He stops as suddenly as he started.
“How long?” he asks, wiping his eyes.
I tell him.
“I have to lock the door,” he says.
He jumps to his feet, runs through to the hall where I can’t see him any longer.
I hear him scrabbling about.
Then I don’t hear anything.
For a while.
For too long.
I get worried.
* * * *
7:58 p.m.
There’s no sign of him anywhere.
He’s not in the hall.
Not in any of the bedrooms.
Not in the bathroom.
He’s gone.
Did he leave of his own accord?
If so, why didn’t he tell me he was leaving?
Did his uncle sneak in, grab him, steal him away?
Sounds dramatic, and I don’t believe a word of it.
I check the front door. It’s locked. There we go.
It’s crazy, I know, but I go back through all the bedrooms, look in the wardrobes, under the beds. I check everywhere, but he’s definitely not here.
I’m feeling uncomfortable.
I get my things together.
I’m not hanging around here.
I’m going home.
* * * *
8:00 p.m.
Outside, the traffic’s busy.
Across the road, I see a face I recognize.
James.
He’s wearing that screwed-up expression, the one I’d never seen until I mentioned his father.
He’s standing by the curb, an older man in a long raincoat by his side.
I raise my hand, wave.
James stares right through me.
I shout to him.
The man in the raincoat thinks I’m shouting at him.
I can’t say whether James is pushed in front of the bus, or whether he steps in front of it.
The impact is swift and brutal.
He never had a chance.
I wet myself.
After the shock passes, I remember the man in the raincoat.
But he’s gone.
The bus has stopped.
The street is silent.
Nobody moves.
We’re frozen like this, like a painting, and I wonder if James still has that expression on his face.