Silent Child(20)
*
DCI Stevenson arrived at the hospital in the afternoon wearing the stone-faced expression of a man carrying bad news.
“The vultures are circling. Reporters have caught wind of the search going on through the woods. It’s only a matter of time before they sniff out the witnesses’ report of seeing Aiden. We’ve told them not to talk to anyone, but these things always come out.”
“Did you find anything in the woods?” I didn’t care about the press, I just wanted justice for Aiden.
Stevenson shook his head. “It was pouring down the night Aiden stumbled out onto the road. His tracks are gone. We’ve tried sniffer dogs using the clothes he was wearing, but they lost the trail pretty quickly. I’ve got a sizeable force out combing the forest for clues. We will find something, but it might take longer than we’d hoped.”
“The fucking press,” Jake muttered. “If they get hold of this it’ll be on every national newspaper. It’s going to be a nightmare. Is there nothing you can do?”
Stevenson shook his head. “These stories always come out. Aiden’s drowning was a big story ten years ago. This is going to be even bigger. I know you’ve been put through hell and back over the last decade, and I hate to say this, but you need to brace yourself. This is going to be tough.”
No one spoke for at least thirty seconds. I think we were all contemplating—in our own ways—how our world was going to change once the press caught onto the story of Aiden’s reappearance. It was probably our last day of having Aiden to ourselves without the media hounding us every hour of the day. We spent it sat in his hospital room, staying close as he impassively allowed the doctors and nurses to prod and poke him. At one point I dared to hold his hand as they drew blood, forcing myself not to flinch as the needle pierced his skin. He had been through worse, and I hadn’t been there to hold his hand during those horrific times.
The child psychologist was a woman in her forties with flowing clothes—a long, purple skirt, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, and clumpy clog-like shoes. Though her appearance wasn’t particularly professional, she did have a comforting presence, like everyone’s favourite aunty. She spoke softly, clearly, and gently.
“Hello, Aiden. My name is Cathy, and I’m here to ask you a few questions and see how you’re doing. Is that all right?”
Aiden remained silent.
“Did… did, um, Dr Schaffer warn you about Aiden’s present state?” I asked.
Cathy—who had introduced herself to me as Dr Foster—nodded and smiled. “He did. That’s okay. We’ll take our time with Aiden.” She turned back to him. I’d bought Aiden some new clothes that morning, so he was wearing a pair of jeans with a plain blue jumper. I had wanted to buy him something trendy, something a normal teenager would like, but I didn’t know what a sixteen-year-old boy would want to wear. When I was sixteen I wore nothing but black. My dad would balk at the length of my skirt or the coating of eye-liner around my eyes, and Mum would just roll her eyes. Somehow I didn’t think Aiden was interested in rebelling against me just yet.
Aiden sat quietly at a little table in the corner of his hospital room. Dr Foster joined him at the table, sitting opposite him. The psychologist reached into her bag and removed a notepad and pen. “Would you like to write or draw anything, Aiden?”
I watched eagerly as Dr Foster pushed the notepad and pen across the table. I rubbed one hand with the other, hoping and wishing he would lift the pen. If he could communicate with us in even the smallest way, that would be something. It would be wonderful.
Aiden stared down at the notepad but didn’t make any move to pick up the pen. I chewed on my bottom lip, while Rob stood on my right side and Jake hovered on my left. DCI Stevenson had left us in the care of two ‘family liaison officers’ while he went back to the police station to work on the case. They were waiting in the corridor to give us some space. Denise and Marcus, they were called. Dr Schaffer was doing his rounds on the ward. As much as it felt like Aiden was the only child in the world, he wasn’t. He wasn’t even the only child in the world who had been through the same suffering.
“Perhaps you could draw us a nice picture,” Dr Foster went on. “Doesn’t matter what it is, anything that pops into your mind.”
His gaze never moved from the pen and paper, and in my mind I imagined that he really wanted to take the pen. I rubbed my hands again, hoping and praying he would. He leaned forward and I leaned with him, almost stepping towards them. But I didn’t. I hung back, giving them space. It must have been off-putting, having us all watching him like that, but there was no way I was letting the psychologist in the room with him without me there.
Then, in one quick, fluid moment, he snatched up the pen and pulled the notebook towards him. I let out a breath, only then aware that I’d been holding it. Dr Foster glanced up at me with a small, hopeful smile on her face. What if Aiden could write? He’d been proficient for a six-year-old before he was snatched, but I had no idea what he’d been taught or not taught since then. Did he have books where he’d been? Had he kept a diary of his world? I screwed my eyes shut and opened them again. Aiden was drawing in the notepad. He was drawing something.
I turned to Rob and then to Jake, my chest heaving up and down. This was good, it had to be. This was a step in the right direction. Finally. And after this, how long would it be before he started talking again? Then he’d be able to tell us what had happened to him. We’d find his kidnapper and throw him in jail, unless I murdered him first. If it weren’t for prison… I shook my head, forcing the dark thoughts away, though one question remained… Could I?