Keep It in the Family

by John Marrs

isn’t the first to be caught in their web and he won’t be the last. Most of them beg for mercy but they are all wasting their time. There will be no change of heart because there never is. No one under this roof believes in compassion. Empathy is an alien emotion here.

Only together can they be their true selves.

They get away with what they do by hiding in plain sight and by being ordinary. Nobody sees in them what I see because they have no reason to look.

Only I notice the hollowness of their eyes.

Then in one swift manoeuvre, his feet leave the floor and vanish upwards, as if the angels have carried him away to heaven. They haven’t, of course. This is a place even angels avoid. A violent thrashing sound follows, accompanied by more rustling and muffled cries, before the room falls silent.

Everyone except their families soon forgets about a missing child. And me. I remember every one of them. Because I am the bait that lures them here.

It only appeared on our radar when my monster-in-law saw it advertised in an online auction-house brochure. She and my father-in-law were going to put a bid in to renovate it themselves, but it was perfect for Finn and me.

He can look at an object and instinctively know how it works or how to repair it. I’m the opposite. I look at something and it falls apart.

But this is the only way to get what we wanted – a house in the country for a fraction of the price, and to escape living with his parents. He may be close to them, but I am most definitely not.

This place could be good for us, I tell myself. It could be just what we need.

It isn’t a doer-upper, it’s a knock-down-the-whole-damn-thing-and-rebuild-it-from-scratch-er. Only we don’t have the money to do that.

‘Anyway, who’d have believed you and Mum were fighting to get your hands on the same thing?’ ‘She and I have been doing that ever since I met you.’ ‘I meant the house. You two finally have something in common. They say that men marry their mothers.’

‘We are grateful for everything you’ve done for us but we need to get on with our lives.’ I look only at Debbie. ‘Just Finn and I.’ I swear there’s a part of her that shrivels up like a slug doused in salt each time she is reminded that Finn married me.

I love my husband and I accept that sometimes he’s caught between us, but there are times like this when I need him to grow a pair and stand up for me.

But for tonight, I intend to have loud, passionate sex with Debbie’s son and scream the sodding roof down if I have to, and I don’t care who hears. If I can’t give him a baby, I’ll at least give him the time of his life.

There was something a little bit different about him. Finn was – and still is – an open book, and admitted straight away that he had a girlfriend, Emma. Yet I still grabbed his phone from his pocket and typed my number into it. I justified it by telling myself the Girl Code only applied if I knew the competition personally. Not cool, Mia, not cool.

We began texting in the days that followed – instigated by him, I might add – and then he FaceTimed me – accidentally, he claimed. The call lasted almost two hours.

Soon after, he ended it with his childhood sweetheart. In less than six months, I’d sold my flat a...

The framed photographs we gave her of us saying ‘I do’ on the beach have yet to make an appearance anywhere in her house.

Finn and I began trying for a baby almost immediately. The first year passed unsuccessfully and it wasn’t until my doctor sent me for scans that a specialist diagnosed me with endometriosis in both ovaries.

This was the universe punishing me for stealing another woman’s man.

Once I learned to let go of what I couldn’t have, I appreciated what I did have. Finn.

The first thing that crosses my mind when I wake up in the morning is no longer What the fuck have we just done? Instead, I’m thinking about what I need to do today to help us inch towards the finishing line.

This is the last thing I expect to hear. ‘How long have you known?’ I ask. ‘About three weeks,’ she replies wetly. ‘I went for a scan at the hospital yesterday and the sonographer says I’m twelve weeks gone.’

‘Why didn’t you say anything? You shouldn’t have gone for the scan on your own.’ ‘I didn’t want to get your hopes up in case there was something wrong with it.’ She backhands her nose clear and takes a deep breath. ‘I couldn’t bear to see the disappointment in your face again.’

Of course I’m protective of my son, but that doesn’t mean I’m unwilling to share him. I want to like Mia as much as Finn does: Emma and I got on like a house on fire, so I know it isn’t me. Mia just doesn’t want to be my friend. I have tried and tried with her but she never meets me halfway and there’s only so many times you can keep going down that road only to be caught in a cul-de-sac.

To be honest, I don’t always need him, but show me a mother who doesn’t want to spend time with her son and I’ll show you someone who hasn’t raised him properly. Then my heart sinks when I remind myself of the time limit my diagnosis set upon us.

‘The natural way,’ Mia says. ‘After the operation and all the IVF attempts, nature won in the end.’

Reality bites hard and fast. I won’t get to be a grandmother for long,

How does he know all this stuff? He must have done his research. He’s going to make a fantastic dad.

Finn and I are both only children but I was raised to be independent from an early age. I’d make my own evening meal before Mum and Dad returned from work; they didn’t chase me to do my homework and allowed me to pick my own clothes.

The letters are childlike in their appearance.

I WILL SAVE THEM FROM THE ATTIC.

‘Are they suitcases?’ I say, squinting. ‘I think so,’ Finn replies and I notice him inch away from them. There’s seven of them.

‘What’s that in front of them?’ Before each suitcase is a small pile of something. ‘Clothes,’ says Finn. He turns to his dad, who’s now as apprehensive as his son. Finn picks up a bag and the dust makes him sneeze. ‘Kids’ clothes in a shrink-wrapped bag,’ he says sombrely.

I will forever regret being unable to treat her with the respect she deserved.

‘But the most important thing is, despite what you did, my grandson is okay,’ she says. ‘He is very lucky.’ I pause to absorb her words. Despite what you did.

‘The suitcases,’ I ask. ‘Were there bodies in all of them?’

The last thing our fragile baby needs is me anywhere near him. I’m a risk to him. I don’t deserve him.

‘For now,’ says DS Goodwin, ‘all I’m allowed to say is that the deaths are historic and appear to have been deliberate.’ ‘Are they all children?’ I say. ‘It’s likely, yes.’

As widely reported, human remains of seven individuals have been located in the attic of a property at 45 High Street, Stewkbury, during renovation work.

all the victims died between the late 1970s and early 1980s. We can also confirm that all of the victims were children – three male and four female.

It’s a drone circling the property. ‘Is that one of yours?’ Finn asks. ‘No, that one is most likely press or the public,’ he replies. ‘It’s annoying but, legally, there’s nothing we can do.’

I shudder as to how many children were hurt in a room we planned for our nursery.

I dismissed it because, to be honest, mental health is a minefield and I’d have no clue where to begin in helping her. But I’m starting to agree with Mum. It’s more than just headaches and a lack of sleep that’s troubling her.

PPD

‘There have been some women with undiagnosed postnatal depression who’ve killed their babies, you know. What if she’s a danger to him? You’ve seen her with Sonny, there’s a disconnect, isn’t there? She isn’t as hands-on as other mothers are.’ ‘Be fair. There are metal pins in her wrist and she’s had a caesarean. She’s limited with what she can do.’

I once hired a private detective to try and locate George. But several months and a few thousand pounds later, there was no proof that he ever existed beyond my memory. Not even a birth certificate, even though I have one of my own. Sometimes I wondered if he was a figment of my imagination; if I’d made him up to make life at home bearable.

I have years of experience to share with the perfect student. And I think I’ve found them.

The more neglected the better. Look out for graffiti on the walls, overgrown gardens and discarded bin bags. If a tenant can’t be bothered to look after their house, they probably can’t look after their children either. And they are the ones who need saving the most.’

This boy is unloved and uncared for. He needs us to help him. An image of my parents briefly flashes into my mind. They are why I do this. To protect him from people like them.