‘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 metres 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 more 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 grey 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 has 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 smarten 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 easy-going sort of bloke. The secret is, he is not. Not really. Well, not always. Who is? It is just what he is known as.
