1
Now
They cut a sorry sight, the two figures, as they stumble down the road, their shadowy outlines incongruous against the backdrop of the sinking sun; one small silhouette, one larger person, bent almost double, clutching hands as they attempt to break into a run, only to falter and fall by the roadside, landing in an ungainly heap together. Their cries fill the air, drowning out the birdsong from the nearby treetops and hedgerows.
A car approaches, the roar of its engine growing closer. It rounds the bend, metal and sunlight colliding in a sudden eye-watering flash. The couple stand up, cry out, wave their arms frantically. The vehicle drives past them then slows down, grinding to a sudden halt, the gravelly sound of rubber against tarmac filling the silence. It begins to reverse, the high-pitched whine of the engine a howling screech.
The driver’s door opens, a man steps out, his expression pained and bewildered, turning soon to panic as he stares first at the child then back at the person huddled by their side.
‘Please,’ the adult says, holding their head, blood oozing through their trembling fingers. ‘Please help us. You have to do something.’
The child begins to cry; an ear-splitting howl that could shatter glass. The adult tries to comfort the youngster but is too unsteady, too broken and damaged to console them properly. Tears mingle with snot as they sob uncontrollably.
‘I’ll help you,’ the man says as he opens the passenger door and pushes the child inside. Before the bleeding adult can protest, the man grabs their arm and pushes them against the back door of the car. ‘I know who you are. I fucking know you and I know what you did.’
In a flurry of terror and blind panic, the adult cries out as they are bundled into the back seat. They hear the sharp slam of the door and the click of the lock, realisation dawning that they are trapped. They pull at the handle, cry out, claw at the seat as the driver climbs back in and starts the engine, pulling off at speed.
The child is suddenly silent, slumped in their seat, limbs frozen, face ashen, stricken with terror.
‘You,’ the driver says, staring through the rear-view mirror to the person behind them. ‘It’s you. Don’t move and don’t speak.’ His voice is low, laced with menace and intent. The adult begins to object, their shouts reverberating around the confined space only to be met with a hand that connects with them as the driver swings around, fist clenched, and smashes it into their face, silencing them before turning back to grip the steering wheel.
‘I said, don’t speak, okay? Don’t say a single word. I know exactly who you are. I’ve heard about this on the television, read about it in the paper. You’re a fucking psychopath. People like you should be hanged. You’re nothing but scum.’
Momentarily dazed, the bleeding adult slumps back into the seat, more blood pumping through their fingers, saturating their clothes; sticky warm blood oozing out of the wound in great waves, coating their skin, their clothes, the upholstery of the vehicle.
‘I hope they arrest you,’ the driver says, the words loaded with vitriol and venom as he spits them out and stares in the rear-view mirror, ‘and throw away the fucking key.’
2
Before
The likeness is uncanny. It catches me off guard. His face sends me into a near swoon as he steps away from the heaving throng, his features suddenly coming into sharp focus, hitting me in my solar plexus and turning my blood to sand. Despite the rare sweep of heat from the late afternoon sun, I feel a chill on my flesh as a shard of ice penetrates me, digging into my bones and rippling over my skin. The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. My scalp tightens and prickles. As hard as I try to look away, my eyes are drawn to him; to the shape of his face, to his gait, to the sound of his laughter as it sails through the late afternoon air like the delicate tinkling of fine china. Everything about him resonates with me. I can hardly breathe, oxygen seeping out of my lungs in short erratic bursts. He is here. After all this time, he is here. So many years of emptiness and yearning coupled with an acute sense of loss, and now I have found him.
By the time the crowd has cleared and almost everyone has departed for home, I feel as if my world has shrunk to the size of a pinhole. My head pounds, my throat is dry. The most basic of bodily functions – breathing, blinking – feel laboured and onerous.
I continue to watch as a small car pulls up and an exasperated woman leaps out and runs over to the boy, leaning down and speaking to him. Her face is flushed as she grabs at his schoolbag, holding it tightly while she ushers him back towards the car. He is the last child to be picked up. After the 3 o’clock pandemonium as the school gates opened and a small army of children spilled out, the road is now deserted. He is the last boy standing.
Trying to regulate my breathing and put my thoughts in order, I slip the key into the ignition of my car and start the engine. Using an inordinate amount of strength and focus, I am able to drive home, concentrating on staying the right side of the white line and keeping within the speed limit. Skills that had become reflexes seem to require a whole new level of attention as I remain alert and rigid, my eyes glued to the road, every nerve ending in my body screaming, every sinew stretched and taut with agitation and excitement. An intoxicating combination of terror and trepidation pulses through my veins.
I take a deep breath, tell myself to calm down, but it’s pointless. Everything feels like such an effort. My mind is in a spin as I picture his face – my boy’s face – and think about his voice, the soft rush of his breath as he leans in to give me a kiss goodnight. Everything about him was as familiar to me as my own features. It’s him. There’s no doubt about it. It’s my boy.
Trees, buildings, pedestrians, they are all a smear in my peripheral vision as I sail past them, eyes fixed ahead. Nobody else matters anymore. Nobody and nothing is important. They are meaningless now that I have seen him, now that I’ve been near him and sensed how lost he is, how abandoned he feels. He needs me. We need each other.
We are meant to be together.
Once home, I slam the door behind me, close the curtains and curl up on the sofa where I remain for the rest of the evening, tears blinding me as I fight off the memories, those wicked memories of what I lost. Those wicked memories that remind me of how I was left on my own. But not for much longer. I have a chance to make everything better, to go back to how things used to be before I lost him. Before I lost everything that ever mattered to me.
I sleep fitfully, waking at regular intervals, my skin hot and cold simultaneously. The following day, I arise and dress, choosing my outfit with care and precision, knowing that I’m ready for this. I know what it is that I must do. My mind is made up. I’m ready for him.
3
The abductor
A bubble of air catches in my throat, my chest contracts. The trapped oxygen concertinas, making me wheeze as I spot him again, a solitary figure, small and helpless in contrast to the milieu of school with its swathe of dark brickwork and ugly green spiked gates. Once again, he is standing unaccompanied. Another late pick-up. Abandoned once more and left to fend for himself.