THE LOST BOY an unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists Page 4

  ‘Lie still,’ Jenny whispered, ‘he’s sleepwalking.’ Outside she could hear the grind and groan of the bin lorry. They hadn’t made their quota by five on Friday night, and privatization meant that it wasn’t unusual for the bin collection for their area to be completed on Saturday.

  ‘Bloody bin men disturbed him.’ She reached for her dressing gown, draped over the chair next to the bed and got into it with as much dignity and with the least exposure of flesh she could manage.

  Suddenly the boy’s breathing grew shallow and quick. He made small yelping sounds which escalated to full-blown screams of terror. Jenny edged up to him, fearful of frightening him further, calming him, talking quietly, gently steering him back to bed.

  Fraser stared at the photograph on the chest of drawers and back to the boy. A picture of himself aged nine or ten, a fish in one hand, fishing rod in the other, squinting into the light, both proud and shy. His first catch. A sprat, no more, but his father crowing about it to his friends as if Fraser had reeled in a pike big enough to swallow him whole.

  When she returned half an hour later, Fraser was again sitting up in bed. She crawled next to him and kissed the tangle of dark hair on his chest.

  ‘You see why I couldn’t refuse to take him?’ she said.

  He sighed. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘I’ll introduce you when he’s properly awake. Play with him — that’s if he’ll have anything to do with you — he doesn’t seem to take to men. Talk to him, try and gain his trust. But don’t try and persuade him to talk about what happened. We have to be careful not to plant ideas in his head. He’ll tell us what went on when he’s ready.’

  ‘Okay.’ He was silent for some time, then he asked, ‘What if I don’t gain his trust?’

  ‘You could always move out.’ She could tell by Fraser’s tension that she had gone too far. ‘Joke, Fraser. Bad joke, I know — I’m sorry, but I’m tired.’

  He kissed the top of her head. Her hair gleamed in the sunlight slipping through the hastily drawn curtains. ‘Did he make any sense?’

  She shook her head, then snuggled closer and kissed him under the chin. ‘Think he looks like you?’ This had been their stock question since their first foster child, Daniel O’Hare, had come to them on a short-term placement eight years before. It was a running gag, meant to make them laugh and, more importantly, to distract them from wondering with each successive placement why it couldn’t be their own child.

  Mostly they did laugh, but not this time.

  Jenny frowned. There had been children who had her eye colour, Fraser’s hair colour, children who had been with them long enough to pick up his or her mannerisms. Once, they’d even taken a boy whose mother had fallen ill and been rushed to hospital days after moving to Liverpool from Glasgow. Jamie had got on like a house on fire with Fraser and they had talked for hours in an incomprehensible dialect until she had felt quite excluded.

  This child, more than any other, this dark-eyed, dark-haired little fawn really did look like Fraser. He even had the slightly sallow skin colouring that Fraser claimed he owed to his European ancestry.

  Fraser kissed the crown of Jenny’s head again and stared at the space on the dresser where the photograph had been. The bedroom door stood ajar, casting a wedge of pale, greenish light from the hallway onto the dresser — spotlight on deception.

  * * *

  Honeysuckle. The air was thick with it. As a child I would break the long thin teat of the flower at the base and suck the tiny bead of nectar from it. Sweet, scented — a forbidden pleasure. Who knew what dirt and germs were harboured in the folds of its petals?

  Light shone from a window at the rear of the house. The kitchen. She finished her coffee, placed it in the sink. And then he was there. He ran into the room. Ran to her. Hugged her. Laughed with her.

  A bat swooped and circled overhead, its very silence demanding attention. I stopped and watched, listened to the silence. It calmed me. The front of the house would be best — less suspicious.

  I knocked and he came into the entrance hall. I could see his shadow, faint, blurred behind the glass. I focused silently on him, demanding his attention.

  Chapter 5

  ‘Jen, are you with me?’

  Jenny shook herself and took a swig of her orange juice. ‘I’m sorry, Max, it’s . . .’ She had been thinking that something was not quite right at home. Not just in Fraser’s reaction to the boy, but an atmosphere, something she couldn’t quite pin down. And when she had dusted that afternoon, there was something odd about their bedroom. It felt like a fixture, something she took for granted, barely noticing it, had been shifted, or perhaps it simply wasn’t there . . .

  ‘You’re worried about Paul?’

  ‘Yes.’ But if she was honest it wasn’t concern for Paul that was preoccupying her thoughts at that moment. Working the night shift had proved a convenient arrangement. They had almost forgotten the importance of such things in their year and a half with Luke, who had adored them both equally and unequivocally, and who was placid and easy-going in a way that none of their other children had been. As it worked out, Paul had slept through most of her absence on Saturday night, and then again on Sunday. In fact, he slept rather more than was healthy for his age, but Max had assured her that this was only to be expected in a child who had been through some kind of trauma, as seemed increasingly likely in Paul’s case.

  ‘I shouldn’t be bothering you with this.’ They had been discussing the problems of false memory syndrome, a subject of one of Jenny’s lectures and a sideline — even a hobby horse — of Max’s. Occasionally, they gave lectures at the same conventions. Once, they had even given a joint presentation to a group of undergraduate nurses.

  She made an effort to concentrate. ‘If a person claiming recovered memory of abuse is unlikely to recant while still under the influence of the therapist they made the original disclosure to, doesn’t that mean that by the time you get to them they’re almost past help?’

  ‘It certainly doesn’t make the job any easier. You see, they have entered into a kind of compact with their therapist in which they play the good abuse victim and the therapist gives them the positive reinforcement of attention. It’s not a conscious decision — they’re not trying to fool anyone — they are absolutely convinced they have been abused. The people I see only begin to question the truth of the appalling stories they tell after they’ve broken away from the therapist — or the group which is feeding their fantasies. Some even go through a period of psychosis before they eventually start to mend.’

  Jenny nodded, assimilating this, trying to find a way to work the information into her lecture.

  ‘It’s difficult to get the balance right,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to trivialize the devastating effect of abuse, but I want to warn people that carelessly framed questions can lead children to remember abuse that never took place.’

  ‘Memory’s a tricky thing,’ Max agreed. ‘Once an idea is planted it takes root and grows. I’ve known people invent complex and intricate histories which are pure fabrication — and yet they believe them as absolute truth.’

  ‘And when you challenge those beliefs?’

  ‘Immediate reaction?’ he said. ‘“You’re calling me a liar. I went through this and you’re disbelieving me. You’re traumatizing me all over again, making me feel I have to prove what I know to be true.”’

  Jenny sighed.

  ‘Now,’ Max’s eyes crinkled as he leaned forward and peered into her face. ‘Let’s get back to what you are worried about.’

  Jenny smiled. ‘You’d be charging your Rodney Street patients at least eighty quid an hour for this.’

  Max Greenberg drew his eyebrows together and gave his head a little shake. ‘Minimum. And they would not all be allowed their consultation in such a conducive setting.’ They had agreed to meet in the Knotty Ash pub an hour before Jenny’s shift was due to begin. He waited, sipping his half-pint of Guinness and watching her over the rim of his gl
ass.

  She gazed into his eyes but could not withstand his cool appraisal, so, to avoid the steady, unhurried and perceptive scrutiny of the psychiatrist, she let her examination of his features travel on to his broad, intelligent forehead and the receding line of fine brown hair.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Max — she trusted him almost as much as she trusted Fraser — but she didn’t like to waste his time, and it all seemed so trivial when put into perspective. She could read from his expression that Max would not let this go, however, so she sighed again, and began:

  ‘I had a phone call yesterday.’

  Max’s whole body signalled interest and attention.

  ‘At first, I thought it was a heavy breather, but I think he was hesitating, wondering whether to hang up.’

  ‘He?’

  ‘Definitely a he.’

  She fell silent and Max prompted, ‘He did speak eventually?’

  ‘Eventually, yes.’ She took a breath, remembering the effect the caller’s question had had on her: slow, cold pain, followed by an emptiness in the pit of her stomach. ‘Max, he asked if I had any children.’ She swallowed. ‘Wanted to know if I’d had a child adopted.’

  Max would know the effect such a question would have on Jenny. He placed one hand over hers for a moment, then asked, ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I asked who he was. He called himself Mr Hunter. Said he was a private detective — I know, not a very original alias, was it? He said he was working for a client who’d been adopted and was trying to trace his parents.’ She laughed a little shakily and pushed her fingers through her hair. ‘At first I thought it was a joke — someone at the hospital — I don’t know. I told him I don’t have any children. Of course, I should have asked him which agency he worked for, tried to get some proof of identification from him, but it was all so unreal. He’d hung up before I could gather my wits and think what to say to him. I tried last number trace, but he’d withheld it.’

  ‘It worries you?’

  ‘You’re dead right it does. How did he get my telephone number?’

  ‘From the phone book? You know, you have been in the papers rather a lot recently — “NURSE-WRITER DOCTORS THE PAST” — and then there was that radio interview. People are intrigued by such things. Perhaps he saw a publicity photo and thought there was some physical resemblance.’

  ‘That’s what Fraser said.’ Jenny was surprised and flattered that Dr Greenberg had paid such close attention to her press coverage — she had almost forgotten the launch of Poisoned Chalice three weeks previously. There had been unexpected, if fleeting, media interest generated by the controversial subject matter of her book, centred around a single chapter on the false/recovered memories debate. The text was meant for academic readers in the fields of nursing and Social Services, but the Brandon report had stirred up a lot of interest, even in the tabloid press, and she found herself, briefly, a celebrity. It was a momentary distraction from the pain of Luke’s disappearance from their lives, too transient to provide more than a temporary respite.

  ‘You may be right,’ she added. Nevertheless, the phone call had been disturbing. Fraser’s reaction had upset her, too. He had been out shopping when the call came, and his immediate response was: ‘He asked you if you’d had any children adopted?’

  ‘It’s not written in big letters on my forehead, Fraser,’ she had said. ‘I haven’t always been like this, you know.’

  Of course, Fraser knew. He knew because he had been with her when the dreadful pains started. He had held her hand as she screamed and writhed in agony on a trolley in the casualty department of the Royal Hospital. He had signed the consent form for the operation to save her life because, by the time they discovered that she had an ectopic pregnancy and was bleeding internally, she was delirious and unable to make any rational decisions for herself. Not that Fraser’s decision was entirely rational. Until that moment they hadn’t known that she was pregnant.

  Fraser had recoiled, hurt, and Jenny had silently cursed herself. She swilled the remnants of her orange juice around the glass. ‘I’m afraid I was a bit short with Fraser and he’s done one of his tactical withdrawals.’ She smiled. ‘The only person talking in our house at the moment is me. It’s a bit eerie, having all these one-sided conversations.’

  ‘I take it the boy still isn’t communicating.’

  Jenny noticed that he hadn’t used their agreed pseudonym for the boy, and wondered if Max shared her reservations about giving the child a name other than his own.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Well, yes, I suppose he is communicating, in his own way — he just won’t talk.’

  ‘The level of communication?’

  ‘Gestures, facial expressions, body language.’

  ‘Has he used the paints and crayons?’

  Max had recommended encouraging Paul to draw or paint.

  ‘He draws the same thing over and over. A house with a brick wall at the front of it. Then he paints black bars on all the windows and a lock on the front door.’

  ‘To keep him in, or someone else out, I wonder?’

  ‘I really don’t know, Max.’ She remembered the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign and told Max that the boy now placed it outside his door whenever he went into his room. ‘He seems to find it reassuring.’

  ‘How does he get on with Fraser?’

  Jenny thought about this for a time, torn between loyalty to Fraser and the welfare of the boy. ‘He tolerates him. I don’t know if he’s aware I’m not there at night — I put him to bed before I leave and I’m usually back before he wakes up — but he does sleepwalk, and he’s more agitated if Fraser tries to settle him than when I’m there.’ She looked up at Max, perplexed and worried. ‘I don’t want to rush him — I know it’d be best to let him dictate the pace. I know you think there’s no urgency, Max, but . . .’

  ‘You’re not so sure?’

  She nodded. ‘You think I’m wrong?’

  Max grunted. ‘Asking questions can give the appearance of moving things along, but what if it’s in the wrong direction? We bring our own prejudices, our own hang-ups, our own night terrors and demons to these situations. Even if you could persuade him to nod or shake his head in answer, your questions would be closed — a narrow yes or no is often not the answer we would like to give — life is too complex for such simplicity. In his mind, he may see his answers as being right or wrong.’

  ‘You’re telling me to take my own advice.’ She smiled and he reciprocated.

  ‘I suspect he’s trying to be a good boy, to do the right thing, and in forcing him to answer questions set from your own agenda, you could find he’ll give the answers he thinks fit in with your expectations.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘point taken. We don’t want any false memory scenarios, right?’

  ‘In a nutshell. Now, have you sorted out what you intend to say about false memory in your lectures?’

  Jenny held up her notebook. ‘I’ll type these up when I get home tomorrow. Then I’ll jot down a few suggestions and arrive in Nottingham armed and dangerous.’ She had a one-off lecture at a conference of social workers and health visitors, which she intended to use as a dress rehearsal for the tour. ‘I’ll need to do some reading at the university library when I get back. I need the corroboration of recent research.’ The Brandon report had sparked off a whole raft of papers on recovered memory. ‘I’ll incorporate what I can into the Nottingham lecture and use the rest for the tour.’

  Max nodded, approving. ‘Will those two be all right together for a whole day while you’re away?’

  ‘Max,’ Jenny laughed, ‘you think of everything. Social Services have arranged for a female social work assistant to stay with them for the twenty-four hours I’ll be away.’ She checked her watch, drained the last of her orange juice and stood to leave. ‘Thanks again.’ She bent to kiss his cheek and he caught her hand as she took it from his shoulder.

  ‘Jenny . . .’ She looked at him, startled, eyes wide. He squ
eezed her hand, embarrassed, then released it. ‘Be careful.’

  Max watched her leave, a trim thirty-five-year-old who could pass for ten years younger. Black jeans, white T-shirt, golden hair cascading shaggily over her shoulders, and he felt a surge of almost fatherly pride, followed by a stab of concern for her safety. ‘Ridiculous,’ he muttered, taking a cool swallow of Guinness and pinching the creamy moustache from his upper lip between his forefinger and thumb. It was unlikely, he reasoned, that her telephone call and his crank calls were linked. His calls had been distorted by a voice scrambler, so he couldn’t be sure if the caller was male or female. Jenny’s caller was definitely male — she’d seemed quite certain of that — and he had made no specific threats. No — there was no point worrying her unnecessarily.

  * * *

  ‘How’re you getting on with the little lad?’

  ‘Jeez!’ Jenny jumped like a startled cat. She hadn’t heard anyone come into the changing room. She had twenty minutes before her shift started and was first to arrive.

  ‘Shona,’ she said, taking a few breaths and attempting to get the pounding of her heart under control.

  ‘Is he all right, like?’ Shona seemed unaware of the fright she had given Jenny.

  ‘He’s fine.’ Shona had taken a personal interest in the boy ever since the story had broken on local radio.

  ‘They’re gonna put his picture in the Echo. And on the telly.’

  ‘How did you know that?’ Mike Delaney at the Liverpool Echo had arranged for a photographer to come to the house at seven on Tuesday morning, so that the pictures would make Wednesday’s Echo and Granada News.

  Shona tapped the side of her thin, pretty nose. ‘There’s not many advantages to working on the switchboard, but . . .’ She smiled, revealing slightly crooked teeth. ‘Anyway, it was on Radio Merseyside at teatime.’

  Shona, it would appear, divided her time between listening to local radio and TV news, watching soaps and reading the Liverpool Echo.