Natasha Bush
Article
Natasha Bush is a writer and projectionist. She's published a memoir with HarperCollins and short stories in The Wrong Quarterly, Eternal Remedy, Brand, Ducts, The Wanderlust Review and The Independent. She鈥檚 currently rewriting All the Paper Planes Fall Down and beginning to work on a new novel.
Contact: nrtbush [at] gmail [dot] com
All the Paper Planes Fall Down
1
Marc sat on the bottom stair and tried not to think the worst. The voice continued: 鈥淭he vast majority of people return safe and well within the first 48 hours, Mr Southwood. There鈥檚 no need to panic.鈥 There was a pause. Marc knew he should take comfort from this. Sit tight and wait for his wife to return with a perfectly reasonable explanation.
The officer said goodnight and the line clicked dead. As if that had solved the problem. As if Marc should have felt better. As if his overactive imagination had fashioned frightening foes easily slain by common sense.
Six hours down, 42 to go.
I wish I could put myself there with him. I鈥檇 wrap my arms and then my legs around his body, cling to him like a koala until we lost balance and tumbled to the hallway floor. Tell him with my touch the one thing he needed to know that night: I鈥檓 here. Right here.
He stood up and replaced the receiver, severing his fingertip connection to the phone call and his one active plan to do something. The hairs on his arms stood on end as he shivered to a silent beat of something鈥檚 wrong, something鈥檚 wrong, something鈥檚 wrong.
Perhaps he shouldn鈥檛 have phoned the police. He stood statue still, hoping to quiet the siren squealing inside him. After all, I was a grown woman. Perhaps it was over the top to report me missing. It鈥檚 not as if I had a curfew.
But I was a mother. My children were home and I was not. It鈥檚 so unlike her. Marc had said that to the officer a moment ago. It鈥檇 felt like a whine; that childish word laughably impotent in the face of explaining the absolute abnormality of a woman who had always come home, day after day, year after year, not walking through our front door that night.
I should have been home by the time he brought the girls back from swimming. We were meant to order a takeaway. We would have sat with our chow mein, chattering about open days and council cuts.
He tried my phone again. Off as usual. 鈥淢y little Luddite,鈥 he鈥檇 called me when offered some android gizmo for my birthday and I said I was perfectly happy with the 拢30 handset I had. 鈥淚 like pressing buttons,鈥 I鈥檇 replied. He should have pestered me more.
鈥淚t鈥檚 Thursday, for God鈥檚 sake!鈥 Marc said aloud and paced to the window to peer onto the street. I wouldn鈥檛 miss Thursday Takeaway without a reason.
He raised his hand, scratched his left temple.
He鈥檇 tried to explain to the officer. Was Jones his name? It was nothing to him, he supposed. Officer Jones thought we鈥檇 had a fight. People disappeared all the time.
I didn鈥檛, though.
***
I鈥檇 spent the day at work. Marc had rung Paula to check. She said we鈥檇 walked out of the building together. I鈥檇 wished her a good weekend because she had Friday off to attend some family wedding. She鈥檇 told me she鈥檇 try, though she hated the things, and we鈥檇 parted with a wave.
Whole hours had elapsed since that exchange. It was 11pm. It was dark.
Such things bothered my husband. It didn鈥檛 matter I鈥檇 lived alone before we met. It didn鈥檛 matter I鈥檇 spent more than a year wandering the streets of Chicago, an optimistic student wearing an armour of Pabst Best against the gangs and gun crime statistics. It didn鈥檛 matter that I鈥檇 once parachuted from a plane, and that I accidentally hit a black slope the first time I strapped skis to my feet, that I鈥檇 backpacked around India and stayed in roach-infested hostels in Harlem. My husband saw me as something fragile. He walked me home and met me from trains. He鈥檇 wanted to protect me.
Should he search the streets? Was that what one was supposed to do? Maybe he could ask a neighbour to watch the girls. But where would he go? Did people normally look in pubs and bars?
Marc clung to the idea that we were normal that night. We鈥檇 never aspired to be normal before. We鈥檇 felt unique. Special. But abnormal things didn鈥檛 happen to normal people. So we were normal that night. And, in keeping with normality, where everyday anxieties outweigh even the most horrendous fears, my husband continued to care how others perceived us. Behind his concern for me bubbled a multitude of mundane worries: had Officer Jones thought him daft? Had Paula decided he was overbearing? Had he made a fool of himself?
Anyway, he decided, it wouldn鈥檛 be like me to be lounging in a bar. Bus shelters? Restaurants? Late-night libraries? This was York in real life, not London in some dramatic episode we were watching on a boxset binge. This was a picturesque tourist city where the most the police usually had to deal with was fishing stolen bikes out of polluted rivers. Besides, it was race day and I abhorred town when the cobbled streets and listed bars filled with stumbling gamblers in their glad rags.
***
He walked into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Al would laugh, he thought. If she were here.
I鈥檇 have been more likely to roll my eyes, or stick my hands on my hips and give him that 鈥渟eriously?鈥 look. But maybe that鈥檚 me being defensive. Maybe back then I鈥檇 have been amused by my unfailingly British husband. I suppose it鈥檚 hard to tell from this distance.
At least Lizzie and Charlotte slept. He鈥檇 told them I had to work late. He hated lying to them, I know, but what could he have told a seven and a nine year old? 鈥淚 don鈥檛 know where your mother is, children, and I鈥檓 trying not to imagine her dead in a ditch, so eat your noodles and we鈥檒l find a bedtime story.鈥
I wasn鈥檛 dead in a ditch.
He couldn鈥檛 think like that.
Those things didn鈥檛 happen.
Not here.
Not to us.
***
There would be a perfectly rational explanation for my not coming home and we鈥檇 both laugh about it tomorrow. I鈥檇 shriek, he thought, when I found out he鈥檇 called the police. It鈥檇 get pedalled out at dinner parties: the time he lost his head because I fell asleep on a friend鈥檚 sofa. Our guests would hoot with laughter and he鈥檇 blush good-naturedly, happy as ever to play the bashful fool to my leading lady. I can still picture a future that looks like that.
But he鈥檇 rung our friends. Nobody had seen me since the party. 鈥Oh God, fabulous night, our turn next. Tell Alex I haven鈥檛 remembered the name of that film, but I will.鈥
Of course, Susan, as soon as I determine she has a pulse, that鈥檒l be the first thing out of my mouth.
It wasn鈥檛 Susan鈥檚 fault. He shouldn鈥檛 have snapped. But trust her to play the optimist, to utterly downplay even the most ridiculous of dramas. He made a note to apologise once this was over.
Over.
Despite his panic, he was still thinking in terms of resolution. The very worst things in life, our most fearful nightmares, they don鈥檛 happen all at once. They creep up, lodge themselves gradually in our brains, worming their way in so that once they become a reality they are already somewhat familiar. If my husband could have known the extent of horror still to come he wouldn鈥檛 have survived that night.
As it was, he held hope like a pebble in his palm.
The kettle finished boiling, but he no longer wanted tea. He wanted his wife to come home and come to bed. He yawned. He鈥檇 had to get up early to finish marking. He hadn鈥檛 been able to face it last night and the girls had wanted to play board games. I remember I鈥檇 sulked because he and Charlotte had formed an alliance, giggling mischievously as they swapped farmers for builders and negotiated defence strategies based on promised hugs and extra marshmallows on hot chocolates. I鈥檇 pushed my bottom lip out and batted my eyelashes as if blinking away tears, watching my family. I remember noticing the new gap in Char鈥檚 teeth when she grinned, the scab Lizzie kept scratching on her shin, the hole in the heel of Marc鈥檚 sock, the hitch of the curtain where it鈥檇 been drawn hastily over the chair, the slight annoying angle of the Paul Nash print on the wall. Of course the girls hadn鈥檛 wanted to go to bed, but I鈥檇 persuaded them as I had a thousand times. Then I came back down in Marc鈥檚 favourite silk and did the same to him.
He crept upstairs to check on the girls now. Charlotte was sprawled face-down across her bed, the Pixar cover kicked to the floor and a brown bear鈥擨鈥檓 forgetting the names now, was this Puddles?鈥攈overing precariously near the edge, ready to topple. Marc stepped quietly inside the room, picked the duvet from the carpet and laid it over our daughter鈥檚 body. He moved Puddles to a safer spot by Char鈥檚 pillow and touched her dark tangle of hair, just to feel the softness, before retreating to the landing. He stepped along to Lizzie鈥檚 room, cracked open the door and peered into the nightlight-less dark. Our tightly balled eldest breathed evenly on the top bunk. Her face was turned to him and he opened the door further so the light fell on her features. He watched her eyelids flicker with sleep, her lips move silently. She looked like me. I don鈥檛 know if she still does. She has Marc鈥檚 fair colouring and everyone always said Char was my double, Lizzie his鈥攁s if our genes had been neatly split, offering us one daughter each鈥攂ut I could always see myself in Lizzie too. In the roundness of her face and the line of her lips.
Marc rubbed his eyes with a clenched fist. He was crying.
He closed the door to Lizzie鈥檚 room and descended the stairs. What was he supposed to do? He sat down and stood up. Paced from lamp-lit living room to shoe-cluttered hallway, on to Szechuan-smelling kitchen. Tried my mobile once more. He鈥檇 called the hospital an hour ago and I hadn鈥檛 been admitted. Was it time to ring again? He switched on the TV, but heard it through a tunnel. The only sound he wanted to hear was my key in the lock.
2
I should come clean about something before I go any further. A lot of what I鈥檓 writing almost definitely never happened. I wasn鈥檛 there, obviously. I was missing. Gone. So I can鈥檛 know Marc put the kettle on, then never poured a cup of tea. I can鈥檛 tell what thoughts went through his mind the night I never came home.
But I don鈥檛 know how to tell this story without imagining certain details. And I do know my husband. He鈥檚 a knowable type of man. Just as I鈥檝e been described as flighty, impulsive, utterly unknowable, Marc is a good, honest man whom one can rely on to do and think certain things. He鈥檚 a man who never deserved to go through everything he has.
So I hope you鈥檒l forgive me. I don鈥檛 wish to deceive. I鈥檓 allowed to hear the tapes. It鈥檚 unclear if this is an act of kindness or a form of punishment. Either way, I鈥檝e done my research. The knowable facts are known to me. I鈥檝e heard the recording of Marc鈥檚 phone call to Officer Jones, for instance. And I鈥檝e seen the credit card statement showing his takeaway purchase at Monkey King. I鈥檝e sat them in every chair in our house, imagined every combination of crockery they might have used, seen Charlotte animating her chopsticks and Lizzie picking out the onions until I can bear it no more.
This document has been encouraged, too. I鈥檓 told it would be healthy to imagine what has occurred beyond these four walls. Is he fucking with me, I wonder? Does he hope to turn me crazy? I can imagine him enjoying that. Or does he truly believe it might help me come to terms with my situation? The situation he is responsible for.
There鈥檚 little else to do here, though, so whatever his motives, I oblige. I write this account of partial truths and things I wish were fictions. I walk my way through Marc鈥檚 life since my disappearance. And it probably is therapeutic. If I could climb inside this story and stay there, I would.
Some things I know first-hand. That my husband was wearing a creased, lightly striped, off white shirt with one too many buttons left undone that day. He has two that are similar, but this was the one with brown stripes. I watched him button it, contemplating the stripe of dark hairs trailing from his navel to his belt. I鈥檇 tried to keep him in bed, but his mind was on the day ahead. An ironing board lived between the wardrobe and the wall, but as normal Marc failed to notice his crumpled attire. I didn鈥檛 offer.
He also wore dark blue jeans and brown loafers, though I imagine he switched those for slippers when he arrived home. His hair was freshly washed that morning, so would still have smelled of raspberry shampoo, but it hung slightly too long after yet another week had passed without his getting around to booking an appointment. If things had continued as normal, I鈥檇 have marched him to the barbers on Saturday morning and demanded they buzz it far shorter than he liked, arguing this way he could leave it the extra weeks without my nagging. It was only half a joke. He would roll his eyes but acquiesce and later I鈥檇 run my hand through his stunted locks and kiss him on the mouth, freshly amazed by how attractive I found him after a little grooming.
This story I鈥檓 telling is more than a collection of basic facts, though. It鈥檚 more than the 鈥渞eal-life鈥 shockers you read in the papers and the tell-all expos茅s of glossy magazines. I have no reason to paint a better or worse picture than what really happened. I鈥檝e already lost everything. I live within four walls. I鈥檝e been tied up and forced to take pills without packaging. I鈥檓 visited by one man who claims to care for my wellbeing but is really the person keeping me here. I have no hope of salvation. I have only this. So despite my ignorance of events I cannot possibly have witnessed, the story recorded here is more honest than the police reports and newspaper articles. If it is not an actual truth, it is very much a human one.
3
Marc would have taken the girls to school. He鈥檇 have worried if it was the right thing to do.
鈥淲hy isn鈥檛 Mummy making breakfast?鈥 Lizzie must have whined in the morning. 鈥淵ou put too much milk in and the cereal goes all soggy.鈥
鈥淢ummy had to leave early today, sweetie.鈥 Another lie. 鈥淗ere, do your own milk.鈥
鈥Where鈥檚 my Maths book?鈥 I hear Charlotte holler from upstairs.
鈥Where you left it!鈥 Lizzie would have shouted back.
With half-hearted reprimands he鈥檇 have bundled them out, Lizzie missing a glove and Charlotte moaning that her teacher was going to kill her. My husband winced at that word tumbling from her milk-toothed mouth; an involuntary image of me sliced and diced, bloodied and sullied flashing beneath his lids as he blinked in the grey morning light. They walked together along the terraced streets towards their school. Lizzie chatted about looking forward to netball club starting again. Charlotte told him she needed new PE shorts. He nodded and mumbled replies, worrying about being away from the phone. He peered into every car that passed, unsure why but driven by a superstitious thought that if he missed one it鈥檇 contain me. They stopped to wait for the lights. Charlotte saw a classmate on the opposite side and tried to step forward. Marc yanked her back, fear bringing his surroundings into focus. He shouted at our daughter. Her eyes filled with tears.
鈥淒ad, there wasn鈥檛 even anything coming,鈥 Lizzie groaned, as much in embarrassment as defence of her sister.
The lights finally changed and they crossed the road. Reaching the curb, our girls shrugged him off to run through the wide gateway toward the chattering uniforms at the bottom of the steps. He waited a moment to see them inside, wanting them to turn back and wave, to smile at their dad, remind him he wasn鈥檛 alone. A classroom assistant closed the door behind the last child and he and the other parents turned from the gate, ready to get on with their days. He nodded to a couple of mums he recognised and waited once more for the lights, wishing he could follow them to their meetings and yoga classes, offices and book clubs.
***
鈥淵ou鈥檙e through to North Yorkshire Police, this is Officer Karen Rush speaking. How can I help?鈥 The buzz of an office in the background, phones ringing and instructions being given. You can tell my husband feels comforted. They鈥檒l do something, he鈥檚 thinking; they鈥檒l help. 鈥淯m, hello. I, uh, called last night because my wife has, um, well she hasn鈥檛 come home.鈥 This must have been the only thought he鈥檇 had in 12 hours, but the words still tasted strange upon his tongue. You can hear his hesitation, sense how surreal he finds all this. 鈥淭hey said they鈥檇 call me this morning, but I just, I thought maybe it might have been forgotten, and I鈥檓 really very worried. I can鈥檛 get hold of her and鈥斺
鈥淥kay, sir,鈥 the well-trained voice responds calmly. 鈥淐an I take your name?鈥
He gives it to her and she locates the log of his previous call. She asks if he鈥檚 received any news and they go over the nothing he knows once more. He grows frustrated when she asks if this is 鈥渙ut of character behaviour鈥 for me, if we鈥檝e had a fight, if I鈥檝e done this before. You can hear him taking a breath on the line, thinking before he speaks. That second of silence says far more than his words. Of course it鈥檚 fucking out of character behaviour鈥擨鈥檇 hardly be phoning the police if it wasn鈥檛, would I? Eventually she asks for our address and says she鈥檒l dispatch someone to take more information. They鈥檒l be with him at midday. He鈥檚 told to stay by the phone and to think of as many details as he can concerning my last movements.
鈥淧lease try not to worry,鈥 the woman adds. 鈥淲e鈥檒l do our best to find your wife.鈥
The recording ends. I imagine she hung up rather than him. I imagine he sat with the receiver in his hand, the dial tone drowning the chatter in his brain. He couldn鈥檛 work out what came next. He was meant to wait by the phone, but he couldn鈥檛 just do nothing. The day before he鈥檇 been a competent, functioning male: a moderately well dressed, happily married man rebelling only mildly at middle-age; comfortable in his career; delighted with his daughters. Today, he was a weak bundle of tissue and bone unable to achieve the one thing he desired. A man used to instructing students and staff, juggling timetables and negotiating with publishers, he now found himself at the mercy of officials and red tape. His fists clenched as he realised all he could do was hope some boys in blue could accomplish what he couldn鈥檛. He looked down at his shirt and jeans with the disgust of a man who has chosen books over brawn, an intellectual who feels inadequate passing building sites and squealing fire engines. He never really trusted that I loved his sensitivity, his lack of clich茅d masculinity. I deserved a man, he thought as he sat there in our living room, the phone in his hand and my magazine still upon the table. A real one who could stride out into the world and return with me beautiful and swooning in his beefed-up arms.
***
鈥淢r Southwood?鈥
The officer was a few inches shorter than Marc, maybe 6'1". Clean-shaven. Short, dark hair. Younger too. Thirty-ish? No ring.
Marc reached to shake his hand, wondered if that was appropriate. Should he have told him it was Dr Southwood?
鈥淚鈥檓 Detective Inspector Jones.鈥 The officer clasped Marc鈥檚 palm, official and confident. 鈥淲e spoke last night. May I come in?鈥
Marc led DI Jones to our living room, noticed how he appraised the d茅cor. Was he judging us, making professional assumptions about our wealth and class, lifestyle and statistical likelihood of disappearing, or did he have a genuine interest in interior design?
My husband offered him tea, felt relieved when he refused. He was impatient. He wanted results.
鈥淩ight, Mr Southwood.鈥 DI Jones opened a folder and uncapped the biro with which he made the notes I鈥檝e read. 鈥淚 understand your wife has not been seen since she left work yesterday, is that correct?鈥
My husband nodded. DI Jones began by explaining his code of practice recommended filing a missing person report up to 72 hours after the last known sighting, but as this was 鈥渙ut-of-character behaviour鈥 for me they were bringing the report forward. Marc, no doubt, raised his eyebrows and DI Jones hurried to continue, 鈥淭hat shouldn鈥檛 cause you concern. We鈥檝e no reason to believe anything鈥檚 happened to Alexandra at this point, we just want to be cautious.鈥
鈥淪omething has happened to her, though,鈥 Marc interrupted. 鈥淥therwise she would have come home.鈥
I imagine DI Jones swallowing, continuing cautiously. 鈥淲ell, yes, but in all likelihood, there鈥檚 a simple explanation and we鈥檒l be able to close the case by this time tomorrow.鈥
鈥淵ou think so?鈥 If Marc had a tail, he鈥檇 have wagged it. A part of him still didn鈥檛 believe this was happening, thought it must be a dream, a nightmare he was about to discard with slumber before turning to find me on the other side of the mattress and wrapping his arms around my hot, live limbs. He felt some sceptical part of himself removed from his body, hovering invisibly in the top corner of the room, looking down on his pathetic, hopeful self, mocking his own sincerity.
鈥淚 can鈥檛 make promises, but statistically speaking the odds are that Alexandra will return before the weekend鈥檚 out,鈥 DI Jones stated steadily.
鈥淲hat if someone鈥檚 taken her?鈥 my husband blurted, his detached self鈥檚 mirth eclipsed by his actual self鈥檚 panic.
A slow exhale through teeth, then: 鈥淚 know abductions by strangers have a high media profile, Mr Southwood, and I know you鈥檙e very worried, but such incidents are rare and the circumstances in which most missing persons disappear are not suspicious. All I can do is urge you to keep calm and concentrate your efforts on remembering details.鈥
Marc nodded and set his mouth in an apologetic line, trying to process the words and assemble his scattered brain. This may be a nightmare, he reminded himself, but it鈥檚 no dream. He cleared his throat, attempted to speak as DI Jones鈥檚 equal: 鈥淗ow do we file this report?鈥
