The Missing. C.L. Taylor
I venture.
‘Yes, Mum. It’s Jake. I’m at home with Dad. Liz just came round, wanting to talk to you. That’s when we realized you’d gone missing.’
I search for a memory, something, anything, to still my mind, to stop this terrifying free-fall sensation. Where is my home? Why don’t I remember?
‘Yes, I know, okay. Okay, Dad.’ The man is talking to someone else again. ‘I just asked her that. Mum, can you describe what you can see?’
I look back at the Lowry painting, at the boy standing right of centre staring into the crowd, looking for someone, then I look at the shiny pale pink bedspread, the mirror, the cheap pine table and the white tea tray.
‘I think I’m in a hotel room.’
‘Is there a phone? Can you ring reception to find out which hotel you’re in? Or is there a brochure or room-service menu anywhere?’
I slide across the pink bedspread and press my toes into the worn pile of the beige carpet, then inch my way across the room, keeping one eye on the door, and approach the table near the mirror. There’s a white china teapot on a tray and two cups and saucers. There’s also a dish containing tea, coffee, sugar and tiny cartons of milk. There are no brochures, no menus, no phone. Nothing else in the room at all other than my handbag and boots, with my socks tucked into the top, on the floor by the bed.
I touch the edge of the gingham curtain and tentatively pull it back. Outside is a low railing, a balcony and a stretch of grey-brown sea with a lump of land in the distance, an island shaped like a turtle’s back.
‘Steep Holm,’ I say and the darkness in my mind fades from black to grey at the sight of the familiar lump of rock in the distance. ‘Jake, I’m in Weston-super-Mare.’
As he relays the information I feel a sudden desperate urge to throw open the window and inhale great lungfuls of sea air but when I yank at the sash it only opens a couple of inches at the bottom.
‘Do you know which hotel, Mum?’ Jake asks. ‘If you stay where you are we’ll come and get you.’
It’s a small room: shabby but warm and clean. The floral wallpaper behind the bed is peeling in one corner and when I open the door to the en suite there are no branded toiletries, just a bar of soap in a frilled wrapper and a glass, misted with age, on the shelf above the sink. There is no welcome pack on the table that holds the tea and coffee things, no branded coaster or complimentary notepad.
‘Reception,’ I say. ‘Need to find reception.’ But then I spot a fire-evacuation notice pinned next to the door. It is signed at the bottom by Steve Jenkins, Owner, Day’s Rest B&B.
‘Day’s Rest,’ I say. ‘I’m at Day’s Rest B&B.’
‘The one we used to stay in as kids,’ Jake says and I have to steady myself against the wall as a wave of grief knocks the breath from my lungs.
Billy.
I have two sons. Jake and Billy. Billy is missing. He’s missing.
‘Mum?’ The worry in Jake’s voice bounces off me like a stone skimming the sea.
I snatch up my handbag, my boots and my socks and I reach for the door handle.
‘Mum?’ he says again as I yank open the door.
‘Billy!’ I scream into the empty corridor. ‘Billy, where are you? Where are you, son?’
Jackdaw44: You there?
ICE9: Yep.
Jackdaw44: Liv is a bitch.
ICE9: Who’s Liv?
Jackdaw44: Girl I was seeing.
ICE9: I didn’t know.
Jackdaw44: You wouldn’t. I keep my shit private.
ICE9: OK …
Jackdaw44: But I’m pissed off today. Need to talk to someone. I know you can keep secrets.
ICE9: It’s up to you to tell your mum what you saw, not me.
Jackdaw44: And that’s why you’re cool.
ICE9: Ha! I’ve never been called that before. So why is Liv a bitch?
Jackdaw44: She told Jess not to go out with me. She totally slagged me. Said I’ve got a small dick.
ICE9: Have you?
Jackdaw44: Go fuck yourself.
The man behind the reception desk jumps as I slam up against it.
‘Is he here?’
‘Is who here?’ He’s a tall man, over six foot with balding hair and an auburn moustache. The buttons of his shirt strain over his gut.
‘My son. Billy. He’s fifteen.’ I raise a hand above my head. ‘He’s about this tall.’
‘Did he check in with you?’
I don’t know. The last thing I remember was running out of Liz’s house. How did I get here and why don’t I remember? Am I asleep? Unconscious? Did I trip and hit my head when I was running? But this feels real. The reception area feels solid under my fingertips. I can smell the musty aroma of old furnishings beneath the pungent scent of furniture polish. ‘I’ve got no idea. Could you check to see if he’s booked in? His name’s Billy Wilkinson.’
The man runs a thumb along the length of his gingery moustache. ‘And your name is?’
‘Claire Wilkinson.’
He reaches for a clipboard on his desk. He raises it to eye level, then mutters, ‘I can’t see a thing without my glasses,’ and replaces the clipboard and begins ferreting around in a drawer. I tap the counter as he searches. It’s all I can do not to clamber over the top and snatch up the clipboard.
‘There!’ I point at a pair of glasses on top of a paperback book. ‘Your glasses are there.’
‘Ah, thank you.’ It takes an age for him to clasp his fingers around them, for ever for him to unfold them and then, as he finally places them on his nose, he removes them again and wipes the lenses on the hem of his jumper.
‘If you could hurry. Please. It’s urgent.’
‘All in good time, Mrs Wilkinson, all in good time.’
‘Hmmm.’ He hums through his nose. ‘Room eleven, is that right?’
I hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs but it’s a middle-aged man, not Billy, who steps into the reception area and raises a cheery hand at the man behind the desk. ‘I don’t know what room I’m in. I didn’t look.’
The receptionist gives me a quizzical look, then says, ‘I’ve got a Mrs Wilkinson in room eleven. Queen room. One occupant.’
I press a hand to my forehead but the fog in my brain remains. Somehow I booked myself into a B&B in Weston. I can’t remember doing it, so either I did check in and I don’t remember or … nothing. There’s a black void where my memory should be. ‘Could Billy have checked into one of the other rooms?’
The man’s lips disappear beneath the bushy arc of his moustache. ‘I can’t give out information about other guests. Guesthouse policy.’
A vision plays out