‘Six months ago today,’ I say, looking straight into the camera lens, ‘on Thursday the fifth of February, my younger son Billy disappeared from our home in Knowle, South Bristol, in the early hours of the morning. He was only fifteen. He took his schoolbag and his mobile phone and he was probably dressed in jeans, Nike trainers, a black Superdry jacket and an NYC baseball hat …’ I falter, aware that some of the journalists are twisting round in their seats, no longer scribbling in their notebooks. Mark, beside me, makes a low noise in the base of his throat and DS Forbes leans forward and puts his elbows on the desk. ‘We all miss Billy very much. His disappearance has left a hole in our family that nothing can fill and …’ I keep my eyes trained on the camera but I’m aware of a commotion at the back of the room. One man is wrestling with another in the doorway. ‘Billy, if you’re watching, please get in touch. We love you very, very much and nothing can change that. If you don’t want to ring us directly, please just walk into the nearest police station or get in touch with one of your friends.’
The producer standing next to the cameraman taps him on the shoulder and signals towards the back of the room. The camera twists away from me and a shout emanates from the doorway.
‘Get off me! I’ve got a right to be here! I’ve got a right to speak.’
‘What’s Jake doing here?’ Mark stares over the heads of the journalists and several flash bulbs fire at once, lighting up the corner of the room where Jake is remonstrating with a male police officer. ‘I thought you said he was ill.’
‘He was … is. Let me deal with this.’
‘Mrs Wilkinson, wait!’ DS Forbes shouts as I hurry across the room and shoulder my way through the circle of journalists that has formed around my son. I can just about make out the back of Jake’s head. His fair hair is wild and tousled without a liberal application of hair gel. He disappears as a policeman steps in front of him, blocking my view.
‘Excuse me. Excuse me, please.’
The TV cameraman hisses as I push past him but he’s shushed by his producer. ‘That’s the mum, get her in shot.’
I push past a couple of council officials and approach the policeman who’s shepherding Jake towards the open doorway. Tapping him on the back of his black stab vest has no effect so instead I pull on his arm.
He doesn’t so much as glance at me. Instead he keeps his eyes trained on Jake; Jake, who’s a good six inches shorter, with his hands clenched at his sides and the tendons straining in his neck.
‘Please,’ I shout. ‘Please stop, he’s my son.’
‘Mum?’ Jake says and the police officer looks at me in surprise. He lowers his arms a fraction.
‘He’s my son,’ I say again.
The policeman glances behind me, towards the poster of Billy affixed to a flipchart beside the desk.
‘No, not Billy,’ I say. ‘This is Jake, my other son.’
‘Other son? I wasn’t told to expect any other relatives …’ He looks at DS Forbes who shakes his head.
‘It’s all right, PC George. I’ve got this.’
DS Forbes has met Jake before. He interviewed him at length, the day after Billy disappeared, just as he and his team interviewed all our extended family and friends.
‘Show’s over, guys.’ He signals to the producer to cut the filming and gestures for the journalists to return to their seats. No one moves.
‘Jake!’ A female journalist with a sharp blonde bob reaches a hand over my shoulder and waves a Dictaphone in my son’s direction. ‘What was it you wanted to say?’
‘Jake?’ The producer proffers a microphone. ‘Did you have a message for Billy?’
My son takes a step forward, shoulders back, chin up. He glances at PC George and raises an eyebrow, vindicated.
‘What happened to your foot, Jake?’
A short, balding man with hairy forearms that poke out of his rolled-up shirtsleeves points at Jake’s trainers. The instep of his right shoe, normally pristine and white, is muddied with brown blood.
‘Jake?’ Mark says.
The room grows quiet as my husband and son stare at each other. They’re waiting for Jake to speak. I wait too. I can feel Mark bristling behind me. This is his worst nightmare – our respectable, measured appeal transformed into a bar-room brawl.
I hear a click and a whirr from the camera to my left and I imagine the lens zooming in on Jake’s pale, drawn face. He passes the heel of his hand over his damp brow and then, with only the briefest of glances at me, turns on the heel of his good foot and limps out of the room.
Jackdaw44: Fuck my life.
ICE9: Don’t say that.
Jackdaw44: Why not. It’s true. My dad is a hypocritical wanker and my mum is fucking clueless.
ICE9: Have you talked to your dad about the weekend?
Jackdaw44: Are you fucking kidding?
ICE9: You should give him the chance to explain.
Jackdaw44: What? That he’s weak, spineless, a liar and a lecherous bastard? No, thanks.
ICE9: Maybe it’s not how it seemed.
Jackdaw44: You’re taking the piss, right? You saw me. You saw what I did.
ICE9: That was stupid.
Jackdaw44: It was sick. I wish I’d seen the look on his face when he saw his car window. When he got home he told Mum that vandals did it. Ha. Ha. Ha. I’m the fucking vandal.
Jackdaw44: You still there?
ICE9: Yeah. Sorry. Bit busy.
Jackdaw44: No worries. Just wanted to say thanks for cooling me out. I would have totally lost my shit if you hadn’t turned up.
ICE9: You did lose your shit.
Jackdaw44: Could have been worse.
ICE9: Hmm.
Jackdaw44: Anyway. Thanx.
‘What the hell were you thinking?’ Mark is standing in the centre of the living room with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s loosened his tie and popped the top button of his shirt. The skin at the base of his throat is mottled and red.
‘Sod this.’ Jake moves to get out of his armchair, wincing as he puts weight on his bad foot.
‘You’ll stay where you bloody are,’ Mark shouts and I grip the cushion I’m clutching to my chest a little tighter. ‘This is my house and as long as you live here you’ll do what I say.’
‘Yeah, because that worked out well with Billy, didn’t it?’ Jake doesn’t raise his voice but Mark stumbles backwards as though the question has been screamed in his face.
He seems to fold in on himself, then quickly recovers. ‘What did you