‘Is that why she walked home?’
According to the phone signals, Jodie spent three hours here. She must have knocked on the door or found another way inside. Perhaps Bryan Whitaker let her into the house.
I glance along the side path to the small silver caravan. Aiden told the police he was home that night, but that he didn’t see Jodie. Surely, he’d have a key to the house.
Headlights swing around the corner towards us, bleaching our faces white. Evie instinctively raises her hand to shield her eyes. I recognise the distinctive silhouette of a black cab. Dougal Sheehan doesn’t seem to notice us as he brakes hard and flings open the driver’s door. Moments later, he’s hammering his fist on the front door and holding down a plastic button that chimes through the house.
Nobody answers. He grunts disgustedly and leaps over the low hedge before jogging down the side path towards the caravan.
‘Aiden,’ he yells. ‘Are you in there?’
He tries the handle. It’s locked. He tries to break it off but fails. Dipping his head, he drives his shoulder into the side of the van, making it rock violently on rusty springs.
‘Come out, you coward!’
‘Stay here,’ I say to Evie, before sprinting across the road and down the path.
Dougal Sheehan has picked up a shovel and is trying to smash the back window of the caravan. He succeeds on his third attempt, sending glass exploding inwards. Stepping to the right, he starts on another window.
‘Did you touch her?’ he bellows. ‘Was it you?’
Aiden is trapped inside, calling for help. Felicity Whitaker appears from inside the house wearing a dressing gown and slippers. She throws herself at Dougal, grabbing at his arms, trying to wrestle the shovel from his hands. He pushes her away, sending her sprawling onto the grass. Up again, she hammers her fists on his back, yelling at him to leave Aiden alone.
‘It was Bryan!’ she sobs, breaking down. ‘It was Bryan.’
Dougal hurls the shovel at the caravan. It bounces off the door leaving a dent in the aluminium.
‘I promise you. Please. Don’t blame Aiden.’ Felicity has pulled him down to his knees, where she cradles his head against her chest, like a mother comforting a hurt child. Dougal wants to argue, but she puts a finger to his lips, saying, ‘Leave it be. It’s better that way.’
Another voice. Tasmin is standing on the patio in her pyjamas. ‘Mummy? Is everything all right?’
‘Go back to bed,’ says Felicity, wiping her cheeks. She notices me for the first time. There is a beat of silence and a sharp light enters her eyes.
‘What are you doing here?’ she says accusingly. ‘Have you been spying on us?’
‘No.’
Dougal has climbed to his feet. ‘Did you follow me?’
‘I was tracing Jodie’s last movements.’
Felicity’s voice has changed to a harsh whisper. ‘You’re trespassing!’
I glance at Dougal, hoping for an explanation. ‘What has Aiden done?’
‘Get off this property!’ yells Felicity. ‘Leave my family alone.’
Her face is twisted in fury and her fists are tightly bunched. She is half Dougal’s size, but I fear her more because she doesn’t seem rational.
Behind her, the caravan door bursts open and Aiden leaps from inside, almost spinning his legs in mid-air before he lands on the grass and takes off, sprinting down the side path and out onto the road, past the black cab and Evie Cormac. A small dark knapsack bounces loosely on his back.
Felicity yells for him to stop. ‘It’s all right, love. You’ve done nothing wrong.’
Dougal tries to take off in pursuit, but Felicity pulls him back, begging him to stop. The big man can’t hope to catch Aiden, who has gone by the time I reach the road.
‘He went that way,’ says Evie pointing towards Silverdale Walk.
I listen and imagine I can still hear his footsteps on the asphalt path, crossing the bridge and skirting the meadow, but the only sound is Felicity tearfully calling his name, telling him to come home.
59
Angel Face
I fall into step beside Cyrus as we walk along the footpath as far the footbridge and glance over the railing at the pond.
‘Why did Jodie come this way?’ I ask.
‘It’s the shortest route home.’
Silently, I mouth the word ‘home’. It should be a simple concept, but I’ve never understood what it means. Is home a place, or a language, or a culture, or a climate or geography? People run away from home and get homesick and become homeless. Does home mean something different to each person? Do we make our own? Does it make us whole?
I wipe my nose on my sleeve. ‘Why did that boy run?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘He looked frightened.’
‘Yes.’
Cyrus pauses and raises his face to the treetops, as though sniffing something on the breeze. Without warning, he turns off the path.
‘Where are we going?’
‘There’s a place just beyond those trees – an old hunting lodge. I want to check it out.’
He takes my hand, leading me along a muddy path that narrows in places and is soft beneath my boots. A cobweb brushes and breaks against my cheek. Faint night sounds are audible between our footsteps.
I can see the building now. The roof has partially collapsed, like a house of cards that has fallen on one side; and vines have grown up into the rafters, trying to wrestle the remaining walls to the ground.
‘Wait here,’ he says.
‘Don’t go.’
‘Do you have your phone?’
I nod.
‘If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, I want you to call the police.’
‘Ten minutes.’
‘OK.’
I lose sight of his silhouette in the deeper shadows but hear the creak of weight being placed on wooden steps.
I hear his voice – ‘Aiden?’ – but no reply.
The trees lean towards me, closing over my head, blacker than the sky, although some are edged by faint traces of silver from cobwebs and beads of dew. I’m used to understanding night sounds. Not the insects or the birds, but the creak of floorboards and the groan of branches and someone breathing in the darkness.
Time passes. I look at my phone. The brightness of the screen blinds me for a few seconds. I don’t know how many minutes have passed. I didn’t make a note of the time when Cyrus left. It must be ten by now. Longer. I softly call his name. Louder.
‘Don’t leave me,’ I want to say.
Is he playing a game? Is he hiding? Is he hurt?
Moments later, I hear voices. Cyrus appears. The boy is with him. Aiden keeps his eyes down, not acknowledging me. His hair is uncombed and wild. He scuffs his shoes in the fallen leaves.
‘This is Evie,’ says Cyrus. No hands are shaken. No looks are exchanged.
‘Can we go home now?’ I ask.
‘Yeah.’
* * *
After midnight. The kettle is cooling. Tea has brewed. Aiden is sitting at the table with his bag between his feet, occasionally running his hands through his hair. He looks like a girl, I think. Prettier than most. Prettier than me.
Cyrus asks him if he’s hungry. A shake of the head.
‘Do you have any cigarettes?’