The Missing. C.L. Taylor

       Chapter 5

      ‘What’s Jake doing here?’ Mark stares over the heads of the journalists and several flash bulbs fire at once, lighting up the corner of the room where Jake is remonstrating with a male police officer. ‘I thought you said he was ill.’

      ‘He was … is. Let me deal with this.’

      ‘Mrs Wilkinson, wait!’ DS Forbes shouts as I hurry across the room and shoulder my way through the circle of journalists that has formed around my son. I can just about make out the back of Jake’s head. His fair hair is wild and tousled without a liberal application of hair gel. He disappears as a policeman steps in front of him, blocking my view.

      ‘Excuse me. Excuse me, please.’

      The TV cameraman hisses as I push past him but he’s shushed by his producer. ‘That’s the mum, get her in shot.’

      I push past a couple of council officials and approach the policeman who’s shepherding Jake towards the open doorway. Tapping him on the back of his black stab vest has no effect so instead I pull on his arm.

      He doesn’t so much as glance at me. Instead he keeps his eyes trained on Jake; Jake, who’s a good six inches shorter, with his hands clenched at his sides and the tendons straining in his neck.

      ‘Please,’ I shout. ‘Please stop, he’s my son.’

      ‘Mum?’ Jake says and the police officer looks at me in surprise. He lowers his arms a fraction.

      ‘He’s my son,’ I say again.

      The policeman glances behind me, towards the poster of Billy affixed to a flipchart beside the desk.

      ‘No, not Billy,’ I say. ‘This is Jake, my other son.’

      ‘Other son? I wasn’t told to expect any other relatives …’ He looks at DS Forbes who shakes his head.

      ‘It’s all right, PC George. I’ve got this.’

      DS Forbes has met Jake before. He interviewed him at length, the day after Billy disappeared, just as he and his team interviewed all our extended family and friends.

      ‘Show’s over, guys.’ He signals to the producer to cut the filming and gestures for the journalists to return to their seats. No one moves.

      ‘Jake!’ A female journalist with a sharp blonde bob reaches a hand over my shoulder and waves a Dictaphone in my son’s direction. ‘What was it you wanted to say?’

      ‘Jake?’ The producer proffers a microphone. ‘Did you have a message for Billy?’

      My son takes a step forward, shoulders back, chin up. He glances at PC George and raises an eyebrow, vindicated.

      ‘What happened to your foot, Jake?’

      A short, balding man with hairy forearms that poke out of his rolled-up shirtsleeves points at Jake’s trainers. The instep of his right shoe, normally pristine and white, is muddied with brown blood.

      ‘Jake?’ Mark says.

      The room grows quiet as my husband and son stare at each other. They’re waiting for Jake to speak. I wait too. I can feel Mark bristling behind me. This is his worst nightmare – our respectable, measured appeal transformed into a bar-room brawl.

      I hear a click and a whirr from the camera to my left and I imagine the lens zooming in on Jake’s pale, drawn face. He passes the heel of his hand over his damp brow and then, with only the briefest of glances at me, turns on the heel of his good foot and limps out of the room.