Absent Friends

Sarah Mulholland walked quietly up the path to her friend’s house.  Her large travelling bag felt too heavy, and so did her laptop satchel.  She’d invited herself to Mark Robertson’s house because he lived in Norwich, which was where she needed to stay.  It was where her son’s last known movements had been recorded on Closed Circuit TV, and she needed to retrace his steps.  Her laptop held all the information and pictures she’d gathered in the month since his disappearance.

Mark had offered her the use of his spacious, well-appointed home and of his printer and internet connection.  The police were still investigating but she thought witnesses would speak more readily to her than to police officers.  In addition, she needed to get away from the media.

Christopher Mulholland and Gregory Temple were up-and-coming actors, still in their teens but with small parts in a few low-budget films and a little theatre work to their credit.  They’d met on the set of a television production; a children’s science fiction comedy about a family travelling through space.  Chris had told her it was an old formula, updated with modern characters and topical jokes.  He’d hit it off with Greg straight away.  They’d played fifteen-year-old twin brothers so they were together in most of their scenes.  They’d rehearsed together, eaten together, attended parties together, and had talked about swapping their individual lodgings for a shared apartment.  Holidaying together had been a natural progression.

The media hadn’t seen it that way.  Article after vicious article had appeared, speculating about the friends’ sexuality, until Greg’s parents  had suggested they spend less time together and withdraw their deposit on the apartment.  Chris had wanted to brazen it out but Greg had thought cautiously about the gossip, and had decided it was too damaging to their future careers.  The holiday had been a last joint adventure before they went their separate ways.

When they’d disappeared, reporters and photographers had flocked  like vultures outside their parents’ houses.  The stories had changed but the speculation had increased:  Was the disappearance genuine or was it a publicity stunt by the studio?  Had the two actors run away together, as lovers, or had they been ordered to lie low somewhere?

They’d hinted that Gregory, rather than being the steadying influence Christopher needed, was exerting some malign and sinister influence over his younger friend.  They’d touched on the idea that he might have a history of alcohol or drug abuse, or less savoury vices.  And they’d refused to accept that he hadn’t been  in touch with his parents and friends.

Christopher, who had a spent conviction for underage drinking and vandalism, proved to be the easier target.  One theory had him killing Gregory, on an impulse, and escaping to the United States  rather than trusting the British justice system.  His long-ago caution for Cannabis possession (which had been on such flimsy evidence that it had never reached court) led to the rumour that he’d introduced his older friend to Class A drugs.  And the media insisted he MUST be in touch with his mother.

And then the reporters had begun digging into the parents’ pasts, looking for scandal and abusive behaviour, and had exaggerated Sarah’s  overreaction to their unexpected grilling about Christopher’s father.

The police had banned the “gentlemen of the press” from the immediate vicinity of the Mulholland and Temple households, and from the grounds of the local schools and colleges, and from the workplaces of their relatives and friends, but it had remained difficult to move far without harassment.

When Sarah had telephoned Mark to ask if she could stay with him, he’d suggested she keep her plans secret, to avoid attracting the media to her new location.  She’d been so desperate for peace that she hadn’t even told Greg’s parents where she was going and, to make it harder for reporters to find her, she’d paid cash for her train ticket and even dragged her heavy bags on foot from the station to his house.

As she relaxed in his bath, sipping the wine he’d given her, Sarah felt peaceful for the first time since Christopher’s birth.  Drowsily, she thought back over all the adjustments he’d forced into her life and, remembering his first performance, she recalled his favourite song  so vividly that it was difficult to believe she wasn’t really hearing him singing.

She started awake, realising she’d been dangerously close to drowning, when she heard Michael Robertson’s voice speaking close to the bathroom door.  Mark hadn’t told her his brother was in the house.  If he had, she might not have come.  She had unhappy memories of Michael.  He’d amused himself by tormenting her in school, always with lackeys to back him up and echo his nasty words.  Mark had told her he’d changed, and now devoted his life to helping victims of Alzheimer’s Disease, but she didn’t think she could forgive him for leading her classmates in excluding her from everything which had looked like fun.

Michael was speaking urgently with someone outside the bathroom, admonishing them for disturbing her, but she hadn’t been disturbed.  She hadn’t heard any sounds other than her remembered son’s song.  Hurriedly, she pulled the plug, determined to vacate the bathroom as soon as she was sure Michael had left.

She woke in her bed, dressed in Mark’s crimson towelling bathrobe.  She couldn’t remember walking back to her room.  She couldn’t remember getting out of the bath.  But she remembered the peg had been empty when she’d checked it, after discovering she’d forgotten to bring her own robe.  She felt strange, as if her memories were somehow disconnecting from reality.  What she remembered didn’t seem to be the truth.

As she set up her laptop, she thought she heard Chris singing again, but dismissed the idea as a trick brought about by the nursery atmosphere in the room where they’d stayed when they’d come home from  the maternity hospital.

While she waited for the last dozen “Missing” posters to trundle out of Mark’s printer, she heard Michael’s voice again.  The sound returned her seventeen years ino the past.  Once again, she remembered the casual uncaring cruelty with which he’d controlled his brother and attempted to exert power over  HER.  Once again, she recalled his callous overheard remark that illegitimate babies ought to be drowned like unwanted kittens.  Once again, she felt the urge to pack her belongings and flee.

But she was older and more experienced than the teenage new-mother who’d scraped together the train fare to Leeds.  And her baby was safely out of reach.

She caught her breath and sucked it in.  Of course, Chris wasn’t safe; he was missing.  Nobody knew whether he was alive or dead.  He certainly couldn’t be thought of as SAFE.

Her fear brought her onto the landing, ready to confront whatever danger threatened her son, but she realised he wasn’t there for her to protect.  It had been another trick of her increasingly unreliable memory.  There was just Michael guiding a man with a shaven head, whom she guessed must be one of his Alzheimer patients.  Mark hadn’t informed her his house was a clinic.

The man was muttering animatedly, repeating the same words over again, and Sarah pitied him and imagined he’d once had a normal intellect.  Despite her loathing for Michael, she wished him success in his treatment of his elderly patients.  “I don’t WANT to share a cabin with the Slime Monster,“ the stranger was repeating, all the way to the bottom of the stairs.  The weird sentence sounded familiar.

Returning to her room, she packed the posters in an envelope and dressed for the unpredictable late October weather.  She hadn’t managed to shake off the dizzy, unreal feeling, so she decided to  ask Mark for a snack before she went into town.

Sitting in the lounge, sipping the tea Mark had made for her, Sarah recalled the headline on the first sympathetic report about her son and his friend:  “Teenage actors disappear in Norfolk”.

The main text added: “Christopher Mulholland, aged seventeen, and Gregory Temple, aged 19, failed to return from a backpacking holiday in Norfolk.  They were last seen on Friday, leaving Tesco in Norwich.  Their families are concerned and would like to speak to anyone who knows their whereabouts.”

The report had appeared almost a month ago.

Michael was arranging cream cakes on a plate and, suddenly feeling a need for sugar, Sarah reached for an apple turnover.  But her hand remained in her lap.  Horrified, she watched her teacup fall, spilling the hot, sweet liquid down her jeans .

“Future stars missing” was the second headline, and the story had included details of the young men’s acting careers, concentrating on their television series.

“Shall I get you another cup of tea?” Mark asked.  Sarah shook her head, unable to speak.  Even the head-shake felt like too much effort.

The newspaper she’d read on the train had included a piece about an Alzheimer’s Disease cluster in Norfolk, with an unusually high incidence among young adults.  There had been several theories centred around environmental and genetic factors.  She noted Michael’s scalpel-like precision as he dissected a chocolate éclair.

“Would you like to lie down?” Mark asked solicitously.  “You look pale.”

There had been a report of yet another millionaire businessman who’d confounded medical opinion by making a full recovery from the seemingly incurable disease.  “I don’t WANT to share a cabin with the Slime Monster,“ Greg’s voice protested vehemently as Michael’s shaven-headed patient came into the lounge.  Sarah noted the scars on his scalp and remembered him saying the line in the television show.  Her face felt cold and her hands were numb and lifeless. 

Other than the head-shave and scars, Chris looked like himself.  His movements were quick and he was singing happily as he followed Greg into the room.  He smiled into Sarah’s face and she tried to smile back.  “Hello,” he greeted her and she thought he was compos mentis but he went on to tell her every detail of his favourite movie from when he was three years old.  She recalled advising him to call Mark if he or Greg needed anything while they were in Norfolk.

“She’s ready,” Michael stated coldly, in a tone anyone else might use about  a ripening squash.  “You two, scat!”  The childlike young men obeyed the authoritarian adult.

Sarah tried to follow them out of the lounge but there was no movement left in her.  She wanted to get away from Mark’s callous, unfeeling brother but her brain seemed to be slowing down and she couldn’t formulate a plan.

Michael smiled.  He moved somewhere out of sight and she heard the snick of his medical bag.

Mark straightened out her body on the couch.  He covered her with surgical sheets.  “It’ll be over in a minute, Sarah, and you won’t have any more worries.”





1,818 words