“They’ll get it. They just need time,” she said.
“We don’t have time. Hold on, I’ll fetch him.” I strode up the slope, where the trolleys were enjoying their freedom on their sides or slumped into the drainage ditch. I jogged across the pedestrian area and ducked under the shutter into the shop. Scattered crisp crumbs crunched under my feet.
“Billy?”
I marched into the loading bay.
“This is no time for hide and seek—are you here?”
Silence.
“Billy? You’re frightening me. Come out now.”
Silence.
“Billy?”
Along the corridor. Out the side door. Into the street.
“Billy!”
There was no answer. There was no Billy.
Chapter Nine
It’s a game, just a game. This is what I told myself as I went methodically aisle by aisle, shining my torch into unlit corners and the recesses of cleared shelves. In the gap behind cereal boxes and up on the top shelf where he could be hiding—surprise!
“Are you in here, Billy?”
My voice was so loud in my ears, I couldn’t tell if I was screaming or whispering. My walking footsteps turned to running footsteps, and I went round and round the same shelves and the same aisles and ended up back at the beginning, a mouse lost in a maze. Squeak, squeak went my rubber boots on the linoleum as I turned round and down the aisles again: squeak, squeak, round and round until I forgot what I was searching for; lost in the dark tunnels of the shelves; where is he, where is it, squeak, squeak, where is my cheese? Squeak, squeak, squeak.
I forced myself to stop. Listen.
Someone was crying, and it was me.
Come out, Billy.
Please, Billy.
Try the loading area again. I pushed through the half-plastic swing doors. Not on the forklift. Not crouched, delighted by his own brilliance, behind a pallet of decaying bread. Not up the corridor, or in the office, or in the staff toilet. Not hiding behind the side door. Not in the street.
“Where are you, Billy?”
I ran the length of the railings, scanning the pavement below, but he wasn’t there. Not hiding, not distracted by something gross, not fallen and bleeding and unable to answer. Not there at all.
“Where are you, Billy? Where the fuck are you?” I screamed his name up and down the street, over and over, until I couldn’t stop screaming. I ran out of words and just carried on screaming, my arms raised above my head, my fingers clawing at the blank sky, which must have been able to see my boy somewhere. The echo continued to spread the message long after I ran out of breath and collapsed to the paving stones, gasping out pitiful bribes.
“I’ve got crisps, Billy,” I whispered. “If you come back, you can have the crisps.”
“Where’s the blood coming from?” Joni said.
“I don’t know.”
“You’re covered in it.”
“Am I.”
“Are you hurt?”
“I don’t know.”
“Jeez, Marlene—”
“Get off me, just, get off!”
Joni stepped back and held her palms up. “Okay, I’m going to look inside then.”
“He’s not inside.”
“We should retrace our steps, Aunt Marlene, and then fan out,” said Lola. They went together into the supermarket, calling Billy’s name.
I cradled my left hand, which I’d somehow slashed across the underside of all four fingers right on the middle joint. I opened my fist and blood pulsed out to drip off the end of my fingertips. The boys came running, followed by Maggie. “Where’s Billy?” said Charlie. I shook my head. Maggie held her hand under mine, thrilled by the drops of blood on her palm.
“He didn’t come past us, so he must have gone that way or that way.” Peter pointed up and down the main road. I looked at the two boys and chewed the inside of my lip. Then I dispatched them to search along the road, under strict instructions not to split up and to turn back at the brow of the hill in one direction and the pub in the other. They set off at a jog, sticks in hand. I sent Maggie to get the Lost Boy and search the car park, looking down into the drainage ditches at the sides.
With everyone busy, I stood alone, redundant. Billy had been right there. I could have picked him up and thrown him onto my hip. I could feel his hands bunching up my shirt and his strong little thighs pressing into my belly. He had been right there. And now he was gone, and the numbing pain in my gut was worse than when he’d first arrived.
“Bill-ee,” called Maggie from across the car park, dragging the Lost Boy along by the neck of his shirt. His lips moved in a silent plea.
“Billy! Billy!” shouted Charlie and Peter in curt bursts that rang out down the road like a bird’s warning cry.
From inside the supermarket: “Billy? Are you there, Billy? Billy?”
“Billy.”
“Billy.”
“Billy.”
The word lost its meaning, disconnecting from the soft little boy who must be here, somewhere. Somehow not hearing us or not able to answer. I crouched down and held my head in my hands. It didn’t make sense. If he were hiding, he would have come out by now. So he must be hurt. He must have run off to find a safe place to eat his crisps and fallen, and now he couldn’t answer. My stomach contracted with the certainty that he was stuck or trapped, perhaps by something heavy that was squeezing the breath from him. Squeezing the life from him, even as we stood here, wasting time. Or water, he was in water, his eyes wide and startled just beneath the surface, looking up at the sky for someone to bail him out, unable to comprehend the seriousness of the situation. I could see his eyes pleading for me under the water. I could feel him in my stomach. He was here, and we couldn’t hear him because we were all running about screaming his name.
“Billy.”
“Bill-ee.”
“Billy.”
“Stop! Stop it! Stop, all of you!” I ran into the supermarket, just as Lola and Joni came round from the side door. “Shut up! Shut her up.” I pointed over to Maggie and her plaintive “Bill-ee.” We had to shut up and listen, and then we would hear him. He was here somewhere, and we should listen for a give-away sound, a tiny splash, maybe just his eyelids blinking underwater, that would tell us where he was. “Shut up and listen for him.”
The wind carried a buzzard’s cry. Sometimes when I was on the phone, Billy would creep up and fling his arms around my legs so I couldn’t move. His white teeth would shine with delight at this surprise. “You made me jump,” I would say, “you little tinker.”