I find a café to drown my sorrows, drinking a strong black coffee as I fire off my CV to another recruitment agency. I have a hefty mortgage and no job, but until something comes along I still have a purpose—a chance to do something meaningful. A chance to help Maxine and her son.
Market Square is a wide open expanse of gray granite bounded by the old Council House to the east and a water feature—its fountains out of action—to the west. All the way around the main square are handsome late-nineteenth-century buildingsmixed in with ugly gray 1960s blocks that were home to dozens of shops, pubs, bars, and restaurants.
I’m a few minutes early, so I take up position in front of the large statue of a reclining lion that flanks the left side of the steps. The left lion is the traditional meeting place for anyone who knows the city even a little, one of a pair of statues that guard the entrance to the council building.
The square is busy, as usual. Office workers eating sandwiches on their lunch break, shoppers laden with bags, a group of teenage skateboarders lounging on the steps next to me, laughing and joking, phones pointed at one of their mates as he tries to flip his board and land on it right side up.
There is a faint but lingering smell of weed on the breeze. A silver-and-green tram winds its way slowly down the hill and around the edge of the square, stopping in front of the Wetherspoons to disgorge passengers onto South Parade.
Just as I’m starting to think Maxine has stood me up, I turn back to find a young man in a black leather jacket making his way toward me. He’s in his early twenties, with wild black hair and dark-framed glasses, making steady but careful progress with the aid of a metallic walking stick. He stops in front of me as if sizing me up.
“Adam?” His voice is calm and quite soft.
In person, the resemblance to his mother is even more striking. Perhaps a few inches taller but the same slight build, the same cheekbones, the same dimple in his chin.
“Yes,” I say. “Hi, you must be… Charlie?”
“Yeah.” He extends a hand and we shake. “Mum says sorry we’re late. It was a nightmare finding parking so she dropped me a bit closer.”
“No problem.”
He points across the square. “There’s a little place just off Friar Lane that she likes. She’s going to meet us there.”
We make our way down to the café—an old-fashioned place called Stapley’s Tea Room—Charlie walking steadily beside me accompanied by thetap-tap-tapof his stick on the pavement.
“Cerebral palsy,” he says. “In case you’re wondering. Most people stare but don’t want to ask, or they just assume the stick is a fashion accessory.”
“Sorry.”
“For what?” His tone is even, as if this is a conversation he’s had many times. “Mum had me by emergency C-section, cord was wrapped around my neck when I was born.”
Maxine is already at the counter when we arrive, greeting me with a hesitant wave and asking what I’d like to drink before following her son to a table tucked away in the far corner. Only two other tables are occupied, a pair of elderly ladies sipping tea and a couple with a teenage son in the seat by the window. The air is filled with the smells of freshly ground coffee beans and the sharp sweetness of thickly iced cakes on the counter.
I take off my backpack and pull out a chair. Charlie sits down stiffly opposite me, propping his walking stick against the wall and appraising me with careful, intelligent eyes.
“Mum’s not stopped talking about you,” he says quietly. “You’re not a practical joker are you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“You don’t look the type.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “But then again, it can be hard to tell.”
I start to explain what had led me to his mother’s house yesterday when Maxine arrives with the coffees on a tray, setting a cappuccino down on the table in front of me.
“Thanks for coming,” she says. “Charlie wanted to meet you too. I hope that’s OK.”
“Of course.”
She’s wearing white jeans and trainers, with a lightweight beige jacket that she makes no move to take off, despite the warmth of the café.
“This is so weird,” she says abruptly, shaking her head. “Still can’t get my head around it.”
“I can’t begin to imagine how hard it’s been for you.”
“Sorry.” She holds both hands up. “It’s just been so long since we heard anything, likeanythingat all, about Adrian’s disappearance. So long since anyone even mentioned him apart from us. I’ve just got used to having zero expectations, got used to the idea that we’re never going to know what happened, where he went, or where… where he is now.”
“I hope I can help.”
“Sorry,” she says again. “Had to get that off my chest. I was awake half the night thinking about it.”
