The Lost

He didn’t feel able to do that now, though. Not with Fletcher prowling around, and not for this. It was too personal, too tied up with his past. It was then that Jonah had remembered the text he’d received from Miles that morning.

If there was anyone he could talk to about this, it was him.

Today was a Thursday, which meant there should be a support group meeting later. With a sense of relief, Jonah had pulled over and called Miles to check. It had gone to voicemail, so he’d left a message saying he’d be coming to the meeting and hoped that was OK, then rang off.

He’d felt better after that, as though the thought alone was enough to settle his nerves. There had been some time to kill, so he’d stopped off at a café for a sandwich. The meeting house shared premises with a snooker and pool club, which occupied the bulk of the building. Jonah went around the back. Tucked away by the air vents was a small doorway. A small sign above it said, Friendship House. All Welcome.

He tried the door. It was unlocked, so it seemed he’d been right about there being a meeting. Opening it, he went into a large, echoing room that smelled of cold plaster and stewed tea. The floor was unvarnished boards, splintered but worn smooth by wear. Plastic chairs and folded trestle tables were stacked against the walls, and a faded poster was pinned to a cork noticeboard. Printed on it in bold red letters was a forlorn looking promise: You’re not alone.

Jonah closed the door behind him. There was no one about, but someone must be there for the door to be unlocked and the lights left on. He drew a breath to call when the lights went out.

Darkness engulfed him. Panicking, he spun round, stumbling backwards as he half raised a crutch to fend off an attack. Something struck the backs of his legs, and there was a metallic clatter as he toppled over an unseen stack of chairs. He fell to the floor, hurting his knee and flailing around as they crashed down around him.

The lights came back on.

Jonah blinked, dazzled by the sudden brightness. A man wearing an unbuttoned overcoat was standing in the doorway at the far end of the hall, one hand still on the light switch. He was tall and slightly stooped, his thinning grey hair neatly brushed. The wire-rimmed glasses magnified his eyes, which right now were widened in an almost comical expression of surprise.

‘Jonah?’ He looked even more horrified when he noticed the crutches. ‘Good God, are you all right?’

‘Fine. I just, uh...’ There was really nowhere to go with that, so Jonah abandoned the sentence. ‘Hi, Miles.’

The older man hurried forward. ‘Here, let me help.’

‘It’s all right, I’m fine. Really.’

The panic had subsided, leaving embarrassment in its wake. Favouring his bad leg, Jonah found one of his crutches and began clambering to his feet. That made yet more noise among the fallen chairs. Miles moved them aside to give him more room.

‘If I’d known you were coming, I’d have left the lights on. I was just shutting up shop.’

‘Didn’t you get my message?’ Jonah asked, stooping to retrieve the other crutch.

Miles paused in the act of righting a chair. He looked mortified. ‘No, I’m sorry. I’m afraid I haven’t been paying much attention to my phone.’

‘It’s OK, don’t worry about it.’ Setting the last chair back on its feet, Jonah took in the empty hall. ‘Isn’t there a meeting tonight?’

Miles adjusted his glasses, his discomfort evident. ‘Look, why don’t you take a seat while I pop the kettle on? We can chat over a cup of tea.’

Jonah watched him go into the kitchen with concern. Something wasn’t right, but Miles would tell him in his own time. Pulling up a chair, he sat at a trestle table, listening to the sounds coming from the kitchen. As ever, being there filled him with conflicting emotions. It took him back to a painful time, the worst of his life. Yet there was also a reassuring sense of calm, a comforting familiarity that tempered the emotional impact. Just like it always had.

He’d first heard about the support group when a flier dropped through his letterbox. There’d been no accompanying note and he didn’t recognise the handwriting on the envelope. Inside was only a small, cheaply printed sheet of A5, and the block capitals at the top had hit Jonah like a punch: HAVE YOU LOST SOMEONE? Underneath, in smaller text, were a few more lines: