording of ‘Hey Joe’ on top of an Amstrad amplifier. He remembered that it was a song about a man on the run after killing his wife.
Jennifer was in the little back washroom, trying to work out what her son had been wearing by going through his clothes.
‘I knew there was something wrong,’ she told her brother as they re-gathered in the kitchen and thought about what to do next. ‘I told myself not to let him out of my sight. But what can I do? Louis’s so wilful, Johnny’s out the whole bloody time. The holidays are just a nightmare.’
Her husband tried to defend himself by going on the attack. ‘You nag him too much.’
‘Oh, so you’re saying it’s my fault?’
‘It’s nobody’s fault,’ Sidney interrupted, ‘and we don’t know for certain that anything’s wrong. Has there been any evidence of truancy?’
‘None as far as we know,’ Johnny replied. ‘We thought he was all right. He’s got good friends.’
‘Any new ones? Older ones?’
‘Don’t, Sidney . . .’ said Jennifer.
‘Let him ask what he needs to ask,’ said Johnny. ‘He’s had enough practice. Do you mean people not at the school? Someone who might have led him astray?’
‘That is a possibility.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘We can’t discount anything.’
‘He joined CND, if that means something.’
‘It will to Louis. What about drink, smoking?’
‘And drugs,’ said Johnny. ‘I suppose you’re going to ask about them too?’
‘The police will want to know everything. We had better get our story right.’
‘The police?’
It was not as if the Johnson family were unknown to the authorities. Johnny’s father had been an infamous burglar; his sister, Claudette, had been murdered; and there had even been a shoplifting scare with Louis when he’d got in with the wrong people in his first year at secondary school.
‘We can’t lose any more time. I think you’d both better come with me. They’ll want to know everything about Louis, the good as well as the bad.’
‘I don’t care what they find out,’ said Jennifer, ‘just as long as my son’s all right. What on earth can he have been thinking of?’
‘I’m afraid it’s unlikely to be about us.’
‘Do you think we haven’t loved him enough?’ Johnny asked.
They went out into the streets of Kentish Town with a photograph of Louis that Jennifer had taken the previous summer. The boy was shielding his eyes from the sun and he was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He looked so thin, Sidney thought. He was just a scrap.
He had had enough experience with Geordie to know that the first twenty-four hours were crucial. It was Louis’s sixteenth birthday next week, the age at which he could leave home without his parents’ consent. Had he decided to strike out early, and, if so, could Johnny and Jen order him home after he had come of age? At the moment it did not matter if they could or couldn’t.
The police station in Holmes Road was a Victorian building that looked as if it had originally been intended to be something else (swimming baths? a library?) and its current occupants seemed equally uncertain, greeting each new arrival with unimpressed suspicion, as if they preferred to be left alone. They had plenty to be getting on with.
Sidney thought it must have been the heat. The sergeant on duty was a large sweaty man who would have failed an audition for Z Cars but had kept his job because it probably would have been too much trouble to sack him. He was holding a manila folder and a between-meals snack of a white corned-beef roll with the healthy addition of a slice of lettuce and a dollop of salad cream that had spilled onto his trousers.
Terry Allen asked for details of every friend and relative; places that Louis was known to frequent (had they checked all of them?), and if he had a particular medical or mental-health problem. Had he been silent or withdrawn, had his behaviour changed recently, how much money was likely to be on him and did he have his own bank account? Had there been any family arguments? Was there trouble at school? Would Louis have wanted to run away for any reason? What about his exam results? Had he had them yet? (He had not.) Was he expecting to do badly? How secretive was he and how well did the family understand him?
‘I think I know my own son,’ said Jennifer.
‘I’m not saying you don’t. It’s just the young sometimes like to have their secrets.’
‘I don’t read his diary, if that’s what you’re asking. But I think I can always tell when my boy’s unhappy.’
‘And he’s not been that, Mrs Johnson, as far as you are aware?’
‘He can be moody. But isn’t that part of being a teenager?’
‘Any trouble with his love-life?’
‘There’s his girlfriend. It’s been a bit on-off.’
‘Have you spoken to her?’
‘Just her mother. Amy says she doesn’t know where Louis is. He told his brother he was going round to hers but he didn’t turn up.’
‘And that’s the last anyone saw of him?’
‘Yes. Around eight o’clock last night.’
‘You live in Falkland Road. And this Amy . . .’
‘Grieve. She lives just up past Tufnell Park: Cathcart Hill.’
‘So we think he went missing in the area between those two roads; unless he went somewhere completely different. Does your son often lie to his brother?’
‘I don’t think Dan could tell.’
‘We’ll need to talk to him too. How old is he?’
‘Twelve.’
‘And they get on?’
‘As much as any brothers do. We try not to interfere when they’re talking. It’s best to let them get on with it rather than ask too many direct questions ourselves.’
‘They find me embarrassing,’ said Johnny. ‘Dads always are. I try to be friendly, but it never seems to work unless he wants money.’
‘You give him pocket money?’
‘Fifty pence a week. But he helps himself occasionally,’ said Johnny. ‘You know. Goes through my pockets for loose change. He thinks I don’t notice but I do. Honestly, we give him the most liberal upbringing. He has anything he needs within reason. Now he goes and does this.’
‘Any trouble in the past?’
‘I don’t know. Not much. There was a bit of . . .’
Jennifer tried to interrupt her husband but it was too late.
‘Shoplifting?’ the policeman asked.
‘How do you know?’
‘It’s common.’
Jennifer became agitated. ‘Why are you telling him that, Johnny?’
Terry Allen’s response was more kindly than it might have been. ‘We were always going to find out about that. We do have records. It doesn’t matter so much now, unless he’s got bigger plans.’
‘He’s not like that.’
Johnny did not share his wife’s confidence. ‘I don’t know what he’s like any more. I used to think I could get through to him about anything. We were friends.’
‘It’s hard for parents to be mates with their children,’ said Terry. ‘They’re two different jobs. What do you think, Vicar?’
‘It’s probably too early to tell what’s happened,’ Sidney replied. ‘I just hope he’s gone somewhere of his own choosing.’
‘I hope so too,’ said Johnny.
Sidney answered the unspoken question. ‘I don’t think Louis is the type to take his own life, if that’s what you are thinking.’
‘I was just wondering when we were going to get round to that,’ said Terry.
‘You don’t . . .’ said Jennifer.
‘No, I don’t,’ said Sidney. ‘That’s why I raised it, so that we could all be clear that we are discarding the possibility.’
‘We’ll do a search of the area,’ said Terry, avoiding a detailed answer. It was clear that neither parent had thought of suicide at all. Sidney tried to take this as an encouraging sign but couldn’t be sure. It only took a moment to do something rash: to walk in front of a car, jump from a bridge or throw yourself under a train. He felt a sudden, deep fear.
The policeman continued. ‘We’ll need to start with a description and a photo. Have you got one? We’ll have to have as many as possible.’
‘I brought one out with me to show to all the people we’ve met in the street,’ said Jennifer. ‘It’s the first I could find. We took it last summer.’
Terry Allen studied the picture; a pale young boy with one hand up in his tousled but gelled black hair, sleepy eyes – taken at a party – and a nose that he probably thought was too thin and too long. Louis had a little bit of acne on his chin and right cheek, an uncertain smile that looked like it wouldn’t last, and he was wearing the north London adolescent uniform of a leather jacket, white T-shirt, jeans and Doc Martens.
‘Seems like a nice lad,’ the policeman said, without wanting to give anything away. How many similar photos had he seen? Sidney wondered. And how many young men had either killed themselves or been abducted recently? Was there an ongoing investigation? How much were the police prepared to share information and was there anything about this new case that would commit them to urgency?
‘Is he a trusting sort?’ Terry asked.
‘He’d help anyone,’ said Jennifer.
‘Ah,’ the policeman replied. ‘That’s not so good.’
A few hours later, Sidney’s father telephoned from Budleigh Salterton. He wanted to talk to Sidney about the cricket. He had seen three days of the recent Test Match at the Oval but now wanted to come up to watch Viv Richards bat and have another look at the West Indian fast bowlers in the Prudential Trophy game at Lord’s. Despite his retirement, Alec Chambers was determined, as he put it, ‘not to slope away into the long grass’.
‘I can’t imagine you ever doing that, Dad.’
‘You never know, son. You have to keep interested in life before life loses interest in you.’
The only real indication of Alec Chambers’s age was a slight loss of hearing and an increased impatience with the opinions of other people. He had to get his point of view in first (lest there be any misunderstanding) and made any follow-up question sound like an accusation.
‘Hildegard said you were at Jennifer’s,’ he continued. ‘But I didn’t think you’d still be there. Is something wrong?’
Should Sidney tell his father what was going on? If they didn’t find Louis that day then there would be an appeal in the papers and the news would reach Devon soon enough. He decided to come clean.
‘I’ll get the next train.’
‘You can’t do that, Dad. It won’t help.’
‘Why not? Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do, Sidney. I’m not going to abandon my daughter’s child. Jennifer will need me. Louis is my first grandson. What kind of a man do you think I am?’
‘I don’t want you to worry.’
‘I’ll be more anxious down here, away from everything that’s going on. Have you any idea where he’s got to?’
‘Not really.’
‘He once told me he’d always wanted to go to New York. You don’t think he’s managed that, do you?’
‘I don’t think he’s got the money. But how did you know that?’
‘You see, Sidney, perhaps I can be of assistance after all? I know my grandson better than everyone thinks.’
‘All right. If you can spare the time . . .’
‘What else am I going to do? The only thing is, Sidney, I’ll have to pretend I’m coming up for some cricket. I don’t want to alarm your mother.’
‘You mean you won’t tell her?’
‘I can’t.’
‘I don’t think that’s fair, Dad.’
‘Iris is a little fragile these days.’
‘I know that. But she’s all right mentally, isn’t she?’
‘I don’t want to alarm her.’
‘But how can you keep it from her? It’ll be in the papers if it goes on like this. Wouldn’t it be better if you explained?’
‘We’re very isolated.’
‘Someone will tell her and you won’t be with her. That isn’t right. We can’t keep it from her.’
‘You were trying to keep it from me.’
‘That’s different. And anyway, you found out soon enough.’
‘I don’t see how it is, Sidney. And I think I know what’s best for your mother.’
‘But you can’t just leave her down in Devon. She knows London. If you’re coming up to town then she should come too.’
‘It’s a bit more complicated than that.’
‘What do you mean? Is there something you haven’t been telling us?’
‘Iris has had a few setbacks recently: little bits of dizziness.’
‘Then you can’t leave her on her own. Why didn’t you say?’
‘We didn’t want to alarm you.’
‘That’s what I was trying to do for you with Louis, Dad. Stay with Mum. Look after her.’
‘But I have to do something.’
‘You are doing something. You’re looking after Mum.’
Sidney was irritated all over again by the partial knowledge within families; how truths were revealed to a son or a daughter, a brother or a sister who were then instructed not to pass things on. This meant that no one could ever tell how much other family members ever knew and whether they were able to say anything out loud or not. It was a hopeless situation and one, he thought, that was particularly British. He couldn’t imagine Hildegard putting up with such nonsense. No wonder children had secrets. They got the idea from their parents.
He was just beginning to consider how and why Louis might have chosen to rebel when Helena Mitchell arrived at the front door of the Johnson house with sweat in her hair and a notebook and tape recorder at the ready.
‘You’ve heard?’
‘I work in a newsroom.’
‘I thought you were freelance now? And what about Mercy? I didn’t realise you planned to be back at work so soon.’
‘I have to earn a living, Sidney, and, like you, I do have my contacts. They put two and two together.’
‘Louis has a different surname.’
‘It’s not hard and I wasn’t expecting to find you here – although I should have guessed. I’ve met Johnny in the past at his club. Is he in?’
‘I don’t think this is a good time, Helena.’
‘No, it certainly isn’t. That’s why you need me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We have to blow this story up, Sidney.’
‘I think the family will want to keep a low profile.’
‘That’s the last thing you need. You’ve got to realise how dangerous this situation is. Hundreds of young children go missing and they’re never found. No one even knows about them. It’s so common they are hardly reported. If you want to see your nephew again then we have to act big and fast. We have to shout it out all over the country. This boy matters. This boy is missing. You’ve got to make this as urgent and as public as you can. It’s the only way. Believe me. And it’s the least I can do for you.’
‘How do you think you can help?’
‘We have to make the story personal. The police will do their bit. There’ll be a press conference. But I need one member of the family to make a direct and heartfelt appeal. Who is the boy most likely to listen to? His mother?’
‘I’m not sure. I think that’s who he might be running away from.’
‘His father?’
‘No.’
‘His brother?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘His girlfriend?’
‘Possible but not ideal.’
‘Then it has to be you, Sidney.’
‘Really? Me?’
‘Yes, you. You’d better start writing. It has to be the most moving thing you’ve ever written. It has to appeal both to the public and to your nephew. I’m not leaving until you’ve done it.’
Jennifer and Johnny agreed that Sidney had the finest way with words and that he had the best chance of getting the tone right. It had to be loving and yet forceful, emphasising how much distress and anxiety Louis had caused without making him feel guilty. It had to be free of blame, offer a promise of a welcome return without any punitive consequences and even, Sidney thought, contain a joke or two to make his nephew smile. Through force of rhetoric, Sidney had to make Louis miss his family in a way that he had never realised.
He could not dwell at this time on the possibility that the child was already dead. He had to convince himself, and others, that Louis was still alive, that there was still hope. To doubt that, in a superstitious world, would only increase the possibility of disaster.
It took more than an hour to write a simple paragraph.
‘Will this do?’ he asked.
Helena read it through. ‘It’s good enough for now. There’ll need to be more. We have to keep this story in the news for as long as it takes to find him.’
‘And how will we do that?’
‘You leave that to me.’
Sidney walked north to Cathcart Hill to try and extract information from Louis’s girlfriend. There was no respite from the London heat and traffic, the fumes and the gridlock, the desire every time anyone left home to return as soon as possible for a shower, a cold beer and a sofa in the shade. Sidney was forced to a halt when a swarm of ladybirds emerged from nowhere in front of his face. He didn’t know what to do. A group of workmen stopped to watch and laugh at him.
‘Go on, Vic, take ’em on! Show ’em what you’re made of!’
Sidney fended off the blur of red and black and tried to pretend it had been a deliberate attempt to attract good luck. He smiled at the workmen and gave them what he hoped would be taken as a cheery wave. They were resurfacing the road but the heat and steam off the fresh tarmac already had an exhausted air.
Amy was a worryingly thin girl with dyed red hair. The family had only agreed to let Sidney meet her because he was a vicar. The Johnsons were considered a bad lot, even though the Grieves seemed perfectly capable of inflicting damage on their children without any outside influence.
Amy sat cross-legged on the sofa with a cigarette and a can of lager. She showed no signs of wanting to go anywhere. She avoided eye contact and spoke as if human interaction was nothing but an irritating interruption to a preferred solitude.
‘I hope you can help,’ Sidney began. ‘I’m very fond of my nephew, and I think, in a way, you are too.’
‘He spoke about you.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘He thought you were quite cool for a vicar.’
‘That may not be saying very much.’
‘It isn’t. It doesn’t matter. You do your best, I suppose.’
‘I try.’
‘I don’t know what to call you.’
‘“Mr Chambers” is fine. “Sidney” if you prefer.’
‘It wasn’t a serious thing with Louis, you know? I just felt sorry for him.’
‘And you broke it off?’
Amy smiled, almost sorrowfully. ‘There was nothing to break. I couldn’t ever be what Louis wanted me to be. Although I never found out what that was. He was so serious it was scary. He’d ask me a load of questions, tell me I wasn’t like anyone else, try to kiss me and then leave as soon as he could. It wasn’t like it was a relationship or anything.’
‘He thought it was.’
‘I don’t know how he can have felt that.’
‘Perhaps, Amy, you were the only person that was kind to him?’
‘He had friends, Mr Chambers. He wasn’t a total waste of space.’
‘What kind of friends?’
‘People interested in CND, politics, rallies. I think they lived in a squat. They made a magazine and stuff. Louis went on some kind of march with them. I think it was the Anti-Nazi League. Then he went on a coach. He wouldn’t say where it was going. It was a Magical Mystery Tour of some kind. He said he’d never been with so many people he agreed with in his life.’
‘I saw a ticket to a free festival in his room. Watchfield. Did you go with him?’
‘He asked me. But my parents took me to France. It was boring. I should have gone with Louis, but you don’t know these things, do you?’
‘Was he anxious about anything in particular? His exam results, for example, or losing you?’
‘He was always worried about something; but I don’t think it was anything about his family. It was more about the state of the world, the fact that we’re all going to die in a nuclear war and so what’s the point slaving away to be bank managers or accountants or whatever we’re supposed to become when we’re older. You’ll have to ask him, if you can find him. I don’t think he’ll take much notice of his mother or father. They’re not going to help.’
‘They’re trying their best. They were young once too. We all rebelled against our parents at some stage.’
‘It doesn’t look like that now.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You lot go on about the sixties and how cool it all was but what have you got to show for it? A semi in Tufnell Park? A new car? A fridge-freezer? A double garage? Is that it?’
‘As a Christian I have to think differently . . .’
‘No wonder Louis was depressed.’
‘Not depressed in such a way as to want to do himself harm?’
‘No, it wasn’t that. He wanted to make something of his life. He wanted to go away and surprise people. “I’ll show them,” he said. “I’ll even show you. Then you’ll know.” I told him I didn’t want to know. I just wanted to do my music.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘I’m in a band. We’re called the Angels of Destiny.’
‘Did Louis want to be in it?’
‘How do you know?’
‘Did you say he couldn’t?’ Sidney asked.
‘He offered to write some lyrics. Then it turned out that they were all about the end of the world. It was embarrassing. Who’s going to listen to that? Still, I wouldn’t want anything horrible to happen to him and I’ll do anything you want to help you find him. I’m not a bad person, despite what my parents say.’
‘And what do they say?’
‘You’ll have to ask. But I wouldn’t believe them. They don’t know anything. Have you got children, Mr Chambers?’
The police search was confined to a large but narrow area: north up to Tufnell Park and on to Cathcart Hill and into Highgate; west to Haverstock Hill and Belsize Park; east to Holloway and south down to King’s Cross. They said that, although Sidney should not share this information with the rest of his family, they would also keep a lookout at the most popular suicide spots: the Hornsey Lane Bridge, Kentish Town Lock and the Regent’s Canal; building sites, homeless shelters and pub car parks; scrubland and parkland.
It was almost evening by the time Sidney left Amy and there was still too much heat in the day. He kept seeing ‘Missing’ posters for his own nephew. He had always been intrigued by these sudden desperate pleas in the past. Now he tried to avoid them.
The headmaster of the boy’s north London school was away on his annual holiday in the Lake District, but his secretary had put Sidney in touch with the English teacher, Robert Ellis, a relatively recent graduate who was also Louis’s form-master. He lived just up the road.
A thin, bald man with aquiline features that reminded Sidney of the white marble bust of a Roman emperor, Ellis was dressed in a pale-blue cotton summer suit that he wore without a tie, reclining in a deckchair in a book-lined room with open windows, venetian blinds and two fans on the go. He turned off Radio Three and promised to help in any way he could in the search for a child whom he described as ‘continually perplexed’.
He said that Louis had a natural gift for English, and that he had an unusual approach to J. D. Salinger’s novel The Catcher in the Rye.
‘It always goes down well with that year, but Louis was particularly perceptive about it. They were not just the feelings of adolescent alienation. He was the only pupil to ask me if Holden Caulfield might be gay.’
‘I’d never thought of that.’
‘Novels with outsiders are popular; just as, if you ever think of writing a children’s book, it’s best to start with an orphan. Most children feel that they are alone.’
‘I’ll remember that.’
‘Look at the New Testament. Jesus had brothers and sisters but they’re hardly ever mentioned. The hero has to be alone in order to find himself. I think that’s what Louis understood.’
Sidney was tempted to reply that the New Testament was ‘more than a story’ but thought he’d better stick to the matter in hand. ‘You’re not surprised he’s gone missing?’
‘I’m more concerned he hasn’t told anyone. He’s a thoughtful young man.’
‘You can’t imagine where he might have gone?’
‘Have you asked his girlfriend?’
‘No luck there, I’m afraid, unless she’s lying.’
‘I don’t think that either of them have much guile. But you might like to take a look at one of Louis’s essays. I’d asked them to write their own version of The Catcher in the Rye. It’s a good way of making them all think about style and tone of voice. We put Louis’s contribution up on Prize Day. Rather a bold decision, given what it says and how it starts. I think I’ve got it somewhere.’
Once found, Sidney started to read:
Everyone’s trying to be someone they’re not. That’s the trouble. We’re all phonies. Even me. We’re all pretending to belong when we don’t. It’s like we’re all supposed to be different pieces from the same jigsaw and when we’re put together we form one beautiful giant picture, the whole of humanity, and only God can see it and only he can put the jigsaw back together again because he made it in the first place.
But I think we all come from different jigsaws. We’re pieces from different sets, and we’ll never fit together. The edges are wrong. Sometimes two pieces might go together like people in love but they don’t belong anywhere else and they’re not anything anyone else would be impressed by . . .
‘Could I take this home with me?’ Sidney asked.
When he returned to Falkland Road he heard there had been developments. A hoax call to Helena’s newspaper claimed that Louis had been the victim of an IRA kidnap; a clairvoyant who smelled of bath salts and came all the way down from Seaforth had offered what she called ‘mystic anticipation’, and the police had received sightings of young men on the cross-Channel ferry at Beachy Head, in Manchester’s Lesser Free Trade Hall and again at Old Trafford.
Sidney was infuriated. ‘Why would Louis go to Manchester? He supports Arsenal.’
The most useful news was that cash was missing from the club. It was around £11, and Louis had been seen there on the day of his disappearance.
His father didn’t know what to make of it. ‘Normally I’d want to strap the little bastard, but the police say that this is an encouraging sign. If he had a plan that needed money then there’s less chance he’s killed himself or been abducted. Things are looking up, Sidney, even if we don’t have anything positive. We just have to work out where the hell Louis is.’
Jennifer served up the supper. ‘This salad is rubbish. God knows why I thought pineapple would freshen it up. I can’t concentrate on anything. I don’t even want to eat it.’
‘I’ll have yours,’ said Dan. ‘I’m still here. Your other son. Just in case you’d forgotten.’
‘Glad to know I’m appreciated.’
‘Don’t start . . .’ said Johnny.
Jennifer shared out the food. ‘It’s so hot. I’m surprised anyone’s got any appetite. By the way, Sidney, Hildegard phoned. They want you back at the cathedral in the morning. There’s an important meeting, apparently. She explained the situation, but the dean asked if you could pop in.’
‘I don’t want to abandon you.’
‘You can leave after breakfast. The police are doing what they can. Perhaps you could talk to Geordie? We know how you two spark ideas off each other.’
‘We should only be concerned about Louis.’
‘How’s his wife?’ Johnny asked, trying to take the focus away from his missing son. ‘I know she had a cancer scare.’
‘She’s better, so far. We hope.’
‘Lucky, then . . .’
‘You could say that,’ said Sidney. ‘We all prayed for her.’
‘Then pray for Louis.’
‘I know he isn’t a great believer in prayer,’ said Sidney. ‘But I am. And it’s my job. You don’t have to ask.’
The following morning, Sidney used the train journey back to Ely to read through his nephew’s anarchist magazines and the essay on The Catcher in the Rye:
So who are we all anyway? Sometimes people think they belong in the same jigsaw or whatever metaphor you want to use. The boys are the sporting heroes, the jocks and the lads; then there are the nerds, the pseuds and the weeds. The girls are the tarts and the swots and the in-between who hope that no one notices them too much until they wake up and find they’ve turned into their mothers.
But at school it doesn’t matter who we are. We’re all treated the same. We all go into the school chapel and pray to a God who never speaks. ‘We are not worthy to gather up the crumbs under thy table?’ Who wrote that? And, if it’s true, why do we bother? If he doesn’t answer, what’s the point of prayer? You just have to work everything out for yourself and not listen to what anyone else has to say, as the only thing other people are going to do is to try and make you think like them. Faith doesn’t give you answers. It only stops you asking questions.
So you have to be free of everything that’s gone before and make your own way. No Gods. No Masters. There’s more than one kind of freedom.
Sidney went straight to the meeting at the deanery, came back for a shower, and then updated his wife and daughter over a vegetarian lunch of lettuce soup and risotto. He decided not to comment on the vegetarianism any more (was he expected to convert?) but couldn’t resist remarking on a dessert that he had never been served before. It was called Lemon Snow.
‘This is good,’ he said. ‘Very refreshing. Where did you get the recipe?’
‘Oh, a friend. No one special.’
Rolfe, Sidney thought. Perhaps it was one of his dead wife’s.
‘It’s important that it’s properly chilled,’ Hildegard continued. ‘I think the name alone is supposed to help us think it’s colder.’
‘You could have a little siesta?’ Sidney suggested
‘I don’t want to go to bed. I can’t sleep. And I want you to tell me about Louis, Dad. What’s happened to him?’
‘Nothing’s happened. We just don’t know where he is.’
‘Then how do you know nothing’s happened?’
‘We don’t.’
‘Then why did you say nothing had happened when something has?’
‘So you wouldn’t worry.’
Hildegard cleared away the plates. ‘You’re not handling this very well, Sidney.’
‘Why is it always me that has to deal with these things?’
‘I won’t answer that.’
‘Has he run away?’ Anna asked.
‘Possibly.’
‘Oh.’
‘Why do you think he might do that, Anna?’
‘Because he’s unhappy?’
‘Did he tell you he was?’ Sidney asked, hopefully.
‘He doesn’t say anything to me. Perhaps he wanted his parents to notice him more.’
‘I think his mother nags him all the time.’
‘Nagging’s not the same as listening.’
Hildegard interrupted. ‘Do you think we listen to you enough, my darling?’
‘Dad doesn’t. He’s too busy listening to other people.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘It is.’
‘Well if it is Anna, then I’ll try and do better.’
Sidney tried to hold on to his patience. ‘I’m listening now. What have you been up to?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You must have done something.’
‘I’ve been bored.’
‘Then what would you like to do tomorrow?’
‘I don’t know. I’m going swimming with Sophie. Then we’re going riding. I have to go to Sophie’s because I don’t have a pony of my own, even though you promised after we found that dead man.’
‘We didn’t actually promise. And we’ve been through all this, Anna. They’re very expensive.’
‘No, they’re not.’
‘Quite costly to run.’
‘I could keep mine at Sophie’s.’
‘That would be complicated.’
‘If I ran away you might give me one.’
Sidney smiled. ‘That’s blackmail, darling.’
‘Well, at least that’s something you know how to deal with,’ said Hildegard.
‘Dad?’ Anna asked. ‘Do you prefer Louis to me? Do you ever wish you had a son?’
In bed that night, Sidney decided not to take issue with either wife or daughter but looked over Louis’s homework:
How do you know who’s writing this essay? It might be me, Louis Johnson, or I could have got someone else to write it for me, like Holden wrote about his brother’s baseball mitt for Stradlater and put in spelling errors to throw his teacher off the scent; except that Holden didn’t write any of it. J. D. Salinger did and we don’t even know if it was him because that might not be his real name, he might be using a pseudonym or someone else might be writing it for him. That’s the moral of the story: you never know what’s true. You never know if people really are who they say they are. You can’t trust anyone, not even your friends, your family or your girlfriend, because they’re always putting on a show, pretending to be someone they’re not. So perhaps one day you have to go some place where nobody knows you and find out who you really are. But even then you’ll find you have to keep pretending to be someone you’re not because you have to be someone for Chrissakes – that’s just the way of things. But, like I said, you never know what’s true.
Sidney acknowledged that Geordie was probably the only person who would tell him the truth about the possible outcome of Louis’s disappearance: the likelihood of abduction and murder; the possibility that his nephew was still in London, somewhere else or abroad; the average length of time for which underage boys went missing and the chances of a hopeful return. He would also reveal what the police would and would not tell the family.
The next day, they sat in the shade of an umbrella in the garden of the Prince Albert, enjoying a pub lunch, as Byron drank down bowl after bowl of water. Although Geordie was relatively optimistic, saying that the theft of the money was a positive sign, there was nothing he could offer to ease Sidney’s tension or to help the suspicion that no one was doing enough.
‘I feel so helpless and I’m still frightened of suicide,’ said Sidney. ‘I told the police I wasn’t, but I suppose that at least I put enough pressure on them to instigate an immediate search.’
‘They would have done that anyway.’
‘You know what I mean. I was worried they would think it was a family tiff.’
‘Don’t think the police aren’t doing all they can. We always worry about young men going missing. With girls it’s more obvious what to expect, I’m afraid. With men it could be anything. But don’t give up. More boys run away than kill themselves. Was your nephew on drugs?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘And he wasn’t depressed?’
‘His parents say not.’
‘But you think he might have been?’
‘People hide it so well. I’ve been reading one of his English essays. He’s not impressed with our generation.’
‘Few young people are.’
‘Where would you go, Geordie, if you were his age and wanted just to run away?’
‘It would have to be somewhere I could be anonymous; a place where young people go; safer than London; somewhere with a proper alternative community where I wouldn’t be nagged and with a lot of young people who were there already: the coast, probably.’
‘Somewhere like Brighton?’
‘I thought so.’
Geordie had the familiar look of someone trying and failing to be patient; it was that of an indulgent and loving parent whose child had let him down once again. ‘You mean to say, Sidney, that you’ve already thought of all this and just want to check if you’re right?’
‘One of Louis’s anarchist magazines was printed there: the Brighton Voice.’
‘Seems a long way to go for a hunch.’
‘He’d underlined stuff.’
‘Then why didn’t he take it with him?’
‘Perhaps he remembered it, or he had a more recent edition. This was from May.’
‘I’m amazed anarchists are organised enough to print a magazine in the first place. Does the writing contain anything we should worry about; things like violent resistance?’
‘Not really; it’s the usual class-war stuff. “Stuff” being the operative word. “Stuff the Police”, “Stuff the Politicians”, “Stuff Fascism”.’
‘I thought we’d already done that.’
‘Our generation still has a lot to learn.’
‘There are times, Sidney, when I look at this country and wonder if we won the war or not.’
Geordie finished his pint. The people grouped around them in the garden did not seem particularly aware that their freedom had been hard-won, content to sunbathe, eat burgers with chips, and down as much lager as possible in order to stave off the heat.
‘I saw something Louis had written in one of his exercise books. GODDAM MONEY. Do you think it’s some kind of slogan?’
‘It might be; unless it’s the name of a band.’
‘I’m just going to assume he’s in Brighton.’
Sidney took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead, momentarily irritated by the drip-dry shirt Hildegard had bought, which only seemed to make him sweat all the more.
He would have to change before evensong. There he would pray for his nephew, imagining him out in the streets with friends, or underneath Brighton Pier, throwing stones into the sea, or performing with a band, or lounging on a sofa in a squat: anything to keep the thought of him alive rather than dead.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Geordie asked.
‘I don’t think Louis is too keen on the police. Not that he’s wild about the Church, either.’
‘But do you want me to give the boys down there a ring?’
‘That would be helpful; just in case I get into any trouble.’
‘Do you think Louis is a bit like you?’ Geordie asked.
‘Why do you say that? I do feel a kind of kinship with him; an understanding that he may want to do something unexpected.’
‘Well, he’s certainly done that.’
‘I know the Church of England is an institution, Geordie, but it was quite an act of rebellion to become a priest. I was supposed to be a doctor like my father.’
‘At least that’s one thing the world’s managed to avoid.’
‘You’re too kind.’
‘I’m sure you’d have been very good. But if you were as absent as you are from the Church, then God help your patients. At least as a priest you can do less damage.’
Sidney drove down to London and on to Brighton in a recently acquired fourth-hand Rover from the early 1960s. It had over 50,000 miles on the clock and was, the salesman had promised, ‘the most sensible choice’ for his budget even though he had been quite tempted by a bright-red Lancia Flaminia coupé that had ‘needed a bit of work’. That would have been far more his kind of thing, but Hildegard had said that if he bought it she would be embarrassed to be seen with him. Who did he think he was?
So now he drove a dull car in which he took little pleasure. It was the kind of vehicle that a sales executive who had missed out on promotion might drive, Sidney thought, unable to trade up to a newer model and on his way out. It was just that no one had yet had the heart to tell him.
He wasn’t sure how long he was going to be in Brighton for, or even where he might stay if he had to, but flexibility of time and movement were crucial. He could always find a B&B, even if it didn’t confine itself to Sir Cecil Kendall’s definition of a heavenly safe lodging.
There were far more people in Brighton than he had anticipated, both day-trippers and holidaymakers, and once he had parked his car he found the town to be louder, hotter and brighter than he had expected. He walked down Surrey Street and was assailed by gaggles of people toiling to the seafront, their voices drowned out by seagulls, their nostrils full of the familiar coastal smell of salt, petrol, fried fish and candyfloss. He turned into Buckingham Road (someone had scrawled EAT THE RICH on a house at the end) and then up into Victoria Road and Temple Gardens. The church of St Michael and All Angels was just visible. Sidney couldn’t picture his nephew at worship, but at least the priest might be able to help find him.
The Brighton Voice was based in Victoria Road near the Open Café, an anarchist wholefood restaurant with small Formica-topped tables, mostly for two, offering tea, Coke and lemonade with a vegetarian menu of lentil soup and home-made bread, spinach omelettes, stuffed mushrooms, ratatouille and brown rice, nut loaf, apple tarts and chocolate-brownie specials.
Advertisements in the window proposed ‘£50 Adventure Holidays to Morocco’ with a man called Eddie Brazil, a forthcoming Hawkwind concert and a touring production of David Hare’s Fanshen at Brighton Combination.
Inside people were smoking, flirting, and reading NME, Catch-22 and The Anarchist Basis of Pacifism. The woman behind the counter had dyed blonde hair and a faraway look in her turquoise-shadowed eyes that Sidney mistook for disinterest but then realised was unhappiness. She was holding a swatter to keep the flies off yesterday’s fairy cakes.
‘Odd to see a vicar in here,’ she said.
Sidney had thought it best to come in uniform. It lent an air of authority and people wouldn’t have to readjust when they found out later. ‘I hope it’s not unusual.’ (He didn’t bother to tell her that he was actually an archdeacon.)
‘“To be loved by anyone . . .” You’re probably more of a Tom Jones fan than the music we have in here.’
‘I thought we’d moved on from that.’
‘Is there any chance of a glass of lemonade?’
Although all the doors and windows of the café were open to let in as much of the sea breeze as possible, the air was still languid with heat.
‘I had you down as a shandy man.’
The woman poured out the lemonade from a large bottle. It looked a bit flat. A wasp now joined a second fly above the counter in a miniature aerial ballet. ‘These creatures drive me crazy. Do you think Jesus was the first anarchist?’
‘He might well have been.’
‘Where do you think it went wrong then, Vicar?’
‘I’m not sure it’s “gone wrong”.’
‘Probably when the early Church got too much money. That’ll be fifteen pence.’
Sidney felt in his jacket for change. It would be good, he thought, to take it off, but he worried there were sweat stains on his shirt. ‘Here you are.’
‘When it was accepted. When it had authority. When it sold out. You lot should have stayed as monks. Then you wouldn’t have got into so much trouble. Did you ever consider that?’
‘I did, as a matter of fact. Do you think I could have some ice?’
‘We’ve just about run out. That’s all anyone wants. But then,’ the woman continued, adding an unasked-for slice of lemon as if that compensated for the lack of ice, ‘perhaps, you thought of all those vicarages you could live in. A nice house, two kids, a wife called Veronica who is good at baking and has a bright smile, and a dog. There’s your lemonade.’
‘Bet I’m close, though.’
‘You’re not far off, I must admit.’
The woman lit a cigarette. ‘Do you want a Numbie?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Player’s No. 6. It’s what we call them. My dad’s a vicar. That’s how I get to ask you all these questions. Being brought up in a vicarage is a passport to atheism, if you ask me. Our dads rebelled against their parents by joining the Church; now we rebel against you lot. What brings you down to sunny Brighton?’
‘I’m looking for my nephew, Louis Johnson.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘I wasn’t expecting that you had.’
‘And why might he be here?’
‘He’s one of your readers.’
‘The Brighton Voice? Not one of mine – one of Jason’s. Well, there aren’t too many of them.’
Sidney could not imagine too many anarchists called Jason either.
‘What do you want with him?’ The woman was positively chatty now. ‘Are you really his uncle? Perhaps you’re a pervert that likes pretending to be a vicar?’
‘I can assure you I’m not. He does know who I am.’
‘Have you come to take him back to Mummy and Daddy then?’
‘He’s not yet sixteen. He’s still at school. I do have a responsibility.’
‘Then he’s old enough to make up his own mind about what he does.’
‘And you value the law?’
‘Without it, society falls apart.’
‘We believe that “without it” society has the chance to reinvent itself. Have you got a photo?’
Sidney took out his wallet. ‘Here.’
The woman inspected the image of Louis laughing with a friend, bringing it close to her face. ‘I need my glasses.’
‘It’s from last year.’
‘He looks a bit young. You know that’s an anarchist badge he’s wearing?’
‘I wasn’t sure.’
‘They sell them down the road.’
‘I don’t think Louis’s ever been to Brighton.’
‘They post them out. Even anarchists use the post office.’
‘Have you seen him before?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
Sidney made his way towards the seafront, past the Peace House, a shop selling incense and Indian cottons, joss-sticks and miniature wooden elephants in bright colours. A girl in a sleeveless white dress sat on a stool outside, in front of a glass-bead curtain, shuffling a pack of tarot cards, asking people if they wanted their fortune told. A sign in the window of a furniture shop read:
LAST DAYS!
This shop will be closing soon due to the impending collapse of Western Capitalism
In an arcade set back from the main road, two or three boys were working slot machines; any one of them could have been Louis. Sidney showed them a photograph and asked if they had seen him. They hadn’t.
Closer to the seafront, people were sitting out at wooden tables eating chips with cheese and burgers served on green school china. Two of the men were shirtless, their chests sunburnt like badly grilled ham. Sidney wondered why he couldn’t see any fishermen, or indeed any signs of fishing at all. Perhaps the town had been entirely taken over by holidaymakers?
A vagrant was raging at an old army veteran who was feeding breadcrumbs to pigeons and seagulls. He shouted out that they were vermin; rats in the sky. Sidney showed him a photograph, tried to be friendly, engage in conversation, because perhaps Louis was homeless too, but the man just swore at him, saying that the young still had so much possibility while he had none. His life was over. Unless Sidney could buy him a drink . . .
A drunk woman with her skirt halfway up her thighs was being helped into a taxi and a young man in a denim suit was saying: ‘Look at the state of her. You wouldn’t think she was my mum.’
The town was a confusion of heat, noise and alcohol. Sidney began to sweat with the strain of not knowing where he was going or how to proceed. He knew that he should, perhaps, ask the police for help, but this trip to Brighton was still nothing other than a hunch, and would they really care about a boy who might not be in their town at all?
He wondered how much Louis, if he was still alive, might have turned to drink or drugs instead of political action, but he was confident that his nephew’s youthful energy was still concentrated on an alternative version of saving the world: from nuclear disaster, environmental catastrophe, capitalist exploitation, economic collapse and social injustice.
He looked for listings of activist meetings, collective calls to protest, and came across a group of men and women selling the Socialist Worker. He asked where a young political idealist might hang out in Brighton and, even as he said the words ‘hang out’, he felt embarrassed by sounding like an out-of-touch would-be trendy vicar.
But this wasn’t about him; Sidney didn’t care about his reputation or what people thought: he just wanted to find his nephew.
‘Is he gay?’ they asked.
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
He passed a burned-out bus, a boarded-up newsagent’s and a dead fox on the street corner. He asked everyone he thought might be likely to give him an answer – have you seen this boy? – groups of skinheads with dogs; poor girls with greasy hair and knackered faces begging for money; Pakistani boys trying not to get mugged; old men shuffling between the pub, the pawnbroker and the bookie’s, stopping either for breath or to smoke their next roll-up; bikers and bored heavy-metal fans looking for something to do or somewhere to kick off; drug dealers with Alsatians; and then, as he moved across towards Hove, he passed affluent middle-aged couples walking their fastest, on their way home to their villas in Tongdean Avenue, making no eye contact, fearing that if they slowed down they might catch the disease known as poverty.
No one had seen Louis at all.
Sidney looked at the town as if no one in it was innocent. Every single person could have had something to do with his nephew’s disappearance. Any stranger could be a criminal or a suspect or someone who knew something and yet, it seemed, no one was going to tell him anything: not the man going into the bookie’s or the women waiting for their washing in the launderette or the people at the bus stop; not the busker outside Sainsbury’s, the estate agents renting out rooms, the people in the bingo hall, in the record shop, at the grocer’s, or in the takeaway kebab joint; not the drivers queuing at the Shell petrol station, early lunchers in the Golden Egg; not the families in the estates, around the terraces and amidst the squats in Granville Road and Temple Gardens; not the rock bands with their feedback and dodgy amplifiers in abandoned buildings waiting for demolition; not the drinkers in the Gold Ship Inn, the Sussex Arms, the Southern Cross and the Fiddler’s Elbow.
Surely they had to know something – for how, amidst the noise of the town, provided he’d got the right one; how, when there were so many people, could no one have noticed this boy?
He thought of driving over to Beachy Head, and tried to imagine Louis looking out towards the coast of France, a sunny day, a blue sky, a calm sea, the run and the jump, but he did not think it possible. He could not think it possible, because if he could, then he might possibly dream it into reality.
Then a student in a No Nukes T-shirt told him about an alternative café in Kemptown, off St George’s Road. It was a cheap restaurant filled with young people sitting round wooden tables eating paella and spaghetti bolognaise and listening to King Crimson.
And there, at last, he saw his nephew lying on a beaten-up armchair at the back by the toilets.
He could be dead, but then if he was, surely the restaurant would have done something about it? He had to be asleep or stoned. No one paid Louis any attention.
Sidney stood for a moment in a slight daze. Had all their trouble and anxiety been for this? Did Louis have any idea of the terrors he had put everyone through? How dare he sleep so soundly?
He asked the barmaid for two pints of tap water and woke his nephew up.
Louis did not seem surprised. ‘I thought they might send you.’
‘Your mother’s worried sick. We all are.’
‘Mum’s nervous all the time. That’s why I had to leave.’
‘It’s in the papers. We made an appeal.’
‘I don’t read them.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘There’s a squat. Have you come to take me home?’
‘I can’t force you.’
The boy laughed to himself, and spoke slowly and with amazement, as if he had only just learned how to talk and was still surprised by the sounds coming out of his mouth. Sidney recognised that his nephew must be on something but couldn’t think what it might be.
‘I like it here,’ Louis continued, gesturing without purpose. ‘There’s no one to order you around. That’s what the word “anarchy” means. No rulers. You can do what you want. As long as you don’t harm anyone, nobody minds how you behave.’
‘It’s hard to build a society that way.’
‘Not if it’s a different kind of society, Uncle Sidney. We trust and rely on our friends, neighbours and workmates more than on teachers or bosses or politicians. Everyone here tries to do everything for themselves and for each other. It’s a different way of thinking about money and the economy; you just trade the things you need. People don’t have to pretend to be what they’re not. They can be themselves. Life has to be about more than working so hard for exams that one day I’ll be good enough to get a job I hate.’
‘It might not be like that. I don’t hate my job.’
‘You’re lucky. You have faith.’
‘But I don’t have money.’
‘You probably have enough, Uncle Sidney.’
‘Yes, I do. And what about your father? He likes his job.’
‘More than his family, I’ll say that. He’s never home.’
‘He works hard. Drink this.’
Louis took long hungry gulps of water. ‘You know he’s got another girlfriend? He thinks I don’t know, but I do. And anyway you don’t really like your job either, Uncle Sidney, otherwise you wouldn’t spend all your time being a detective. You and my dad are the same. Everyone thinks you work at your jobs, but what you work hardest at is avoiding them.’
‘There may be some truth in that. How long were you planning on staying here?’
‘I don’t know. Until my money runs out.’
‘Have you got much left?’
‘A few quid. I suppose you know I stole from my dad?’
‘He has noticed.’
‘Is he angry?’
‘He just wants you home. Your parents love you.’
‘Then they should show it.’
‘Parents aren’t always good at that kind of thing. They don’t know how much to protect you or how much to let go . . .’
‘Or how to pay any attention in the first place.’
‘I thought you were running away to avoid their attention?’
‘Very good, Uncle Sidney. You reason well.’
‘You could have been the victim of a terrible crime, Louis. That’s why everyone has been worried about you.’
‘And now you probably think I’ve committed some kind of crime myself.’
‘I’m not sure what the law is on young people going absent. Perhaps it all depends on why you went . . .’
‘Whether I was “corrupted” or not; the supposed “fact” that I’m too young to know what’s best for me, you mean?’
‘There are types of crime and shades of criminality,’ Sidney continued, hoping that his nephew would understand and take him seriously. ‘People might suggest that you have been “criminal” in leaving your family without saying anything and causing so much anxiety. At the same time, someone else might think that an oppressive parental regime, which is, perhaps, a confusion of nagging and neglect, is equally “criminal”. And then there are your anarchist friends, planning what might be called “crimes against the state”, acts of violence and protest against a governmental system they don’t even recognise; so are they breaking any law if they consider the laws of society to be, in themselves, criminally unjust?’
‘That’s right, Uncle Sidney.’
‘So what is a “crime”? Can it only be defined in terms of a breach in the law? Or can it be extended to include the idea of hurting other people, letting them down, being thoughtless, careless and unloving?’
‘I suppose it could be.’
‘Let’s go for a walk, Louis. I think we need some air.’
‘I’m very tired.’
‘Then this will wake you up.’
They went to the pier, bought fish and chips and passed a woman who was prophesying that this was the exact spot where Jesus was going to return to earth, walking out of the water to reclaim his kingdom. In Brighton. She was offering free chip butties. Those who stayed with her now and prayed and believed with her could become his first modern disciples.
‘That is always an alternative,’ said Sidney.
Louis picked out the fattest chip. ‘I don’t think I’d fit in.’
‘The first followers of Jesus probably felt the same. But many of them believed they had nothing to lose.’
‘They took a risk, you mean.’
‘They did. And so you’re not so far away from them, Louis.’
‘Thank you for understanding. I suppose I’ll have to come home now. At least I didn’t kill myself.’
‘Did you think you might?’
‘I thought how easy it would be. But I’m not the type to do that.’
‘I don’t think you are either. But people can change. So you need to be aware and seek help if those feelings ever develop. You have to remember that your family loves you – although . . .’ and here Sidney gave his nephew a little nudge, ‘having said that, I can’t guarantee a completely loving welcome when you get home. But I will protect you from any fallout.’
‘Mum can be radioactive.’
‘I know. I’ve had over forty more years of her than you.’
They drove up the A23 with all the windows open, past Hickstead and Handcross, Crawley, Horley and the turns to Gatwick Airport. After stopping to get lemonade and cheese and tomato rolls, they watched an over of cricket in the village of Outwood. Then it was back to the car. The continual pulse of the traffic marked a victory for the urban over the rural; tarmac across the fields, exhaust fumes in clean air, the sound of engines over birdsong. A woman in the back seat of the vehicle in front threw a dirty nappy onto the hard shoulder.
‘Louts,’ said Louis. ‘Thoughtless bastards.’
‘The driver might have refused to stop. Perhaps they’re in a hurry.’
‘There’s no point in impatience. You only get delayed further on. The whole country’s come to a standstill.’
‘At least we’re moving. I suppose if you stopped them they’d only claim that it was a free country.’
‘There has to be a difference between freedom and selfishness.’
‘I’ll have to ask you to start writing my sermons. Oh, bloody hell, what is it now?’
There was a blare of a horn and Sidney was forced to switch to the inside lane even when he was already overtaking at speed. Louis asked if they could listen to Radio One, but after a straight run of Abba, Dr Hook and the Bay City Rollers he couldn’t stand it any more.
‘What a load of old crap.’
Sidney smiled but kept his eyes on the road. ‘Jazz does have its advantages.’
‘But if we tune in to Radio Two we’ll get Perry Como and Cliff Richard.’
‘Well, we wouldn’t want that.’
Sidney hoped that he hadn’t forced Louis to come home.
‘It’s all right. You gave me the illusion of choice. I know I’m still underage. My parents are responsible for me.’
‘Not for much longer.’
‘I suppose I’d better stick it out.’
‘You can always go back when you’re older.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘You just have to tell us next time.’
‘Sorry about that.’
Sidney stared out at the hot road ahead and thought he should keep lightening the tone. ‘Your school could probably do with some anarchy. It might shake them up a bit.’
‘Do you think they’d notice?’ Louis asked.
There was further traffic and a burst water main ahead, so the journey through London took longer than expected. As a result they had to stop at a garage for more petrol, where Sidney found a phone box to give his sister a revised ETA.
‘I’ve been so worried I think I’ll kill him,’ she said.
‘I wouldn’t advise that,’ said Sidney. ‘I’ve taken the trouble to bring him home safely. It’s important nobody blames Louis for what he’s done. Our overwhelming emotion must be one of gratitude and relief. Promise me you won’t go mad, Jennifer?’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘I don’t think that’s a promise.’
‘I’ve said what I’ve said.’
And, for about a minute and a half, she managed just that. She held her son close as soon as he walked through the door of the family home, telling him how frightened she had been and how anxious and that he was more precious than he ever knew, and Louis waited limply until it was over, embarrassed by all the fuss, unable to apologise, so that, at last, enraged by her son’s lack of reaction, Jennifer took a step back and slapped him across the face: ‘Don’t you bloody ever dare do that to me again.’
‘Do you think that’s going to help?’ her husband asked.
As soon as Helena discovered that Louis was home she wanted an exclusive interview for her paper. ‘Don’t let him sell his story to anyone else, Sidney.’
‘His parents don’t want him to give it to anyone.’
‘I will help them with a bit of cash.’
‘That won’t be necessary.’
‘You’d be surprised. Most people take the money.’
‘What would be your angle?’
‘Anarchy as the new alternative in a dying Britain. The death of the old guard. I want to hear what your boy’s got to say. The people he met. “My Story”.’
‘I don’t think your readers are likely to sympathise with an anarchist. Anyway, I’m not sure he ran away for that particular cause. Although he did definitely run away. His mother thought it was a plea for attention. He’s certainly getting that now.’
Helena already had her story sketched out. ‘People believe all sorts of things. Think of the Germans in the 1930s . . .’
‘Please don’t talk to Hildegard about this kind of thing . . .’
‘And now children of Nazis have joined the Baader-Meinhof. Each generation rebels against its predecessor. You can’t protect yourself from rejection. Then, if you’re not careful, violence ensues. It’s so hot, people are talking about riots . . .’
‘I don’t think the Baader-Meinhof is the same as Louis linking up with a few vegetarian anarchists in Brighton.’
‘I know you don’t have to give me this, Sidney, especially after all you’ve done for me already.’
‘All we’ve done for each other,’ he corrected.
‘I’m just doing my job. And if Louis doesn’t speak to me then I might have to talk to you.’
‘Oh, don’t do that, Helena. What if I refuse to speak?’
‘I think I know you well enough to make it up if you don’t.’
‘You wouldn’t, Helena . . .’
‘I’m teasing.’
‘I’m not sure you are.’
‘I like to keep you guessing.’
‘That’s not fair. But I should thank you for your help. You know I look upon you as a daughter.’
‘A daughter? I don’t think that’s right.’
‘It’s probably better than any alternative, don’t you think?’
Johnny decided to close his club at the end of the year. ‘I know it’s a failure to keep pace with the times but if this is the country we have to live in, I’m not sure I can put up with it any longer.’
‘What will you do?’ Sidney asked.
‘We’re going abroad. Holland, probably. There’s a good jazz scene in Amsterdam; everyone’s at the Melkweg: Cab Kaye, Wilbur Little, Michael Moore . . .’
‘I’ve never heard of any of them.’
‘Then you should visit and find out. I think it will be good for us all. Certainly Louis.’
‘You’re going to move your entire family because of him? I’m not sure he’s into jazz.’ Later that week his nephew was going to hear The Clash with Siouxsie and the Banshees at the 100 Club Punk Special.
‘But it gives us alternatives,’ said Johnny. ‘You have to agree London’s a bit shit. You’ve walked around Kentish Town. Would you want to bring Anna up here?’
‘Probably not. But Ely is very sheltered.’
‘I want to be a better dad before it’s too late; a better husband, too.’
‘I think we both want that. Being aware of our failings is just the beginning.’
‘And then we have to do something about them, Sidney. I know people keep telling you to stop all that detective work, change your life, concentrate on your main job . . .’
‘People have been saying that for twenty years.’
‘But I’m glad you didn’t. Otherwise I might never have found my son again.’
‘I am sure he would have come home.’
‘Not without you.’
‘There’s no way of knowing that, Johnny. But fortunately we don’t have to put these things to the test.’
It was yet another hot evening. Louis came downstairs to talk to his uncle. He was quite looking forward to Amsterdam, he said. It would be a change for all of them.
‘Sometimes you have to go away to come home,’ said Sidney.
‘That’s true enough. I’m a bit sorry about it all, though.’
‘No one’s blaming you for what you did.’
‘I bet they are when I’m not around.’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Sidney. ‘The secret is not to be too hard on yourself.’
‘I’ll try not to be.’
‘There is such a thing as too much thinking.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘I “think” there can be too much “thinking”?’ Sidney smiled. ‘Why, yes, I “think” I “think” I do.’ He gave his nephew a hug. ‘They say there’s going to be a storm tonight: a break in the weather.’
‘England can be itself again,’ said Louis. ‘Everyone goes mad in the sunshine.’
The rains came and the newly appointed Minister for Drought became the Minister for Floods. The last of the summer butterflies hovered over ripening blackberries on the brambles. The telephone wires saw the first pre-migration gatherings of swallows and house martins. The Harvest Festival was near.
People could still sit out of an evening and Sidney and Geordie switched back from their summer lager and enjoyed a couple of pints of bitter in the garden of the Prince Albert, thankful that this case, at least, had ended with such little harm done.
Sidney took time to enjoy his pint. He wanted to savour the moment. (What was that play his mother had once wanted to see? Stop the World – I Want to Get Off .)
‘I’m grateful to you, Geordie.’
‘I didn’t do very much.’
‘You helped me to have confidence . . .’
‘. . . that your nephew hadn’t killed himself? We have to give people hope – even if that’s supposed to be your job. As long as you missed me . . .’
‘Whenever I work with anyone else, whether it’s Terry Allen in London or Dave Hills up here, it’s never the same. I’ve been very lucky to have known you.’
‘I’m not so sure about that. If you’d met Dave or Tel first you might never have got involved in crime. Think how peaceful your life would have been.’
‘I am aware of my good fortune.’
‘It’s not just that, though, is it? Do you know, Sidney, that ever since the war I’ve felt we’ve been on borrowed time? There were moments then when we could, and perhaps should, have been killed. We were lucky. And so we have a responsibility to make the most of being spared.’
‘I hope we have.’
‘Only sometimes, when I look at the younger generation, it gets to me. To think that we went through all that bloodshed so that layabouts like your nephew could run away to Brighton. Did our best mates really give their lives so that their children and grandchildren could sit around eating brown rice and smoking dope all day?’
‘That’s the thing about liberty, Geordie. You can’t dictate how others choose to use it. Otherwise, it isn’t freedom.’
‘You just have to know what to do with it, I suppose. But it doesn’t seem fair.’
‘They’re trying to find a better world too.’
‘I can’t see it.’
‘Just because they don’t have to fight, it doesn’t mean they don’t care. We’re too hard on the young.’
‘I don’t think we’re hard enough.’
‘We have to allow them to rebel and then let them come back. They’ll be old soon enough.’
‘And we’ll be dead. I suppose it’s my round?’
‘It’s always your round when you have to ask, Geordie.’
Flocks of swallows and martins whirled in the sky. Soon the redwings, fieldfares and song thrushes would follow them. Sidney could never remember at this time of year if they were leaving or coming home or where they really belonged. What was their place in the world and how aware of it were they? In the great scheme of things, he wondered how much it mattered.
All he knew was that sometimes a man had to be grateful for normality, that a story could end less dramatically, and not half as badly as it might have done; that there was merit in an averted crisis, and that in finding his nephew Sidney had, at last, done something quietly responsible, without fuss or fanfare. Perhaps the rest of his life should be like this? he thought. It would involve a concentration on things close to the heart; a dedicated care of friends and family; a quieter existence, one that depended on listening harder and loving better; never resting in complacency; acknowledging faults, doubts and insecurities; the balance between solitude and company, the wish to escape and the need to come home: a loving attention.