Local Gone Missing(30)
He got all snippy the other day while I was doing the kitchen sinks. He’d caught Saul looking at cots online and hissed at him, “What are you doing? It isn’t going to happen overnight—it could take up to eighteen months. The agency said so.”
“Not necessarily. Could be much sooner.” Saul had kissed him on the cheek. “Come on, Mr. Grumpy.” It normally works—Toby adores Saul—but he didn’t kiss him back like usual.
“Look, they check these women out for fertility levels,” Saul laughed. “This isn’t ovary lotto.”
* * *
—
“Tobes,” Saul has just called through from the storeroom.
“He’s gone out,” I call back. “He came down fifteen minutes ago and picked up the car keys.”
“Did he say where he was going? We need to move tables together for the birthday booking tonight.”
“Er, no, but I’ll help you. I’ve finished the floors.”
Saul has his phone to his ear when he appears. “Toby! Where are you? Ring me!”
He’s doing it a lot lately. Disappearing without a word. And they’re having rows when they never did before. I wonder if it’s another man. . . . I don’t think Toby’s the type. Saul’s another matter—he’s a terrible flirt—but he’s not the one doing a disappearing act.
* * *
—
My boys are still out when I get home and I sit at the kitchen table. I just need a moment to get myself together before Liam starts asking more questions.
The only thing I have of my brother now is his notebook and I pull it out of its hiding place under the sink. I haven’t shown it to Liam. I knew as soon as I saw the list I didn’t want anyone else to see it. Not even him. This was no one else’s business.
I flip past the names to the pages he kept as a sort of diary. They are scrawled with his milestones—“SIX DAYS!!!! Longest without a drink for years.” “Thirty days since my last drink. Feel like shit.”—and flashes of his fear. “Can’t do this,” he wrote in tiny letters at the bottom of a page as if he was ashamed of even thinking it.
I let myself cry as I read. I can hear his voice as if he’s here with me.
Toward the back, there are a few phone numbers and e-mail addresses. And I wonder if the man who sent a boy to do his dirty work is here. Stuart wouldn’t tell me his name. Didn’t want me getting involved. He said he would deal with it but wouldn’t say what he meant. I’d told him to ring me if he changed his mind but I’ve been trying ever since to remember anything Phil might have said back then about his boss.
The list of names in the notebook is pathetically short. I recognize his sponsor—and Claire and Stuart—but the rest look like street names of friends. Swanky, Doc, Fat Georgie. I go to close the book, and a grimy scrap of paper floats to the floor. An old rent receipt. I pick it up—it’s from December 1999, and my mouth goes dry. But I don’t recognize the address. Phil had so little; why did he keep this? But then I see the company name at the bottom in small print.
Twenty-two
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 21, 2019
Four days earlier
Charlie
Mrs. Lyons smiled at him when he arrived at the Manor. “Ah, Mr. Perry. How nice to see you. Thank you for settling your account.”
Charlie tried to smile back but his top lip stuck to his teeth.
“Er, good afternoon. And thank you for your patience,” he croaked, and cleared his throat.
He went straight through to Birdie and took her into the garden. He had to do it quickly or he’d bottle it.
“Darling girl,” he said, taking her hand.
“What is it, Dad?”
“Look, we need to talk about the future. I’m not getting any younger and I need to make sure you are secure.”
“Why? What’s happened? Are you ill?”
“No, no, nothing like that. It’s just . . . Look, money is a bit tight at the moment. And the thing is, it might mean you moving. Somewhere closer to me so I can pop in and out every day.”
Birdie didn’t say anything. She sat completely still on the edge of the seat. Charlie searched her profile for what she was feeling but there was nothing.
“Darling?”
“I thought you had plenty of money to support me?” she said quietly, turning her face to him. “That’s what you always tell me.”
“Well, I did in the beginning. But this place costs fifteen hundred pounds a week, Birdie.”
“But it’s my home.” And tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes.
“Darling, don’t cry.”
“I’ll have to learn a new place and it’s so hard to keep anything in my head, Dad. Please don’t make me. Please.”
It was breaking his heart and he didn’t trust himself to speak for a minute. He watched the tears running down his daughter’s face and he knew he couldn’t go through with it. He’d have to dig deep and find the money somehow.
“Don’t worry. Daddy will sort it out,” he said before he could change his mind.
* * *