The sound of Carrie’s feet on the concrete path echoes in my head, her retreating figure a reminder that soon, she will be gone again, travelling back up to Edinburgh. I need to make the most of our next get-together, ask her what she remembers, glean as much information out of her as I can regardless of my sensitivities and how upsetting it might be.
Simon was a person, is a person, and from hereon in, I plan on putting all my efforts into finding him.
10
I sit up, pain behind my eyes, around the back of my neck, the steady thump of blood into my head making me dizzy and nauseous. At least I’m still in bed, not outside in the garden, not in the middle of the main road in my nightclothes, or worse still, completely naked.
The quilt is cumbersome, heavy, heat billowing out from underneath it, my flesh burning beneath its weight. I place my cool hand across my forehead, the skin there hot and clammy. A furnace roars in my ears. Something has scared me, shocked me into wakefulness. I try to remember, pushing everything else out of my mind. It doesn’t work. Fragments of thoughts, dreams, flit around my head. Fireflies dancing in the darkness of a mysterious land, an elusive place. Somewhere I know but cannot reach.
It’s there, the memory. I can feel it but can’t see it, am unable to catch it and contextualise it. And it means something. I just know it. One day soon, it will slip into the light unbidden, showing itself. And then I will know. I will start to piece together whatever is lurking there. Because there is something. I’m certain of it. And it is definitely about Simon and his disappearance. I need to be patient, wait for it to appear of its own volition. Forced thoughts rarely appear willingly.
I lie back on the pillow, knowing that sleep won’t come easily to me. An hour later, I am still wide awake, my eyes glued ahead, my mind forming shapes out of the shadows cast across the ceiling, eerie, grey fingers that change and alter into ominous figures as my imagination runs riot and the darkness slowly ebbs away.
I sit up, the bed creaking beneath me. I turn on the lamp, dispelling the darkness, the silhouettes, blinking as the brightness in the room grows around me. My book sits on the bedside table along with a notepad and pen. I reach across and grab it, determined to do something with my time, not sit here, wasting precious seconds. I’m awake, alert, my brain itching to do something.
Ten minutes and I have made a list of what I plan to do this week. My writing can be put on hold. I need to do some research, sift through anything I can find on the internet about Simon’s disappearance. Kim may have taken it upon herself to dispose of our records but there is still plenty of information out there. I could contact the police, ask to speak to someone regarding the case. Anybody connected to it will now either be retired or dead, I do know that; but I can ask to see the records, request that they take another look at the case, review it with fresh eyes. It’s a cold case, not a closed one. Simon was never officially declared dead. With no property or financial records to take care of, we had no need to take such a step. Growing up, it was an unspoken presumption that Simon was never coming back. It fills me with shame at how quickly things got back to normal in our lives, as if his disappearance was something dirty, something that tainted our family name.
And then of course, there was the death of our father only months afterwards. Four months. That’s all it was. In that space of time, our tiny family shrunk even further, Dad’s death compounding our misery, fuelling our silence, pushing us further into ourselves. Further into that damp, dark corner.
We were never the sort of family who spoke openly about our feelings, brushing away sentimentality and soul-bearing conversations, and then things closed down even further after Dad passed away. By the time I was in my teens, I had learned to keep things tucked deep inside, never grieving properly or asking for help. Mum was a kind lady, always pleasant and helpful but rarely showing her true emotions. The fact they have all come spilling out in the last few months is a massive surprise and in complete contradiction to her usual self. Perhaps all those pent-up feelings and memories are now trying to work their way out of her system, her poor, addled brain unable to put up any resistance as every single secret and undisclosed thought wheedles its way out into the open. She would be horrified, that much I do know. Horrified and ashamed of her actions and words. I wonder what she would think of my mission to unearth what I can about the night Simon disappeared? Would she be relieved or would it be too much for her, having to relive that awful evening?
I shuffle down into the bed, the chill of the night air nipping at my exposed flesh. I stare down at my list of notes – scribbles, bullet points, random thoughts and questions that I want to ask – and put the notepad back on the bedside table. If I am to do this thing, take it upon myself to delve back into this painful case, then I need to do it with a clear head, not act on a whim after only minutes of snatched, fitful sleep. The police may have scaled back their enquiries but I plan on doing my own investigative work, with or without them. I owe it to Simon, I owe it to Mum, but most of all, after hearing about his fear of me as a child, I owe it to myself.
The internet is full of half-baked theories and inaccurate stories on hastily thrown together websites written by people with a morbid interest in the unfortunates who disappear into thin air. Apart from Wikipedia and the BBC, there are few sites that offer me any new information. Why would they? All we know is that one spring evening, Simon went to bed as usual and when we woke the next morning, he was gone. His covers were thrown aside, his slippers missing, but apart from that, nothing was awry. The rogue websites contain all sorts of ridiculous stories about our family – that Simon was bullied at school; that he had a difficult relationship with our mum; that he was a loner and found it hard to mix with other children. I close my eyes and sigh. Where do they get these ideas from? Or are they aware that they are lies and print them regardless, driven by a need to fill in the blanks and draw in more readers?
Whatever the reason, they have taken a liberty and it infuriates and depresses me in equal measure. I should have been prepared for this level of intrusion, for all these suppositions and lies, and yet it still hits me hard, making me feel as if I am dirty, contaminated by their dishonesty and fabricated stories. Simon was my brother. He was neither a victim of bullies in the playground, nor was he a loner. Simon was a little boy who went to bed one evening and simply vanished.
Except he didn’t. That doesn’t happen. People don’t just disappear into the ether. They leave a trace. Everybody leaves something of themselves behind. Perhaps if it had happened now with all the advances in forensics and DNA, then maybe we would have stood a greater chance of finding him. But as it is, I am going to have to rely on Google searches, instinct and my memories. Memories that refuse to slot together in any semblance of order. Memories that dance around my brain, drunk, directionless.
And then I see it. A story dating back to a year ago. Another missing child from a nearby town. A boy slightly older than Simon. An eleven-year-old who went missing from his home. Just like Simon did. Is there a connection or is the forty-odd year gap too great to consider them aligned? I wonder if the police looked for similarities. I wonder if I am simply clutching at straws having drawn blanks in every other place I have looked.
I feel certain that a visit to the police will prove fruitless. Unless I can present them with new evidence, it is unlikely that they will take it any further. He is a cold case, a missing person with no new lines of enquiry worth investigating. I could mention the recent missing boy, see if they show any interest in the two cases. Part of me knows this is all pointless, that I am going round in circles, chasing my tail, hoping to find something that will spark an interest in Simon’s disappearance. I don’t want him to be forgotten. And what if the two cases are connected?
A lump rises in my throat. It’s been years since I cried over Simon. All my recent tears have been reserved for Warren. I lean back, run my fingers through my hair, weariness gnawing at me, burrowing deep into my bones.
Warren. I think of his things that remain half sorted. I think of those words, the purported song lyrics. The lump in my throat grows, jammed in place by anxiety and self-pity. I should finish sorting through his things before I shift my attention onto Simon. It’s the story of my life – starting one job before I’ve finished the first one. I smile at the thought of my editor’s face if she were to trawl through my current manuscript. Ramblings and half-baked ideas flung together amidst a flurry of activity and two-dimensional characters is what it is. Eventually, it will take shape but for now, I have other things to do, more pressing matters that will eat away at me if I don’t give them my full and undivided attention.
My body is heavier than usual, weighted to the ground as I lift the suitcase back out and place it on the floor. I vow to get these documents and papers sorted by the end of the day and then I can focus on Simon. One tragedy at a time. That’s what I tell myself as I squat over the case and press both the locks, inhaling the swirling dust motes as the lid springs free and the contents spill out onto the floor at my feet.
11
It doesn’t make any sense. This was meant to be a quick sort out, a rapid rifling of his stuff and yet here I am, perplexed and confused and once again upset by what I have found. Why are things never simple? They should be. This is a routine task, nothing too arduous, just a way of finalising Warren’s affairs, working out what is important and needs to be filed away, and what should be disposed of.
This should have been easy and now here I am, sitting on the floor, another esoteric message crumpled up in my hand, the paper cool and sharp against my burning skin. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. My mouth is pursed, my breath sour; a mixture of metal and sand, bitter saliva swilling around the recesses of my gums. I swallow, stare down at the words before me.
Please don’t tell her Warren. Don’t do it. We all have too much to lose.
It’s a typed note folded in half and placed in an envelope. Why would anybody send a typed note? They are a thing of the past. People use texts or emails or communicate through social media. Unless they don’t want to get caught, their identity made public should anybody discover said texts or emails. I often used Warren’s phone and computer. The iPads and gadgets we both had were interchangeable, not solely reserved for one person. Whoever wrote this note knew that. Warren must have told them.
Keep it private, just between us.
I can hear his voice. Pleading. Insistent. Desperate to keep his secrets hidden, tucked away from me, his blindly faithful and clearly very stupid wife.
I shut my eyes, think back to the source of these documents. Most of them came from his desk at work. I recall Martin handing them over to me after Warren died once his colleagues had decided enough time has passed for them to clear out his desk without appearing cold or calculating. Martin’s eyes were downcast, his voice low as he struggled to formulate a sentence, something that would encapsulate his feelings without making me too uncomfortable. In the end, he opted for, ‘I’m so sorry. We all are. You might want these.’ And that was it. That was the sum total of Warren’s twenty-year career as marketing director for them. I’m so sorry. That was the best that they could do.
Ragged chunks of air bounce out of me, my chest wheezing as I struggle to breathe properly. We were happy, Warren and I. Weren’t we? I thought so, but now I’m not so sure. I try to think back. Back to before that morning when I found him lying rigid and cold beside me in bed. The shock of that day seems to have blotted out everything else, leaving a lasting impression in my mind, nudging other memories aside, all the good stuff: the happier times, the warm, balmy days we spent down by the river, the days laid on beaches in sunnier climes, the walks we took up on the North Yorkshire moors. They have all been ground underfoot, turned to ash because of that morning, the finality of it. The abrupt end to his life and mine as I knew it. And now I have more to contend with. The discovery of these letters, attempting to work out who wrote them. Who the fuck was she? Is she? Because unless she died at the same time, then this woman is still out there, going about her daily activities.
The woman who had an affair with my husband.
It’s the only explanation. Nothing else fits this stomach-churning find. My throat is thick with tears, my mind crawling with unpalatable images of the two of them together, two furtive people, secreted away in some seedy bar, snatching brief moments together, forever on their guard, keeping watch for fear of being spotted.
Does she know that Warren is dead, this femme fatale? Does she know that his heart gave out in his sleep, that he went to bed one evening and never woke up? Was she at the funeral, tucked away at the back, nestled between family and friends, clutching at her handkerchief as the pall bearers carried his body inside and placed it on the plinth at the front of the church?
I suddenly want to rage and scream and holler into the empty sky above. How dare she? How fucking dare she?
And then I think of Warren and my distressing discovery of this brief yet revealing missive that has helped cement my knowledge of his infidelity. I was wrong about the other note, so very, very wrong. My initial instincts that something was awry were correct. I tried to mask my hurt and surprise with a cock-and-bull story about song lyrics and poetry and how he would never do such a thing to me. And yet he has. He did. The husband I loved has once again turned my world upside down, tipping what little goodness and happiness I had left out of my life and scattering it to the four winds.
The betrayal and hurt I feel is overwhelming, so difficult to comprehend. It’s patently obvious that I never really knew my husband at all. I think back to the weeks and months before his death. We were busy with our lives, busy working, keeping in touch with friends and family.
‘I’ll always be here for you. No matter what happens, we’ll always be together, you and I. You do know that, don’t you?’
The memory slams into me, knocking all the air out of my lungs. We had been sitting together on the sofa a month or so before he died. Warren was watching TV and I was busy tapping away on my laptop, making small changes to my novel. My mind was elsewhere as he spoke. I took his words as a reaffirmation of our relationship, something he said in passing rather than simply saying, I love you. We had been watching a film about a couple who had gone through a torrid time that had tested their love for one another. I presumed he had been referring to that. Perhaps he had but with this present finding, I am now doubting myself.
My head aches, a ribbon of anxiety wrapping itself around my skull. He had worked late a few nights a week. I didn’t enquire on his whereabouts. I had no need. We had a secure marriage. A happy one. Or perhaps my rose-tinted spectacles are distorting my vision. Our relationship had become like a comfortable old shoe, something I gave little thought to, taking it for granted day after day. Should I have tried a little harder? Injected some excitement into our lives to keep him by my side? Is that what people are expected to do? Constantly make that extra effort to keep their partners happy and satisfied? Are we never allowed to relax, to simply get on with our lives without needing to entertain and titillate them? It seems an absurd notion and yet if that is what other people do, then I have failed. I failed myself, my marriage and I failed Warren.
Everything mists over as I attempt to pick apart our lives before Warren’s death, to scrutinise and analyse our movements, our conversations, everything we said and did. We paid less attention one another for sure but we had been married for over twenty-five years. Married bliss isn’t getting up every single day and gazing into one another’s eyes across the breakfast table. It isn’t stating every five minutes how much you love your partner. Married bliss is functioning at an everyday level without any acrimony. Married bliss is knowing you can trust your other half implicitly when they leave the house or when they send messages on their phone or when they come home late from work a few evenings a week. Married bliss is never having to interrogate them about where they have been. It’s about feeling contented and relaxed in the cloak of your relationship, not having to test its strength and durability every hour of every day with a stream of questions about who they have been with or whether or not they still love you.
