“Listen, I know something’s wrong. He just vanished.”
Cook took a deep sigh and carried on scribbling on his report. “He’ll turn up.”
“You don’t get it. He got out the van to go for a waz and then he was just gone. I think I saw someone else there...something else.”
Cook lifted his head and narrowed his eyes at Tommy. Heat rose is Tommy’s cheeks as the sergeant leaned closer.
“Have you been down the pub today?”
Tommy was just about to tell Cook that he’d already checked all the locals for Paul when he noticed the policeman’s nostrils flaring. For a moment he became mesmerised by the abundance of blackheads peppering the man’s nose then he realised what Cook was implying.
“I’ve not touched a drop today,” Tommy’s voice squeaked unhelpfully.
“And what exactly were you doing again at Sandborn,” Cook checked his report. “At around two in the morning?”
Tommy jumped up, sending the chair screeching noisily across the tiled floor.
“Fucking forget it. I knew it was pointless.”
The station door banged noisily behind Tommy as he stomped out onto the street. Convinced he could hear their mocking laughter, he turned around and stuck his middle finger up to the glass.
“Fucking coppers,” he muttered and turned away.
He thrust his hands into his pocket, hunched his shoulders and marched back to his van. After no sign of Paul at home or down the local, he’d driven to Sandborn and had rolled slowly past the farmhouse. An old man, who looked like he could be Clint Eastwood’s great grandfather, had been doddering along the gravel driveway dragging a long, green garden hose and liberally spraying the flowerbeds.
Tommy wasn’t sure if he’d been disappointed or relieved that there had been no sign of a struggle, or bloody footprints, or Paul’s twisted body in the hedge. He’d sped away when the old man had looked up, glad to get away from Sandborn. Even in the daylight, the place had given him the creeps. Every second he’d been there he’d been convinced he’d see something unearthly rushing towards him in his wing mirror.
The van door creaked as Tommy opened it and got inside. He looked at the empty passenger seat. Paul’s half-empty pack of JPS stuck out of the side pocket. A chill ran up his spine. There was no escaping it; he’d have to go back to Sandborn.
Tommy started up the van. He’d have to make a couple of stops first.
Fifteen minutes later, he unlocked the front door of a small, terraced house.
“It’s only me,” he called out.
“Paul?” His mother’s voice came from the front room.
Tommy weaved his way between the piles of books and video tapes in the hallway.
“No, it’s me,” he said as he shuffled past the array of dollhouses and into the front room.
His mother sat in the armchair with a tray on her lap painting a miniature plate. An old episode of Inspector Morse played on the TV. She looked up briefly.
“Where’s Paul?”
Tommy sighed. “Nice to see you too, Mum. He’s busy. I’ve just popped in to get something from my room. Can I get you anything?”
“A cuppa would be nice.”
“Sure,” said Tommy, picking up her mug. “I’ll be back in a mo.”
His mother’s voice followed him out the room. “Not too much sugar...and a cake. There are some Bakewell tarts on the side.”
Tommy flicked on the kettle and tramped upstairs. His old room still had an astronaut with Thomas painted on the helmet hanging from his door. He walked past and pushed open the door with a fireman squirting water out of a hose into the name of Paul.
Paul’s bed was just visible between the dollhouse city. Tommy pushed aside a miniature butcher’s shop and pulled out an old Roses tin from under the bed. A cloud of dust swirled in the sunlight as he opened the lid. He stuffed his jacket pockets with neatly bundled wads of twenties thankful that Paul had decided to start their emergency fund several years ago.
“We only touch this in extreme circumstances,” his brother had said.
He held up a necklace and watched it sparkle in the dusty sunlight for a moment before slipping it into his pocket.
“I think this is pretty extreme, bruv,” Tommy muttered, closing the tin and slipping it back under the bed.
He headed back downstairs.
“What were you doing skulking around upstairs?” his mother asked as she put down her tray of tiny creations and picked up her cup of tea.
“Just fetching something for Paul.” He pulled out a small roll of notes and set them on the table. “Here’s your housekeeping money for the next few weeks. We’re gonna be gone for a few days, so this should tide you over.”
His mother eyed him suspiciously. “What are you two up to? And where’s Paul. He always comes by on a Friday.”
Tommy bit down into a Bakewell tart just so he could look away. Too often he found himself blurting out confessions under her steely stare. His mum had an uncanny knack of knowing exactly what was going on even though she hardly left the house. He couldn’t tell her about Paul’s disappearance. It would send her into a frenzied panic.
“We’ve been offered some work in Sandborn. Not sure how long it’ll take us,” Tommy said trying to steer the conversation away from Paul’s absence.
His mum jumped. Tea splashed out of her cup onto her lap. Her face drained of all colour. Tommy sprang to his feet, grabbed a tatty, paint-splattered towel, and patted her damp skirt.
“Are you okay? Did it burn you?”
She ignored his questions and grabbed his hands. Her spindly fingers dug into his flesh.
“Sandborn.” Her voice trembled as she spoke. “You can’t go to there. You mustn’t. It’s a bad place.”
Tommy wanted to pull his hands away, but her skin felt like delicate, ancient paper.
“It’s only for a few days, and we can take care of ourselves. We’ll be back before you know it.”
“You can’t. Promise me you won’t go.” Her fingers dug deeper into his palm.
“Why not? What’s wrong with the place”
His mother released his hands and sat back in her chair. “Just trust me.”
“I—we have to go. Can’t turn down good money.”
She snatched up the money from the table and thrust it at Tommy. “Take this. Use this. I can get by.”
“No. What is it about Sandborn?”
His mother pursed her lips together. Tommy sighed and moved towards the door.
“If you won’t tell me, what am I going to tell Paul? ‘Oh, Paul, Mum says we can’t go earn money—no reason. You just have to accept it.’ You know how well that will go down. You have to give me a good reason.”
Tommy knew he’d hit the right spot when she gestured for him to sit back down.
“It’s a bad place. The day your father went missing...”
Missing? Tommy leaned forward. His mother had refused to speak about the sudden departure of their dad.
“I told you boys he’d left and gone to London because I didn’t want you chasing after him when you were older...in that place.”
“What are you saying? He abandoned us.”
She shook her head and clasped her trembling hands together.