Close To Home (aka The Summer That Never Was)

“I told him when he was twelve.”

“And before that?”

“Martin is the only father he has known.”

So for seven years, Annie calculated, Luke had accepted Martin Armitage as his true father, then his mother had dropped the bombshell about Neil Byrd. “How did he react to the news?” she asked.

“He was confused, naturally,” said Robin. “And he asked a lot of questions. But other than that… I don’t know. He didn’t talk about it much afterward.”

Annie made a couple of notes as she digested this. She thought there must be more to it than Robin let on, but perhaps not. Kids can be surprisingly resilient. And unexpectedly sensitive.

“Do you still have any contact with any of Neil Byrd’s friends or relatives?” Annie asked.

“Good Lord, no. Neil’s parents both died young – it was one of the things that haunted him – and I don’t move in those sort of circles anymore.”

“May I see Luke’s room?”

“Of course.” Robin led Annie out into the hall, up a flight of worn stone stairs to the upper floor, where she turned to the left and opened the heavy oak door of the second room along.

Annie turned on the bedside light. It took her a few moments to register that the room was black except for the carpeted floor. It faced north, so it didn’t get a lot of sun, and even with the bedside light on – there was no ceiling light – it looked gloomy. It was tidier than she had expected, though, and almost Spartan in its contents.

Luke, or someone, had painted a solar system and stars on the ceiling. One wall was covered with posters of rock stars, and moving closer, Annie noted the names: Kurt Cobain, Nick Drake, Jeff Buckley, Ian Curtis, Jim Morrison. Most of them were at least vaguely familiar to her, but she thought Banks might know more about them than she did. No sports personalities, she noticed. On the opposite wall, written in silver spray paint, were the words “Le Poete se fait voyant par un long, immense et raisonne dereglement de tous les sens.” The words rang a bell, but she couldn’t quite place them, and her French wasn’t good enough to provide her with a clear translation. “Do you know what this means?” she asked.

“Sorry,” said Robin. “I never was any good at French in school.”

Annie copied the words down in her notebook. An electric guitar stood propped against a small amplifier under the mullioned window, a computer sat on a desk, and next to the wardrobe were a mini stereo system and a stack of CDs. She opened the violin case on top of the dresser and saw that it did, indeed, contain a violin.

Annie flipped through the CDs. Most of the bands she’d never heard of, such as Incubus, System of a Down and Slipknot, but she recognized some oldies like Nirvana and R.E.M. There was even some old Bob Dylan. Though Annie knew virtually nothing about the musical tastes of fifteen-year-old boys, she was certain they didn’t usually include Bob Dylan.

There was nothing by Neil Byrd. Again, Annie wished Banks were here; he’d be able to read something into all this. The last CD she had bought consisted of chants by Tibetan monks, to help with her yoga and meditation.

Annie glanced at the contents of the bookcase: A lot of novels, including Sons and Lovers, Catcher in the Rye and Le Grand Meaulnes, alongside the more traditional adolescent fare of Philip Pullman and short story collections by Ray Bradbury and H. P. Lovecraft, a number of poetry anthologies, an oversize book on Pre-Raphaelite art, and that was about it.

Other than that, the room revealed remarkably little. There was no address book, at least none that Annie could find, and not very much of anything except the books, clothes and CDs. Robin told her that Luke carried a battered leather shoulder bag around with him, wouldn’t go anywhere without it, and anything important to him would be in there, including his ultra-light laptop.

Annie did find some printed manuscripts in a drawer, short stories and poems, the most recent of which was dated a year ago, and she asked if she could borrow them to look at later. She could tell that Robin wasn’t keen; mostly, it seemed, for the sake of Luke’s precious privacy, but again, a little prodding in the right direction worked wonders. She didn’t think the creative work would tell her much, anyway, but it might give her some insight into Luke’s character.

There was nothing more to be gained from staying up there, and the black walls were beginning to oppress her, so she told Robin she had finished. They went back downstairs, where Martin Armitage was still sitting on the sofa.

“I understand you sent Luke to Eastvale Comprehensive instead of a public school, like Braughtmore,” Annie said.

“We don’t believe in public schools,” said Martin, his West Yorkshire accent getting thicker as he spoke. “They’re just breeding grounds for effete civil servants. There’s nothing wrong with a comprehensive-school education.” Then he paused and smiled. Annie got the impression it was a gesture that had worked for him often with the media, the sudden flow of charm turned on like an electric current. “Well, maybe there’s a lot wrong with it – at least that’s what I keep hearing – but it was good enough for me, and it’s good enough for most kids. Luke’s intelligent and hardworking. He’ll do fine.”

Judging from her body language – the folded arms and lips pressed together – Annie surmised that Robin didn’t agree, that Luke’s education had been a matter of some heated discussion.

“Is he happy at school?” she asked.

“He’s never complained,” said Martin. “No more than any kid would. You know, he doesn’t like his geography teacher, doesn’t like games, and algebra’s too hard. That sort of thing.”

“He’s not a sports fan?”

“Unfortunately, no,” said Martin. “I’ve tried to get him interested, but…” He shrugged.

“What about the other boys at school? Even if he is, as you say, a bit of a loner, he must have some contact with his classmates?”

“I suppose so, but I’ve never seen any evidence of it.”

“He’s never brought friends to the house?”

“Never.”

“Or asked permission to visit their houses?”

“No.”

“Does he go out a lot?”

“No more than any other boy his age,” said Martin. “Maybe even less.”

“We want Luke to have a normal life,” said Robin. “It’s hard knowing what to allow and what not to. It’s hard to know how much discipline to apply. If you don’t give enough, then the child runs wild, and the parents get the blame. If you keep too strict control, he doesn’t develop naturally, and he blames you for screwing him up. We do our best to be good parents and strike a fair balance.”

Annie, an outsider herself at school because she was brought up in an artists’ commune, the “hippie chick” to the other kids, understood just how alienated Luke might feel, not through any fault of his parents. For a start, they lived in an out-of-the-way place like Swainsdale Hall, a grand place at that; secondly, they were minor celebrities; and thirdly, he sounded like an introverted personality anyway.

“I’m sure you do,” she said. “What did he do yesterday?” she asked.

“He went into the town center.”

“How did he get there?”

“Bus. There’s a good service, at least until after teatime.”

“Did he have any particular reason to go to Eastvale yesterday?”

“Nothing in particular,” Robin answered. “He just loves hunting for secondhand books, and he wanted to look at some new computer stuff.”

“That’s all?”

“As far as I know. It was nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Has he ever stopped out all night before?”

“No,” said Robin, putting her hand to her throat. “Never. That’s why we’re so worried. He wouldn’t put us through this unless something… something awful’s happened.”

She started to cry, and her husband held her, smoothing her silky spun-gold hair. “There, there, darling. Don’t worry. They’ll find him.” All the time his intense eyes were looking right at Annie, as if daring her to disagree. Not that she wanted to. A man used to having his own way. A man of action, too, Annie had no doubt, used to running ahead with the ball and slamming it into the back of the net.