Chapter 5
Han Trafford’s home
17th September
4.47 a.m.
Han and his son, James, sat opposite each other across the kitchen table. Both supped strong black coffee. Neither of them spoke.
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James had been temporarily living with his father.
Han had not found it easy sharing his home with his grown-up son. He had initially offered to put James up until he could move on after he’d split with his wife. He’d hoped that James would only be around for a couple of weeks, or months at the most until he’d found somewhere to live. That had been almost two years ago. A week earlier the decree absolute had arrived.
Both men found it awkward sharing the same house, but there was no way Han would throw his son out on the street. There were a few occasions when he had dropped heavy hints that perhaps it was time for him to move out and move on, but James seemed content to put up with the friction and stay with his father. He slept in the same bedroom as he had when he was a boy.
Four days earlier James had gone missing.
When James had disappeared earlier in the week, Han had filed a missing persons’ report and spoken with the police, who took notes and had appeared to be very sympathetic but nothing had turned up yet.
Han had been at his wits end and felt he was losing his faculties due to worry. He’d searched his son’s messy bedroom for clues. He didn’t know what he was looking for and subsequently found nothing. In doing so he’d ended up tidying James’ bedroom, and made his bed. It wasn’t until he’d finished tidying up that he realised he was even doing it. He had blindly worked, like he was on auto pilot. It was like some kind of subconscious cognitive behavioural therapy.
James didn’t have many close friends, and now, since he’d split with his wife, he had even fewer. Han had called all the contacts in James’ phone to see whether anyone knew of his whereabouts, but no one had. Not only had he left his phone, he’d also left his wallet, car keys, coat and shoes. It was like he’d disappeared into nowhere. The last time Han had seen him was when James had said goodnight and went up to his room around ten p.m. four days ago. Han hadn’t even heard him leave the house.
And now James was back, albeit under strange circumstances, but Han was just happy his son was safe. In fact, Han was more than happy, he was elated.
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“Do you feel like talking?” asked Han.
James stared into his coffee and didn’t answer.
“What’s the outfit all about? You look like someone from the cast of ‘The Men in Black’.”
James looked down at the long black coat he wore.
“And what’s with the tape over your mouth? And take that bloody coat off.”
James said nothing and he gripped the coffee mug.
Han’s jubilation that his son was safe had quickly subsided as he considered what had happened, and the circumstances of James’ return. He looked at the red mark where he’d hit him twice in the face and rubbed his swollen knuckles.
Han was sure the stranger in the nightmare was nothing other than a dream. The same nightmare he’d previously experienced for two nights, but now, the pain in his hand, and the bruise on James’ face proved otherwise.
“At least tell me where you’ve been, I’ve been worried sick,” said Han. The tone of his voice conveyed his anxiety.
Han stood up, walked across the kitchen, rested against the worktop and stared at the tiled wall. He slammed his mug on the work surface, and faced his son.
“I’m sorry if I’ve done something to upset you, something that caused you to leave. Whatever it is I may have done I am sorry, but you need to talk to me. You don’t know what I’ve been through. I’ve spoken with the police and reported you missing. I’ve called your friends and nobody knew where you were. Not one person had seen you.”
“Listen dad, I don’t know what trick you’ve pulled. I’ve not been anywhere. I’ve been at home and I need to get back,” snapped James.
“Home! HOME? You have no home.”
“Don’t mess with me dad. Do you have a problem? You’re acting crazy.”
“Crazy? You think I’m crazy?” shouted Han. “If you think I’m crazy explain this to me!”
Han gestured to James to follow him back upstairs. James rubbed the bruise on his forehead and trailed behind. Han stopped outside James’ bedroom and waited for his son to reach the top of the stairs.
“If you think this isn’t your home then explain this to me.” said Han, pushing open the door and flicking on the light.
James followed his father into the small bedroom. Han opened the wardrobe.
“What are these doing here?” said Han, waving his hand in the direction of James’ clothes.
“And this?” he said, picking up James’ phone and handing it to him. “And those?” he added pointing to James’ car keys on the bedside table.
“You’re crazy, none of this is mine.”
“It is yours, all of this is yours. Listen James, I’m tired, I’m stressed and I can do without this stupid game you’re playing.”
“I’m not playing a game, I’ve not seen any of this before. Those keys, they’re for a Citroen aren’t they?”
Han pushed his hand through his receding grey hair and slammed his eyes.
“Yes James, they are for a Citroen C4, your Citroen C4. If you look out of your window, I’m sure you’ll see it parked right outside.”
James pulled back the curtain and saw a silver C4 parked beneath the street light.
“I don’t drive a C4,” whispered James.
“Pardon?”
“We have a Kia.”
“We, who’re we?”
“Dad, what’s the matter with you. I have a Kia. That piddley little thing out there wouldn’t be big enough for the twins’ stuff.”
“Twins?” queried Han, as James went to leave the room.
“Okay, explain this to me,” said Han snatching back James’ phone. He scrolled through the smartphone, searching the gallery folder. He found some photographs James had taken of his friends a few weeks earlier. His friends had taken him out on his birthday and they’d ended up in a strip club. The pictures Han found were taken in the pub before they went to the club. James had taken most of the pictures, but there were a couple of selfies in which James posed with three of his friends.
“If this isn’t your phone, who took these pictures?”
He took the phone and shook his head.
“I didn’t take these. I haven’t seen most of those guys in years. When were they taken?”
“On your last birthday, the night they dragged you out to that seedy strip club on Park Street.”
Han watched his son scrutinise the photographs. In one picture, he had his arm around a man who appeared to be a similar age to James. He squinted his eyes. The man was familiar. He recognised his smile and kind eyes.
“Who’s this?” asked James, facing the phone to his father.
Han was concerned about his son’s unusual behaviour. He appeared to be suffering from amnesia.
“Howie.”
“Howie?” replied James gawking into the phone. He expanded the image so Howie’s face filled the screen. He stood in silence and stared at the face smiling back at him.
“You surely don’t mean Howie Doyle?”
“Who else would it be?”
Han saw that James was shaking. His lips were pursed and he seemed to be searching for something to say.
“B - b - but dad, how on earth can it be Howie?”
Han couldn’t understand why there was so much confusion fogging his son’s tired mind. James and Howie had been best friends since they were five. Howie had been James’ best man four years ago.
“I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing,
but you’re pissing me off.”
“Why would I want to piss you off? I’m just saying it’s Howie. What the hell’s the matter with you?”
“Dad, it’s not Howie, and you know.”
Han couldn’t take his son’s behaviour any longer. He had disappeared for four days and returned under the most bizarre circumstances. He rushed towards James, grabbed him by his throat and pinned him to the wall.
“I’ve had just about enough of you, tell me what’s happening. What’s your problem with Howie? He’s one of the few to have been good enough to stick with you through all the shit you’ve brought upon yourself.”
James felt powerless against his father. It was like he was a kid again. He couldn’t fight back. He no longer had the strength. All he had were words.
“Dad, how can it be Howie? He’s dead. He died when we were fourteen, and you’re the bastard who killed him.”