Burnt Paper Sky Read online

  Not that the cottage was my ideal destination either, even without Nicky’s family to contend with. Left to both Nicky and me by our Aunt Esther, who raised us, it was small and damp and held slightly uncomfortable memories for me. I would have sold it years ago, I could certainly have done with the money, but Nicky remained very attached to it and she and Simon had long since taken on its maintenance costs entirely, largely out of guilt, I think, that she wouldn’t let me release the capital in it. She encouraged me to make more use of it but somehow time spent there left me feeling odd, as if I somehow had never grown up properly, never shed my teenage self.

  I slipped my phone back into my pocket. I’d reached the start of the path that led to the rope swing. Ben wasn’t there so I assumed he’d gone ahead of me. I made my way along in his wake, squelching through mud and batting away brambles. When I came to the clearing where the rope swing was, I was smiling in anticipation of seeing him, and of enjoying his triumph at having got there himself.

  Except that he wasn’t there, and nor was Skittle. The rope swing was in motion, moving from left to right and back again in a slow rhythm. I pushed forward to give myself a wider view of the clearing. ‘Ben,’ I called. No reply. I felt a flash of panic but told myself to stop it. I’d given him this little bit of independence, and it would be a shame to mar the moment by behaving in an overanxious way. Ben was probably hiding behind a tree with Skittle, and I shouldn’t wreck his game.

  I looked around. The clearing was small, no bigger than half a tennis court. Dense woodland wrapped around most of it, darkening the perimeters, although on one side a large crop of medium-sized saplings grew, spindly and brittle, leafless. They dispersed the light around them, lending it a quality of strangeness. In the middle of the clearing stood a mature beech tree, which overhung a small brook. The rope swing was tethered to one of its branches. I reckoned that Ben was hiding behind its thick trunk.

  I walked slowly into the clearing, playing along with him.

  ‘Hmm,’ I said, throwing my voice in the direction of the tree so that he could hear me. ‘I wonder where Ben is. I thought he was meeting me here, but I can’t see him anywhere, or that dog of his. It’s a mystery.’

  I stopped to listen, to see if he would give himself away, but there was no sound.

  ‘I wonder if Ben has gone home without me,’ I continued, dipping a booted toe into the brook. The motion of the swing had ceased now and it hung limply. ‘Maybe,’ I said, drawing the word out, ‘Ben has started a new life in the woods without me, and I’ll just have to go home and eat honey on toast by myself and watch Dr Who on my own.’

  Again, no response, and the flutter of fear returned. This kind of talk was usually enough to make him emerge, triumphant at having tricked me for so long. I told myself to be calm, that he was upping the stakes, making me work hard. I said, ‘Well, I guess that if Ben is going to live on his own in the woods then I’ll just have to give away his things so that another boy can have them.’

  I sat down on a moss-covered tree stump to wait for his response, trying to play it cool. Then I delivered my trump card: ‘I just wonder who would like to have Baggy Bear…⁠’ Baggy Bear was Ben’s favourite toy, a teddy that his grandparents had given him when he was a baby.

  I looked around, expecting him to emerge, half laughing, half cross, but there was absolute silence, as if the woodland was holding its breath. In the quiet, my eyes followed the lines of the surrounding tree trunks upwards until I glimpsed the sky above, and I could feel darkness starting to push in as surely as fire creeps across a piece of paper, curling its edges, turning it to ash.

  In that moment, I knew that Ben wasn’t there.

  I ran to the tree. I circled it, once, twice, again, feeling its bark scrape my fingers as I went round. ‘Ben!’ I called. ‘Ben! Ben! Ben!’ No response. I kept calling, on and on, and when I stopped to listen, straining to hear, there was still nothing. A sickening feeling in my gut pinched harder as each second passed.

  Then a noise: a wonderful, glorious crashing sound, the sound of someone rushing through undergrowth. It was coming from the glade of saplings. I ran towards it, picking my way through the young trees as quickly as I could, dodging low, whippy branches, feeling one of them slice into my forehead.

  ‘Ben,’ I shouted, ‘I’m here.’ No response, but the noise got closer. ‘I’m coming, love,’ I called. Relief surged through me. As I ran, I scanned the dense growth ahead of me to try to catch a glimpse of him. It was hard to tell exactly where the noise was coming from. Sounds were ricocheting around amongst the trees, confusing me. It shocked me when something burst out of the undergrowth beside me.

  It was a dog, and it was big and happy to see me. It bounced at my feet, eager to be petted, its mouth wide and dark red, startlingly so, its big fleshy tongue lolling. A few yards behind it a woman emerged from the trees.

  ‘I’m so sorry, dear,’ she said. ‘He won’t hurt you, he’s very friendly.’

  ‘Oh God,’ I said. I cupped my hands around my mouth. ‘Ben!’ I shouted and this time I yelled so loudly that it felt as if the cold air was scorching my throat when I drew breath.

  ‘Have you lost your dog? He’s not that way or I’d have come across him. Oh! Did you know your forehead is bleeding? Are you all right? Hold on a minute.’

  She fumbled in her coat pocket and offered me a tissue. She was elderly and wore a waxed hat with a wide brim that was pulled low on her head. Her face was creased with concern and she was short of breath. I ignored the tissue and instead I grasped her, my fingers sinking into her padded jacket until I felt the resistance of her arm beneath. She flinched.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s my son. I’ve lost my son.’

  As I spoke, I felt a bead of blood trickle down my forehead.

  And so it began.

  We hunted for Ben, the lady and I. We scoured the area around the rope swing and then returned to the path, striking out along it in opposite directions with a plan to converge at the main car park.

  I wasn’t calm, not a bit. Fear made my insides feel as if they were melting.

  As we searched, the woods were transforming. The sky became darker and overcast and in places the overhanging branches were dense enough to form a solid arch, and the path became a dark burrow.

  Leaves gusted around me like decomposing confetti as the wind began to build, and great masses of foliage shuddered and bent as it whipped through the canopy above.

  I called for Ben over and over again and listened too, straining to decipher the layers of sound the woods produced. A branch cracked. A bird called, a high-pitched sound, like a yelp, and another answered. High overhead was the sound of an aeroplane.

  Loudest of all was me: my breathing, the sound of my boots slapping through the mud. My panic was audible.

  Nowhere was the sound of Ben’s voice, or of Skittle.

  Nowhere did I see a bright red anorak.

  By the time I reached the car park I felt hysterical. It was packed with cars and families, because there were teams of boys and their supporters leaving the adjacent soccer field. A fantasy role-play enactment group loitered in one corner, bizarrely costumed, packing weaponry and picnic coolers into their cars. They were a regular sight in the woods on Sunday afternoons.

  I focused on the boys. Many of them wore red kit. I moved amongst them looking for him, turning shoulders, staring into faces, wondering if he was there, camouflaged by his anorak. I recognised some faces amongst them. I called his name, asked them if they’d seen a boy, asked them if they’d seen Ben Finch. A hand on my arm stopped me in my tracks.

  ‘Rachel!’

  It was Peter Armstrong, single dad of Ben’s best friend, Finn. Finn stood behind him in football kit, mud-streaked, sucking on a piece of orange.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  Peter listened, as I told him.

  ‘We need to phone the police,’ he said. ‘Right now.’ He made the call himself, while I stood beside him, shaking, and
couldn’t believe what I was hearing because it meant that this was real now, that it was actually happening to us.

  Then Peter organised people. He rallied the families in the car park and got some to stay behind with the children, others to form a search party.

  ‘Five minutes,’ he said to everyone. ‘Then we leave.’

  As we waited, raindrops began to speckle the front of Peter’s glasses. I trembled and he put his arm around me.

  ‘It’ll be OK,’ he said. ‘We’ll find him.’

  We were standing like that when the old lady emerged from the woods. She was out of breath and her dog strained at its lead. Her face fell when she saw me.

  ‘Oh my dear,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry. I was sure you would have found him by now.’ She laid a hand on my arm, for support as much as reassurance.

  ‘Have you called for help?’ she asked. ‘As it’s getting dark I think you must.’

  It didn’t take long, but even so, by the time everyone had mustered, the shadows and shapes of the trees around us had lost their definition and merged into indistinct shades of darkness, making the woods seem impenetrable and hostile. Anybody who had one brought a flashlight. We were a motley crew who gathered, a mixture of football parents, re-enactors still in costume and a Lycra-clad cyclist. Our pinched faces told not just of the deepening chill, but of the darker and growing fear that Ben wasn’t just lost, but that he’d come to harm.

  Peter addressed everybody: ‘Ben’s wearing a red anorak, blue trainers that flash, jeans and he’s got dark brown hair and blue eyes. The dog’s a black and white cocker spaniel called Skittle. Any questions?’

  There were none. We broke into two groups and set off, one in each direction along the path. Peter led one group; I led the other.

  The woods swallowed us up. Before ten minutes had passed the rain worsened and great fists of water broke through the canopy. Within minutes we were wet through and large spreading puddles appeared on the path. Our progress slowed dramatically but we carried on calling and listening, the beams of the torches swinging wide and low into the woodland around us, eyes straining to see something, anything.

  As each second passed and the weather pressed in around us my fear built into a hot, urgent thing that threatened to explode inside me.

  After twenty minutes I felt my phone vibrate. It was a text from Peter.

  ‘Meet car park’ it said, and that was all.

  Hope surged. I began to run, faster and faster, and when I emerged from the path and into the car park I had to stop abruptly. I was in the full glare of a pair of headlights. I shielded my eyes.

  ‘Rachel Jenner?’ A figure stepped into the beam, silhouetted.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m WPC Sarah Banks. I’m a police constable, from Nailsea Police Station. I understand your son is lost. Any sign of him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  I shook my head.

  A shout went up from behind us. It was Peter. He had Skittle cradled in his arms. He gently laid the dog down. One of Skittle’s delicate hind legs was at a painful, unnatural angle. He whimpered when he saw me, and buried his nose into my hand.

  ‘Ben?’ I asked.

  Peter shook his head. ‘The dog hobbled onto the path right in front of us. We’ve no idea where he came from.’

  My memories of that moment are mostly of sound, and sensation. The rain wet on my face, soaking my knees as I knelt on the ground; grim murmurs from the people gathered around; the soft whimpering of my dog; the wild gusting of the wind, and the faint sound of pop music coming from one of the cars that the kids had sheltered in, its windows all steamed up.

  Cutting through everything was the crackle of the police radio just behind me, and the voice of WPC Banks calling for assistance.

  Peter took the dog away, to the vet. WPC Banks refused to let me go back into the woods. With her sharp young features and neat, white little teeth she looked too immature to be authoritative, but she was adamant.

  We sat in my car together. She questioned me closely about what Ben and I had been doing, where I’d last seen him. She took slow, careful notes in bulbous handwriting, which looked like fat caterpillars crawling across the page.

  I rang John. When he answered I began to cry and WPC Banks gently took my mobile from me and asked him to confirm that he was Ben’s dad. Then she told him that Ben was lost and that he should come right away to the woods.

  I rang my sister Nicky. She didn’t answer at first, but she called me back quickly.

  ‘Ben’s lost,’ I said. It was a bad line. I had to raise my voice.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ben’s lost.’

  ‘Lost? Where?’

  I told her everything. I confessed that I’d let him run ahead of me, that it was my fault. She took a no-nonsense approach.

  ‘Have you called the police? Have you organised people to search? Can I speak to the police?’

  ‘They’re bringing dogs, but it’s dark, so they say they can’t do anything more until morning.’

  ‘Can I speak to them?’

  ‘There’s no point.’

  ‘I’d like to.’

  ‘They’re doing everything they can.’

  ‘Shall I come?’

  I appreciated the offer. I knew my sister hated driving in the dark. She was a nervous driver at the best of times, cautious and conservative on the road, as in life. The routes around our childhood cottage, where she was staying for the night, were treacherous even in daylight. In the depths of rural Wiltshire, on the edge of a large forested estate, the cottage was accessible only via a network of narrow, winding lanes edged with deep ditches and tall hedges.

  ‘No, it’s OK. John’s on his way.’

  ‘You must ring me if there’s any news, anything.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘I’ll stay up by my phone.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Is it raining there?’

  ‘Yes. It’s so cold. He’s only wearing an anorak and a cotton top.’

  Ben hated to wear jumpers. I’d got him into one that afternoon before we left for the woods, but he’d wriggled out of it once we were in the car.

  ‘I’m hot, Mum,’ he’d said. ‘So hot.’

  The jumper, red, knitted, lay on the back seat of my car and I leaned back and pulled it onto my lap, held it tight, smelled him in its fabric.

  Nicky was still talking, reassuring, as she usually did, even when her own anxiety was building.

  ‘It’s OK. It won’t take them long to find him. He can’t have gone far. Children are very resilient.’

  ‘They won’t let me search for him. They’re making me stay in the car park.’

  ‘That makes sense. You could injure yourself in the dark.’

  ‘It’s nearly his bedtime.’

  She exhaled. I could imagine the creases of worry on her face, and the way she’d be gnawing at her little-finger nail. I knew what Nicky’s anxiety looked like. It had been our constant companion as children. ‘It’ll be OK,’ she said, but we both knew they were only words and that she didn’t know that for sure.

  When John arrived WPC Banks spoke to him first. They stood in the beam of John’s headlights. The rain was relentless still, heavy and driving. Above them a huge beech tree provided some shelter. It had hung on to enough of its leaves that its underside, illuminated by the lights from the car, looked like a golden corona.

  John was intently focused on what WPC Banks was saying. He exuded a jumpy, fearful energy. His hair, usually the colour of wet sand, was plastered blackly around the contours of his face, which were pallid, as if they’d been sculpted from stone.

  ‘I’ve spoken to my inspector,’ WPC Banks was telling him. ‘He’s on his way.’

  John nodded. He glanced at me, but moved his eyes quickly away. The tendons in his neck were taut.

  ‘That’s good news,’ she said. ‘It means they’re taking it seriously.’

  Why wouldn’t the
y? I wondered. Why wouldn’t they take a missing child seriously? I stepped towards John. I wanted to touch him, just his hand. Actually, I wanted him to hold me. Instead, I got a look of disbelief.

  ‘You let him run ahead?’ he said and his voice was stretched thin with tension. ‘What were you thinking?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  There was no point in trying to give him an explanation. It was done. I would regret it for ever.

  WPC Banks said, ‘I think for now it would be best if all of our focus is on the search for Ben. It won’t do him any good if you cast blame.’

  She was right. John understood that. He was blinking back tears. He looked distraught and incredulous. I watched him cycle through everything I’d been feeling since Ben had gone. He had question after question, each of which WPC Banks answered patiently until he was satisfied that he knew everything there was to know, and that everything possible was being done.

  As I stood beside him, and let WPC Banks reassure him, I realised that it had been more than ten months since I’d seen him smile, and I wondered if I ever would again.

  JIM

  Addendum to DI James Clemo’s report for Dr Francesca Manelli.

  Transcript recorded by Dr Francesca Manelli.

  DI James Clemo and Dr Francesca Manelli in attendance.

  Notes to indicate observations on DI Clemo’s state of mind or behaviour, where his remarks alone do not convey this, are in italics.

  This transcript is from the first full psychotherapy session that DI Clemo attended. Previous to this we had only a short preliminary meeting where I took a history from DI Clemo and we discussed the report that I had asked him to write.

  Predictably, given his resistant attitude to therapy, the report that DI Clemo submitted at this stage was lacking in comment on areas of his personal and emotional experience at the time of the Benedict Finch case. The transcripts fill in the gaps somewhat. My priority in this first session was to begin to establish DI Clemo’s trust in me.