When You Disappeared
John Marrs
‘There are some things one can only achieve by a deliberate leap in the opposite direction.’
—Franz Kafka
‘Life always waits for some crisis to occur before revealing itself at its most brilliant.’
—Paulo Coelho
PROLOGUE
Northampton, today
8.20 a.m.
The thick tread of the Mercedes’ tyres barely made a sound as it pulled over to the curb.
The passenger sat nervously in the rear, tapping his lips with his forefinger as his gaze met the cottage.
‘That’s twenty-two pounds, mate,’ muttered the driver in a regional dialect he couldn’t place. Most of the accents he’d heard in the past few years were those of commentators on the British sports channels his satellite dish picked up. He fumbled with his deerskin wallet, separating the euros and the sterling that were bunched together.
‘Keep the change,’ he replied as he offered a ten-and a twenty-pound note.
The driver responded, but the passenger wasn’t listening. He opened the door and carefully placed both feet on the pavement, steadying himself with his hand on the frame before settling the door closed and stepping away from the vehicle. He patted out the creases in his bespoke suit while the security blanket of the car disappeared as silently as it had arrived.
Minutes passed by but he remained rooted to the ground. Hypnotised by the white cottage, he allowed waves of long-buried memories to wash over him. This had been their first and only home together. A family home. A home and a family he’d relinquished twenty-five long years ago.
The pink rosebushes he’d planted for her beneath the kitchen window had gone, but for a second he imagined he could still smell their sweet scent in the air. Where once there lay a sandpit he’d dug for the children, now stood a shed adorned with swirls and speckles of jade-and-white ivy slowly changing its form.
Suddenly the front door opened and a young woman appeared, bringing him back to the present with a start. He’d not anticipated another visitor.
‘See you later!’ she shouted, closing the door behind her. She threw the strap of her handbag over her shoulder and smiled as she passed him. It wasn’t her though – this girl could only be in her late twenties. For a moment he wondered if it could’ve been her daughter and he reciprocated with his own polite smile, then watched her until she walked out of view. But the sight of her had given him butterflies.
James had told him that she’d remained living in the same home, but that conversation had been a year earlier, so there was a chance her circumstances had changed. There was only one way to find out. His heart raced as he drew a deep breath that he didn’t release until he reached the end of the gravel path. He raised his head to look up at what had once been their bedroom.
That’s where you killed me, he thought, then closed his eyes and knocked on the door.
CHAPTER ONE
CATHERINE
Northampton, twenty-five years earlier
4 June, 6 a.m.
‘Simon, tell your dog to bugger off,’ I mumbled, and brushed away a moist tongue burrowing its way into my ear.
They both ignored me so I pushed Oscar’s wiry head to one side. Then he plonked his bum defiantly on the floorboards and whined until I gave in. Simon could have slept through World War Three – or worse, our kids jumping all over us like we were trampolines and demanding breakfast. I wasn’t so lucky. My once cherished lie-ins had become a luxury dependent on the needs of three under-nines and a hungry mongrel.
Oscar’s stomach contained a built-in alarm clock that woke him up at six on the dot every morning. Simon could walk him and throw tennis balls for him to fetch, but it was me he wanted to feed his greedy belly. It wasn’t fair.
I rolled towards my husband and realised his half of the bed was already empty.
‘Oh, do it yourself, Catherine,’ I grumbled, and cursed Simon for going on one of his insanely early morning runs. I dragged myself out of bed, threw on my dressing gown, shuffled across the landing and quietly opened bedroom doors to check on the sleeping kids. However, one door always remained closed because I still couldn’t bring myself to open it. One day at a time, I told myself. One day at a time.
I went down to the kitchen and filled Oscar’s bowl with that hideous-smelling tinned meat he’d wolf down in seconds. But when I turned to put it on the floor, I was alone.
‘Oscar?’ I whispered, not wanting the kids to barrel downstairs just yet. ‘Oscar?’
I found him in the porch, pacing in an agitated fashion by the front door. I opened it to let him out for a wee, but he stayed by the doormat, staring out towards the woods down by the lane.
‘Please yourself,’ I sighed. Annoyed he’d woken me up for nothing, I traipsed back to bed to steal another precious hour of sleep for myself.
7.45 a.m.
‘Leave your brother alone and help me feed Emily,’ I warned James, who roared as he chased an excited Robbie around the kitchen table with a plastic Tyrannosaurus Rex. ‘Now!’ I warned. They knew they were treading a fine line when I used that tone.
Moving the kids from bedroom to bathroom to kitchen was like chasing reluctant chickens back into a henhouse – as frustrating as hell. Some of the school mums claimed to love the chaos of family breakfasts together. I just wanted my rabble out of the house and into the classroom for some peace and quiet.
James poured his younger sister a bowl of cornflakes as I cut the crusts off their Marmite sandwiches and packed their lunch boxes. Then I slathered Simon’s in Branston Pickle, sliced the bread horizontally – as requested – and wrapped them in cling film and left them on the fridge shelf.
‘You’ve got fifteen minutes until we go,’ I warned, and stuffed their lunches into the carelessly hung satchels on the coat rack.
I’d long given up leaving the house with a full face of make-up on just to take the kids to school, but to make sure I didn’t look like a scarecrow, I scraped my hair into a ponytail and stepped back to check myself in the mirror. Oscar yelped as I trod on his paw – I hadn’t noticed that he’d been oblivious to the breakfast bedlam and hadn’t moved from the doormat.
‘Are you feeling poorly, boy?’ I asked, and bent down to scratch under his beardy chin. I’d give him until the afternoon to perk up, and then perhaps I’d call the vet, just to be on the safe side.
9.30 a.m.
With James and Robbie at school and Emily quietly playing on the sofa, I was up to my elbows ironing Simon’s work shirts and singing along to Boyz II Men’s ‘End of the Road’ on the radio when the phone rang.