‘No,’ Sophia replied, sounding more like a teenager than a six-year-old. ‘He’s probably playing with his toys in his bedroom – as usual.’
‘Yeah, well he’s going to be late for school.’
‘Nursery, mum,’ Sophia corrected her. ‘George goes to nursery, not school. Remember?’
‘Don’t talk to me like that, Sophia and go and tell Caroline what you want for breakfast.’ Sophia tossed her head to one side to show her dissatisfaction and headed for the kitchen, her mother’s genes already shaping her face and body for a life at the top table. Celia pursed her lips and shook her head as she watched daddy’s little princess swagger towards a health-conscious breakfast before looking at the flights of stairs above her and calling to the heavens. ‘George. Stop playing with your toys and come and get breakfast.’ She waited for an answer, but none came. ‘George.’ Again she waited. Nothing. Caroline, the nanny, had arrived while she was still in the shower. Perhaps she’d already fed and dressed George? She looked at her watch again, the increasing concern she was going to be late for the gym urging her to speak to Caroline and save herself a trip up two flights of stairs. She followed Sophia’s route to the kitchen and found the nanny slicing apples and bananas for her daughter’s breakfast. ‘You should have some toast or something as well,’ she reprimanded her.
‘I don’t want to get fat,’ Sophia answered. Celia almost argued with her but remembered why she was there.
‘Caroline. Have you seen George yet this morning?’ she asked.
‘No, Mrs Bridgeman,’ she answered. ‘Not yet. I thought maybe he’d already had his breakfast.’
‘He’s hardly going to get it himself,’ Sophia unhelpfully added.
‘Don’t be rude, Sophia,’ Celia silenced her.
‘Maybe he’s not feeling very well,’ Caroline suggested. ‘D’you want me to go and check on him?’
‘No,’ Celia snapped, a sudden unexplained feeling of anxiety creeping through her like a grass fire. George had been late before – many times – quietly playing in his bedroom with his toys, unwilling to join the family rituals that his young mind knew would be being played out two floors below, but this felt different somehow. ‘I’ll go,’ she said.
Her daughter and the nanny exchanged bemused looks as she turned her back on them and walked quickly to the stairs, climbing them two at a time, her slim body and athletic legs making her progress rapid, but the closer she got the slower she seemed to move, until she was only feet away from his bedroom door, the silence from within drowned out by the relentless beating of her heart, all thoughts of the gym and lunch gone from her head.
As she eased the door open she could see the curtains were still drawn and the blue night-lamp was still on – not unusual for George, but it meant no one else had been in to see him that morning. ‘George?’ she softly called into the room as the door opened wider, as if she didn’t want to startle him if he was still sleeping, especially if he was unwell – another fever perhaps. ‘George?’ She moved into the room, the sickness in her stomach growing as she approached his bed, the thick duvet and plump pillows making it difficult to tell whether he was there or not, but as she closed the distance the realization dawned on her that the bed was empty, making her sprint the last few steps to where her son should have been. Pointlessly, desperately, she patted the bedclothes, pulling the duvet back and tossing it on the floor, even looking under the pillows, feeling increasingly dizzy. Quickly she pulled the heavy blackout curtains open, almost pulling them from their rail, flooding the room with bright orange light, the late autumn sun still low in the sky, barely clearing the adjacent houses.
She stood in the centre of the room, her eyes desperately searching for signs of life – a slight movement or a giggle coming from a hiding place. For a second she laughed at herself, realizing she must be in a game, a game to find a hiding boy. She dropped to her knees and peered under the bed, about to say the boy’s name when she’d discovered him, but the words never came out and her smile was vanquished as she stared into the empty space, the panic returning – stronger now.
‘Where the hell are you, George?’ she asked the emptiness, pushing herself back to her feet and pacing the room, opening the wardrobe and searching places that in her heart she knew he couldn’t be: his drawers and toy boxes, even under the mattress, until she had to admit he couldn’t be in the room. For a moment she felt her throat swell and close, as if she was about to start crying, before she convinced herself it was only a matter of time before she found him.
She walked quickly from room to room, searching every wardrobe and cupboard, behind every curtain and under every table, checking every window was still locked from the inside, constantly calling the boy’s name – threatening and encouraging him to reveal himself. But something in her soul told her the rooms were empty: the way the silence felt so still and lifeless. In the middle of her desperate search she suddenly stopped for a second, the memory of how the very atmosphere of a space would change when the boy was in it and the sudden fear she would never feel it again making her so nauseous and light-headed that she had to lean against the wall and try and control her breathing, swallowing gulps of air until the floor she was looking down at came back into focus. As quickly as she dared, Celia walked downstairs, her outstretched hand sliding along the wall for support until she reached the kitchen, her softly tanned skin pale now and her lips a little blue. The nanny saw her first. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Bridgeman?’
Celia spoke without answering the question, her eyes growing ever wilder with thoughts and fears she’d never once in her life imagined having. ‘Have you seen Mr Bridgeman this morning?’
‘No,’ the nanny answered, confusion spreading across her face. ‘I thought he was away on business last night?’
‘He was,’ Sophia answered for her mother.
‘Be quiet, Sophia,’ Celia snapped. ‘Are you sure he didn’t come back very early this morning? Maybe he …?’ Celia suddenly didn’t know how to say what she wanted to say.
‘He wasn’t here when I arrived,’ the nanny told her, ‘and his car wasn’t here either. Is something wrong?’
‘The front door,’ Celia asked, ‘was it locked when you arrived?’
‘Yes,’ the nanny answered.
‘All the locks?’
‘Yes, Mrs Bridgeman. Is there something wrong?’ the nanny asked again.
Celia’s voice almost failed her as she tried to speak, the words weak and wavering. ‘I can’t find George,’ she finally managed to tell them. ‘He’s gone. Someone’s taken him.’
‘That’s not possible,’ the nanny told her, her smile hiding her own rising fears. ‘He must be hiding somewhere.’
‘No,’ she answered, her voice growing ever weaker as she slumped to her knees on the floor. ‘He’s gone. He’s been taken. I can feel it.’
The nanny came to her side and bent over her, trying to encourage her to stand. ‘Let’s look again – together. I know we’ll find him.’
‘No,’