Among the Missing Read online

  ALSO BY MORAG JOSS

  Puccini’s Ghosts

  Half Broken Things

  Fruitful Bodies

  Fearful Symmetry

  Funeral Music

  The Night Following

  Among the Missing is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Morag Joss

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  DELACORTE PRESS is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Joss, Morag.

  Among the missing: a novel/Morag Joss.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-0-440-42346-1

  1. Triangles (interpersonal relations)—Fiction. 2. Pregnant women—Fiction. 3. Immigrants—Fiction. 4. Ex-convicts—Fiction. 5. Missing persons—Fiction. 6. Loss (Psychology)—Fiction. 7. Identity (Psychology)—Fiction. 8. Scotland—Fiction. 9. Psychological fiction. I. Title.

  PR6060.O77A86 2011

  823′.92—dc22

  2010052989

  www.bantamdell.com

  Jacket design: Marietta Anastassatos

  Jacket photograph: © Ingo Jezierski/Getty Images

  v3.1

  For the ones who are still missing

  Thousands of people are reported missing each year, yet very little is understood about who they are, why they disappear and what happens to them. It is known that most people go missing intentionally, to escape family or other problems. Adults most at risk of going missing are those going through a crisis or a difficult transition.

  The likelihood of missing adults being traced and possibly reunited with their loved ones decreases over time. Among those who are ever found alive, only one in five returns.

  Nina Biehal, Fiona Mitchell, and Jim Wade,

  Lost from View: Missing Persons in the UK

  (Bristol: Policy Press, 2003),

  research undertaken by the University of York in partnership

  with the National Missing Persons Helpline

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Part II

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  PART I

  When Ron was first released, he discovered that prison had made him observant, as if he’d been reminded there, by its sudden absence, of the world’s surfeit of objects, its gross overabundance of things to look at. Not beautiful things. It wasn’t a case of seeing the world’s wonders anew or anything like that; rather, it was the opposite. Observation didn’t sharpen his faculties, it stupefied them. He was dazed by the quantity and variety, the massive, compacted volume of it all; he noticed everything but had no idea what was worth his notice. People’s faces and brick walls, town gutters and plowed fields, church towers and shop fronts, all claimed his attention equally. He couldn’t discriminate, nor could he locate in himself a particular attitude to any of it beyond disorientation, sometimes mild alarm. He surveyed the burgeoning, seething material of other people’s lives and very little moved him.

  After a while, his alarm grew. He began to think there must be some invisible force at work in the world, some unstoppable law of accretion that filled up every surface and corner with streets, office blocks, rivers, factories, houses. Only he seemed to see it, this chaotic, impossible density, all this hoarding and flowing over; was nobody else concerned? If it went on like this, someday the whole planet would clog up and there would not be enough room in the sky for all the crisscrossing exhaust trails of planes, or on the sea for the countless interweaving, frothy wakes of ships. Swirling lines of traffic would spill off the teeming highways. Already there was no such thing as an unfilled space; it was impossible to see nothing. However deserted or arbitrarily spacious, every inch of the world was a place taken up and touched in some way, claimed for one purpose or another, even if it was, as he found in Scotland, to be left bare so that people could see it empty. But there was no true emptiness, no real nothingness, no desert stillness, a phrase that came into his mind and he now wished were more than a phrase. Everywhere—crowded and disorderly, or deliberately pristine—was somewhere, laden with the paraphernalia and expectation of some human design, and in not one of these places was his presence relevant. He tried not to think about it. He tried not to panic, and to concentrate instead on tiny things, one at a time.

  He practiced on people. In cafés and checkout queues he would study them, and take in only physical details: the curve of an ear, a ridged fingernail, the asymmetric lift of one eyebrow. Every feature was odd in some way, once he focused on it, not that this disappointed him at all, for he was not looking for perfection or hoping to find a special value in the unique. He simply noticed and remembered. He filed every detail in his mind disjointedly and without cross-reference, each alone for its isolated, particular, frangible self. He welcomed this dullness of perception in himself, for it would have been unbearable to dwell on anything more than how precious and how breakable were these vulnerable, separate, flawed parts of other people’s bodies. Sometimes he knew he was staring at a stranger too hard and should apologize, but he didn’t know what to be sorry for. For not knowing how his own mind worked? For not being sure he bore more than a trivial surface resemblance to other human beings anymore?

  He would have liked someone to tell it all to. He called his sister. She told him it would be fine for him to come for a few days if it was up to her, but Derek wasn’t ready to see him.

  “Listen, Ron, he accepts it was an accident,” she said. “So do I. But he’s just not ready, you know?”

  Ron did know, but he said nothing.

  “I mean, Ron, criminal negligence is, well, what it says. You know?”

  “I know,” he said.

&n
bsp; “And as Derek says, six children died. Plus the pregnant woman. Give us a few months.”

  “I’ve been in prison over five years.”

  “And then he says, it just makes us look at our two and think, you know? Anyway, the extension’s not finished.”

  He left her another couple of messages. Then she sent him a big check with a note saying she trusted the enclosed would help him make a fresh start “somewhere new.” She’d be in touch, she wrote.

  He called his former neighbor Jeff and thanked him for the card. It had meant a lot, he said, on his first Christmas in prison.

  “That’d be Lynne,” Jeff said. “She sends cards to everybody.”

  He left the words even you unspoken, but Ron heard them nonetheless.

  “How’s Kathy? Has Lynne seen her?”

  Jeff hesitated. “They’re in touch, yeah. Doing better. Knocks you sideways, divorce, never mind everything else she’s had to contend with.”

  Ron said it would be good to meet up for a drink. They agreed on a day the following week. The next day Jeff sent a text message to say he couldn’t make it and he’d call soon, but he didn’t.

  They’d found him a room for the first month, and a social worker, and he worked the night shift for a while in a bakery, standing on a line wrapping buns and cakes in a warm, yellow-lit factory that smelled of sugar icing and machine oil. His fellow workers were all women who spoke rapidly to one another in their own language and ignored him except to pass on commands about cellophane or cardboard boxes.

  To get away from all of that he cashed his sister’s check, bought an old Land Rover, and reverted to his life’s previous pattern, the covering of distances. He knew how to measure a day or night in miles rather than in hours on a factory clock, and he found comfort in the old equation of roads traveled versus time spent equals a portion of his life somehow suspended in transit. As a boy he’d been fascinated by time zones, which he could hardly distinguish from time travel; if you went west crossing zone after zone, going always back in time, one day would you be a man of twenty-one in a high chair with a bib and a spoon? Or going always east and forward, would you find yourself stooped and white-haired and still ten years old? It couldn’t be so, of course, but he had concluded then that the secret was to keep moving. Forget about direction and destination, just keep moving, and surely your life would never be able to catch you up with restrictions and obstacles and all its weighty boredom.

  Now, amused by a childish hope that was, if foolish, at least familiar, he took again to the road, sleeping most nights in the Land Rover, parking at the end of the day within reach of a pub and whenever possible near a fast-running stream or a river, whose sound in the night was perhaps a lulling echo of the flow of the daytime traffic. Occasionally he stayed in cheap places when he needed to shave and shower and wash clothes in a hand basin, and sometimes he halted for a week or two here or there and took casual jobs: kitchen portering, laboring, hauling timber, loading and moving, anything physical; it was surprising how often he got a few days’ work just by asking. But mainly he drove. As the first year passed, that was the task that kept him becalmed, though he had to get used to the absence of passengers. There could never be any more passengers.

  There we were at breakfast in the Invermuir Lodge Hotel, on the last day when our distress was of a containable and ordinary kind. Colin was eating sausages at a table in the bay window, and I had gone to the sideboard for orange juice. The dining room was quiet, just us and a retired couple in hiking clothes, and a flat-footed teenage waitress going to and fro. I started to pour the juice, and suddenly the sugary scent of my shampoo as my hair fell over my face and the hot smell of the fried eggs the waitress was carrying past combined and attacked me, and I thought I was going to be sick. I had to put down the jug and steady myself with both hands and look away, and as I tried to swallow some air and breathe without drawing in more of the smell, I found myself concentrating on my reflection in the broad mirror fixed along the back of the sideboard. My face was not a good color, but it did not reveal any disturbance, never mind dread. The hiking couple were squabbling about distances over a map unfolded across their table and did not look up. The waitress was waiting to set down their plates. So much is invisible.

  My focus in the mirror lengthened across the empty tables to the window and the moving silhouette of my husband feeding himself, his head as solid and bony as a calf’s, swaying down to the fork, his mouth opening and closing, working, emptying. I switched my gaze back to myself and saw all I expected to see: a nondescript woman over forty, her makeup slightly too determined and even a little clownish on a face sallow from sleep and perhaps also from some other cause, some new, active trouble. Then my attention flicked back as Col’s knife tipped off his plate, clattered on the table, and hit the floor. He picked it up, scrubbed at the cloth with his napkin, and then he licked his index finger and scrubbed some more, sighing and wincing as if it were all the fault of a vague, absent someone who had failed to materialize in time to prevent this latest blunder by an overgrown, undersupervised child. I looked at myself in the mirror in time to see the expression in my eyes turn thin and resigned. I was used to the idea that the someone was me.

  I returned to my place as if nothing had happened, and maybe nothing had. We beamed at each other. Not even the briefest of dubious marriages foundered ultimately on a matter of dropped cutlery, did it? We smeared our toast from tiny unfolded packs of butter and miniature pots of jam, our faces puckered by the strain of being together on holiday at all, as well as in a worn-out hotel in mid-February. I’m sure we looked unremarkable, perhaps slightly formal, sitting up a little straighter than other couples about to enter a slow-moving middle age in a way that suggested they had never felt young, or led rapid, excited lives. The hiking pair folded their maps and got up to leave, wishing us a good day as they went.

  As their boots creaked across the floor, I thought well, maybe it could still be a good day or at least, like other days in the past five months, a good enough one, a day whose course would offer up to us any number of chances to overlook the disenchantment of our late and incongruous marriage. I poured my husband more coffee. We had already learned to fill the place of love with an obscuring politeness; we observed the etiquette of keeping our disappointment quiet with upbeat conversations over practicalities, like optimistic gardeners keeping an unpromising surface raked and hoed in the hope that love might be growing underground. Above all, we extended to each other self-serving magnanimity in the granting of opportunities to spend time apart. On this off-season, budget break in Scotland (which we were not calling a honeymoon, it being as near as we would ever come to one yet nowhere near enough), we were keeping our voices bright, trading all the usual euphemisms to excuse ourselves from each other’s company: not wanting to “get in each other’s hair,” we were each “doing our own thing.” Col was doing “guys’ stuff,” I was “chilling out at my own pace.” On this particular day Col was going kayaking and I was driving myself in our rental car up to Inverness to window-shop and visit the museum. We were, in fact, on two quite different holidays.

  The hotel was built at the top of an incline, and the bay window looked down over the beer garden, still dank under dawn shadows, for the sun was not fully risen. Rain and melting frost dripped from a black monkey puzzle tree onto the twiggy roof of a gazebo filled with stacks of empty bottle crates and drifts of dead leaves. Banks of chilly-looking cloud weighted the sky above the main road going north past the garden railings; beyond the road, the river flowed over rocks into glossy brown pools that bubbled and spun with curls of froth.

  “I’m afraid it’ll rain on and off all day,” I said. “I hope the weather won’t spoil it for you.”

  “A bit more rain won’t hurt,” he said. “If it rains, it rains.” He cleared his throat. “It might dry up in Inverness.”

  “It might. I won’t mind,” I said, my eyes still on the river. “That current’s very fast. You wouldn’t want t
o capsize in that.”

  “Well, if it’s raining, I’ll be wet anyway, won’t I?” he said. “That would be quite funny.”

  I cast him too bright and grateful a smile, as if capsizing into rivers was some huge amusement I’d forgotten about. We went quiet again. Our table was crowded with white china and overlarge spoons and knives that made too much noise, beneath which our silence seemed delicate and even meaningful, which it was not. But nor was it desolate, I thought. Incongruous it certainly was, after a year of Internet romance via an online chat room for housebound caregivers, finally to meet and within six weeks get married, all in a rush. But was it such a mistake to be in a hurry to ignore the undertow of something missing, to prove ourselves still marriageable before the notion of being in love, fast receding, could vanish utterly? After all, no marriage was ever spontaneous and most between people over forty were arranged, somehow or other and for any number of fragile reasons, among them a fear of loneliness. That was by no means a small thing. Col’s parents had been dead for three years (he had kept up his membership in the caregivers’ chat room, out of familiarity) and he stayed on alone in their house in Huddersfield; my father had just died, leaving me with no reason to stay in Portsmouth. These seemed good reasons, not bad ones, to chain ourselves to the mediocre but likable real forms of each other that we encountered face-to-face, and put aside our hankering for the early, impossible, younger-seeming versions of ourselves we had come to know at our computer-aided distance.

  His mobile phone burbled, and he took it out to read the message. “That’s them telling us to bring waterproofs,” he said. “We’re in for a soaking. Time I was going.”

  “There’s something I should tell you,” I said, quickly. “I’m pregnant.”

  “What?” He flinched, then looked away.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  “Oh, God,” he said, blowing out his cheeks. He pushed himself back as far as he could get without moving out of his chair, and then, of course, the first thing that would spring to anyone’s mind sprang to his.