Chapter 5

Adam’s flat was originally the attic, Mr Rahmin had had it converted into a self contained flat which had originally been for Mira’s mother, but she had died in India before they could bring her over – Mr Rahmin had once told Adam that this was irrefutable proof that Allah was the one true God!

After his mother–in–laws death the flat had been rented out a couple of times, but both tenants had been awful, and Mr Rahmin had returned the space to it’s original use. So when he unlocked it for Adam, six months ago, it was pretty much how the last tenant had left it in 1979.

It was decorated in ridiculously contrasting colours that Mr Rahmin proudly described as ‘cheerful’. The last occupant didn’t share Mr Rahmin’s taste so had tried to hide as much of the walls as possible by pasting posters everywhere. It was like stepping back in time thirty years. There where posters for; The Clash, The Sex Pistols, The Jam, The Buzzcocks, The Stranglers and The Undertones plus an Anti Nazi League poster, several anarchy posters, a CND poster and an absolutely huge poster for the film Alien – with the tag line ‘Just one can kill seven’ which had surprised Adam because he was sure the line was ‘In space no one can here you scream’.

Adam had a feeling he’d have liked the previous occupant and had left the decoration virtually unchanged. The flat was carpeted throughout in the most astonishingly huge floral patterned carpet Adam had ever seen. The carpet was so intricate that it had the ability to incorporate any object mistakenly dropped on it into the pattern, and Adam had once spent nearly an hour looking for his car keys, only finding them when he accidentally trod on them.

The furniture was an uneasy mix of seventies kitsch and Ikea, cream Drayton meets bleached beach, but Adam liked it. It was his bolt hole, the place he came to wait out the darkness when it descended on him.

To say Adam and Jo had separated was not strictly true; it was more complicated than that. Adam still loved Jo, and he knew she still loved him, but since the nervous breakdown he’d suffered after Claire’s disappearance, he’d changed and he knew at times he was impossible to live with.
He’d spent two weeks, heavily sedated, on a psychiatric ward before being released to convalesce at home. Gradually he’d recovered and three months later he’d returned to work, outwardly back to something like his old self. Inwardly, however, the breakdown had taken its toll and had left him on permanent medication to try to combat the dark depression he could slip into without warning.

Over the last three years, the depression had taken a heavy toll on the family. Adam hated what he was doing to them but while he was battling with his inner demons, there was no room for Jo and no room for family. Eventually, to try to save their marriage they’d decided that when the depression struck Adam, it would be best if he were alone. At first, Jo had taken their semi–separation badly, blaming herself, taking it as a sign that she’d failed him. However, over time she’d come to the realisation that allowing Adam to have a place where he didn’t have to worry about her or the children was the one positive thing she could do.

Adam went straight to the bathroom and set the bath running, took his sodden clothes off and sat naked on the edge of the toilet and waited for the bath to fill. He flicked aimlessly at a magazine he’d left on his last visit but couldn’t concentrate; so he just sat, listening to the water rushing franticly into the lime green tub.

He filled the tub to near overflowing before gingerly stepping in. The heat took his breath away and sent a shudder of pleasure up his spine as he slowly sank beneath the water – all the way under until it closed over his face, swallowing him. He rose reluctantly to the surface, back to reality – the symbolism of the warm embrace of the water and the cold world beyond was obvious and simplistic but he didn’t care. Today he desperately wanted to feel warm and safe, cocooned from the reality he had created for himself.

He lay back and tried to limit his thoughts to the ordinary – the mundane – the things that bound us together like friends, family, work. Adam just wanted to feel normal – to laugh for no reason, to sit without thinking, to worry about nothing; England’s chances in the World Cup, the car failing it’s MOT, his overdraft, interest rates – normal stuff, the things that million’s of people had in common – all the things that had been snatched from him three years ago. He wanted to stand in a room full of people he knew well and not feel lonely. He wanted to be able to listen to a conversation without having it drowned out by the voice in his head; but most of all he wanted to have one hour – just one hour – without the tightening malignant ball of guilt that he carried with him, wherever he went.

It was impossible to totally shackle his mind. Images and memories kept breaking free, each one accompanied by a sickening kick to his stomach that made him cry out quietly. At first, it was half remembered fragments; her eyes, her mischievous smile, a gesture. Slowly however, fragment collided with fragment to form memories; their last Christmas together – her face beaming when she realised she’d got the mobile phone she’d been hinting at, her face as she slept, the feel of her head on his shoulder when she cuddled up to watch T.V, her last words to him, ‘Hope you win.’ Each memory was more painful than the last and with each memory the knot tightened, twisting painfully in the pit of his stomach.

He was sat up now, hugging his knees for comfort. He should have protected her – he’d promised her he would. ‘Daddy won’t let anything bad happen to you, Princess.’ He’d said it many times; when she had nightmares or been scared by something she’d seen on T.V, ‘Daddy won’t let anything bad happen to you Princess.’ He’d lied. He’d lied to Claire, he’d lied to Jo, he’d lied to Jack and Izzie, but most painfully, he’d lied to himself. You failed her!

He shivered, his shoulders suddenly cold, and sank back into the warmth of the water. He tried to control his breathing, forcing himself to take long slow breaths. As he concentrated on the rhythm – in… out… in… out… he started to relax, and the panic began to fade. He closed his eyes.
Claire had disappeared three years ago today sometime between five thirty and ten to six. She was meeting her friends in town at two thirty, but England were playing Holland in a World Cup Qualifier at two thirty, so he’d dropped her off early because he didn’t want to miss the pre-match build up!

She was really excited – he remembered that – she had only been allowed to go to town since she turned thirteen. She’d been chattering away at him in the car, but he couldn’t remember anything she’d said – he could remember that the phone-in on the radio had been about England’s woeful last performance against Sweden and how the expert panel would improve upon it. He remembered shouting at the radio – he hated the way that the so called experts all had a foolproof way to guarantee England raising the World Cup the following summer, yet not one of them had managed it themselves. He remembered that clearly, yet he couldn’t remember a single word his daughter had said to him in their last ten minutes together!

He’d dropped her of at the main car park in town, next to the new shopping centre where she was due to meet her friends. She’d leant across and kissed him – he remembered that – her lips where sticky with lip gloss, it left a waxy sheen on his lips, “See ya later, pick me up at five thirty please”

What did he say to her – he couldn’t remember?

She’d got out and walked off then stopped and run back. She had knocked on his window. He’d opened it.

“Hope you win!”

They were her last words to him, “Hope you win!”

He remembered saying, “Thanks Princess, see you here at five thirty,” and then he’d reversed out of the space and driven away. The last he saw of his daughter was her waving him off in his rear view mirror.

The match was an unmemorable nil–nil draw, and he’d missed most of it because Jo had left him in charge of their two youngest children; Jack, aged seven and Izzie, aged four, who unfortunately for him had no interest in football and had pestered him for attention all afternoon. Jo had gone over to her Mothers who had recently broken her ankle and was finding getting around on crutches almost impossible. This meant that at five he’d had to load both kids into the car when he went to pick up Claire. He’d set off in plenty of time and would have been sat waiting for her at five thirty as planned but when he’d gotten onto the ring road everything had ground to a halt.

He’d recognised one of the traffic officers who’d told him that there’d been an accident, but it should be cleared up pretty quickly. Jack and Izzie where knocking seven bells out of each other in the back as he tried to call Claire on her mobile. It rang for a while and then went to voice mail. He didn’t bother leaving a message – he’d be there in a minute.

The accident took twenty minutes to clear, he remembered thinking typical fucking traffic, whatever they tell you, double it!

It was ten to six when he finally pulled into the car park. He’d expected to see her waiting at the entrance to the shopping centre, but she wasn’t. He remembered he wasn’t worried – she must be waiting just inside the doors – she’d walk out now she’d seen him. She hadn’t.

The car park was emptying, and he’d found a space virtually outside the entrance and waited for Claire to appear out of the automatic doors.
Give her five minutes – he remembered thinking that – give her five minutes, and she’ll come strolling out. She didn’t.

He wasn’t worried – he remembered that – not worried, annoyed. She knew what time she had to meet that was the agreement; they allowed her to spread her wings a little; in return for her abiding by the rules and rule number one was ‘you are waiting at the agreed time when being picked up.’ She wouldn’t be meeting her friends again for a while that was for sure.

He’d tried her mobile again. This time it went straight to her voice mail without even ringing. A knot had begun to tighten in his stomach – it had never gone.

He’d left the kids strapped in the car and walking over to the doors. They’d slid open to reveal… nothing! The shopping mall stretched out before him totally empty. He’d taken a few steps inside – it was silent apart from the sound of metal shutters being pulled down. He would never forget that sound. Metal against metal – one after another – echoing around the two-story shopping centre. There had been a finality about it – everywhere was shut – he was on his own.

What had he done then? He remembered ringing Jo, she’d told him not to panic. Was he panicking by then? She’d said she would ring Claire’s friends and find out where she was; he was to stay put and she’d ring back and tell him where Claire was and he could go and pick her up.
He’d felt relieved. Jo would sort it out. He remembered thinking it’s her problem now – after all he’d had the kids all day and when there was a match on too! He’d turned the radio on to listen to the post match analysis and waited for Jo to phone and tell him were Claire was, then he’d go get her, set her straight about what was expected of her if she was going to be allowed out again and take the three kids home, via the chippy.
He couldn’t remember how long it was before Jo had rung, but he’d never forget what she said, ‘Adam ring the station, they left her waiting for you at the doors at about five thirty.’ There had been a terror in her voice he had never heard before – he acted instantly, slipping instinctively from husband to policeman.

He made the call, and within fifteen minutes two squad cars and a plain clothes car had pulled into the car park – the police look after their own!
He slowly opened his eyes. He’d fallen asleep, and the bath was now cold, yet his face was covered in sweat. He felt groggy and disorientated and at first he couldn’t make sense of where he was.

He heard a gunshot, and he was staring into those eyes again. As the bullet had entered the brain, he’d expected it to register in them – some sense of fear or pain – but it hadn’t. There had been a slight sense of surprise; perhaps the eyebrows had raised slightly – but apart from that – nothing! The change had come a fraction of a second later as he’d held their gaze and watched the life leave them. Something deep within them had dimmed and faded to nothing.

There was another gunshot, then another and a voice, “Adam are you ok?”

Another gunshot – was it a gunshot? “Adam! Adam, it’s Mira. I’ve got soup for you.”

He jumped as reality came flooding back. “Yeh, yeh, great thanks…I’ll be right there.”

He washed his face in the tepid water; he could taste his sweat, salty, on his lips and got out of the bath. He owned three towels all of which were wet, so he walked dripping into the bedroom and put on his dressing gown, a huge towelling thing, and let it soak up the moisture.

He went to the door and stuck his head out. Mira had gone leaving a plastic tray outside his door with a bowl of soup, a chapatti and a large mug of tea. He shouted his thanks down the stairs, got no reply, and retired to eat the soup before it got too cold.