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 sitting 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?
While Aiden scribbled in the notebook, I resisted the urge to step closer and lean over his shoulder. Aiden deserved a moment to express himself. There was a terrible tale inside him that one day he would need to tell the world.Let him breathe, I thought to myself.
Slowly, Aiden’s hand came to a stop. I wasn’t close enough to see what he had drawn, but I knew he had been scribbling rather quickly, veering his fist from one side of the page to the other as he worked the pen.
“That’s wonderful, Aiden,” said Dr Foster as Aiden pushed the book back to her. “And what is this a drawing of? Is it the place you were when you were away?”
My heart skipped a beat, but Aiden’s face gave nothing away. He was as blank and calm as always.
“Shall we show this to your mum?” Dr Foster asked.
He didn’t reply, of course, but I stepped towards the table anyway. With a face as pale as milk, Dr Foster lifted the sheet of paper. It was filled with one untidy, black scribble with ferocious pen strokes that almost completely filled the page.
ChapterEleven
Icould’ve kicked myself for not thinking to give Aiden a pen and some paper before the psychologist saw him. Aiden was always a visual child. He hated colouring books as a child, preferring to scribble or paint on blank sheets of paper. I bought him his first watercolour set when he was four. Bishoptown-on-Ouse has an abundance of spots perfect for the exploration of young mothers and their sons armed with a painting set. We found a huge oak tree, which turned into the HQ for a badly-behaved fairy king. Aiden painted orange and red leaves on a thick brown trunk. The Ouse was the perfect spot for a tsunami, so I drew little surfers on top of his blue waves. Aiden loved to paint with colours. He copied the pictures from his favourite comic books, creating his own messy versions of Superman and Spiderman.
He’d grown up with a set of parents who loved art and who loved to paint and draw. And of course, he needed that outlet now. But the picture I saw in that hospital room was not Aiden. It was spiky and harsh. It was painful to look at. Dr Foster gave me the sheet of paper to keep, and even as we were driving home from the hospital, I took the paper out and stared at it, following the lines with my finger.
There were no recognisable shapes within his drawing. There was nothing that could be used in the investigation. Aiden had not drawn us a pretty picture of his prison, nor had he drawn us a map of where he had come from out of the woods. There was nothing except pain and anger in his work, and I didn’t need to be any kind of therapist to see that. But I did feel that it was worth visiting Dr Foster again, so we arranged some dates for over the next few weeks. She pushed things around but managed to fit Aiden in as a priority around her other clients, and I was grateful for that.
The next day, Dr Schaffer informed me that there was little reason to keep Aiden in the hospital. Aside from the old injury on his ankle, there was nothing wrong with him. His growth had been somewhat stunted, but otherwise, he was healthy. I would be taking him home tomorrow.
That Saturday disappeared in a blur as I rushed back to the house, made up the bed in the spare room, and placed the one stuffed toy I’d allowed myself to keep after I declared my son dead. It was a small, soft dragon with red scales that shimmered when the light hit them. My mum had given it to Aiden when he was a baby, representing her Welsh ancestry. I placed it on the pillow and folded the bedding around it to make it look like it had been tucked in. It was silly, but I used to do that when he was a toddler. Then I took the clothes from the shopping bags around the room and folded them into the drawers. Poor Jake had given me his credit card to use and I had gone a little wild, trying to somehow make up for Aiden’s ten years of hell with expensive jeans.
At one point, I dug out a couple of pieces of his artwork and tacked them to the wall. Then I thought better of it and pulled them down again. Aiden wasn’t a little boy anymore. The dragon, though—that had to stay. He had never slept without it when he was little. He needed to know I remembered.
The next morning I woke with butterflies in my stomach at the thought of bringing my son home. With it being a Sunday, Jake was off from work, of course, but I suggested he give us the day to settle in. He agreed, eager to do what was best for Aiden, and, I think, a little guilty about the way he’d reacted in the hospital.
Rob picked me up to take me to the hospital, driving his dad’s car. We’d decided that it would be too much for Sonya and Peter to be there. We wanted to keep this simple and quiet. There was the threat of the press looming above us. They would find out soon, we were certain of that, but how much, and when? That axe was yet to fall.
“Are you ready?” Rob asked as I pulled the seatbelt across my body.
