The Missing: The gripping psychological thriller that’s got everyone talking... (19 page)

‘So are we ready for a bit of vampire action then?’ Liz announces as she bursts into the living room, a DVD under her right armpit, a bottle of Prosecco in each hand and two glasses woven through her fingers. One bottle is already open and the wine sploshes out from the neck and runs down her hand as she throws herself at the sofa. It’s 6.30 p.m.

‘You’ve started early.’

‘Yeah, I know.’ She pulls a face. ‘Switched shifts and I’m knackered. Oh, pizza!’ She points at the open box on the rug in front of the TV. ‘Can I have a slice?’

‘Sure. Jake’s having his in his room and I’m not hungry.’

‘Is he not joining us then?’

‘No. I think he’s watching something on his laptop.’

‘Kira?’ She crams a slice of pizza into her mouth, poking a stray piece of pepperoni between her lips before it falls to the floor.

‘Out.’ I haven’t told her about what happened earlier.

‘Shame. Though she’s probably seen it before.’

‘How’s Caleb?’

‘Out with his boyfriend.’ She smiles as she slips back onto the sofa. ‘God, I need this.’ She hands me the glasses, then tips in the wine so quickly the bubbles surge to the top and spill over down the sides. ‘Sorry! I’ll get a tea towel.’

‘It’s fine, don’t worry.’

It’s been a while since I’ve seen Liz this manic. It can only mean one thing. Lloyd’s been in touch.

‘You okay, Liz?’

‘Great.’ She places her glass on the table next to the sofa, then tries to insert a DVD into the player.

‘What’s Lloyd said now?’

‘Oh God.’ She sighs heavily and rocks back on her heels, holding on to the TV unit for support. ‘You don’t need to hear my crap.’

‘Yes, I do. What did he want?’

‘The mortgage paperwork. And his bank statements and pension stuff. I think he’s going to ask for a divorce. He’s an arsehole. What can I say? Anyway –’ she waves a dismissive hand through the air – ‘I’m not going to let him screw up tonight too. We have wine to drink and a film to watch and I’m not going to give him a second thought. How are you anyway?’

I take a sip of my wine. ‘Let’s just say I’m looking forward to the film.’

‘Great.’ She flashes a smile at me. ‘I knew there was a reason I liked you.’

For thirty minutes we do nothing apart from sip wine and watch the screen as a young girl falls over a lot and a pasty-looking bloke and his equally pasty family act aloof and mysterious at every opportunity. When we’ve finished the first bottle Liz pauses the DVD so I can go to the kitchen to retrieve the other one from the fridge.

‘He’s gurt lush,’ she says as I refill her glass.

‘Who?’

‘Robert Pattinson.’ She gestures towards the screen where the freeze-frame has captured the actor looking wistful and conflicted.

‘He’s about twelve!’

‘Actually, he was twenty-two when he filmed this.’

‘But he’s at school in the film, so he’s supposed to be what, sixteen?’

‘Seriously though, Claire.’ She pauses the film, then digs in her handbag for her phone. She presses a few buttons and tilts the screen towards me. ‘Look at this.’

‘Is that Tinder? You installed it then!’

‘Yep. And I have a point to prove. Now here –’ she swipes at the screen – ‘are some of the local men who are about the same age as me. Shout out if you see one you think is fit.’

She swipes through photo after photo, all of them of middle-aged men. Some are balding, some have a good head of hair, some are fat, some thin, some badly dressed, some in suits, some wearing very little at all. Apart from the half-naked man flexing a bicep in the bathroom mirror and scowling into the camera, I’m surprised at how normal they all look. They’re the sort of men you’d see down the pub, in the supermarket or at work.

‘Still waiting for you to shout when you see a fit one,’ Liz says.

She continues to flick through an encyclopedia of men.

‘That one!’ I say.

‘Okay.’ She peers at the man I’ve selected. He’s sitting on a picnic blanket, a glass of beer in his hand and his head thrown back in laughter. His hair is peppered with grey above his ears but long and thick on top. He’s got a strong jaw, a Roman nose and good skin. More than anything else, he looks as though he’d be a laugh.

‘Okay, I’ll give you him.’ She swipes to the right and laughs. ‘Or rather, I’ll have him. Anyway, now I’ll change the age range so it’s eighteen to thirty. Shout if you see someone lush.’

A photo of a toned bloke standing by a swimming pool flashes up and Liz raises an eyebrow at me. ‘Lush or not?’

‘Well, yes, but—’

She swipes to the right. ‘How about this one?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘And this one?’

‘Okay, okay.’ I hold up a hand. ‘I get it. You think the younger blokes are fitter and maybe they are but you’re forty-three, Liz – what are you going to talk to an eighteen-year-old about?’

She smirks. ‘Who said anything about talking? Claire, I was with Lloyd for twenty-two years. I think I deserve a bit of fun.’

‘You do, but I still think
Twilight
guy is too young.’

‘For you, maybe.’ She laughs at the expression on my face and reaches for the remote. ‘Right. On with the film.’

Liz weaves her way across the street and up the path to her house. She pauses to wave at me as she reaches her front door, then drops her key on the ground and swears loudly. It takes her four attempts to fit it into the lock. I glance at my watch as she closes the door behind her: 9.15 p.m. She fell asleep during the last fifteen minutes of the film, her wine glass still in her hand, her phone flashing on her lap each time she received a new Tinder notification. It took me for ever to wake her up. Saying her name had no effect so I gently agitated her shoulder which made her murmur, ‘Leave me alone, I’m too tired to have sex.’ My laughter woke her up.

I put our wine glasses in the dishwasher and the empty bottles in the recycling bin. Despite the amount of wine I’ve drunk I feel strangely clear-headed as I wipe down the kitchen surfaces and tidy up. When I’ve finished I go back into the living room. I haven’t heard from Mark for several hours and I need to check he’s okay.

My mobile’s not where I thought I left it on the side table by the sofa so I get on my hands and knees and look underneath, just in case I knocked it under when I was getting up and down to fetch more wine.

I scramble back onto my feet. There’s nothing under the sofa apart from a thick layer of dust and hair on the carpet and several of Kira’s bobby pins. And it’s not in my pocket either. Under one of the cushions, then?

The floorboards creak above me as Jake walks from his room to the bathroom. My fingernails fill with crumbs as I search down the side of the sofa but there’s still no sign of my phone. That means it’s either down the side of the armchair or it’s in my handbag in the kitchen. I head for the armchair and yank at the cushion.

A phone flips onto the base of the armchair. It’s an iPhone, but it’s not mine. It’s a newer model. I press the circular button at the base of the phone and the screen flashes to life revealing a preview of a new message. Even though the phone is locked I can still read every word of the short text:

I can keep a secret if you can.

Where am I?

WHERE AM I?

It is dark. Pitch black. I can’t see anything.

‘Jake!’ I scream his name. ‘Mark!’

No one comes.

I shout again. ‘Someone please help!’

The sound reverberates around me.

‘Hello?’ The word catches in my throat. ‘Can anyone hear me?’

My hands shake as I lift them from my lap and tentatively extend my arms. I grope around in the darkness, swiping at the air. There’s nothing, nothing, and then the fingers of my left hand graze something cold and solid and I snatch my hands back to my chest. As I do something sharp pricks at my stomach. It’s in my lap! I swipe at it and jump away. My back smashes against a wall and my heels skitter on the ground.

There is a clattering sound, like metal hitting tile, and I freeze.

I want to shout for help but I can’t. I can’t speak. I can barely breathe.

My bottom feels cold and wet, as though liquid has soaked through the seat of my jeans and onto my skin. The air is thick with the scent of urine and iron.

I need to calm down. If I don’t I’ll pass out.

I concentrate on my breathing, sucking in air and filling my lungs before I blow it back out again.

In. Out. In. Out.

Slowly, slowly, my breathing quietens and my fingernails, gripping the wall I’m pressed into, cease their incessant tapping.

‘Hello?’ The word echoes off the walls. I am in a room, an empty room. I touch my fingertips to the ground beneath my feet. The walls and floors are tiled.

Okay. Okay. I’m in a room. I’m on my own. There has to be a door or a window, a way out.

As my heartbeat slows, the darkness surrounding me seems to fade and objects emerge from the gloom. There are two sinks to my right, two cubicles to my left and a metallic urine trough on the other side of the room. Beside it is a door, with a sliver of light at the bottom.

I haul myself up and step towards it. As I do my heel catches something on the floor. It skids away from me, spinning across the tiles towards the sinks. It makes a low clunking sound as it hits the wall and then lies still. I inch my way forward and peer under the sinks.

A knife.

I don’t scream. I don’t drop to my knees. And I don’t run towards the door beyond the sinks.

I stand up.

I know where I am now. I know what’s happening.

I’m dreaming. I’m asleep on the sofa at home and I’m looking for Billy. As soon as I find him the dream will end and I’ll wake up. I step towards the nearest cubicle, one hand outstretched and push at the door, hard. The lock clatters against the wall as it swings open.

Empty.

Of course. Billy’s never in the first place I look for him. I always have to search. I take three steps to my right and push at the second door.

Empty.

‘Mum?’

I spin round, but the pale-skinned person staring back at me from the mirror above the sink has my eyes, not Billy’s. I put a hand to my forehead and stroke the hair out of my face. Four smudged and bloodied fingerprints appear on my skin. A guilt dream. A nightmare in which I discover that I was responsible for Billy’s disappearance.

I crouch down and reach for the knife under the sink. It’s one of my kitchen knives. The handle is smeared in blood. I don’t touch it. Instead I open my handbag, slung across my body, and pull out a tissue. I wrap it around the knife, tuck it carefully into my bag and then wash my hands. Blood swirls around the basin before disappearing down the plughole.

Billy is not here. I have to keep looking.

The second I step out of the door and into the light two figures rush towards me. A man and a woman; their faces are taut with worry. The woman has a phone pressed to her ear.

‘Oh my God.’ The man reaches me first and draws to a halt. ‘What happened?’

The woman puffs towards us, still talking into her phone, her breath coming in short sharp bursts. ‘I can see her … she’s right in front of me … she’s on her feet … she doesn’t appear to be hurt …’

‘Are you okay?’ the man asks.

His fingers graze my arm and I snatch it away from him, smacking my hand against the door frame.

A sharp pain shoots up my wrist and I hug it to my chest. I try to speak but the words feel jumbled in my mouth as my legs give way beneath me.

‘What did she say?’ the woman asks, her phone hanging loosely in her hand, as the man grabs me round the shoulders and slowly lowers me to the floor.

‘Something about how you can’t feel pain in a nightmare and oh God, I’m awake.’

‘What did you ring an ambulance for?’

‘Because that guy sounded so worried about her.’

‘Why didn’t you wait until we got to her? As if the NHS hasn’t got enough problems without their ambulance crews being called out for no reason. She looks fine and she’s not injured.’

‘Malcolm, just because she’s standing up again doesn’t mean she’s not hurt. She’s only just stopped shaking.’

‘She’s probably a prostitute. Why else would she be hanging round the men’s loos at ten o’clock at night?’

As they continue to argue in hushed tones, but not so quiet that I can’t hear them, I look around. The walls are pale and grubby and there are grey stairs, the edges painted yellow that stretch above and below the small square of concrete where the three of us are standing. A black metal handrail runs the length of the stairs and, on the wall, is a blue sign that says,
Have you paid and displayed your ticket?

I’m in a car park.

‘Where is this place?’ I touch the woman on the arm.

‘Oh!’ She leaps away from me and clutches at her husband’s arm. He takes a step towards me, instinctively tucking her behind him, protecting her. From me.

‘Bristol. You’re in a multistorey car park in the centre.’

‘Who sounded worried?’

‘Sorry?’ The man smiles sympathetically but there’s a different emotion in his eyes now. He thinks I’m on drugs, or drunk.

‘You said someone was worried. Were you talking about me?’

‘There was a man,’ the woman says. ‘He ran past our car shouting that a woman had collapsed in the men’s toilets.’

‘Was he young?’ My heart contracts with hope. ‘Could he have been fifteen?’

‘I don’t know.’ She glances up at her husband.

‘He was wearing dark clothes, maybe a hoody, but I didn’t see his face.’

‘I need to ring my family,’ I say. ‘I need to tell them where I am.’

As I unzip my handbag I see something wrapped in my tissue and the ground seems to drop from beneath me. The knife is real. I didn’t dream that either.

‘She’s gone very pale,’ the woman says. ‘I think she’s going to pass out.’

‘Do you want to sit down on the step?’ The husband reaches out a tentative hand. ‘My wife’s rung an ambulance. It should be here soon.’

‘Let me take your bag,’ says the woman but I snatch it away before she can touch it. The sudden movement makes my legs give way. I grab at the handrail but I’m falling too quickly and I land heavily, smacking the base of my spine against the sharp line of the top step.

‘Don’t move,’ the man says as he crouches beside me. ‘You might have injured yourself.’

‘It’s okay.’ I ease myself up into a sitting position and rub at my lower back. It spasms with pain.

‘Listen … um …’ The man pauses. ‘Sorry, what’s your name? I’m Malcolm and this is Mandy.’

He looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to say my name.

I try to pull myself up but my legs are too wobbly to hold my weight. ‘I just need to get home. I think I might have a car here, somewhere.’ I glance back towards the door that leads to the car park but I have no idea where my car is, or even if it’s here at all. I could have walked, taken a taxi or got a lift with someone. It’s a blank.

‘You need to wait for the ambulance,’ the woman says from behind us. ‘You might have hit your head when you fell over in the toilet. Concussion can be very serious. My cousin Sarah fell down the stairs a few years ago and—’

‘Mandy!’ Malcolm shakes his head. ‘Not now.’

‘But she might—’

‘You still haven’t told us your name.’ He looks back at me.

I clutch my bag to my chest. The knife may be wrapped in swathes of tissue paper and hidden beneath a fold of leather but I feel as though it’s a flashing beacon. If the police turn up with the ambulance they’re going to start asking questions I can’t answer. Whose blood is on the knife? Who was stabbed? Where did the knife come from?

‘My name is Kate,’ I say. ‘Kate Sawyer.’

‘Great.’ The man smiles. ‘I shouldn’t imagine the ambulance is going to be much longer Kate. We’re happy to wait with you until it gets here.’

‘No. No ambulance. Please, I just need to get home. Thank you for all your help.’ I force myself onto my feet and, clinging on to the handrail, descend one step at a time.

‘Wait!’ Malcolm calls. ‘At least let us give you a lift. Mandy can cancel the ambulance.’

‘I’ll get a taxi.’

‘Let us walk you to the rank. I’m sure your family are very worried about you. Please, just let us do that.’

I’m too tired to say no again.