New writing
A short story by
The Missing
I hold the egg in my hand, my fingers tracing the contours of the shell; its tough but ultimately fragile protection. I watch my hands move, pale and blue-veined. My fingers pause, and for a moment the egg, my hands, and where I am and who I am, is forgotten. My mind empties. For a few precious seconds I am at peace. Then I return to myself, shake my head, and move away from the sink. Turning to the mixing bowl on the work surface I crack the egg against its brim. The yolk and egg-white slop down into the bowl to join the butter and sugar. I break five more eggs into the mixture. Cracking the last egg, a few pieces of shell fall into the bowl. Delving into the sticky mess with my fingers I hunt out the tiny, jagged pieces, then turn to the sink to wash my hands. I catch sight of my face reflected in the kitchen window. Lately I’ve come to believe that this mirror image is a deception, a trick of the mind: I could not have grown so old without noticing.
I avert my eyes and wipe my fingers against my apron, baby pink with WORLD’S GREATEST MOM printed in white across the bib; a present from Conor the time he worked in Boston for the summer: a present to make up for the argument we had because I hadn’t wanted him to go, America being such a dangerous place. I wish now that he’d stayed there and not come home.
Returning to the cake mixture I beat the ingredients together with a whisk then fold in three tablespoons of self-raising flour. I lift a carton of milk from the fridge and pour half of it over the mixture, beating again until my wrist begins to ache. I pour the mixture into a cake tin, turn to the oven and bend to open the door. A rush of heat strikes my face and dries the tears that have dampened my cheeks.
I put the cake into the oven and close the door quickly to keep the heat in. Straightening, I’m aware of a dull ache throbbing at the base of my spine. I check the clock on the wall and then remove my apron. I walk into the living room and ease myself onto the sofa. I pick up the TV remote control and flick through the channels, pausing as the familiar theme music to Tricia fills the air. I watch as Tricia bounds onto the set to a chorus of applause and introduces the topic of the day: ‘Families at War’. The first guest is brought on, a middle-aged mother who is sick of her son stealing from her to feed his drug habit. The mother’s face is alive with anger and hurt. She asks Tricia what she’s done to deserve a son like the one she has. Then the son is introduced, a young man in tracksuit and baseball cap. He begins to shout at his mother as the audience boo and hiss. I turn the TV off.
The house is silent again. I am a woman alone, a widow going on for eleven years now. I’ve no real reason to get out of bed in the morning, but still I rise at seven as I have done for many years, even though there’s no-one now to help me fill my days. I bake cakes and fashion exotic meals from TV cookbooks, but there’s no fulfilment in the eating. Sitting at the kitchen table, with empty chairs by my side, the food that’s taken hours to prepare tastes of nothing in my mouth.
I get up from the sofa and begin to wander the rooms of the house, making a pretence of dusting and tidying. I end up, as always, in Conor’s room, unchanged since the last night he slept in it. I sit at the end of his bed and look at the child’s wallpaper covered with blue-tacked posters of football players and rock stars. His record player sits silent on top of a chest of drawers. Fragments of songs he used to play drift in and out of my consciousness. I slide into memories as if into a soothing bath. For a few timeless moments Conor is young again, safe in his bed, as I feed him chicken soup to alleviate his flu. And then he is younger still, a baby, and I hold him to my breast, his pouting lips hungry for the sustenance I bring.
Barely noticing the slip back into reality I sit at the end of the bed, the ghost of an ache in my left breast. I stare unseeing. Suddenly I’m overcome by grief, and the terrible certainty returns to me that he is gone forever and I can’t do anything to bring him back.
I’m filled with a desire to escape from the house. I hurry from the room and run down the stairs. My winter coat hangs on a hook in the hallway, next to the holy water font and a framed print of the Child of Prague. The eyes of the virgin and child stare at me accusingly. I grab my coat and rush to the door.
Outside, the air is chill. My quickened breath steams as I fumble with the sleeves of the coat. I take a moment to calm myself before I begin to walk through the estate, my steps careful on the frosted footpath. I need to be away from all this glass and brick, these houses and homes. The green of the glen calls to me.
I turn off the main road and follow the path down into the glen, leaving the estate behind. Grass grows wild beside the pathway; giant chestnut trees loom into my sight. I walk toward the bridge that straddles the slow flowing river. My senses are filled with the soothing smells of nature. The air here is clean and crisp. I reach the bridge and pause there. I lean against the cold metal railings and gaze down into the river.
When I was a child, I used to play here in the glen. On summer days I would sit on the edge of the bank and slip off my shoes. Tucking the hem of my dress into my knickers, I would dip my toes into the cool stream, and then gingerly immerse myself until the water was up to just below my knees.
The river and the glen have changed over the years. The bridge that I’m standing on is scarred with spray-painted graffiti. The trees on either side of the river are charred black at their roots: the aftermath of vandals’ fires. In the stream itself, a rusted pram lies half-submerged in the silt and slime of the riverbed. Everywhere I look I see discarded beer cans and plastic bags. Cigarette butts litter the soil like strange exotic grubs. The peace of this place, and all its pleasant memories, are ruined for me.
I walk on, down through the glen towards the Shore Road and beyond that Belfast Lough. I focus my eyes on my feet and concentrate my mind on the sounds around me. Somewhere in the undergrowth a small animal scurries. I hurry on.
The end of the path leads out onto the main road. Cars hiss past in both directions. I push the button for the traffic lights and wait for the green man
before crossing the road.
There are railings here too,
and a concrete embankment which angles
down into the water. The
tide is in and waves lap languidly against the concrete buttress, laced with strands of seaweed dancing lightly in the swell.
I stand by the railings and watch as a ferry heads in towards port. Its white mass is highlighted against the dappled green hump of land on the other side of the Lough. I think about the passengers on board, where they have travelled from and where they are returning to. Somewhere on the ship a son would be preparing to go home. Home to a mother he hasn’t seen in a while. Perhaps she will be waiting for him at the terminal, ready to engulf him in her arms, hug him close to her breast. If only Conor was on that boat, and I was the mother waiting. I would take him in my arms and swear to myself that I would never let him go again, never let him leave.
It’s been almost six months now since he went into town one Friday night and never came home. At first I presumed he’d probably had a bit too much to drink and stayed overnight with a friend. But as Saturday wore on and there was no sign of him I began to worry. It wasn’t like him. He would call at least to let me know where he was. He knew that I’d fret. It was early evening before I called the police. They told me to wait another day. I sat by the phone all night out of my mind with worry. Two policemen from the local station came to speak to me on Sunday. I told them all that I knew, showed them the drawers still filled with his clothes. I sat on the edge of his bed and cried into my hands, overcome by the smell of him lingering on the duvet. The policemen took notes and told me not to worry, that he was probably on the tear with some friends or had hooked up with a girl. I kept telling them that Conor would have got in touch, that he always let me know where he was. I could sense their disbelief. To them I was just an overbearing mother who refused to accept that her son was a man. They told me to ring Conor’s friends; one of them would know where he was. They took away a photograph.
I rang all his friends. No-one had seen him since the weekend before. No-one had been with him on Friday night. Weeks passed. Months. My son is officially a missing person.
I used to check the papers every day, watch the TV for news of a body dragged from the sea, an unidentified man found shot in some country lane. I’ve tortured myself thinking about what might have happened to him. My sleep is destroyed by nightmares filled with violence and murder. My heart tells me he is dead: dead and never coming home. But I live each day in the hope that my grieving heart is wrong.
I turn from the sea and begin to walk aimlessly along the shoreline. I’m gripped by an urge to duck under the railings, rush down the embankment and wade into the sea. I can’t go on like this; I can’t bear this ghost life anymore. But I must. I’m his mother and I must be there for him. I will be there for him.
Maybe I’m wrong. How can I be sure he’s dead? He could have gotten into some sort of trouble, had to leave the country or go into hiding, and didn’t have time to let me know. These things happen, don’t they? Especially in this country. And the reason he hasn’t been in touch is because he’s afraid that if he lets me know where he is then they’ll find out and come looking for him. That could be, couldn’t it?
I turn towards home. At the traffic lights I suddenly remember the cake still in the oven. It’ll be burnt now. The kitchen will be filled with the smell of it. I’ll open the windows and let some air into the room. Perhaps it won’t be too badly burnt. Perhaps it can be saved.
is from Whiteabbey, County Antrim. A past-winner and runner-up of the Brian Moore Short Story Award, his stories and poetry have been published in various journals and anthologies in Ireland, the UK, and the USA, including The Stinging Fly, The Black Mountain Review and Breaking the Skin: twenty-first century New Irish Writing.
James works as a media trainer for CSV Media in Belfast, and is also a regular contributor to McLean’s Country on BBC Radio Ulster.
