I cried for a while. I went through shivers and shakes as the alcohol worked its way out of my body. I scratched at my bandages and refused to talk to Jake as he sat at my bedside reading from his art history books. He came day after day, reading to me as I sat sullenly with my head turned away. He read about the Renaissance, about Caravaggio and his brutish tendencies and murderous temper. He read about Picasso and his painting of Guernica. He read to me every day and soon enough I started to listen.
Instead of picking at my food I began to eat it. I requested water and orange juice rather than sipping on whatever was available when my throat went dry. When it was quiet in the hospital, I turned on the television and watched a few daytime soaps. I even started replying to the nurses when they asked me how I was feeling.
When they released me, I found Mum and Dad’s cottage cleaned up and sparkling. Jake had sorted it all. He’d cleaned up my mess, removed all the alcohol from the house, hoovered, swept up the broken items and thrown them away. He’d even fixed up a few photograph frames I’d destroyed in my rage.
On the coffee table, was a stack of books about Picasso, Caravaggio, Monet and more. John Singer-Sargent, Rembrandt, Da Vinci. There were brand new DVDs on the same subjects piled up next to the DVD player. I thumbed through the books, flicking past the text to get to the beautiful portraits, some of which I’d never seen before. Then I found a new set of paints on the dining room table with a get-well-soon card standing next to it. On the other side of the paints, was an application form for a part time administration job at the school. I sat down and completed it.
I know some people might have been put off by the extraordinary lengths Jake went to, to aid my recovery. There are some women who might have found him creepy or overbearing, but it was everything I needed. Without even a hint of anything more than a platonic relationship, this man had taken his time to see me through the worst possible point of my life. I wasn’t capable of love at that moment—I was too dried out by all the hate that had burned inside me—but I was close to loving him. There was a strong sense of affection blossoming in my blackened shell.
Which is why I allowed myself to become swept up into his life so suddenly. It’s why I failed to see what he really was.
ChapterTwenty-One
It was Friday and there were still no leads about what had happened to Aiden. Marcus, the family liaison officer, informed me that fingerprints and DNA were being collected from various men in the area. Jake and Rob were to be included. I wasn’t sure why they were bothering, since nothing had been found on Aiden the night he was found. Both Jake and Rob were questioned about the day Aiden went missing. Jake had been teaching at the secondary school on the day Aiden was taken. He’d been walking around the school checking the leaking roof. Various members of staff had seen him at that time. Rob had been making his way home from the building site, stuck in traffic outside Bishoptown. I didn’t suspect either of them, but I understood that the men closest to Aiden were likely to be the first suspects.
But watching them go into questioning made me think about the case differently. It had to be someone local. And that meant it might be someone I know.
Aiden was taken from somewhere between Bishoptown school and the river Ouse between 1:15pm and 2:10pm. I had crossed the bridge at around 2:10pm. That was how close I was to my own son being snatched from my life. Sometimes I still lie awake at night and wonder—if I’d just reached out, I might have found him, grabbed him, and kept him close to me. But I could never go back and relive that day. I could never turn back the clock, run to the river, and stop the monster who stole my son. It’s the helplessness that gets to you in the middle of the night, the fact that no matter how safe you think your child is at any given time, there is always someone out there who wants to hurt them.
In the days that followed, in between battling with bureaucracy to get Aiden an identity, I began forming a list of possible suspects. There were five male teachers at the local school, two of whom I’d always found a bit creepy: Simon, the IT teacher, a man in his fifties with a potbelly and dirty fingernails, and Chris, a young PE teacher who made crude, un-PC jokes in the staffroom. Then there was Gail’s weird son, Derek, who ran the local bakery with her. He’d never moved away from home, even at the age of forty, and never had a relationship with either a woman or a man.
They were horrible thoughts, toxic and prejudiced, but I couldn’t help it. Once I pulled at that thread, it went even further. I spent the weekend cooped up in the house, still fuming with Jake over his apparent betrayal, passing all the names of those I suspected to Denise and Marcus, telling them in guilty whispers that perhaps this man was capable of such a crime, or that one. Denise was the one who spent most of her time with us, and she became my main confidante when I had a light-bulb moment about yet another local man. Her response was always, “It could be anyone. We’re doing the best we can.” Once she said, “We don’t even know for sure that the suspect is male.” Of course I’d presumed that it was a man, but she had a point. Though there was evidence of sexual assault, the police hadn’t found any traces of semen on Aiden’s clothes or in his body, and without knowing where he had been confined, it was impossible to know if he really had been abused by a man. Though the thought made me feel physically sick, there was a chance that the kidnapper could be a woman. It might even explain how Aiden was able to escape. He would have had more chance of overpowering a woman than a man.
In those days I rarely left the house, but there were times when it was needed. On Monday, I took Aiden to his second therapy session, and all the way there I couldn’t stop myself from making mental notes of yet more suspects as we drove through the village.
Dr Foster met us with a bright smile, but her gaze lingered on me for a little longer than usual. She could tell I was wired. She sat me down and let Aiden draw. When he was settled, I took more of his artwork out of my bag and showed it to her. She spread the paintings out over one of the tables, but seemed more distracted by me.
“Has something happened, Emma?” she asked. “You seem a little on edge.”
I rubbed one hand over the other. “I read the newspapers. I’ve been reading them all. The stories are insane. They keep insinuating that it’s my husband, Jake, who took Aiden.” I swallowed but my mouth was dry. “It can’t be. I know him.”
“Take your time, Emma. No judgement here, remember. If you need to talk, you can.”
I shook my head. “It’s not just about whether I think it’s true; it can’t be true. He had an alibi. He was working in the school at the time. It’s not possible, but they keep pointing the finger and dragging up some stupid business from his old school.”
“What business is that?” Dr Foster asked.
“Some stupid photograph of him with his arm around a student. He chatted to her on the internet if you believe the newspapers. They were Facebook friends. But that doesn’t mean anything, does it?”
“Do you think it means something?” Dr Foster asked patiently.
“No. I’m letting myself get caught up in the game. The one played by the press. They’re spinning tales that will sell newspapers, finding culprits who don’t deserve to be accused. They’re printing lies about my family.” I took a deep breath and stroked the bump. My back ached, my legs ached, and I was tired.
“I know this is hard. But you need to try and relax. Those stress levels are not good for the baby. Have you been to see your GP recently?”
I shook my head.
“You should go. Just for a check-up.”
I nodded my head and rubbed my eyes, realising she was right. With everything that was going on, I hadn’t concentrated on looking after myself or the baby. I was letting down my unborn child. I hadn’t even thought to concentrate on how often the baby was kicking.
“Now, about Aiden’s art.” Dr Foster stared down at the paintings. “I’m seeing more expression here. He’s forming more shapes and pictures than before. I think this is a door.”
I peered down at the picture she was pointing to. I’d had it the wrong way around before, horizontal instead of vertical. I turned the picture around and examined it properly for the first time. She was right. There was no handle, but it did look like a door. Aiden had used light grey paint to almost completely fill the page, but there was some shading on the sides that indicated hinges. Wherever this door led to, it was almost certainly made from some sort of smooth metal, like a large fridge in a restaurant kitchen.
* * *
The next morningI managed to get to the doctor’s before 10am to get an impromptu appointment. Aiden sat next to me on the chair, quietly looking at a magazine for women. Next to us was a mother with three children, all of them climbing up over the seats like monkeys and throwing the toys from the play area onto the floor. It began with the mother glancing up at me every now and then, as if trying to figure out where she knew me from. Then there was a longer stare, and her eyes widened in recognition. I squirmed in my seat, adjusting my weight and trying to ignore the way she watched me from the other side of the room.
