‘Time to eat,’ says Super. He makes spaghetti Bolognese in the Chow-Chow Room. They slurp spaghetti between their teeth and make vampire faces. When dinner is over and all the dishes are washed, Super toasts marshmallows over the fire in the Snuggle-Up Room. They’re hot and squishy. Marcus eats six. He has a bath in the Sudsy Room and plays with Derring-Do, who’s a water plink and rides on the back of a whale. Derring-Do saves children from drowning if they swim too far from shore.
He thinks about the night he dreamed he was a bird flying over the ocean. Then he fell from the sky. He shouted because he was going to drown in the waves. When he woke up the shout was inside his head, not outside, and Mammy couldn’t hear. He cuddled Super Plink against his chest and shouted, ‘Mammy… Mammy!’ but she didn’t come.
He pushed down the duvet and wriggled from his bed. Mammy’s room was dark. Marcus was too small to reach the switch but the landing light was on and he could see her duvet, all neat and straight, just like the pillows. He heard the gongs on the clock and counted to ten.
Downstairs, all was quiet. He checked the conservatory, the kitchen, the living-room and her home office. He ran into the drawing-room, even though she never went there except when they had Important People to dinner.
He sat on the bottom step of the stairs and tried not to cry. Daddy was away on Important Business and being alone in the house was as scary as falling from the sky. He kissed Super Plink and stroked his fur. It felt like teddy fur but not as rough. More like soap in the bath, when it was smooth and slippery between Marcus’s hands.
Outside in the garden, the sky was black. He could see stars. The terrace was cold and the grass wet like a sponge between his toes. The gate to the beach was open. He went down the steps and saw Mammy in the water. He was afraid because she was so far away. Had she fallen into the sea, like he did in his dream? She swam real fast, even faster than the robber who was chasing her and laughing like a monster. Their arms made sudsy bubbles on the water. Then the car came and did spins. The driver curses out the window at him. The F word, and Marcus cried because the sand was in his eyes. When Mammy stood up, she was white like a ghost and he hid his eyes because she’d forgotten to put on her bikini. She must have heard him crying because she kept shouting, ‘Marcus… Marcus! What are you doing out of bed?’
When he looked between his fingers she had a big towel wrapped around her. She said he had a wild imagination and all he saw was a rock. Things looked different in the moonlight and Marcus must put tonight out of his head.
‘Silly boy,’ she scolded him, then hugged him even tighter. ‘Rocks can’t laugh. That’s only the sea sighing because the tide is turning. Dry your eyes and we’ll make hot chocolate with lots of marshmallows on top.’
Super comes back into the Sudsy Room and holds out a towel. ‘You’ll grow fins if you stay in the bath much longer,’ he says.
The towel has a picture of Plucky Plink and it’s soft, like the towel Mammy uses when she gives him a bath. The sad feeling comes and makes him cry, but just for a little while. Super says it’s okay to be sad and that, sometimes when the moon is full and playing tricks, it’s easy to believe rocks are laughing. When Marcus is dressed in his PJs and dressing gown, Super puts on the recording of Mammy in her big chair. She always lets Marcus spin on it when he goes into her studio. That’s where she talks to the Invited Guests.
He watches the recording with Super and they laugh and clap when Mammy says funny things and, sometimes, very rude things to the Invited Guests. When the video is over Super carries him to Sleepy Nook and reads Plucky’s Magic Torch. He leaves the light on so that Marcus can watch the stars shining above him.
Super Plink is the best…
Chapter Fifty
Day Three
Where Was Amanda on Fateful Afternoon?
Lucy Knight
Amanda knows that a question mark at the end of a headline suggests ambiguity. A tease to cover the fact that there are no facts. An admittance that what has been written is devoid of information and the question mark has been planted to create controversy, alarm, speculation.
Telly babe, Amanda Bowe, mother of missing schoolboy, Marcus Richardson, is never far from the headlines these days. Her refusal to explain why she arrived so late to her son’s exclusive, private school on the afternoon of his disappearance has led to much speculation among her peers.
PR guru, Sylvia Thornton, claims Amanda had hoped to meet with Jackson Barr, the millionaire author, whose disdain for the media is as legendary as his pulp fiction. But CCTV footage seen by the Daily Orb has failed to find any evidence of the glamorous telly babe arriving or leaving the reclusive author’s premises.
Did she get lost among the heather and the cliff walks on Howth Head? Or can there be another reason why she is so secretive about her behaviour on that tragic afternoon? Perhaps, Amanda, who has never been a shrinking violet when it comes to following a story, will enlighten us as to why, for once, she shunned the camera when she arrived at the luxurious home of Jackson Barr…
Unable to read any more, Amanda crumples the tabloid and flings it on the floor. Lar picks it up and lays it on his desk, smooths out the creases. They are in his home office checking out the morning papers Sylvia had brought with her.
The photographer from the Daily Orb had photographed Amanda from behind as she ran towards the school. The stretch top she pulled on with such haste in Eric’s bedroom is inside out, the label clearly visible, the fabric puckered. She sees a slash of skin at her waist and, in that gap, the black strap of her thong is visible.
‘What the hell does she mean about you not being on camera?’ Lar demands.
‘I never entered Jackson’s premises or came within camera range. This is contemptible reporting.’ The lie may choke her but it is her lifeline. She will cling on to it until it snaps. After that, it won’t matter. She raises her voice at Sylvia, who had moved discreetly to the window while Lar was reading the paper. ‘You have to put a stop to this kind of sensationalism. Marcus is missing and she’s writing about me. Why? Why?’
A ring on the doorbell distracts them. A garda car is outside. Mrs Morris escorts two guards into the living-room. If they are aware of tension, they show no sign of it in their fixed expressions and they report… what? Amanda filters through what they are saying and knows that nothing has changed.
She leaves them talking to Lar and opens the French doors leading to the terrace. It’s chilly this morning but the breeze is fresh and carries the tang of seaweed on its breath. She sits on a wrought-iron chair, the cold surface penetrating the thin material of her skirt.
Sylvia joins her shortly afterwards. ‘We need to talk.’ She speaks softly, almost conspiratorially, as if she fears Lar’s formidable presence is too close for comfort. ‘Have you told me the truth about Jackson Barr?’
‘Of course I have.’ Amanda pulls her pashmina tighter around her shoulders. ‘Why would I lie?’
‘To protect your marriage.’