Missing Joseph

“It’s colder in here than outside,” Nick said. He zipped his bomber’s jacket and beat his hands against his arms.

“Here,” she said. She sat on the cot and patted the spot next to her. When he dropped down beside her, she took up the eiderdown that served as a coverlet, and they wore it like a cape.

He loosed himself from it long enough to produce the Marlboros he favoured. Maggie returned him his matches and he lit two cigarettes at once, one for each of them. He inhaled deeply and held his breath. Maggie pretended to do the same.

More than anything, she liked the nearness of him. The sound of his leather jacket rustling, the pressure of his leg against hers, the heat of his body, and — when she gave a quick look — the length of his eyelashes and the heavily lidded, sleepy shape of his eyes. “Bedroom eyes,” she’d heard one of the teachers call them. “Bet that bloke’ll be giving the ladies something nice to remember in a few more years.” Another had added, “I wouldn’t mind something nice from him now, actually,” and they all had laughed, stopping abruptly when they realised Maggie was close enough to hear. Not that they knew anything about Maggie and Nick. No one knew about them except Josie and Mummy. And Mr. Sage.

“There was an inquest,” Maggie said reasonably. “They said it was an accident, didn’t they? And once the inquest says it’s an accident, no one can say anything else. Isn’t that it? They can’t do another. Don’t the police know that?”

Nick shook his head. The cigarette glowed. He tapped ash onto the carpet and ground it in with the toe of his shoe. “That’s the trial part, Mag. You can’t be tried twice for the same crime, unless there’s new evidence. Sort of. I think. But that doesn’t matter because there wasn’t any trial in the first place. An inquest’s not a trial.”

“Will there be one? Now?”

“Depends on what they fi nd.”

“Find? Where? Are they looking for something? Will they come to the cottage?”

“They’ll be talking to your mum, that’s for sure. They’ve already been holed up tonight with Mr. Townley- Young. I got money says he must’ve phoned for them in the fi rst place.” Nick gave a little chuckle. “You should’ve been there, Mag, when he came out of the lounge. Poor ol’ Brendan was having a gin with Polly Yarkin and T-Y went white to his lips and dead-cod stiff when he saw them. They weren’t doing nothing but drinking, but T-Y had Bren outa that pub faster ’n anything. His eyes just sort of shot laser blasts at him. Like in a fi lm.”

“But Mummy didn’t do anything,” Maggie said. She felt a small, burning point of fear in her chest. “It wasn’t on purpose. That’s what she said. The jury agreed.”

“Sure. Based on what they were told. But someone might’ve lied.”

“Mummy didn’t lie!”

Nick seemed to recognise her fears immediately. He said, “It’s okay, Mag. There’s nothing to worry about. Except that they’ll probably want to talk to you.”

“The police?”

“Right. You knew Mr. Sage. You and him were mates in a way. When the police investigate, they always talk to all the dead bloke’s mates.”

“But Mr. Shepherd never talked to me. The inquest man didn’t. I wasn’t there that night. I don’t know what happened. I can’t tell them anything. I—”

“Hey.” He took a final, deep drag of his cigarette before he squashed it against the stone wall behind them and did the same to hers. He put his arm round her waist. At the far side of the ice-house, Nick’s radio was hissing spasmodically, its station lost. “It’s okay, Mag. It’s nothing to worry about. It’s nothing to do with you at all. I mean, you didn’t exactly kill the vicar, did you?” He chuckled at the very impossibility of the thought.

Maggie didn’t join him. At heart, it was all about responsibility, wasn’t it? Responsibility with a capital R.

She could remember Mummy’s anger when she’d been told of Maggie’s visits to Mr. Sage’s house. To the shrill, outraged defence of “Who told you? Who’s been spying on me?”—which Mummy wouldn’t answer but it didn’t really matter, did it, because Maggie knew precisely who had done the spying — Mummy had said, “Listen to me, Maggie. Have some common sense. You don’t actually know this man. And he is a man, not a boy. He’s at least forty-fi ve years old. Are you aware of that? What are you doing paying visits alone to a forty-fi ve-year-old man? Even if he’s a vicar. Especially because he’s a vicar. Can’t you see the position you’re putting him in?” And to the explanation “But he said I could come for tea when I wanted. And he gave me a book. And—,” her mother said, “I don’t care what he gave you. I don’t want you to see him. Not in his house. Not alone. Not at all.” When Maggie had felt the tears rise in her eyes, when she let them trickle down her cheeks while she said, “He’s my friend. He says so. You don’t want me to have any friends, do you,” Mummy had grabbed her arm in a grip that meant listen-and-don’t-you-dare-argue-withme-missy, saying, “You stay away from him.” To the petulant question “Why,” she released her and said only, “Anything could happen. Everything does happen. That’s the way of the world, and if you don’t know what I mean, start reading the newspaper.” Those words closed the discussion between them that night. But there were others:

“You were with him today. Don’t lie about it, Maggie, because I know it’s the truth. As from now, you’re gated.”

“That’s not fair!”

“What did he want with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t be sullen with me or you’ll regret it more than having disobeyed in the fi rst place. Is that clear? What did he want with you?”

“Nothing.”

“What did he say? What did he do?”

“We just talked. We ate some Jaffa Cakes. Polly made tea.”

“She was there?”

“Yes. She’s always—”

“In the room?”

“No. But—”

“What did you talk about?”

“Stuff.”

“Such as?”

“School. God.” Mummy made a noise through her nose. Maggie countered it with “He asked did I ever go to London? Do I think I’d like to see it? He said I’d like London. He said he’s been there lots. He even went for a two days’ holiday last week. He says people who get tired of London oughtn’t be alive. Or something like that.”

Mummy didn’t reply. Instead, she watched her hands grating and grating and grating some cheese. So fast she held the block of cheddar that her knuckles were white. But not as white as her face.

Maggie felt comfortable with the advantage indicated by Mummy’s silence, and she pressed it. “He said we might go to London sometime on an excursion with the youth group. He said there’s families in London who’d let us stay so we wouldn’t even have to find a hotel. He said London’s grand and we could go to museums and see the Tower and go to Hyde Park and have lunch at Harrod’s. He said—”

“Go to your room.”

“Mummy!”

“You heard me.”

“But I was only—”

Mummy’s hand stopped her words. It moved in less than an eye-blink to slap her face. Shock and surprise, far more than pain, brought the tears to her eyes. Anger came with them, as did the desire to hurt back in kind.

“He’s my friend,” she cried. “He’s my friend and we talk and you don’t want him to like me. You never want me to have any friends at all. That’s why we move, isn’t it? Over and over. So no one will like me. So I’ll always be alone. And if Daddy—”

“Stop it!”

“I won’t, I won’t! If Daddy fi nds me, I’ll go with him. I will. Wait and see. You won’t be able to stop me, no matter what.”