The Lost

Chapter 8

Ten years ago

The drizzle hazed the yellow glow of the streetlight. It trickled down Jonah’s turned-up collar and down the back of his neck. He ignored it. He was aware of it on some distant level, just as he was aware of the cold that numbed his hands and feet and pierced through the too-thin jacket he wore. But the physical discomfort seemed apart from him. All his attention was fixed on the building across the road, on the light coming from a single lit window and the doorway to the street below it. His whole world had shrunk down, narrowing to exclude everything except that view. He’d never once taken his eyes from it as he stood in the shadowed mouth of the alleyway opposite.

Waiting.

He’d been there now for hours. Seen the short winter day come and go, the dirty afternoon sinking first into a muddy dusk and then concealing night. He’d watched the light come on in the window, seen a silhouetted figure moving in a shadow-play behind the grubby curtains. And he’d waited.

It wouldn’t be much longer.

Somewhere inside him was a sense of disbelief that he was actually going through with this. But, like his awareness of the cold and drizzle, it was buried so deeply it barely registered. Jonah was a raw nerve, so accustomed to the all-encompassing pain that it had become the norm, blanketing out everything else.

The snick of a door opening came from across the road. He stood motionless as someone emerged. Even in the dark, Jonah could recognise the shambling figure of Owen Stokes.

He’d spent long enough studying the man.

He couldn’t remember when he made the decision. He wasn’t sure if he actually did: somehow it was just there, a necessity that he accepted without question. The first thing he did was move out of the house. Chrissie was glad to see him go, and he couldn’t bear staying there any longer. He booked into a budget hotel apartment, a studio with cheap furnishings and mouldy bathroom, where the hallways smelled of last night’s takeaways and burnt toast. Gavin had offered him the settee at his and Marie’s, but Jonah knew that would have been putting pressure on all of them. They had a young son, Dylan, and problems of their own. Besides, Jonah didn’t want Gavin breathing down his neck. Not for what he had in mind.

Not that there was anything he could do straight away. Owen Stokes had been recalled to prison for skipping out on his probation officer and it would be another twenty-eight days before he was released. The thought that this was the man’s only punishment made Jonah feel sick. But it was also a motivation. It gave him something to aim for, a reason to get out of bed each morning and face each interminable day.

No matter what Wells had said about proof, Jonah knew Stokes was guilty. Knew it. He could see it in the arrogant smirk, the sneering unconcern the man had shown for the disappearance of a four-year-old boy. Of his son. It was an affront to the universe to accept that Theo had squeezed through a rusting iron gate into that watery darkness. Not voluntarily. Witnesses made mistakes and timings could be wrong, but Jonah was his father.

He didn’t need any more proof than that.

On the twenty-eighth day, he’d parked his car on the road close to the probation office a half-hour before it opened. Close enough to give himself a good view of the entrance, far enough away not to be noticed. It was almost two o’clock when he saw the despised figure in its combat jacket approaching. Jonah sat upright, almost giving in to the impulse to confront him there and then. Restraining himself, he sat in the car for another interminable hour until Stokes re-emerged from the building. Jonah waited until he’d gone past the car, then he got out and followed. He trailed behind, feeling the blood pulsing behind his eyes as he stared at the black spider-web tattoo on the thick neck. He knew he had to be patient for a little longer. An open street in broad daylight wasn’t the place or time for what he had in mind. It had to be somewhere dark. And private.

So Jonah had hung back, though he’d made no attempt to conceal himself. Stokes didn’t know him, and there was no reason for him to think he was being followed. And even if he did, Jonah didn’t care. But Stokes seemed oblivious, not so much as glancing round as Jonah boarded a bus after him. When the other man got off, Jonah did as well. He slowed while Stokes paused to light a cigarette, then carried on following him. Reaching an austere brick building, Stokes threw his cigarette onto the pavement and went inside. It was a men’s hostel, Jonah saw as he walked on past.

Crossing the road, he went to the alleyway a little further along the street. Just inside was a recessed doorway. It was half hidden by the rusting steps of a fire escape, and the fire door was padlocked, a drift of litter banked up against it. Moving into its shelter, Jonah fixed his eyes on the entrance across the road, oblivious to the stink of piss and refuse.

Then, hunching himself against the cold, he waited for night to fall.

Now he was all but invisible, another shadow in the dark alleyway. He stiffened as the sound of the entrance door opening came from across the road. Light spilled out, then a familiar silhouette emerged. Jonah stared from the alley as Stokes set off down the street.

Then he followed him.

The muscles of his neck and shoulders were rigid, and his hands were clenched into tight fists. His rubber-soled boots made little noise, but with all his attention focused on the man ahead he didn’t see the empty can until he’d sent it clattering across the pavement. It made enough noise to raise the dead, and Jonah kept his head down as Stokes glanced back. There was no one else on the street but it was too well-lit and public, car headlights streaming past on the road. Jonah forced himself to carry on walking, keeping his eyes downcast as Stokes stopped ahead of him.

‘Got a light, pal?’

The voice was hoarser than it sounded on the interview video, the Liverpool accent even more pronounced. Allowing himself to glance over, Jonah saw Stokes had an unlit cigarette held in one hand. The deep-set eyes that gazed back seemed mocking, and the urge to lash out at them was almost overpowering. Resisting it took all his self-control.

‘No.’

Jonah walked on past, his fists balled so tightly that his cropped fingernails cut into his palms. As he left Stokes behind, he listened for any rapid footfalls, ready to swing round and face him. None came, and now Jonah began to worry that he might lose him if he got too far ahead. He risked a glance back.

The pavement where Stokes had stood was empty.

Jonah swore. He quickly scanned the street, but there was no sign of the man. Backtracking, he saw a narrow side street a short distance from where Stokes had been. Hurrying to the corner, he looked down. There was no one in sight. The only light came from the small neon sign of a bar further down, but Jonah didn’t think Stokes would have had the chance to make it that far.

Christ, where was he?

Abandoning any attempt at stealth, he set off down the dark street. A noisy air vent protruded from the wall of a building, belching steam like bad breath. The air thickened with the smell of fried onions and charred meat, but there was still no sign of Stokes. Come on, where are you? There was no pavement and the brick walls of buildings crowded in at either side, blocking out the night sky. It was like being at the bottom of a man-made canyon, where doorways and passageways formed deeper areas of blackness in the shadow.

Jonah swore again under his breath, furious at himself as he headed for the bar. It was the only place Stokes could be. The neon sign said The Full House and as Jonah drew near to its glow, he heard a scuffed footstep behind him. He spun round, heart pumping as he brought up his hands. A tall figure was behind him. Dark as it was, Jonah recognised him straight away.

‘What the fuck are you doing, Jonah?’ Gavin hissed, stepping into the light cast by the bar sign.

Jonah’s relief was followed by anger. ‘Keep out of this.’

‘Forget it. I’m not going to let you do anything stupid.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Gavin grabbed his arm as he started to turn away. ‘Come on, Jonah, I know what you’re doing. You think you’re the only one who knew Stokes was out today?’

Jonah pulled his arm free. ‘You’ve been following me?’

‘I knew you’d try something like this so I was waiting by the hostel. Christ, what were you thinking? I know you’re hurting, but what good do you think this is going to do?’

‘What good?’ Pure rage put a quaver in Jonah’s voice. ‘I’m going to find out what that bastard did to my son, that’s what good!’

‘For Christ’s sake, what happened to Theo was nothing to do with Stokes! You know that! If you don’t believe Wells, at least believe me!’

‘Fine, I believe you. Now fuck off.’

‘Don’t be stupid. It’s not worth getting yourself killed or sent down over a piece of shit like Stokes. I can’t let you do that.’

‘I’m not asking for your permission.’

‘Come on, Jonah...’

‘Are you going to stop me?’

‘Yes, if I—’

Gavin staggered back as the punch caught him on his cheek. All Jonah’s grief and fury, all the guilt, suddenly erupted. He swung wildly at the target in front of him, no longer caring who it was. Gavin brought his arms up to protect himself but didn’t fight back.

‘Fuck’s sake, Jonah, don’t be a—’

He grunted as another punch hooked into his ribs. Then light exploded in Jonah’s vision as something crashed into his face. He shook his head to clear it, stepping in to swing again. But Gavin moved forward as well, and Jonah doubled up as a knee smacked into his groin.

The pain was intense. He dropped to the ground, and suddenly the madness in him broke. He was dimly aware of Gavin crouching beside him, an arm round his shoulders as sobs tore through Jonah.

‘I’m sorry, I am,’ Gavin said. ‘I know it’s fucked up, but what happened wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was a shitty, awful accident, but that’s what it was. An accident. Stokes had nothing to do with it. Christ, you think I wouldn’t be helping you if I thought he did? I’d crucify the bastard myself, but that’s not what happened. And doing something stupid won’t bring Theo back.’

Jonah couldn’t speak. He stayed slumped on the ground as the sobs continued to rack him. Only when they’d run their course did he find his voice.

‘I don’t know what to do, Gav! Oh, Christ, I–I look round and he’s just gone! I can’t bear to think of him alone in that... that fucking dark hole. If I hadn’t—’

‘If you hadn’t been pulling shifts, if Chrissie hadn’t gone into work, if the fucking council had repaired the culvert.’ Gavin gave a heavy sigh. ‘It’s all ifs and bollocks. Sometimes life turns to shit, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You can’t predict some things, so you need to stop torturing yourself. Theo was a beautiful little boy, and he loved you. He loved his dad. That’s what you need to remember.’

Jonah cried again, but without the violence now. The insanity that had possessed him for the past few weeks had gone. He felt weak but clear-headed, as though he’d come through a fever. He sat up, wiping his eyes.

‘Sorry I went for you.’

Gavin touched his cheek and winced. ‘Don’t worry about it. You always did fight like a girl. How are the balls?’

A laugh burst from Jonah, though it sounded more like sob. ‘How do you think?’

Gingerly, he began getting to his feet. Gavin helped him up.

‘Come on, mate, let’s get a drink.’