I didn’t tell Jake about the incident with the scissors, and I especially didn’t tell him about meeting Maeve Graham-Lennox. That, as far as I know, remained a secret between me and the duchess herself.
The next day—a grey October Tuesday—I had a call from DCI Stevenson confirming what I already knew. The duke hadn’t taken Aiden. The duke had been in hospital for long periods of time during the last ten years, there was no evidence of any kind of room that could have been used to keep Aiden captive, and he had an alibi for the day Aiden was taken. He’d been attending a shoot at a different stately home in Yorkshire with a lord who could corroborate his whereabouts. It all brought me back to the beginning. Who took my son? Who did this to him? Who broke him?
I no longer made picnics and pretended that we were eating on Mount Kilimanjaro. I didn’t show him my favourite children’s films and television shows, nor did I hold his hand if we crossed the street in the village. I certainly didn’t talk to him like he was still the little Aiden I’d known ten years ago, if that boy had even existed. I was pulling away, though I didn’t realise it at the time. Yes, the thought of Aiden’s kidnapper still out there made me feel sick, and I wanted little more than for that man to be put behind bars—if it was a man. I remember being on the phone to DCI Stevenson, begging him to look harder. Who could it be? Who was it?
I was withdrawing from them all: From Jake, from Aiden, from Rob, and from everyone else. My dreams drifted between nightmares about Aiden’s attacker, to nightmares about my parents’ car accident, to disturbing but erotic dreams about Rob and Jake. Sometimes Jake wrapped his hands around my throat and squeezed until I couldn’t breathe. I called DCI Stevenson over five times that Tuesday, leaving strange messages with some assistant at the police station: “Look into Brian who runs the White Hart”, “Have you spoken to Jeff from the farm outside Bishoptown?” There had to be something in the farms. They were sprawling with outbuildings. It seemed like a genius idea; why hadn’t I thought about the farms before? I even drove Aiden around the village to see if he reacted strangely to the buildings. Of course, looking back now it didn’t make much sense. Jeff’s farm was miles away from the woods, so unless the farmer had driven Aiden to the woods and dumped him there, chances were he wasn’t the kidnapper.
I started writing to Aiden as I sat in silence and watched him from the kitchen table. I angled myself so I saw him staring at the television set, watching people on daytime TV discuss matters they were unqualified to discuss, and I wrote to him to save myself talking to him. “When you were little, you used to make cakes out of mud and throw them at Nana. She didn’t find it as hilarious as you did though. Do you remember? And when you were four, I readThe Call of the Wildto you. A few chapters every night before you went to sleep. When you were a baby, you were afraid of your own nappies! You’d cryafterI took the nappies off, not before. A little older than three and you were obsessed with hugging everyone and everything even if they didn’t want to be hugged: the leg of a random man in Costa; a tree in the park; the feral cat that roamed the village. You hugged them all and you didn’t care who they were or where they came from. These are all the things I know.” That was how I signed every letter, as a reminder to myself that I did remember his childhood.
“I know you,” I whispered to myself.
But it was a lie, because I didn’t know Aiden at all. He was an alien to me now. His abuse had made him a completely different person, and I couldn’t forgive myself for being so afraid of him, because it’s victim-blaming, isn’t it? Victims shouldn’t have to explain their bizarre actions after trauma, but it’s so difficult for the rest of us to understand why they behave in that way. If a grown woman is raped and she doesn’t scream for help, why didn’t she scream? That’s what the jury can’t get their head around. Why didn’t she scream? Why won’t Aiden tell us who took him? Why won’t he talk at all?
The house was filled with unspoken words. My conversations with Jake had turned to pleasantries to stop us arguing about Aiden’s presence in our house. He welcomed Sonya’s offer to take Aiden with gusto, but I put my foot down. As afraid as I was of my son, I couldn’t stand the thought of not seeing him every day. Besides, he was my responsibility, for better or worse. Mothers don’t get to take back a child like it’s a toy that isn’t working properly. I needed to look after him to make sure he didn’t hurt anyone. That rested on my shoulders.
And then, to top everything off, as I was sat at the kitchen table writing another of my manic letters to a son who was sitting a mere few feet away from me, I heard a voice I recognised. Amy.
The chair scraped against the kitchen tiles as I abruptly rose from my seat. I hurried into the living room and dropped onto the sofa next to Aiden. By this point, I had virtually given up trying to protect Aiden from the media. He wasn’t stupid; he knew what was going on anyway, or so I thought. Though he barely reacted to anything, I noticed the way his eyes scanned the headlines. Once I caught him flipping open a newspaper to a page plastered with his face. He didn’t point or gasp or in any other way react, but I could tell that he understood what was going on.
I turned up the television. Amy sat with her legs pulled together and her hands resting on her knees like a prim little girl waiting to have her picture taken. While her expression was relatively impassive, there was a haughtiness to her chin that I recognised for what it was: anger. This Amy was nothing like the meek, mousy girl I had worked with for years, nor the girl I remembered from school. I thought about the way she had sobbed as she’d begged me for forgiveness after we thought Aiden had drowned. I remember the way her eyeliner had smudged all the way down her face. It was all phoney. This girl, this woman, in her two-piece skirt suit and deep blue blouse—an obvious choice to highlight her eyes—was an attention-seeking, jealous bitch.
“Now, we’ve all been talking about the shocking case of Aiden Price,” said the grey-haired male presenter. “Not only was Aiden declared dead three years ago, he was found walking the streets in a disorientated fashion, and police believe he has been held hostage for adecade. It truly is the most shocking crime, well, certainly that I’ve ever heard of, and possibly the most tragic, too. It’s been hard to make sense of the nature of this crime, and it’s sometimes difficult to quite understand the behaviour of both Aiden and his mother. We’re joined here today by Amy Perry, a friend of Emma Price-Hewitt, and schoolteacher of Aiden Price. Thank you for joining us today.”
“Thank you for having me, though I wish it was under less tragic circumstances.” She beamed at the camera, revealing her white teeth. It was at that moment I realised she’d had work done. She’d had her teeth bleached before this interview.
“You’ve known Emma Price-Hewitt for many years, haven’t you?”
“I have. We actually went to school together.”
“And you were friendly?”
“We were, mostly,” Amy said, glancing slightly at the camera. “Emma was a lot more popular than I was. We hung out in some of the same circles. Bishoptown-on-Ouse is a very small village, so everyone knows everyone.”
“We know that Emma fell pregnant when she was eighteen. That must have been very difficult for her.”
“Oh, it was,” said Amy, as if she had any insight into what I was thinking and feeling at the time. “She would come to school with red eyes and smudged make-up. She was having a really tough time, I think.”
“Do you think the stress of having a child so young impacted on Aiden as a baby?”
“I would say so,” Amy replied, nodding along to the questions. “Aiden was a fussy baby. He would cry a lot whenever she walked him around the village.”
Lying cow.
“And you were actually Aiden’s schoolteacher, weren’t you?” asked the presenter.
“That’s right. I taught Aiden at ages five and six.”
“Was he a well-behaved little boy?”
Amy paused. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far. I would say he had a few behavioural problems. He was a very… energetic little boy with a great curiosity for life.”
“In the article you wrote forThe Mail, you mentioned that Aiden was quite a reckless little boy and that you didn’t think he had been taught to stay safe.”
“Yes, I believe strongly that he hadn’t been taught how to protect himself. It’s sad, really. I mean, I love Emma like a sister, and I would never accuse her of negligence, but you have to wonder… If she hadn’t allowed Aiden to get so feral, maybe he wouldn’t have wandered off that day, and maybe he wouldn’t have gone with a stranger.”
I stood up and walked around the room, squeezing my fists closed and unclosed. My pulse was racing, and Amy’s smug face had a huge target on her forehead. I wanted to smash that television screen, but I didn’t. I needed to see what else she had to say.
“So our phone-in today is on the subject of making sure our children are safe. That’s why we have child behavioural expert Raj Patel with us on the sofa. Please call on…”
