The Lost

The snick of a door opening came from across the road. He stood motionless as someone emerged. Even in the dark, Jonah could recognise the shambling figure of Owen Stokes.

He’d spent long enough studying the man.

He couldn’t remember when he made the decision. He wasn’t sure if he actually did: somehow it was just there, a necessity that he accepted without question. The first thing he did was move out of the house. Chrissie was glad to see him go, and he couldn’t bear staying there any longer. He booked into a budget hotel apartment, a studio with cheap furnishings and mouldy bathroom, where the hallways smelled of last night’s takeaways and burnt toast. Gavin had offered him the settee at his and Marie’s, but Jonah knew that would have been putting pressure on all of them. They had a young son, Dylan, and problems of their own. Besides, Jonah didn’t want Gavin breathing down his neck. Not for what he had in mind.

Not that there was anything he could do straight away. Owen Stokes had been recalled to prison for skipping out on his probation officer and it would be another twenty-eight days before he was released. The thought that this was the man’s only punishment made Jonah feel sick. But it was also a motivation. It gave him something to aim for, a reason to get out of bed each morning and face each interminable day.

No matter what Wells had said about proof, Jonah knew Stokes was guilty. Knew it. He could see it in the arrogant smirk, the sneering unconcern the man had shown for the disappearance of a four-year-old boy. Of his son. It was an affront to the universe to accept that Theo had squeezed through a rusting iron gate into that watery darkness. Not voluntarily. Witnesses made mistakes and timings could be wrong, but Jonah was his father.

He didn’t need any more proof than that.

On the twenty-eighth day, he’d parked his car on the road close to the probation office a half-hour before it opened. Close enough to give himself a good view of the entrance, far enough away not to be noticed. It was almost two o’clock when he saw the despised figure in its combat jacket approaching. Jonah sat upright, almost giving in to the impulse to confront him there and then. Restraining himself, he sat in the car for another interminable hour until Stokes re-emerged from the building. Jonah waited until he’d gone past the car, then he got out and followed. He trailed behind, feeling the blood pulsing behind his eyes as he stared at the black spider-web tattoo on the thick neck. He knew he had to be patient for a little longer. An open street in broad daylight wasn’t the place or time for what he had in mind. It had to be somewhere dark. And private.

So Jonah had hung back, though he’d made no attempt to conceal himself. Stokes didn’t know him, and there was no reason for him to think he was being followed. And even if he did, Jonah didn’t care. But Stokes seemed oblivious, not so much as glancing round as Jonah boarded a bus after him. When the other man got off, Jonah did as well. He slowed while Stokes paused to light a cigarette, then carried on following him. Reaching an austere brick building, Stokes threw his cigarette onto the pavement and went inside. It was a men’s hostel, Jonah saw as he walked on past.

Crossing the road, he went to the alleyway a little further along the street. Just inside was a recessed doorway. It was half hidden by the rusting steps of a fire escape, and the fire door was padlocked, a drift of litter banked up against it. Moving into its shelter, Jonah fixed his eyes on the entrance across the road, oblivious to the stink of piss and refuse.

Then, hunching himself against the cold, he waited for night to fall.

Now he was all but invisible, another shadow in the dark alleyway. He stiffened as the sound of the entrance door opening came from across the road. Light spilled out, then a familiar silhouette emerged. Jonah stared from the alley as Stokes set off down the street.

Then he followed him.

The muscles of his neck and shoulders were rigid, and his hands were clenched into tight fists. His rubber-soled boots made little noise, but with all his attention focused on the man ahead he didn’t see the empty can until he’d sent it clattering across the pavement. It made enough noise to raise the dead, and Jonah kept his head down as Stokes glanced back. There was no one else on the street but it was too well-lit and public, car headlights streaming past on the road. Jonah forced himself to carry on walking, keeping his eyes downcast as Stokes stopped ahead of him.

‘Got a light, pal?’

The voice was hoarser than it sounded on the interview video, the Liverpool accent even more pronounced. Allowing himself to glance over, Jonah saw Stokes had an unlit cigarette held in one hand. The deep-set eyes that gazed back seemed mocking, and the urge to lash out at them was almost overpowering. Resisting it took all his self-control.

‘No.’

Jonah walked on past, his fists balled so tightly that his cropped fingernails cut into his palms. As he left Stokes behind, he listened for any rapid footfalls, ready to swing round and face him. None came, and now Jonah began to worry that he might lose him if he got too far ahead. He risked a glance back.