I’d taken them two Christmases ago, the last time our family was complete. When it was all of us together, not six minus one. Now I was terrified it was about to become minus two.
The photo was from early on Christmas Day, when James had been dancing and miming to his new Michael Jackson CD while Robbie was in his own prehistoric world, with a Diplodocus and something else with a spiny back fighting for power. Emily had been making herself giggle popping bubble wrap with her feet.
I recalled how Simon seemed oblivious to the wonderful chaos. Instead, he’d looked around at the family he’d helped create like he’d never seen them before. In one picture, he seemed fixated by the face in the high chair smiling back at him. There was something blank about his expression that wasn’t the Simon I remembered. So I picked another photo instead: all smiles. That’s how I wanted people to see him, as my Simon. Because that’s the Simon I desperately needed to come home.
12.45 p.m.
Word of Simon’s disappearance spread like wildfire because it had to. If he was lying injured somewhere, then time was of the essence to find him. So, under police supervision, our friends in the village formed a search party.
Dozens of people of all ages, along with neighbours we’d never met, hunted for him in fields, along country roads, in copses and church grounds. Police divers tackled streams, ponds and canals.
I stood by the fence in the back garden with my arms wrapped around myself, willing my tremors to stop. I watched as blurred figures fanned out across the fields. I dreaded hearing a voice suddenly shouting that they’d found something. But the sound of their feet trampling the crops was all the wind carried back to me.
Later, I joined Roger and WPC Williams in searching the house from top to bottom for anything out of the ordinary. It was invasive, but I gritted my teeth and accepted it because I knew they had a job to do.
We searched through the antique writing bureau, paper by paper, folder by folder, ploughing through old bank statements and phone bills for ‘signs of unusual activity’. Simon’s passport, chequebook and bank card were in their usual place in the drawer, next to mine. I examined each of the scores of receipts he kept in shoeboxes, dating back years.
Elsewhere, police checked his records with his doctor and trawled through his office paperwork with Steven. Neighbours were questioned, and even the milkman and our poor paperboy were given the third degree. But Simon simply hadn’t been seen.
WPC Williams asked me to narrow down what he might have been wearing, so I rummaged through his wardrobe. Suddenly I recalled Oscar waiting nervously by the front door the day before. It hadn’t registered at the time, but Simon’s running shoes had been by the dog’s side. This puzzled me. It meant he hadn’t, as I’d presumed, gone for a jog. So WPC Williams was right: he could have disappeared during the night. But where had he gone so late, or so early, and why? And why hadn’t he taken his wallet or keys?
‘How are you getting on there, Mrs Nicholson?’ yelled WPC Williams from the foot of the stairs. ‘Have you found anything?’
‘No, I’ll be down in a minute,’ I lied, and perched on the ottoman trying to fathom out the unfathomable. I don’t know why, but I felt it best to keep my realisation to myself. She doubted him already and I wasn’t keen to prove the smug cow right.
With the arrival of a Herald & Post reporter came police reinforcements in a transit van. Three handlers with barking German shepherd sniffer dogs came into the house to pick up a scent from Simon’s clothes. Oscar cowered in the pantry, unable to understand why his world had become such a confusing, noisy place.
‘I know how you feel,’ I whispered, and bent down to kiss his head.
5.15 p.m.
I’d had no choice but to lie to the children again when I’d picked them up from school in the car. Robbie and James punched their fists in the air when I said I was taking them to the cinema to see a new Disney film.
I’d accepted Roger’s advice and got them out of the village so they wouldn’t ask why so many people were in the streets and fields on a weekday. I wanted to keep them in a world of cartoon make-believe before reality hit them. As they crammed in as much popcorn and as many iced lollipops as their mouths allowed, I casually mentioned that Daddy had been home at lunchtime to pick up some fresh clothes.
‘He’s flying to a different country for work, in a huge plane, like the one we flew in to Spain,’ I said. ‘He’ll only be gone for a few days.’
They loved the thought of him on a big adventure somewhere across the sea. Robbie said it made him sound like Indiana Jones.
‘And Daddy asked me to take you all to the cinema for a treat and to remind you he loves you very much and he’ll be home soon.’
‘Thanks, Daddy!’ shouted James, lifting his head up to the sky to wave to an imaginary aeroplane.
As soon as the film’s opening credits began, I wondered if an early evening out to cover up a gigantic lie was the right thing to do. But how could I expect them to understand their dad had vanished when I didn’t understand it myself? I couldn’t tell them the truth because I didn’t know what the truth was.
I stared at the screen for an hour and a half, not taking in a single word or animated image. I couldn’t stop thinking about Simon’s running shoes. If he hadn’t gone for a run when he left the house, then where had he gone? And why? I went round in so many circles I began to feel queasy.
But amongst the confusion, I was still certain of one thing. Simon hadn’t left us of his own free will.
8.40 p.m.
I pulled into the drive soon after fading daylight forced the search party to come to a halt. A tired Robbie and James trudged up the staircase and into the bathroom to brush their teeth. I hurried into the kitchen and found Steven and Baishali, who’d brought Emily back from Paula’s house.
‘Have you heard anything?’ I asked hopefully.
‘Sorry,’ she replied, and I felt my bottom lip quiver. She looked at me apologetically and rose to her feet to hug me. But I put my hands up to form a barrier.
‘I’m okay, honestly. I’d better check on the kids.’
‘I wasn’t sure whether to tell you this,’ she began, and then stopped.
‘Tell me what?’ As much as I loved her, Baishali’s fear of saying the wrong thing could be frustrating at times, especially now, when all I needed was the truth.
‘You had a couple of visitors earlier.’
‘Who?’
‘Arthur and Shirley,’ she replied, then stared at the floor like a guilty child.
I sighed. In the chaos of those twenty-four hours, I’d asked Roger to fill in Simon’s father and stepmother, and then promptly forgot about them. I was too tired to go into battle tonight.
‘I wouldn’t keep them waiting for too long,’ added Baishali, reading my mind. ‘You know Shirley’s like a dog with a bone if she thinks someone’s not telling her something.’