The Shadow House(66)

‘Eat.’ April said again, but Renee shook her head.

Over by the back door, Michael was deep in conversation with a male officer. His arms were folded, his legs spread, and his hefty brows were knitted together in a deep frown of concentration. He nodded slowly and thoughtfully with his gaze locked firmly in the middle distance. It was an action hero’s stance, a projection of calm and cooperation. But Renee could see it for what it really was. A veil. A pretence. A tightly sewn costume. To the cops, he was a capable man dealing admirably with a dreadful situation. But Renee saw his bloodshot and shadow-ringed eyes, his hollow cheeks and trembling nostrils. She saw the way his clothes hung awkwardly from his increasingly thin frame. Inside those clothes, Renee knew, deep under his sun-scarred skin, her husband was beside himself with anguish.

A part of her, the part that remembered the people they used to be, longed to go to him and stand beside him in her own costume; lean on him, weep, let him comfort her. She knew he wanted to play the stoic, the rock of the family, because that’s what his father had taught him to be. Impenetrable. Impermeable. A real man. Len Kellerman’s son. That’s right, officer, I have this all under control.

Michael’s mother had died when he was very young, so he’d been raised almost solely by his father, who’d belonged firmly to the ‘boys don’t cry’ school of thought. He’d called Michael a ‘sissy’ and ‘weak’. He’d taught his son to toughen up, play sports, eat meat, drink beer, farm the land. He’d given him ‘survival skills’. What to do in the wilderness, in a fight, in a war. He’d talked constantly about ‘bugging out’, ‘marauders’ and ‘level three situations’; how they would escape in the event of a total societal breakdown or a nuclear attack. But he’d never taught Michael how to cope with an emotional crisis. So now that this abyss had opened up, Michael was at a loss.

Unfortunately, he was on his own. Renee could barely breathe, let alone comfort anyone else. She sat there, fuzzy and numb, while a different officer, a woman with kind eyes and soft brown hair, repeated a string of questions. Yes, Renee nodded, her lips barely moving, Gabriel’s school bag was missing. His sketchbook and some pencils. Yes, some of his clothes had gone, too. Food from the pantry. And she couldn’t find her credit card, although she might’ve lost that. No, she wasn’t in the habit of losing her bank cards. Yes, Gabe’s bedroom door had been locked, as had the front door, and she’d secured the latch on the window. The latter was old though, and needed replacing. Why hadn’t she put a bolt on that, too? Stupid, stupid.

The kind-eyed officer made a note. Renee knew what the evidence suggested. She just couldn’t believe it.

Renee caught the flash of movement for a third time. Silver hair, white skin. Bess Hassop, circling the house, trying to help. Go home, Bess, she thought. There’s nothing you can do. What’s done is done.

A rumble of thunder from outside announced the return of the rain.

Drip, drip, drip.

There were more questions, all of which had been asked before. No real answers. The police were still searching the area. Yes, they’d checked the hospitals, the bus stations, the airport. Yes, they were asking questions at the school. Yes, they were looking through Gabriel’s computer, laptop and phone. Yes, they’d let her know as soon as they found anything.

Renee reached out with her mind, believing with all her might that somewhere her son’s skin, hair, freckles, nails and teeth all still existed. Somewhere, they still filled a space. She closed her eyes and willed herself to see, to feel, to know where exactly in the world that space was.

‘’Scuse me, Mrs Kellerman,’ said the officer, ‘but there’s an elderly lady in a nightgown walking around in the rain outside. Do you happen to know her?’

Renee nodded slowly. ‘That’s my neighbour,’ she said. ‘Ask my husband to call her son. And give her my raincoat, would you? The green one by the front door. She’ll catch her death out there.’


When the detectives left, the silence returned. April, of course, decided it was her job to fill it. ‘Come to church with us tomorrow,’ she said, handing Renee a cup of tea. ‘I think it would help.’

In the armchair opposite, Frank chewed a biscuit while Michael sipped a whisky by the window. Ebony lay at his feet, her head on her paws.

April patted her daughter’s hand. ‘Fine, then,’ she said. ‘Let’s pray together. Right now. As a family.’

Renee felt rather than saw Michael stiffen. She turned in his direction but couldn’t bring herself to lift her gaze. She realised that the two of them barely looked at each other anymore. Renee had learned how to skirt her vision around him, like steering a lawnmower around a tree stump.

‘Count me out,’ Michael said.

‘Please, Michael,’ April said, as though speaking to a small child. ‘I think we all need it.’

Michael pushed himself off the wall and drained his glass. ‘What I need is more alcohol.’

‘I’m sure you do.’ Frank’s voice cut through the quiet. ‘But your wife and son. What do they need?’

Michael turned to face him, his expression strangely still. Beside her, Renee could sense her mother backing off, conceding the stage.

‘Peter, chapter five, verse eight,’ said Frank from the armchair, his hands clasped loosely in his lap. ‘Stay alert and of sober mind. Watch out for your great enemy, the devil. He prowls around like a roaring lion, looking for someone to devour.’