Читать книгу Magpie - Sophie Draper - Страница 21

I can’t face the morning. Nor do I like the night. It’s when the cottage feels too small and empty. The roof contracts and the walls flex and the windows shiver in their frames as the wind sweeps over the brow of the hill.

It’s not the silence that gets to me – there is no silence, there’s always some kind of low-grade noise somewhere in the cottage – it’s the lack of human company. I go downstairs, padding across the kitchen in my pyjamas. Arthur is stretched out in front of the range and I’m grateful for his presence. I kneel on the floor and stroke him in that soft spot he likes under his chin.

From here I can see all the spiderwebs in the room, glistening in the low light. There are bits of dreck that fill the cracks between the floorboards and dead flies that line up along the skirting board under the window. So much dust and dirt has accumulated whilst the cottage was empty, and I’m not sure how long there’s been between the previous tenant and me. I didn’t think to ask the estate agent; it must have been a fair length of time. I’m going to be busy cleaning, if I can bring myself to do anything at all.

I stand up and sit in the armchair. Arthur picks himself up awkwardly and moves a little closer, depositing his warm body on my feet. I retrieve the remote control for the TV from the gap between the cushion and the armrest and press the button.

Light and noise fill the room. Faces I don’t recognise flash across the screen, voices jangling one over the other, so many I can’t hear the words, louder and louder … I jab at the remote, banging the thing against the side of my chair until the volume rises even more rapidly. Arthur lifts his ears. The button must have got jammed. I panic and punch the thing again. Silence. I let a sigh shudder from between my lips. The screen still fizzes with tiny white fireworks darting in all directions. I clench my teeth – doesn’t anything work in this house?

Nothing ever goes to plan. Not Duncan, not Joe, not even my move to this cottage.

Joe was supposed to come with me. But he didn’t.

Instead, he went AWOL again. I was afraid of this. The last time he did that – went off and didn’t come back – was in August, just before his A-level results were due. He must have been worried about it all summer. He was gone for over two weeks. I was frantic then. It had always been no more than a few days before; though his absences had been getting longer. I’m frantic now – it’s been way longer than that. As each day goes by, I’ve grown more and more anxious. It doesn’t help that Duncan and I aren’t speaking. Not even for Joe’s sake. I’ve not had one phone call from Duncan, not one. But then, I haven’t rung him, either. How could I? Instead, I’ve blocked his number.

Those early days were a blur. My nights have been full of nightmares, my days are … I don’t know, unreal. I’ve been in shock, I guess. It didn’t exactly go to plan. Duncan? My hands clutch the arms of my chair.

I got here a physical and emotional mess, and to find myself here at the cottage after all my careful planning, in the state I was – am – in … I wake up each day gasping for breath. Everything hurts – my head, my body, my brain … even now.

I had to go without Joe. It hurts just thinking about it. That I left Joe behind.

I’m almost glad he’s gone AWOL. It means he’s not with Duncan. My first thought was that Joe had gone back to the Barn, after I’d gone. But I know he wouldn’t do that. He was so upset with his father that last day. I was almost on the verge of calling the police, then I got one text:

Mum – I’m okay. Don’t come looking for me. Goodbye.

I texted him back. Ring me, I said. He never rang. I rang him, again and again, but he didn’t pick up. Still doesn’t pick up. And that text just sits there, blazing from my screen. Don’t come looking for me. He hasn’t texted me again. As if that’s it, that’s your lot, Mum. I don’t need you anymore.

Oh, God, it hurts so much. I’m stuck here on my own and I can’t bear it. I hang on thinking, just one more day and I’ll get another message. I’ve even told him exactly where I am. He’ll come to me, of his own accord, I know he will. If I wait here long enough.

I bitterly regret choosing this cottage. It’s too close to the Barn. Why on earth did I think this was a good idea? I convinced myself it was in Joe’s best interests, that we could do this like adults, Duncan and me. And now I’m terrified. Hiding, almost. I can’t go anywhere near the Barn, or the north side of the reservoir, the other side of the dam. Or anywhere else. Not Belston, not Derby – not anywhere I might be seen. I can’t bear for anyone I know to see me like this, to ask questions.

And Joe is still missing. It’s been over six weeks and Joe is still missing.

I’ve worried about Joe ever since he was born. I knew something was wrong right from the start. I could never quite put my finger on it. He cried and cried and cried as a baby. Nothing settled him unless I held him close. I was exhausted, terrified, tired all the time. I needed to put him down, to look after myself, to do basic stuff like go to the bathroom, eat, sleep. Then one day, I threw him down – he literally bounced in his cot. He screamed like hell then.

I was full of remorse – what if I’d hurt him? What if I’d thrown him against a hard surface and not his soft bed? I was a monster! Why wouldn’t anyone help me? Couldn’t they see the state I was in? Didn’t Duncan, my brother, Ian, even his wife, Moira, understand?

No, apparently, they did not. Duncan assumed looking after Joe was my job and everyone else assumed that Duncan was looking after me. Such a great guy, my brother had said – You’ve done well, Claire. If only he knew.

Secrets, shame, families are full of them.

Every time Joe screamed, I was sure it was my fault – something I’d done or not done in the pregnancy, brain damage or something he’d inherited. I’ve alternated between fear and pain and guilt. And anger. In those last few days, it was anger. That Joe would choose to go missing again right then, right when I was finally leaving Duncan. I’d waited eighteen years, putting my whole life on hold for him, banking on the fact that once he was an adult, he’d be sorted, that I could step back from looking after him and take my turn. Well, he must have decided that he’s old enough, too. He’s upped and gone.

But what if he hasn’t? I look at Arthur. Joe should be here. With me. With Arthur.

I feel the fear wash over me. I jump up from my chair. I can’t think like this, it does my head in. He’s fine. He must be. He said he was. And I’d know if he wasn’t. Arthur watches me uncertainly, struggling to his feet, wondering if I’m about to take him for a walk. I shake my head.

‘No, Arthur, I’m sorry.’

He collapses back to the ground.

I think of that coin Joe found, right before I left. My fingers mentally trace the pattern and I feel such sadness. I would have brought it with me if I could, but Joe must have had it with him – it wasn’t in his room when I was packing all of his other things. I remember it clearly. I’ve held it that many times before it ever passed into Joe’s hands, albeit a long time ago. I shake my head. I can’t bear to think of that coin anymore.

I think of Joe’s excitement. Maybe he’s out there searching for more. Maybe he’s given up on all that metal detecting stuff and moved in with one of his mates and not bothered to tell me. Part of me almost believes he would do that. Communication was never his strong point. Perhaps the shock of what happened and me leaving has jolted him out of his obsessions. Is he angry with me?

I hold my head as if it’ll stop my thoughts from spinning. Maybe something has happened. Perhaps he’s banged his head and forgotten about his family. You hear stories like that, where amnesia means the person can’t remember the life they had before. I have to remind myself, he did send me that one text.

But it’s torture not knowing where he is. I have to believe that he’s okay, that someone has taken him in and perhaps even now he’s crashed out on their floor, stirring only to drink another can of lager and shovel cornflakes down his throat. Someone else’s cornflakes.

I pace the room, moving to the hall. I tear at the peeling wallpaper, even though I’m still in my pyjamas. I pull at the wall, arm over arm, fingernails filling up with bits of paper and old glue. Anyone looking in from outside would think that I’m mad, trashing my own home. Anything to block out the one thought I don’t want to voice in my head.