Behind Closed Doors

      I saw his picture on the news this morning. It was the one from when he started school. I don't know where they got it; I suppose George gave it to them. I heard the news presenter,
         'And there has been no news on five year old Charlie Mulberry, who disappeared near his home in Surrey last night'. I turned it off quickly; I didn't need to hear it again. Then I went out, I couldn't bear to be stuck in the house a minute longer, not without him playing upstairs.
         I thought I'd just walk down to the corner shop, get a bit of fresh air, it's supposed to help, getting fresh air, I don't know why. It was though, I was feeling much better, it was when I was walking through the park (carefully avoiding the playground) when it happened. There was the usual gang of teenagers hanging around, today eating chips out of old newspaper, reminds me of when I was younger, chips out of newspaper, and the print always got on them, awfully unhygienic when you think about it. Just as I was approaching the bench the teenagers got up and slouched off, leaving their wrappers behind, typical. As I passed I glanced down and there was his face again. Only this time there were grease stains all over it, you couldn't even see the motto on his sweatshirt. They covered one side of his face, making him look like he had a black eye. A black eye. Charlie, hurt, scared, lost. Suddenly I snapped.
         I ran all the way back home and didn't stop, not even when I nearly knocked over the old lady from number 23. Straight through the front door and into the living room, I threw myself into my favourite chair and cried, I cried like I haven't let myself cry since I first realised he was gone. I could still see his picture smiling up at me, always smiling. I closed my eyes tightly, trying to block out the image but it was like someone had pasted it to my eyelids. Then there was a knocking at the door, oh God, not another nosy neighbour, hiding behind fake understanding, trying to see inside. They can't understand, they've never lost a child, they've never had to cope with it; their son has never been taken. Taken. It's a horrible word, harsh, cold, uncaring. No, no, I won't think about it I won't.
         The bell rang again, more insistent this time. I peered around the door, trying to see who was there; I really didn't feel like coping with the neighbours today. Even through the netting I could distinguish the impatient features of Mrs 31 opposite. I had to suppress a groan, she's the worst. She was over last night trying to get in. We had to practically push her out the door; it seems she can't take a hint. She was here the minute the news was on, banging on the door. She was in the house and firmly established in the best armchair before I had time to blink.
         She said, 'I was so sorry to hear about poor little Charlie, and if there's anything I can do...'. I managed to keep a civil expression but I was so angry, I could see George was too, his smile became slightly more fixed and his hands tightened around his mug of tea. It's not like she even liked Charlie, no, likes, he's not dead; he's not. She's always coming round saying he's damaged some of her precious flowers, or walked on her perfect lawn. It was almost more than I could handle, George had to get her out of the house before I snapped.
         I couldn't deal with that again today, not when it was just me in the house and George wouldn't be back 'til late. I sneaked back into the living room and sat quietly, hardly breathing until she finally gave up. It reminded me of playing hide and seek with Charlie, except you always had to pretend you hadn't seen him when he tried to hide. I saw her, stalking down the path like an offended cat.

FADE

Two days, two whole days, 48 hours it's been and still no sign. Not even a hint, well a few false leads but they're even worse. I was going to have some breakfast this morning but when I opened the cupboard there were only cheerios, I hate cheerios but Charlie loved, loves them. I only just stopped myself from crying, I'd cried enough for now. Almost without realising it I found myself outside Charlie's firmly closed bedroom door. I hadn't been inside since he went out to play that night. I traced the red wooden letters spelling out 'Charlie's Room'. Then I decided, and quickly, before I had a chance to change my mind I opened the door and slipped in, shutting it firmly behind me.
         Oh God, it was awful, his toys were still out, scattered around the floor and his pyjamas sat on a chair in the corner. I made my way over to the bed and sat down. As I sat I heard an ominous crunching, cracking sound, I looked down and there was one of his toy cars, the roof caved in under my foot.
         I swore, 'Damn it Charlie, how many times do I have to tell you'. I knew I shouldn't be getting angry but I was fed up with coping, fed up with everything. I picked up the toy car with the intention of taking it down with me and asking George if he could mend it when he came in. Then I saw the name scribbled on it in childish handwriting, 'Charlie', Damn. I threw it away from me and it hit the wall, hard, and broke up, no chance of mending it now. Then I collapsed back onto the bed, buried my face in the Thomas the Tank Engine pillow and cried and cried.
         I don't know how long I lay there but I must have slept because when I next looked up it was well past lunchtime. I got up and made my way downstairs, stopping to pick up the pieces of the car, I don't want Charlie to hurt himself when he comes home. In the end though I couldn't bring myself to throw them away. I sat in the living room, clutching a mug of tea in one hand and the broken toy in the other. I was still sitting there hours later when George came home.

FADE

George was late again today; I was expecting him all evening. Ever since, ever since it happened he's been working a lot more, I hardly ever see him. Today he was gone before I got up and didn't get home until gone eight. He came straight in and sat down with a cup of coffee, stone cold, I'd had mine ages ago. I said I'd heat it up for him but he said not to bother. He didn't drink it anyway, just sat there, swirling it around in his mug. He kept checking his watch as well but I didn't think we were expecting anyone. I was just trying to think of something to say, anything to break that awkward silence that seems to have sprung up between us since Monday night.
         Then the bell rang, piercing the uncomfortable silence. George started, looking for all the world like a child caught with his hand in the sweet jar. He glanced at his watch again, I jumped up, pleased at the chance to get out of the room. I didn't even care if it was Mrs 31 prying again. Still, I was relieved when I recognised the profile of Detective Inspector Andrews. I hurried forward and opened the door to let him in, by this time George had joined me in the hall. I couldn't help wishing I'd tidied myself up a bit, I must look a sight, swollen eyes and I could swear I hadn't slept a wink last night.
         Well I suppose he's used to it, his line of work doesn't exactly find people at their best. Come to think of it he isn't looking too well himself, he looks a lot more tired than the last time I saw him and his cheeks bear that tell tale grey stubble, his eyes look different as well, almost angry. I usher him in and direct him to a chair, then I offer him a cup of tea. For the first time since he's entered the house he speaks,
         “No, no thank-you Mrs Mulberry”, even though I've told him to call me Anna. I just catch a glance between the two men. “Please sit down Mrs Mulberry”. He looks like a man about to deliver bad news, but it can't be, can't be that. He keeps shooting sideways glances at George, probably thinks I'm going to pass out or something. Then he speaks again,
         “Now Mrs Mulberry, I'm sure you know why I'm here”. I don't understand, maybe he's trying to break it to me gently. I glance over at George but he's looking down into his lap and won't make eye contact with me.          “Come on Mrs Mulberry”, the inspector's voice is harder now, “think about it, I'm sure you'll get there”. Surely this isn't how they're supposed to speak to us, not when something like this has happened. My face must convey some of my bafflement because his expression falters, just slightly. Then it stiffens into a routine police face and he stands up and approaches me. Oh God this is it, he must have found out something about Charlie, please God let it be good news. Then the inspector's voice rings out, clear and loud.
         “Anna Mulberry, I am arresting you for the murder of your son, Charlie Mulberry.”