The Missing. C.L. Taylor

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       Chapter 15

      I’d expected syringes and drug paraphernalia on the floor, or at least the stench of weed, mixed with urine and shit. I’d also imagined piles of rubbish, fast-food boxes, split bin bags, dirty walls and stained mattresses. Instead the walls are white – grubby but not soiled – and decorated with posters and murals. Mark would call it graffiti. There’s a frayed sofa too, an armchair and a low table holding what looks like some kind of screen-printing equipment. A guitar is propped up in the corner of the room along with several piles of books and half a dozen blank art canvases. Two men are sitting on the sofa. One’s reading a book about Andy Warhol; the other’s asleep, his head tipped back and his mouth wide open. I should be terrified, shut in a room with three men I don’t know, but I’m too shocked to feel fear. I thought I was about to walk into a drugs den and instead it’s as though I’ve walked into a student flat.

      ‘He was up late working,’ says the large man in the red hoody who hissed at me to come in. ‘He’s off to a festival soon. T-shirts,’ he adds, gesturing towards the screen-printing equipment. ‘He does them all by hand.’

      I feel myself gawp. ‘Squatters work?’

      ‘We all work,’ says the man with the book, looking up, and my cheeks burn. Did I just say that aloud? ‘Jay busks and—’

      ‘You don’t work,’ says Red Hoody who must be Jay. ‘You’re a student.’

      ‘I use my brain,’ says the man on the sofa. ‘It’s work, believe you me.’

      ‘I’d offer you a cup of tea,’ says Jay, ‘but the council shut off the electric last week. We’ve still got water though, if you want some?’

      ‘No, thank you.’

      He’s holding Billy’s flier, crumpled up in his hand, but no one has mentioned my son since I walked in. And there’s no sign of the bike.

      ‘Have any of you seen Billy?’ I gesture at the flier.

      Jay shakes his head. The art student shrugs. Sleeping man snorts in his sleep and wakes with a start. He stares at me through glassy eyes, then seems to jolt into himself. ‘Who are you?’

      ‘Claire Wilkinson. Billy’s mum. I think you might know him.’

      ‘Billy?’ He scratches his head. ‘I know a Will Turner. Is that him?’

      ‘No. His name’s Billy Wilkinson. He’s fifteen. He disappeared over six months ago. I know he had friends near Gloucester Road.’

      ‘Never heard of him, sorry.’

      ‘You must know him then.’ I turn back to Jay. ‘You let me in.’

      He runs a hand over his ginger beard, finds the end and tugs on it. ‘You were shouting through the letterbox. What else was I supposed to do?’

      I feel myself grow hot under the scrutiny of three pairs of eyes.

      ‘But the bike …’ The door is open on the other side of the living room revealing a dark hall or passageway.

      ‘What bike?’

      ‘I saw you on a bike. A BMX. Distinctive. Yellow and black.’

      ‘And?’ Jay crosses his arms over his broad chest and takes a step back, as though to get a better look at me.

      ‘Could I …’ I take a step towards the hallway. ‘Could I have a look at it?’

      ‘It’s not for sale.’

      The atmosphere in the room has changed. When I entered the house they were amused and curious. Now they want me to leave.

      I hear a sound from beyond the open door, the squeak-squeak-squeak of rusty bed springs and a low groan. Jay and the art student exchange a look. The student hides a smile behind his book. Why are they looking at each other like that? Is Billy here? Are they hiding him?

      ‘All right, lady.’ Jay puts a hand on my arm. ‘I think it’s time for you to go now, don’t you?’

      There’s another sound from beyond the hallway. A moan of pain. The art student sniggers.

      I snatch my arm away from Jay and, before he can react, I dart round him and run across the living room towards the open door. It’s dark in the hallway but I can just make out a bike, propped up against the wall. СКАЧАТЬ