It’s definitely odd her not being here. Her not calling all week. Mark should have known the boys weren’t going to be forever fobbed off with his unconvincing excuses that she probably had back-to-back meetings, that her phone was most likely out of charge, that maybe she’d even lost it.
“Why hasn’t she just used the hotel telephone then?” Seb asked.
“She might have forgotten our numbers.”
“What, all of them? Even the house number.” Seb had looked contemptuous. He was twelve, not six.
None of them have heard from her since Monday morning. She always works away Monday to Thursday, but normally she calls them a couple of times a day, messages on a more or less continuous basis. Messages to remind them what she has left for them in the freezer, what order to eat the organic, homemade meals and how long they take to heat up. She might message to say what time football practice starts or whether there is a permission slip for something or other that needs responding to. Oli in particular is often saying her remote micromanagement is annoying. Mark suspects that, like the time management, Leigh’s concern is secretly appreciated. Often her messages are simply Hi, hope you’ve had a good day. Hi, how was the maths test?!! Hi, just thinking of you.
This week, no one has received a single message.
“I’m not going to school, Dad,” says Oli. “I think you should call the police.”
The doorbell chimes through the house, it seems to everyone that it is louder than it has ever been before. It shakes the walls, thumps the silence that they are stewing in.
“Is that her?” Oli yells down the stairs.
“I don’t think it is. Why would she ring the bell? She has a key.” Yet Mark’s heart quickens a fraction because he wants it to be. He really does. Deep down somewhere, he feels something more powerful than reason; yearning and regret combined. He longs for it to be her; at the same time, he knows it won’t be. It can’t be. It would be a miracle. He wants the miracle; the problem is he doesn’t believe in them.
Oli, as a sometimes-surly almost sixteen-year-old, who spends a lot of time trying to convince his mum and dad that he cares about nothing other than video games and getting his hands on illicit alcohol—and that he cares about his parents least of all—is obviously agitated, no doubt very worried. No amount of shrugging or hair flicking can disguise the fact. Both the boys had refused to go to school. Seb had burst into tears and said if his dad didn’t call the police then he would.
“Let’s just see, shall we?”
“See what?” Seb demanded. “She’s not here to see! That’s the point!”
Mark waited until ten, and then when his calls to Leigh had gone unanswered and they had not heard from her, when there was nothing on the news to explain a severe train or tube delay, Mark had finally called the police.
Hearing the doorbell has brought both boys out of their rooms. They are hovering at the top off the stairs, Mark is at the bottom. A matter of meters but somehow an unbridgeable gulf in that moment. Impassable. Too much. Mark knows he should say something comforting. He can’t think what that might be so instead he mutters gruffly, “I thought you were doing some schoolwork.”
“Couldn’t concentrate,” says Oli.
“Got none,” responds Seb.
“Go and find something to do.” Mark has an unfortunate tendency to come over a bit short-tempered when he is stressed. If Leigh were here, she would put a discreet hand on his arm to gently remind him to go easy on their boys. Her big brown eyes would silently plead for patience. They are frightened too.
But she is not here. That is the problem.
Oli mutters something; Mark doesn’t catch the exact words but gets the gist. Disappointment, disapproval. Fear. The boys stomp off to their separate rooms—hating the uncertainty but appearing to hate their father. Mark’s back bends with the weight of it all. He wants to fold to his knees, fall to the floor, but he has to straighten up. What sort of impression would that give the police if they found him prone and sobbing?
Mark opens the door and feels something whoosh around his being. He shivers for no logical reason. It was probably just the cold air getting into the house, the warmth of the house escaping, but it feels like it is more than that. Mark’s life—as he knows it—rushing out, and trouble charging in.
They tell him their names and show their badges. The woman, DC Clements, is the most senior. The man—a boy really—says he is Constable Tanner. Aware that the boys—Oli almost certainly—will be lurking about, still within earshot and straining to absorb everything that will be said, Mark quickly confirms that yes, he is Mark Fletcher and yes, he called them about a missing person, his wife. Then he hurriedly invites them into the sitting room.
Mark finds himself staring at their uniforms—their radios, their torches, bulky belts and heavy boots—which seem dramatic and belligerent in the family front room. The Fletchers’ house is pretty standard. Possibly a bit messier than average. Most of the furniture is from Next. The soft things are shades of gray and beige, the various tables—console, coffee, side—are a light rustic oak. Matching. Leigh likes things to match. Not that anyone generally notices what does or doesn’t coordinate when visiting the Fletchers because of the mess and clutter. On the other hand, no one is likely to notice that the sofa is a bit saggy, even stained, and the tables have coffee cup rings on them. The war wounds the furniture have picked up over the years—through the boys spilling drinks or not using coasters—are largely covered up by the debris of family life: magazines, newspapers, ironing piles, school bags, books and sports kit. They are the sort of family that gather around the TV most nights. Other than Oli—Oli prefers his own company and mostly skulks in his room unless tempted out by food. A lot of their junk is dumped in the hall as soon as they come home from school and work, but a fair amount makes it into the sitting room too. From time to time Leigh or Mark lose patience with the mess, usually when they’ve lost something—the remote control, a set of keys—and then they threaten a clear-out. Sometimes, they even get around to it. Mark feels a physical pain in his chest as he recalls that Leigh made an effort and tidied the kitchen on Sunday, but she didn’t get to smartening things in here because everything kicked off. The police are still standing.
“Have a seat—take a seat,” he offers. Both officers turn to the sofa and their gazes seem to drift across the mess, a bit helplessly, hopelessly. Mark sweeps at the clutter; carelessly shoving books and trainers off the couch and onto the floor. “Please sit down.” He sounds overly insistent. An instruction, rather than an invitation, which is regrettable. He doesn’t want to come across as aggressive. He wants them onside. He needs them to see him as everyone sees him. Mark is generally known as an easygoing sort of bloke. The secret is, he is not. Not really. Well, not always. Who is? It is just what he is known as. Reputations are not always fair or accurate. Not constant. Some are hard-won and easily lost. Others gained easily but harder to shake.
But no one could expect Mark to be feeling easy right now.
DC Clements smiles and sits down. As she does so, she gestures to the chair opposite hers and Mark takes it, obediently. It is his house but it’s clear to all of them that she is suddenly in charge. Mark doesn’t mind. He needs her to be. He guesses at the police officer’s age—he puts her in her early thirties but her brief yet calming smile suggests a cool confidence beyond her years. Mark has been making jokes about the police looking like kids for a while. When he does so, Leigh tells him not to go on that way. “It ages you,” she insists. Leigh doesn’t look her age and avoids admitting to it if she can.