I instinctively touch my handbag, slung across my body. I should call the police. Or at least Mark. But adrenalin’s coursing through me and I can’t stop myself from shouting through the letterbox again as the man continues his amble up the road.
‘My name’s Claire Wilkinson. My son Billy is missing. I think you might know him.’
I reach into my handbag and pull out a flier, then shove it and go round the corner to the window again. The curtain twitches, just at the edge of the frame, and I catch a flash of pale pink flesh before it vanishes again.
There’s a creaking sound and I rush back to the door. It opens an inch or two and a male voice hisses, ‘Keep your voice down would you? The neighbours hate us as it is.’
The door opens wider. ‘Well, are you coming in or not?’
I’d expected syringes and drug paraphernalia on the floor, or at least the stench of weed, mixed with urine and shit. I’d also imagined piles of rubbish, fast-food boxes, split bin bags, dirty walls and stained mattresses. Instead the walls are white – grubby but not soiled – and decorated with posters and murals. Mark would call it graffiti. There’s a frayed sofa too, an armchair and a low table holding what looks like some kind of screen-printing equipment. A guitar is propped up in the corner of the room along with several piles of books and half a dozen blank art canvases. Two men are sitting on the sofa. One’s reading a book about Andy Warhol; the other’s asleep, his head tipped back and his mouth wide open. I should be terrified, shut in a room with three men I don’t know, but I’m too shocked to feel fear. I thought I was about to walk into a drugs den and instead it’s as though I’ve walked into a student flat.
‘He was up late working,’ says the large man in the red hoody who hissed at me to come in. ‘He’s off to a festival soon. T-shirts,’ he adds, gesturing towards the screen-printing equipment. ‘He does them all by hand.’
I feel myself gawp. ‘Squatters work?’
‘We all work,’ says the man with the book, looking up, and my cheeks burn. Did I just say that aloud? ‘Jay busks and—’
‘You don’t work,’ says Red Hoody who must be Jay. ‘You’re a student.’
‘I use my brain,’ says the man on the sofa. ‘It’s work, believe you me.’
‘I’d offer you a cup of tea,’ says Jay, ‘but the council shut off the electric last week. We’ve still got water though, if you want some?’
‘No, thank you.’
He’s holding Billy’s flier, crumpled up in his hand, but no one has mentioned my son since I walked in. And there’s no sign of the bike.
‘Have any of you seen Billy?’ I gesture at the flier.
Jay shakes his head. The art student shrugs. Sleeping man snorts in his sleep and wakes with a start. He stares at me through glassy eyes, then seems to jolt into himself. ‘Who are you?’
‘Claire Wilkinson. Billy’s mum. I think you might know him.’
‘Billy?’ He scratches his head. ‘I know a Will Turner. Is that him?’
‘No. His name’s Billy Wilkinson. He’s fifteen. He disappeared over six months ago. I know he had friends near Gloucester Road.’
‘Never heard of him, sorry.’
‘You must know him then.’ I turn back to Jay. ‘You let me in.’
He runs a hand over his ginger beard, finds the end and tugs on it. ‘You were shouting through the letterbox. What else was I supposed to do?’
I feel myself grow hot under the scrutiny of three pairs of eyes.
‘But the bike …’ The door is open on the other side of the living room revealing a dark hall or passageway.
‘What bike?’
‘I saw you on a bike. A BMX. Distinctive. Yellow and black.’
‘And?’ Jay crosses his arms over his broad chest and takes a step back, as though to get a better look at me.
‘Could I …’ I take a step towards the hallway. ‘Could I have a look at it?’
‘It’s not for sale.’
The atmosphere in the room has changed. When I entered the house they were amused and curious. Now they want me to leave.
I hear a sound from beyond the open door, the squeak-squeak-squeak of rusty bed springs and a low groan. Jay and the art student exchange a look. The student hides a smile behind his book. Why are they looking at each other like that? Is Billy here? Are they hiding him?
‘All right, lady.’ Jay puts a hand on my arm. ‘I think it’s time for you to go now, don’t you?’
There’s another sound from beyond the hallway. A moan of pain. The art student sniggers.
I snatch my arm away from Jay and, before he can react, I dart round him and run across the living room towards the open door. It’s dark in the hallway but I can just make out a bike, propped up against the wall. There are several rooms along the length of the corridor. All the doors are open apart from the one at the far end of the hallway. As I sprint towards it a hand grabs my shoulder and I’m yanked backwards, but not before I’ve kicked out a leg and made contact with the door with the heel of my boot.
It swings open.
There’s a gasp and a grunt and my breath catches in my throat as two men, naked and flushed, spring away from each other. The thinner and paler of the two men, standing at the base of the bed, grabs an item of clothing from the floor and presses it to his crotch. The other man, still on the mattress, shouts, ‘What the fuck?’ and picks up a shoe. He stares at me as though deciding whether or not I’m a threat, then launches himself off the bed and slams the door shut. ‘You can fuck off too, Jay,’ he shouts as his flatmate, still standing behind me with his hand on my shoulder, roars with laughter.
‘Come on, mad bird. Time for you to leave.’ Jay moves his hand to the small of my back and manoeuvres me out of the hallway, back into the living room and across to the front door.
‘Please.’ I twist away from him as he reaches for the door handle. ‘Please just tell me where you got the bike from. Is it stolen? I won’t tell the police. If it is Billy’s bike it could be a clue, it could help us—’
‘It’s not stolen.’ Jay glances back at his friends but they aren’t on the sofa any more. They’ve moved to the other doorway, where they’re nudging each other and laughing as they peer into the hallway. ‘It’s Rich’s bike, the guy in the bedroom. He hates us using his stuff, particularly me. Says I’ll buckle the frame.’ He laughs drily.
‘But you saw me, in my car, and you sped up.’
‘What car?’ He looks genuinely confused. ‘I was trying to get the bike back before Rich got up. Look –’ his expression softens as he opens the door – ‘I’m sorry your son’s missing. We’ll stick the leaflet up in the window, okay?’
‘Thank you,’ I say, even though it is no longer in his hand. It’s in a crumpled ball under the table.
‘All right then. You take it easy.’
‘Wait! Are there any other squats around here? My son—’
The question hangs in the air as the door is shut in my face.