Reported Missing: A gripping psychological thriller with a breath-taking twist Read online

  That was a sudden flash panic. With Chris’s disappearance, it’s something that has gradually morphed, more of a slow, nauseating churn. At first I made myself believe he’d be back, it was a blip, an anomaly. When the police took his things, something fell away. As I watched them walk away from the house and get into the car, I knew deep down then that this was something different, the doubt started to leak in. Then it poured.

  We searched all day for Mum. The damp fog in the air didn’t help. Chris and I looked in many of the places where I have since looked for Chris. The arcades, parks, the beach – although the idea of her in any of these places alone in her condition was surreal to me. In the end she was found walking near a busy dual carriageway in her nighty. A driver spotted her and phoned the police, thankfully. I think she may have been trying to get to our house but I didn’t draw attention to it. Could she really have known how to get there? I felt guilty – guilty that she was desperate to come and see me, that she missed me so much. And guilty that I underestimated her, assumed she couldn’t possibly understand where we lived or how to get there. But like the carers say, she has flashes of lucidity and then they’re gone and sometimes she’s almost like a little girl again.

  We were told to wait at the police station while they went to collect her. When they brought her back, she looked bemused, shivering, her hair blown wild by the wind, her pink furry slippers matted and muddied.

  After that and the panic about the times she had left the gas on, we knew she couldn’t live on her own any longer. It wasn’t safe anymore.

  I’ve come to visit Mum today. I’m trying to gauge how she is.

  ‘I’ve brought you some bonbons, Mum; the strawberry ones that you like.’ I put the paper bag on the table, taking one of the pink, powdery sweets and popping it in my mouth.

  ‘Where’s your dad?’ Mum asks, prompted by seemingly nothing. ‘Where’s your dad? I want your dad, not you!’ She’s lashing out as if to scratch me, her face twisted up. Sometimes she gets like this, other times she’s perfectly polite, still others docile and dribbling as if drugged.

  Not again, I think. I take a deep breath. Who knows what sparks these sudden thoughts and tangents in her mind now? He’s died dozens of times this month already for Mum. But at least he comes back.

  ‘He isn’t here, Mum; we’ve been through this.’ My voice sounds tighter, exasperated.

  Her eyes well up and she throws the covers back, revealing hairy, varicose-veined legs poking out from the bottom of her nightgown. ‘I want to see your dad!’ She begins to wail, not angrily like sometimes, more a childlike whimper.

  I try shushing her.

  The staff here have told me that it’s OK to fib. It’s a white lie. ‘Save her the heartbreak all over again,’ they said. I didn’t agree at first; it felt like tricking her, disrespectful, but I relent now.

  ‘He’s just gone to make some tea, Mum. He’ll be back soon with a fresh pot and some biscuits for us all. Chocolate Hobnobs, you like those, don’t you?’ I feel uncomfortable with it, about to abandon the idea, but Mum turns her head and blinks the tears away, calm drifting into her face.

  ‘He’ll be here any minute.’ I nod encouragingly.

  The home, Sea View, is, unsurprisingly, on the seafront. It used to be the biggest hotel in Shawmouth, probably sold out most summers back in the day. Mum and Dad used to tell me how holidaymakers would travel from all over the UK to come here on holiday. ‘The beach would be heaving. You’ve never seen anything like it. There was barely a patch of sand spare,’ Dad would say. I probably wouldn’t believe him if I hadn’t seen the old photos myself. And from the pictures it looked to be true. Blankets and umbrellas as far as the eye could see. Women in swimwear. Who actually sits about in swimwear on Shawmouth sands these days?

  A few years ago, Shawmouth was named ‘One of Britain’s worst beaches’ by some travel website. I remember Jeannie emailed it to me. They said the sewage spewing into the sea was toxic, high levels of bacteria. ‘Finally putting Shawmouth on the map,’ everyone round here joked.

  The nursing-home residents often sit in the window, blankets on their knees, looking out to the sea. Mum sometimes gets confused and thinks she’s on holiday in Blackpool again. We used to go for the day when we were younger to see the illuminations. Then her and Dad would go for a few days on coach trips with friends from their social club.

  It was only after Dad died that I realised how bad Mum had got. He had a massive heart attack in the garden and that was it; he just keeled over and died. People would say after, ‘Bless him, he loved his cooked brekkies though, didn’t he?’ and, ‘If only he’d given up smoking,’ as if the idea that his death was perhaps preventable was some sort of consolation, when in fact it made it all the more upsetting. To think it was maybe partly his own fault, my fault, Mum’s fault.

  Before, Mum and Dad were always out and about – down the pub with friends on a Saturday; Zumba for Mum on a Wednesday; Dad would meet his mates on a Sunday afternoon. He had never mentioned she was having any issues. I didn’t visit as much as I should have from London.

  She went downhill pretty fast after he died. She started forgetting things, small things at first… where she’d put things. She’d struggle with people’s names, repeat herself over and over. I’d notice it on the phone and when we got the train down every few weekends. Sometimes she seemed unable to comprehend even basic information. At first I thought it was just part of the grieving process; that her mind was on other things, like mine always seems to be: it won’t focus.

  So we moved here, to Shawmouth. Somehow, I thought everything would improve then. But Mum started getting confused about who I was. She wasn’t washing, an unpleasant musky smell emanating from her that I tried to ignore. I couldn’t look after her anymore. I couldn’t keep dashing out of work in the middle of the day. I know she would understand. It wouldn’t work, her living with me. But I still feel guilty about leaving her here, thinking of her alone at night, bewildered in the afternoons.

  Mum shifts again, her eyes upturned. ‘Is Chris with you?’

  ‘Not today, Mum. I already told you. He has to work.’

  She smiles but her eyes look panicky.

  I try to visit Mum at the nursing home on weekdays now. Rarely on a weekend. There are always too many other people here then.

  Some weeks, Mum’s really the only person I see or speak to, if I don’t see Jeannie or go to Barnacles. When I did go on a weekend at first, Mum would get anxious when everyone kept looking over, when it was all in the papers. I’m not sure if she fully understood why. Maybe it would be different now things have died down – well, had died down. But the staff here say that routine is good for her.

  Some cookery show is starting on the TV in Mum’s room and she claps in excitement. I smile to myself. Mum never could cook. Maybe that’s why I can’t either. We sit watching it in silence for a while.

  I must have dropped off to sleep because I wake with a jump that makes my chest hurt. Mum has knocked a glass of water onto the floor from the bedside cabinet. The sleeping pills make me so groggy.

  She is starting to get agitated again, the covers are lifted up and her head is under them as if searching for something.

  I gently move the covers down. ‘Mum, what are you doing?’

  ‘My ring is gone.’ She is rubbing frantically at her finger, scratching the skin red raw.

  ‘We took it off, Mum, you remember. We took your ring off ages ago now, didn’t we? Because your finger had got a little bit swollen.’ This was months ago, maybe the start of the year. I remember the screams of pain as we wiggled the ring off with washing-up liquid. We almost had to have it cut off, Mum’s sausagey finger pulsing inside it, squelching around the band.

  ‘I want my ring!’

  ‘Not now, Mum, please. I really… I just can’t do this now. Why are you going on about this now?’

  ‘I want my ring. My wedding ring is gone.’

  ‘For God’s sake. It isn�
�t gone, Mum! It’s right here!’ My face feels hot and I am shouting. I know I shouldn’t be. My fuse; it’s so much shorter these days.

  I storm over to the dresser, tipping out Mum’s little trinket box. A porcelain, heart-shaped dish with a bird for the handle on the top. I slam the lid down, lucky it doesn’t crack. Spreading out the beads and costume jewellery, my fingers search for the familiar shape of the ring. I hold up thin, fragile, gold chains and pearls to check whether it’s become entangled.

  Some clip-on earrings I doubt she will ever wear again – chunky pearl-and-gold flowers, a gold bangle and some green pearlescent rosary beads. I don’t remember the last time Mum went to church. Not for years, though, I’m pretty sure. Dad’s watch is there too – he wouldn’t wear a wedding ring. ‘People just didn’t then,’ they always said. So Mum bought him the watch instead. Somehow it’s still working, and when I lift it to my ear, I can hear it, a dull ticking.

  ‘It’s a quality watch, that,’ Dad would always say. ‘You get what you pay for. They don’t make them like this these days.’

  All these things… just the touch of them sparks a vivid memory… a voice or a smell. I imagine that’s what it’s like for Mum too when for her those memories all get so jumbled up.

  I look again. But the ring is not there. Mum’s wedding ring. I instantly feel upset. I always loved it. She said she didn’t like traditional rings. ‘Boring, too plain.’ So she had an engagement-style ring. As a child, I was transfixed by the large brown stone at the centre of the ring.

  ‘Oh, Mum! What have you done with it?’

  ‘I didn’t!’ wails Mum again. ‘Wasn’t me.’

  I help her to look in the bedclothes and under the bed, although I know it won’t be there. I scan the room slowly, waiting for a twinkle to catch my eye.

  The small gold carriage clock ticks loudly.

  ‘Why did you take it out, Mum? How can you have lost it?’

  ‘Wasn’t me! He took it!’ Mum shouts. Spittle collects in the corner of her mouth.

  ‘Who took it?’

  ‘He did!’ She points at the TV. ‘Brian!’

  ‘Brian? You mean Dad?’

  ‘No, no, no. Him!’ She shakes her head. Quieter. ‘He took it.’

  ‘Well, let me see about finding it today, OK? If you don’t get upset now, I will find it for you today. I’ll do some investigations.’ I tap my nose.

  ‘Simon,’ she says.

  I feel the blood in my ears. ‘Simon?’

  And Mum starts to laugh, covering her mouth with her hands. ‘Simon,’ she says again, more to herself this time. She lays her head back against her pillow and closes her eyes as if she’s tired herself out. I kiss her head. She looks up at me, childlike again.

  On the way out, I look in the TV room where Mum often sits, to see if Simon is around. Even though it’s cold outside, it’s too hot in the home. What felt like a cosy burst of warm air after the wind outside now feels stifling, and I rush to take my Puffa coat off again and carry it over my arm. I know it’s a horrible coat but I don’t care these days. It keeps me warm and I feel like I can hide away in it – I wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing one before. I can feel sweat gathering under my arms and between my legs in my skinny jeans.

  The residents – the staff call them clients but I can’t get on board with that – sit in a semicircle in wooden-legged armchairs around a small TV; it must strain their eyes. A drab room – Anaglypta wallpaper, yellowing in places, and a maroon carpet with a clashing blue and yellow floral pattern. The pictures are all watercolours of children, boats or fruit. Nothing to get excited or startled about. Likewise, the residents are a sea of muted shades – bottle greens, maroons and fawns, some military blue. No shocking pinks or drop-dead reds here.

  The air smells of sweet, powdery air freshener and cleaning products.

  I try the dining room but it’s empty, the places set for the next meal, in each a rectangular placemat and plastic-handled cutlery. As I start down the corridor to leave, I see Simon coming out of the staff kitchen. He’s probably just starting work.

  He beams at me, his black hair looking floppy and freshly washed, falling over his eyes. He’s a carer here at the home, one of the few things that eases my guilt about Mum living here. He looks crumpled, like he’s just woken up. I’ve often wondered if he lives here. Some of the staff are residential, at least part of the week. I am curious about Simon’s real life. He still seems very youthful, but the few lines around his eyes and the grey flecks at his temples tell me he must be older. At least my age, thirty-five? Most likely a little older.

  He’s wearing similar clothes to usual: faded brown cords that kick out at the bottom, making his legs look cartoon-skinny, and a burgundy hoody, a band T-shirt I don’t recognise. Soft features, long eyelashes.

  ‘Hi, Rebecca. How goes it?’

  ‘Oh, you know.’ I force a smile.

  He pauses to think and then gestures backwards towards the kitchen, inviting me for one of our regular cuppas. He makes a show of pulling out the chair for me to sit down, mock chivalry. I start to reply with a curtsy, then I stop halfway. I remember what Mum said, the beautiful brown stone in the ring.

  ‘You going to see your mum?’

  ‘Just been… How do you think she is?’

  He considers before he answers me. To remember my mum’s behaviour or to choose his words carefully? ‘Not bad. A bit tired actually.’ I notice he avoids my eye. ‘She’s been a bit agitated, you might have noticed?’

  ‘Yeah, a little.’

  ‘She’s been awake in the night. You know how she is; she goes through phases where she’s more confused than at other times. When I’m on night shift, I’ve been listening to the radio with her and sitting in there until she falls asleep. Don’t worry about her, she’s in good hands here. We’re looking after her. You need to make sure you’re looking after yourself, you know. She can sense it, don’t underestimate that. Mums know, and all that.’

  ‘Thanks. I am, I promise.’

  He raises an eyebrow. Do I look that bad?

  ‘You’re going to get me shot,’ Simon says, ‘encouraging me to skive off like this.’ He has his back to me in the staff kitchen and is pouring milk into sage-green cups.

  He looks more serious when he turns round. ‘Actually, to be honest... I mean she’s fine, absolutely fine. But, like I say, she has been a little more agitated recently. You know, like before…’

  The atmosphere becomes less chatty and jokey, the frost setting in after the word ‘before’.

  He keeps his back to me to say the next thing. ‘I suppose it’s with it cropping up on the news and everything.’

  ‘She shouldn’t watch it… I did tell you not to let her.’

  ‘She is an adult, Rebecca. We can’t police what she takes in all the time. You can talk to her about it a bit, you know. She might not remember or understand everything but sometimes it’s best to carry on as normal.’

  ‘Ha, normal.’ I get like this, snipey. Simon has seen it before. But he doesn’t deserve it. I scrutinise his face. There’s a faint scar above his lip that I hadn’t noticed before, lightly puckered. He stares back at me for a few seconds, then his face relaxes again and he glances away.

  We’ve talked a lot at this table. When Mum first came in there were a lot of tears. He helped me manage things, find more information, navigate the official system. Who to contact, how to fill in forms. It’s well beyond what he’s expected to do as part of his job and I was touched at how far he went out of his way. He also helped me understand what to expect – about what Mum could and couldn’t do, how she might decline. And he showed me how to interact with her again, in this new, unfamiliar way.

  And after Chris left too, we talked a lot. Having Mum to talk about took the focus off me. The back of my neck prickles.

  ‘Anyway’ – he breaks the silence – ‘it might not be that. It’s common for people like your mum to go through mood swings, off periods. It’s not alw
ays an external influence. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it, with everything that you’re going through, but you’re here now. And we agreed to be honest with each other, didn’t we?’

  ‘She’s lost her wedding ring. Reckons someone’s nicked it. Ugh. Have you seen it?’

  ‘Me? Doesn’t ring any bells from washing her. Could it have slipped off?’ He seems breezy.

  ‘No, she wasn’t wearing it. It was in her jewellery box, remember? We had to take it off her. It was too tight.’

  He scratches his head. ‘Oh, yeah.’

  ‘I’d hate for her not to have that ring.’

  ‘OK. Leave it with me. I’ll keep a close eye on her and keep you updated. OK?’

  ‘Yeah, ta.’

  He turns away and busies himself putting the milk back in the fridge.

  ‘How come you’re here, Simon, in Shawmouth?’

  His head whips around.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘I don’t remember you from school. Do I?’

  A flush up his cheeks, his eyes fixed.

  ‘No, I know I am pretty forgettable, but don’t worry, we didn’t go to school together.’

  ‘It’s fine, you don’t have to tell me. I’ve just always wondered.’

  ‘I just came for the job.’

  I find this hard to believe.

  ‘Really? You moved here, for this job?’

  ‘Yep. I’ll tell you what I reckon would be good. Bring some more of those old magazines and photos in.’ He runs the sentences together seamlessly, so I don’t have a chance to ask him more about it. The subject is obviously closed. ‘She really responded well to those from when you were little and when she was younger. She was looking at the ones of her and your dad again, you know, when I popped in the other day. You know that one of them at the beach? She said that’s Blackpool and that she and your dad had gone dancing there at the top of the tower. She said it was 1971 – their wedding anniversary.’