The Missing: The gripping psychological thriller that’s got everyone talking... (13 page)

Jackdaw44:
Why have you started ignoring me?

ICE9:
I haven’t. I’m busy.

Jackdaw44:

ICE9:
What’s that supposed to mean?

Jackdaw44:
Bullshit. You’re not busy.

ICE9:
OK. Truth. This feels a bit weird.

Jackdaw44:
What do you mean?

ICE9:
Us. Texting all the time. Sneaking off for secret beers. It feels … weird.

Jackdaw44:
We’re not doing anything wrong. Just talking. Nothing wrong with talking.

ICE9:
It feels dangerous.

Jackdaw44:
How?

ICE9:
You know what I mean.

Jackdaw44:

ICE9:
So you do know what I mean.

Jackdaw44:
I know nothing. I like hanging out with you. End of.

ICE9:
I still feel weird about it.

Jackdaw44:
There’s a cure for that.
!

ICE9:
Not today.

Jackdaw44:
You suck.

‘Claire?’ I jump as Liz knocks on the window of the car. Her hair is tied up in a messy topknot and there’s a smear of eyeliner smudged into the creases beneath her right eye. She looks as though she’s just woken up from a nap.

‘Can you open it?’ she mouths, signalling for me to wind down the window. I turn the handle.

‘Oh my God, Claire.’ She reaches through the gap and wraps her arms around my head, pulling me up against the door as she attempts to hug me. ‘I can’t believe it happened again.’

She lets me go, glances at the keys dangling in the ignition and holds up a hand as though warning me not to touch them. ‘I’m coming round the other side.’

She skirts around the front of the car, opens the passenger door, picks up my handbag, the photo album and Mark’s diary and plonks herself into the seat.

‘Are you okay?’ She sounds breathless from her run across the car park. ‘You’re not hurt or anything?’

‘I’m not hurt.’

She looks me up and down as though she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing. ‘You drove all the way across Bristol and you can’t remember it? Fuck, Claire! That’s really scary.’

‘I know.’

‘You can’t remember anything at all?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Right.’ She gives me a long look. I can tell she’s freaked out, even though she’s trying hard not to show it. ‘I think I need to get you to a doctor. Are you okay to drive? Silly question. I’ll drive the car. Caleb can pick mine up later.’

As we head back to Knowle I tell her everything I can remember, about the photo album, about finding myself parked in a street I didn’t recognize, about the guy on the bike, speeding off, running out of petrol and checking my phone. I don’t tell her about seeing Billy’s dead body on the bonnet of my car.

‘And then I rang you,’ I say.

‘Fucking hell, Claire.’ She presses her foot to the accelerator as the traffic light turns green. ‘I don’t know what to say. When you WhatsApped me that first photo I thought maybe you’d taken it by accident or pressed the wrong button or something but then you sent a few more and I thought you were having a laugh but I didn’t get the joke.’

She gives me a sideways look. ‘Who’s the blonde in the photo with Mark?’

‘Edie Christian, Billy’s form tutor.’

‘Why did you take a photo of them? Is he having an affair or something?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t remember anything. Oh my God.’ I cover my mouth with my hands as the cars in front slow to a near halt and a cyclist overtakes us. ‘What if the cyclist has reported me to the police for kicking him? The woman who stopped her car had a phone in her hand. She probably took a photo of my numberplate. The press will have a field day if they find out what I did.’

‘It’s okay.’ Liz taps me on the leg, then puts her hand back on the steering wheel. ‘You’re ill. You didn’t know what you were doing. Is that the photo album you were on about?’ She glances at the two books on my lap. ‘Can I see it?’

‘Of course.’ I open a page and hold it up so she can see. The traffic in front of us is still at a standstill.

‘Jesus Christ, Claire. Who did that?’

‘Billy, I think. The writing looks like his and it’s the same sort of thick black marker he uses.’

‘But why?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I thought the police searched the house?’

‘They did, but only places they thought he could be hiding. Then they took his laptop and his Xbox from his bedroom but they didn’t go through our stuff. They didn’t go anywhere near the garage.’

‘It’s pretty macabre.’ She runs a finger over one of the blacked-out figures and her eyes meet mine. ‘I think you should tell them. Don’t you?’

ICE9:
I can’t do this any more.

Jackdaw44:
Oh FFS. Not this again.

ICE9:
No, not this. My relationship. I feel claustrophobic and trapped. I’m not happy.

Jackdaw44:
So leave.

ICE9:
I can’t.

Jackdaw44:
We could get a place together. I fucking hate living at home.

ICE9:
You live on another planet.

Jackdaw44:
What’s that supposed to mean?

ICE9:
It’s a ridiculous idea.

Jackdaw44:
Why?

ICE9:
I’m miserable and you’re not helping.

Jackdaw44:
Sorry.

Jackdaw44:
Let’s both sneak out and go for a beer.

ICE9:
OK. Meet you at the Victoria at 9 p.m.

Every seat in the waiting room has been filled and the air is ripe with coughs, sneezes and the occasional wail from a bored toddler or hungry baby. Liz had to do battle with the receptionist to get me an appointment. I would have given up after the initial ‘There are no appointments left’ but she wasn’t deterred. Not even when the receptionist suggested that perhaps we would be better off going to the walk-in centre if I was having a ‘psychiatric episode’ as Liz put it. The poor woman eventually relented when Liz mentioned that I’d had my bloods taken at the surgery and that, if anyone knew what was wrong with me, it would be the doctor who had those results on her computer. We’ve been here over forty minutes so far and, during that time, my best friend has asked me twice if I’d like her to ring Mum or Jake and four times if I’m ‘having another funny turn’ because I look ‘weird’.

‘Look, here.’ She jabs a nail at an article in the magazine she’s reading. ‘This is Tinder, that app Marco told me about.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The dating app. The one for straight people. I don’t know why Caleb lied to me about meeting him on Grindr. I don’t care if he met him in a pub or online. Just as long as he’s safe.’

‘Right.’

For the last ten minutes Liz has been filling me in on her night out with her son and his new boyfriend. According to Liz, Marco was an absolute scream and she couldn’t have picked someone better for Caleb herself. Her exact words were, ‘
Marco’s young, dark and fit. If he wasn’t gay I might have gone for him myself.
’

She nudges me. ‘So do you think I should download it then? Give it a go?’

‘Sure, why not?’

‘What’s up?’ She closes the magazine and twists round in her seat so she can get a better look at me.

‘I was just …’ I lower my voice. ‘Just trying to decide what to do about the photo album.’

‘Do you want me to drive you to the police station, after we’re done here?’

I shake my head. ‘I need to talk to Mark about it.’

‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’

‘No, but what if there’s a completely innocent explanation for it? Mark’s always going on about how he’s the villain and if I go straight to the police that’s exactly what I’m doing, isn’t it? Painting him as the villain without giving him the chance to explain. I don’t even know if it was Billy who blacked out the photos.’

‘Who else would do that?’

Kira, I think, but don’t say. I hate myself for even considering what Stephen said about Mark and the fact that there’s a young girl who walks around our house in various states of undress but it’s there – it’s rooted in my brain and it’s not going away. I am ninety-nine per cent certain that Stephen made that comment because he’s a shit-stirrer, but what if I’m wrong? What if Mark did say or do something inappropriate? I don’t want to believe it. I won’t let myself believe it but someone vandalized those photos and I need to see the look on Mark’s face when I show them to him.

‘Mrs Wilkinson?’ Dr Evans sticks her head around the door.

‘That’s me!’ I gather up my bag and cardi and hurry towards her.

‘This is my friend Liz,’ I say as I draw closer. ‘Is it okay if she comes in with me? For moral support?’

‘Of course.’ Dr Evans gestures for us to follow her into her office. ‘We’re in here.’

As she rounds the desk and Liz sits down in one of the patient chairs the words spill out of me like water from a dam. ‘Thank you so much for fitting me in, Dr Evans. I know you’re busy and my appointment wasn’t for a couple of days but I had another blackout and—’

‘One second.’ She holds up a hand and glances at her screen. ‘Mrs Wilkinson. Claire. Can I call you Claire?’

I nod.

‘Sorry for interrupting, Claire. I just want to get up to speed.’ She twists round to face her computer, frowning as she scrolls down the screen. ‘Okay.’

She turns back. ‘So you’re here for the results of your recent blood test, is that right? You had an amnesiac episode on the sixth of August?’

‘Yes, eight days ago, that’s right.’

‘Okay. So …’ She leans forward, resting her weight on her elbows, and I instinctively press my back into my chair, bracing myself for the verdict. ‘The good news is that all your tests have come back clear.’

Liz squeezes my hand. ‘Well, that’s good news.’

‘Yes, it is.’ Dr Evans’s eyes don’t leave my face. ‘I would like to refer you for a CAT scan though, just to be sure.’

‘You think it’s a brain tumour?’

‘I think it’s more likely that it’s stress-related, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t rule out every possibility.’

‘How long will I have to wait for an appointment?’

‘A few weeks. Maybe five or six.’

‘Six weeks!’ Liz says and I shush her.

‘The thing is, Dr Evans, it’s happened twice now. I had another one today. A couple of hours ago. I’d been driving and I can’t even remember getting into my car. I can’t wait six weeks. What if it happens again?’

Dr Evans’s expression becomes grave. ‘I see. Okay.’ She glances towards the window and taps her nails against her teeth. ‘Claire, have you had any other unusual thoughts or seen any other unusual things?’

‘What kinds of things?’

‘Things that wouldn’t normally be there?’

‘Like a hallucination?’

‘Yes.’

‘During my last blackout I saw …’ I can’t tell her that I imagined running over my son. ‘I saw something that wasn’t real.’

Liz gives me a sideways look but says nothing.

‘I see,’ Dr Evans says. ‘And have you ever seen anything you’ve attributed special meaning to?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Have you ever interpreted something you’ve seen as some kind of sign, some kind of special message, aimed at you?’

Liz sits very still, looking intently at me, and I tug at the sleeves of my shirt. I haven’t told her that I went looking for Billy last night.

‘There have been a couple of occasions when I thought I saw Billy,’ I say quietly, wishing I hadn’t brought my best friend in with me. I hate her seeing me like this. She must think I’m cracking up. ‘Billy’s my son who’s missing. I saw someone on his bike and I went after him.’

‘Hmmm.’ Dr Evans’s frown deepens. ‘And have you ever heard voices, Claire?’

‘No.’ I shake my head, suddenly agitated. ‘I’m not schizophrenic. I’m not mad. I just … I just don’t want to black out again.’

‘No one’s saying you’re mad, Claire, but you have been under a lot of stress recently and I think a referral to the community mental-health team might help.’

Mental-health team? That sounds scary. Liz leans forward in her chair. ‘How long’s the waiting list?’

Dr Evans grimaces.

‘Worse than the CAT scan?’

‘I could make it an urgent referral. They might be able to see you in the next few weeks.’

I grip the arms of the chair. Anything could happen to me in the next few weeks. ‘Is there no one else I could see? We can’t afford to go private but I could borrow some money.’

Dr Evans gives me a sympathetic smile. ‘I’m sorry, Claire. It’s as frustrating for me as it is for you and I wish there was some way of speeding things up but the NHS is stretched to—’

‘I’ll pay!’ Liz says. ‘I’ve got a bit put away, from when Mum died. It’s yours, Claire.’

‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘I couldn’t.’

‘Think of it as a loan if that makes you feel better. You’ll go back to work eventually and, when you do, you can pay me back.’

Dr Evans looks from Liz to me and presses her lips together.

‘If you’re desperate to see someone you could Google Bristol-based psychotherapists who specialize in stress and anxiety disorders. I’m afraid I can’t recommend anyone specifically but make sure they’ve got proper accreditation. And in the meantime I’ll put in the referrals for you. I’ll do everything I can to get you seen sooner rather than later.’

‘There you go then,’ Liz says, half-rising from her seat. ‘Everything’s going to be fine. Isn’t it, Claire?’

‘Yes.’ I force myself to smile.

I’m not sure who I’m lying to. Her, or myself.