She walked toward us and Jake gripped my arm, his face deathly white as he stared at Old Nina and then at the open oven behind her.
“We’ve gotta get out of here, Matty,” he said between gritted teeth. She got closer and closer and then Jake suddenly turned and ran.
Old Nina stopped in front of me.
“Where’s he going?”
I was frozen to the spot. I wanted to run, but I was worried any sudden movement would mean she’d grab me. She was so close I could see two black hairs on her chin as she rubbed her lips together. Her thin, bony hand reached out, and then she moved toward the kitchen door beside me and took something off a hook. She gave it a shake and held it up.
“No, no, no. It’s no good for you, I’m afraid. Your friend was the perfect size. What a shame he had to rush off.”
It was a boy’s coat. A smart, knee-length navy blue coat with shiny black buttons up the front. She held the coat close to her, rubbing the fabric with her thumb, and for a moment I think she forgot I was there. Then she sighed before hanging it back up on the door.
“Anyway. Would you like a cake?” she said.
As the sun faded on the cul-de-sac, I watched as each front room glowed and flickered simultaneously with the same news report. The same news that I could hear from our TV downstairs.
“… missing child, Teddy Dawson …”
I quietly crept downstairs, listening.
“Today, Teddy’s mother, Melissa Dawson, gave this emotional plea …”
I sat on the middle step, where I could see the large screen. There was a row of people behind a long, white desk, and sitting in the center was Melissa Dawson. She looked very professional in a smart green dress with her dark hair tied back neatly. Speaking from memory, she looked in turn at each of the journalists sitting in front of her as if she were addressing a conference.
“On Monday afternoon, my beautiful baby boy, Teddy, went missing from my father’s yard. I urge anyone with any information as to where he is to please call the police. Anything, even the smallest bit of information, could help find him. So please, no matter how trivial you think it might be, please call.”
She paused for a moment and took a sip of water. Then she looked down at some notes in front of her and began to read, her voice trembling slightly.
“If there is somebody out there who is holding Teddy, they need to give him back to me. Please. They can drop him off at a safe place—a hospital, a church, somewhere he’d be found …”
Her voice cracked and her posture slumped a little.
“He is a very happy, lovely boy. Please … please somebody bring him home to me … He’s only little …”
And with that she put her hand to her mouth and her face crumbled. The professional woman had gone. The policeman beside her spoke up with details I’d heard a million times before.
“Teddy was wearing a pull-up style diaper and a T-shirt with an ice-cream cone picture on the front like this one here, and he was possibly carrying a blue security blanket …”
Mum dropped her head onto Dad’s shoulder as he curled an arm around her and they sat on the sofa, holding each other.
I crept back upstairs to the bathroom and began to wash my hands. I was exhausted and my brain felt cloudy. I concentrated on lathering the soap correctly and covering every patch of skin, but it didn’t feel right. I didn’t feel clean. I rinsed my hands and started again. But after that wash it felt the same. So I started again, and again, and again. Unable to stop, I washed my hands twenty-seven times. I heard the TV switch off downstairs, and I hurried to bed before Mum or Dad could see me.
The next day, Mum came up first thing to tell me that traces of Teddy’s blood had been found in the fibers of the blue blanket that Claudia Bird had given the police.
Claudia told the police that she was just going out for a walk with Frankie when the dog became interested in something underneath her car. At first she thought it was an old rag, but when she pulled it out from the wheel arch she realized what it was. She had a vague recollection of driving over something in the road on the afternoon Teddy went missing. It must have been his blanket, which had then become caught up underneath her car. I checked back over my notebook, and her story seemed to add up.
Monday, July 28th. Office/nursery. Very hot.
2:39 p.m.—Claudia waves to Mr. Charles from her car as she drives off.
“It doesn’t look good, Matthew. That poor mum,” said Mum.
She dabbed at the corner of her eyes with a tissue, used it to blow her nose, then squeezed it in her hands like one of those squishy stress balls. I had been about to go and wash my hands, but she was now blocking my doorway.
“Have the police searched the Rectory?” I asked.
“Old Nina? She wouldn’t hurt a fly, Matthew. Why would they want to search her house? She’s staying in that posh hotel in town. You know the one? With the huge baths and the free dressing gowns.”
“Who? Old Nina?”
She rolled her eyes. “No, not Old Nina! Melissa Dawson!” My mum does this a lot—she flits from subject to subject. I think it’s from following so many conversations at once in the salon.
“It’s a bit odd, isn’t it? You’d think she’d want her family around her at a time like this, or at least to stay close in case he turns up. Penny said yesterday that she probably blames Mr. Charles for not looking after Teddy properly. She likely can’t bear to be anywhere near him.”
I wondered if it had more to do with her being so used to hotels, what with all the business traveling she must do. They probably felt like home to her.
My hand wash was becoming urgent now. A deadly disease could easily have been spreading from my wrists up toward my elbows, and from there it wasn’t far to my shoulders, my neck, and then my mouth. And once they’d gotten inside your mouth … Well, that was pretty much it, really. There was no hope then.
I could hear Dad clattering around downstairs doing something in the conservatory. Mum showed no sign of leaving and leaned toward me. I quickly took a step back, my heart pounding. A low growl rumbled from the Wallpaper Lion in the corner of my room.
“There’s no father around, apparently.”
My breaths were coming in short bursts and I was practically panting.
“Are you all right, Matthew? You really need to get a bit of sun, you know. You’re fading away up here.”
I could hear “The Macarena” playing somewhere in the distance. Mum frowned at me as we both tried to place where the music was coming from, and then Dad bellowed up the stairs.
“Sheila! It’s your phone again!”
Mum’s face lit up.
“That’s probably Penny. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Back in my room after washing my hands, I watched Dad from the window. There was a tower of old cans of paint on the grass, and he stumbled out of the shed holding an old roller and a dirty, black plastic tray. Grabbing a can from the top of the pile, he headed indoors.
I remembered then—decorating was Dad’s way of keeping busy when he felt helpless. After Callum died he took two weeks off of work and painted the kitchen, lounge, hallway, and their bedroom. Mum’s way of coping back then was to sort through the attic. She spent hours up there, rummaging away as I stared up from the bottom of the ladder. Once or twice she’d gone up there but didn’t make any noise and kept the light turned off. I think she’d finished sorting and just wanted to sit there quietly in the darkness for a bit.
A lawn mower fired up next door. Mr. Charles had cleared all of Teddy’s and Casey’s toys off the grass and had piled them like rubbish in a heap beside the shed. He stood on the edge of the patio and then set off, pushing the orange machine at arm’s length as a light green stripe appeared behind him. When he turned back toward the house, he raised one liver-spotted arm at me and waved. There was a smile on his face.
Wednesday, July 30th. Bedroom. Very hot. Cloudy.
9:35 a.m.—Mr. Charles is mowing his lawn. Appears almost happy … Is this normal behavior?