The hospital car park was
busy, as always, with the comings and goings of cars, taxis and ambulances around the
front entrance. I dodged several cars in the jog across the tarmac, out of breath and with
my heart thumping, but not from the run. The A&E sign stood over a door near the main
entrance and a small queue was lined up outside the glassed receptionist’s office.
Beyond, the waiting room was filled with adults and children, all variously pale faced,
tearful, bored, sleeping, or staring at the two tv sets bolted high up on the walls. Hands
on my hips, trying to regain my breath and keep my patience, I checked each face at maniac
speed, waiting with difficulty while the three people in front of me were booked in. None
were the face I was looking for. As soon as the desk cleared I dropped a hand on it and
did my best to keep the bite out of my voice.
“I had a call, my partner was brought here.
Finn. He came in with the policeman injured on
The woman didn’t look up, tapping into a computer to her left. ”Name?”
“Finn.” I took a breath, well aware that here
they would have demanded Finn’s extremely loathed Christian name from him- information
that he never gave willingly, and a question which wouldn’t have endeared them any to
him- still less if anyone actually tried using it.
“Darren Finn.”
”And you are?”
“Craig Turner.”
“And you’re no relative?”
I was actually about all he had, but without one
single legal piece of evidence to prove it. The question alone infuriated me.
“Friend.” I said in the end, trying not to
snap and thinking just how totally an inadequate word that is.
“I can’t actually release information other
than to a relative.” The woman said crisply.
I leaned both hands on the desk, hanging onto my
temper with difficulty since I was seriously scared and in no mood to wait or argue.
“Then I’d like someone to tell Finn that I’m
here please, and see what he wants to do.”
The woman finally looked up with an expression of clear dislike that implied that I was
messing with her orderly routine.
“Please take a seat Mr Turner.”
It took five minutes of trying to sit and stay
calm before two men in policemen’s uniforms came into the waiting area, one with his arm
in a sling. I got up and waylaid them without conscience.
“Excuse me? Did you come in with Finn? From the
attack in
“You’re Craig?” the uninjured policeman
demanded. “Yeah, it was me that rang you. Haven’t you seen him yet?”
“I’m waiting.” I gave a pointed nod at the
receptionist and the policeman snorted.
”What a load of- this way mate. Gaz, go and get in the car, you look shattered.”
The injured policeman caught the keys and gave me a nod, and I followed the other man down
the line of curtained cubicles to one near the end where the policeman tugged the blue
curtain aside.
“Got someone here to see you.”
Finn was sitting on an exam table, shirtless and with one arm resting on his knee, palm
up, with a large cotton pad over his forearm. His hair was in his eyes, he looked hot, fed
up and his expression shifted sideways into ‘hello’ and ‘oh God WHAT a day’ as he
saw me. I edged past the curtain, managed to thank the policeman, and once the curtain
dropped back, grabbed Finn and hugged him tightly, dropping my face into the reassuring
warmth and solidity of his bare neck with sheer relief. He was warm, resilient and he
hugged me back for a moment before he pushed me back, impatiently shrugging off the
contact. Which is typical of him in public.
“Relax, I’m fine.”
I hung on long enough to snatch a quick kiss and look at him under the electric light.
Annoyed more than hurt. His eyes were exasperated but he reached up for a second and
slightly gentler kiss.
“Stop panicking.”
“You scared the living hell out of me.” I
pointed out.
”I’m fine, the bastard had a knife.” Finn moved the cotton pad to let me see, and I
caught a nasty glimpse of a still sluggishly bleeding gash. I looked skyward for a minute,
swearing, then cupped a hand around his head and dropped another, hard kiss on his
forehead.
“Bloody hell, Finn-”
“He got me and he got the policeman too,” Finn
said impatiently. “In the hand and the upper arm. I’d have been out of here by now,
but the police wanted blood samples and photographs and fingerprints and all the rest of
it for evidence.”
”So what happened?” I demanded. “The police said you got involved in an arrest?”
“I was walking down the street, minding my own
business, and these two coppers jumped on this guy coming out of a shop.” Finn shifted
with a grunt of discomfort, easing the arm into a slightly more comfortable position.
“They must have been waiting for him. He pulled a knife and I saw him get the one copper
in the arm, and I was practically right behind them, so I grabbed. I didn’t even think
what it was I was bloody doing it happened so fast. So take that look off your face.”
“I’ll swing for you.” I promised him.
He glared back at me, but I’ve known him long
enough to see through his scowls and his moods. As much as he shrugs off and rejects being
fussed over, there is a sneaking part of him that loves, needs and craves it. I knew too
that anyone tangling with Finn would have got a hell of a surprise- his slight build under
his clothes hides one hell of a lot of muscle and a surprising amount of strength,
reinforced with an equal amount of what I might call from experience, sheer bloody
mindedness. I have half a head over him in height and an easy thirty pounds, and I still
don’t always win when we tussle.
“You do realise he might have put that knife in
your heart or your stomach or-“
”Look, I didn’t exactly stand and risk assess it. I saw his hand go up and grabbed it,
so leave it.” Finn interrupted. “They’re only going to dress this and we can get out
of here. If I’d had the cash on me to get home I wouldn’t have let the police call and
freak you out by bringing you in here.”
I gave him a Look in return for that, and a minute later Finn’s head butted against my
shoulder, the apology somewhat muted but there.
“Sorry.”
I defy anyone to resist that. I never have been able to.
I met Finn five years
ago, at a practical seminar he was teaching on cardiac fitness training approaches. There
were ten physiotherapists and sports coaches in my group, all of whom played sport to a
high level, and he ran the legs off the lot of us. Lean, dark, with a ferocious scowl and
a habit of standing with his hands on his hips and his weight balanced as though he was
only standing still as an extreme personal favour, and with dark eyes every bit as
gorgeous as selected other parts of his anatomy under his tracksuit - I don’t think I
heard two words of his lecture. At the end of the session I waited until everyone else
left and propositioned him. He told me in words of one syllable to get lost. Four months
later, we rented a flat together.
Initially we had a lot of blazing, incendiary
rows. Finn has stormed out of restaurants, pubs, even my car one night while it was still
moving when I refused to stop, but gradually the walls came down. I’ve heard him called
aggressive by people who don’t know him. His temper slips its chain fast and he tends to
go straight for the jugular when someone annoys him, verbally if not physically- he has a
biting tongue and a vocabulary about as razor sharp as his mind. Which, considering he had
an extremely patchy education, is no mean achievement. Finn had to fight for everything in
life that he wanted or needed from an early age and it shows. There isn’t however one
drop of spite in him. The tempers blow out quickly, the scowls are mostly defensive habit,
when you get right down to it, he is actually an incredibly gentle person.
He sat in silence in the cubicle that day while
they injected, stitched and dressed his hand, pulled his shirt on one handed as soon as
they were done, and let me help him into his jacket with a gruff mutter of being fine.
Once we got home, climbing the four flights of stairs that lead to our top floor flat on
the edge of the town centre, he threw the keys at the table that houses keys, wallets,
small change and junk, threw his jacket after it and wandered across to the windows,
stretching his shoulders until they cracked. Most of the flat is open plan. The buildings
are new- we’re the first people to rent this flat, and they’re aggressively modern.
And the stretch of windows along the front look down on the park and the river, with the
theatres and the start of the office blocks just around the corner. I picked up his
jacket, hung it up with mine and went to join him, folding my arms around his neck and
waist. He didn’t look round, but he leaned back against me, lifting a hand to cover
mine. It was pretty rare for him to tolerate this kind of contact, and we stood like that
for a long time before he twisted around, gave me a dark eyed look and kissed me.
“What do you want to eat?”
“I’ll worry about that.” I pushed his hair
back off his forehead and gently swatted the tight curves under his tracksuit pants as I
went into the kitchen area. “Get yourself a drink and sit down, rest that hand.”
I heard the clink of a bottle as I searched the fridge and a moment later he put a scotch
within my reach, leaning back against the windowsill to drink his own. This floor is too
high to be overlooked by anyone else- one of the reasons Finn fell in love with it. We
love the windows and the light, and the fact there’s never any need to draw the blinds
no matter what we do. I gave the mostly empty fridge one last look and shut it, deciding
that the phone and a takeaway was a better option. Neither of us are very domesticated.
Finn is rigidly tidy- the flat stays as crisply immaculate as his spotless and pristine
sports wear and since I know my being untidy is one of the quickest ways to get on his
nerves, I make an effort to keep pace with him. But we neither of us have much interest or
talent in cooking. There was no need to ask Finn what to order: we both have the menus of
both places pretty much memorised and I know what he likes. When I put the phone down he
rinsed out his glass at the sink and put it away, heading past me for the door.
“If I’ve got half an hour I’m going for a
run-“
”You are not.” I remonstrated.
“Just round the park.”
”Finn.”
He looked at me, almost reluctantly. Usually once
I can get eye contact, he’ll listen. I took his good hand, towed him with me across to
the sofa and sat down, tugging until he finally dropped down beside me. And when I pulled
him down to me, he tucked his legs under him and lay against me, his dark head on my
chest. I ran my fingers through his hair, combing it straight, and picked up the remote
control for the hi fi. Finn has surprisingly sober tastes in music, mostly semi classical
film soundtracks, and I could feel him finally relax bone by bone to whatever CD he’d
put in last night. Something quiet, with soaring violins and far away, deep drums. After a
while he turned over, resting his head face up on my stomach, and put his hand up to touch
my face, stroking over the lines of my mouth. Then he closed his fingers on my collar and
firmly pulled me down into his reach. Like I said, he’s surprisingly strong. It said to
me that he knew the risk he’d taken today, how scared I’d been, the step he’d taken
that might have ended in that knife going somewhere critical and ending our relationship
permanently. His apology was in his hands and his kisses, but I knew too, he could no more
have walked away from that situation and someone in danger than he could leave a towel
lying on the floor. That’s just Finn.
We had an irate bang on
the door half an hour later. We were still on the sofa, out of breath and dishevelled, and
I took a moment to at least get my slacks back on before I answered. Our neighbour from
the ground floor gave us a glare and a plastic takeaway bag.
“Apparently this is yours? The guy said he’d
been ringing for five minutes, is your buzzer broken again?”
“Strange how often that happens.” Finn said
behind me. He’d got up from the sofa still shirtless and I saw the woman’s eyes travel
over his chest and down to his hips.
The expression on her face made me stifle a grin.
“Thank you Mrs Garvey.”
She still hadn’t quite got her eyes off Finn
when I shut the door. Finn was getting plates out of the kitchen cupboard as I began to
unpack the bag.
“What’s it like being fancied by half the
building?”
“You tell me?” Finn said dryly. “Do we have
any aspirin?”
“Paracetamol.” I watched him gulp two with
sympathy. “That can’t have done your hand much good honey.”
He pulled a face at me, taking one plate into the lounge. “Didn’t half take my mind
off it though.”
*
I live close enough to walk to work- a busy
physiotherapy practice in an old Victorian house half a mile away. With six full time
therapists on staff, two of which are old friends of mine, there’s a steady turn over of
clients and enough people to make sure we work fairly standardised hours, unlike hospital
work. Finn teaches in several health clubs in the district. He works for himself as an
independent freelance and makes a good living out of it. He has the business sense and the
independence of mind to do that very successfully, where I’d be far more dependent on a
nine to five job with a secure office and familiar people around me.
My last patient on Friday afternoon was at
“Mr Finn?” The older man said affably. I shook
my head, wondering if we were about to hear the outcome of the Bexley arrest.
“He’s my partner. Can I help you?”
“Would you be Mr Turner?” The older man gave
me a peaceable smile from under a blunt and greying moustache. “PC Waines said he spoke
to you in casualty the other day. I’m Inspector Coulson, this is Police Constable Jones,
Could we come in and wait for Mr Finn? I need a word with him.”
Well you can’t exactly say no to the police.
Inspector Coulson wandered around our lounge while I made coffee, looking down from the
windows.
“Very nice view you have from here. New these
flats are they?”
“Two years old.” I hung up my jacket and went
into the kitchen area, snapping the kettle on. “Finn shouldn’t be long, can I make you
some coffee?”
“Thankyou, white, three sugars.” Coulson gave
me another of his absent smiles. “Do you always call your partner by his surname Mr
Turner?”
I lifted a mug in the teenaged boy’s direction
and he gave me a weak smile and a nod. I began to make coffee for three.
“Finn always calls himself that, he hates his
Christian name. It was a while before he’d even let me know what it was.”
“I got called Albert.” Inspector Coulson
announced cheerfully. “Not a bad name in those days but not the most fashionable now.
And PC Jones here, HE’S called Darcy, which I still think should be a criminal offence
against the poor lad.”
I offered Police Constable Darcy Jones a coffee and he accepted it with a slightly red
faced nod of appreciation, apparently accepting his superior’s teasing as his lot in
life. Inspector Coulson took his coffee and took a seat on the sofa, almost immediately
getting up again as Finn came in. Finn stopped in the doorway for a moment at the sight of
the two uniformed officers, then came in and shut the door.
“Hello, what’s happening?”
“Inspector Coulson.” Coulson went to Finn,
hand outstretched, and shook his firmly. “This is PC Jones, we were just having a chat
with Mr Turner while we waited for you. No one’s in any trouble.”
”Is this about the Bexley arrest?” Finn came into the lounge. I poured a fourth coffee
and brought it to him, catching his eye long enough for a very brief hello. Coulson sat
down on the sofa once more.
“Yes. Yes, how is your hand? I heard it came to
stitches. The man’s been charged, no bail, you might well be called to give evidence
when it comes to trial, but there was something else I need to have a little chat to you
about.”
Finn sat down in the armchair and I perched on the arm of it. Coulson looked from one to
the other of us, still with that smile which seemed to me to be very kind when it focused
on Finn. PC Jones sat on the windowsill and took a notebook and pen out of his pocket.
“So what is it?” Finn said somewhat warily.
Coulson took a sip of his coffee and put it down on the table.
“Mr Finn, this is a rather delicate matter.”
Finn looked at me. I gave him a faint shrug back. They’d given me no clues.
“How can we help Inspector?”
“We’ve got a bit of a tricky situation
here.” Coulson looked once more at Finn, clearing his throat and steepling his hands in
front of him. “I don’t know if you know about all this, but we log all DNA samples
whenever we take them. It’s a routine thing, national database, they all get filed away.
But you see when we filed yours, the blood and fingerprints and the DNA taken for our
evidence at the arrest you helped us with - the computer came up with some information we
didn’t expect. It would appear that we have you registered as the victim of a previous
crime.”
Finn gave him a blank look. I cradled my coffee mug between both hands, answering for him
when Finn didn’t speak. I knew Finn had a somewhat chequered past, but to my knowledge
it involved no crimes or any kind of violence.
“Which was what?”
The inspector’s voice was very gentle and
addressed entirely to Finn.
”I understand you changed your name sir?”
”Yes,” Finn said slightly impatiently. “When I was eighteen. To Darren Finn – I
was registered as Darren Green.”
Coulson nodded, still giving him that unsmiling but kind look, his eyes very steady.
”Do you have a birth certificate or any legal
documentation of that identity sir?”
“No.” Finn gave me a brief glance for moral
support. I’d heard him have to explain this before and I knew he didn’t like doing it.
“It’s a bit of a strange situation. I was in
foster care as a kid and it wasn’t exactly well organised. My foster mother- she called
me by her surname, Green, that was what she put on all the forms. I never saw any other
documentation or any other names.”
Coulson nodded slowly. ”So you don’t have any documentation of your birth or your
registered parents at birth?”
”Nothing.” Finn said bluntly “I don’t have any information about who they were or
anything else. I don’t know what papers my foster mother might have had, we moved around
a lot when I lived with her.”
“Do you know where Ms Green might be now sir?”
Finn shook his head. “She wandered off and I was
taken back into social services care when I was around thirteen. Apparently there was no
paperwork then and no record they could track down, no one even had an actual date of
birth for me, although I knew roughly how old I was. The whole thing was a mess, but then
social services WAS a complete mess in the seventies and early eighties.”
“And you had no further contact with Ms Green?
What can you tell me about her sir?” Inspector Coulson went on. I was aware of his tone.
Low, quiet, hypnotically calm. It was the professional voice that meant storm cones ahead,
but what, I had no idea. Finn didn’t look any more comfortable, I could see the fingers
of one hand starting to push at the skin on the side of the fingernails of his other hand,
always a sure sign he was getting edgy.
“I knew her as Molly Green, I don’t know if
that was even her real name. I did try
searching through social services and applying for a birth certificate when I was
eighteen, mostly because it’s been hell trying to prove who I am to be employed or get a
passport or anything else. No one could find anything. I don’t think Molly was my actual
mother- that did occur to me. She always told me she was fostering me. If the original
fostering was carried out through social services, either she did it under different names
or the paperwork’s been lost. It may not even have been a legal fostering, she might
just have taken me in for a friend or relative at some point, I don’t know. She never
told me anything about it, she wasn’t good at details.”
The inspector was listening, hands clasped. The
constable was writing, swiftly and in shorthand across his notebook.
“I see. Did she ever mention to you what
happened to your- er - biological mother?”
“Just that I didn’t have a family, some kids
didn’t, and they had foster mothers.” Finn shrugged. “At that age it doesn’t occur
to you to ask detailed questions, you tend to just take people’s word for it. Look what
is this? Is Molly under arrest or something? I lived with her for a few years, but it was
nearly twenty years ago now and I hardly knew the woman even at the time, I haven’t seen
her since.”
”When we uploaded your DNA details to the data base Mr Finn, a match came up.” The
inspector said very steadily in that low, gentle voice. “We did have several samples of
your blood from the assailant’s clothing, so just to be sure we hadn’t made any
mistakes, we had it checked again and we got the same result. We had a dead match logged
under the name of ‘Samuel Curtis’.” The inspector said quietly. “Does that name
mean anything to you sir?”
“No, I’ve never heard it.” Finn said
blankly.
“From the DNA evidence there is no doubt sir.”
The inspector was watching Finn with a gentleness that was making my alarm bells scream.
“We had on file finger prints, and blood and hair samples from Samuel Curtis which had
been translated to DNA evidence and entered into the data base some years ago when it
became standard police practice. We did also then check the fingerprint evidence. It would
appear that you are Samuel Curtis, born and registered in
Finn glanced back to me, looking somewhat stunned.
“Well that’s more information than I’ve had in years-“
I put a hand on his shoulder, aware of his shock,
and not sure right now whether this to him would be a relief or unwanted information. Finn
has a general policy of live for today, he never wants to talk or to think about the past;
in particular the first twenty years of his life. I’ve often thought a lot of his
strategy of survival was the force with which he put them behind him. This, finally, was
real, traceable information.
There was a few seconds of silence, and then
Finn’s shoulder moved under my hand and I felt the implications hit him, his eyes
narrowed fractionally.
“What was Samuel Curtis’s DNA doing on a
police data base?”
“As I said, we had you registered as a victim of
a previous crime.” Coulson cleared his throat. His tone was still that very quiet,
gentle one.
“Samuel Curtis was kidnapped from the
“What?” Finn said reflexively and extremely
irritably. “That’s rubbish-“
”We have the DNA evidence sir, and we have the facts on file.” Coulson said quietly,
unshaken. “You are Samuel Curtis, and Samuel Curtis was abducted in 1978 by person or
persons unknown. That would have made you seven at the time.”
Finn stared at his hands. I squeezed the shoulder I was holding, wishing that the
Inspector would give us a few moments alone, I could only imagine the shock Finn was
dealing with.
“Do you have any memory,” Inspector Coulson
went on, leaning forward on his knees towards Finn. “Of where you were or what was
happening before the age of seven? Do you remember when you first came into the care of Ms
Green?”
“No…..” Finn lifted his head and I saw a
somewhat helpless expression on his face. He looked trapped. “Understand Inspector, I
– I don’t really remember very much at all, or very clearly, before around the age of
thirteen when I went into the children’s home. I don’t really have a very clear memory
of events or anything else other than fragments before that- I never have done. I’m told
it’s not that uncommon in – kids who were messed around-” he trailed off, sounding
increasingly uncomfortable.
”So you couldn’t be sure that you were not in Ms Green’s care until the age of
seven?” Coulson said softly. Finn shook his head.
“No- are you saying SHE abducted me?”
“We have no way of knowing that sir. The only
people who could confirm it are you and Ms Green.”
”I don’t know a thing. I really don’t.” Finn looked down into his coffee cup, then
gulped coffee. I was fairly sure he needed something stronger. If I’d had him to myself
he would have had it.
“Is this still an open investigation
Inspector?” I asked over his head. Coulson nodded.
“Mr and Mrs Curtis, Samuel’s parents, declared
him legally dead in 1992- when Samuel would have been twenty one. It is a decision that
parents and family in that situation often take, where the belief is that their family
member has been the victim of a murder. It’s an attempt to try and find some peace and
– closure I believe is the pop psychology term for it. I never much liked pop psychology
myself. But the police file on the case is still open as Samuel was never found, or anyone
formally charged with his murder.”
”Well it’s clear I’m not murdered.” Finn said grimly. “If I am Samuel Curtis.”
“That’s partly why I’m here.” Coulson went
on. “I’m afraid as we have strong evidence that you are Samuel Curtis, we have to ask
you to co operate with us to gain conclusive proof. Or rather to double check our proof as
a formality. The DNA chances are, I checked, over six million to one against you not being
Samuel Curtis.”
”Check how?” I demanded. Coulson gave me a calming look.
“Only blood samples sir. A separate, independent
blood sample that will be run not against our filed samples, but against samples from Mr
and Mrs Curtis. That will give conclusive, legal proof as to whether or not you are their
son.”
”They’re alive?” Finn said shortly. Coulson nodded, giving him that steady,
compassionate look.
“Alive, well and still living in
”Does that have to be now?” I asked. Coulson shook his head.
“No. I can come back tomorrow morning for that,
give you some time to talk and to take this in. I’m going to have to ask that you come
to the station tomorrow and give that blood sample to the police surgeon. The results
should be back within a few days. This is still technically an investigation of assumed
homicide, which speeds everything up a bit; all the evidence gets processed as a
priority.”
“Thank you.” I said, getting up. Coulson got
up too, jerking his head at the teenaged constable.
“About ten tomorrow. This way Jones. Thank you
Mr Turner, Mr Finn.”
I let the inspector and the constable out and went
back to the chair where Finn was still sitting, staring at his hands. He didn’t move
when I put my hands on his shoulders. Then finally he flopped back in the chair, shaking
his head.
“What a load of rubbish.”
”It sounds fairly conclusive.” I said gently. Finn didn’t respond for a moment, then
shrugged, blank faced.
”It’s a bit late to make any kind of difference now.”
*
It would have helped if I'd have had the
faintest idea what to do. We sat in silence for some time together, Finn with his face
blankly expressionless. Eventually he got up, went to change and went out of the front
door in a tracksuit. I knew he was planning to run. That's his main anaesthesia for any
serious problem.
Left alone I wandered for a while, tried to
find something edible in the fridge and finally ordered another takeaway. While waiting on
the delivery, I watched as the sun dipped below the horizon.
The darkness signalled an end to a very bizarre day, but it was only the beginning
of what promised to be a very long evening of trying to come to terms with what we'd found
out. The length of Finn's run made it
abundantly clear how shocked he was, not to mention my own feelings. I couldn't begin to
imagine how he must feel. I knew very little of his past, it wasn't something he ever
really spoke of. I knew he'd lived in care, been fostered, spent time in a children's
home, but no more than that. To find out now he had a name and an identity he didn't even
remember - how could someone take away a child? How was it possible to erase the first
seven years of someone's life?
My musings were interrupted by the door and I
admit I opened pretty swiftly in the hopes that it would be Finn.
It wasn't. I accepted the bag from the delivery person, handing over the cash with
a sigh and went to put Finn's dinner in the microwave to keep warm.
I settled at the table and only managed to pick at a few vegetables. When we had
first met he'd vanished on a lone run no few times. If we had a row, if he was confused,
angry, unhappy, there was no talking to him. Sometimes I could run with him. Mostly he
wanted leaving alone.
It was in fact nearly
All I wanted to demand was in various forms
"Are you all right?" the most stupid question in the world. What I meant was,
please tell me what hurts most. Let me help. I
knew if I asked that I wouldn't get the answer I wanted.
He'd steadfastly deny that anything was wrong and refuse to discuss it further.
I'd have to try gently to go around the question and see if it answered itself.
"Have you eaten?"
He didn't look round, but I saw him shake his
head. I folded my arms, propping my weight as casually as I could. He wouldn't stand for
interrogation either. He's a prickly bastard when he's upset.
"See many people out tonight?"
"Just a few," he muttered, washing
his hair as if he wanted to scour it from his head. He
took the flannel from the rack and after soaping it, ran it over his body, leaving behind
a blush slightly darker than the hot water was leaving in its wake.
Before he could rinse out the flannel, I took it and ran it gently across his back,
hissing when the water from the tap blasted my arm.
"You're going to scald yourself hon,"
I muttered, leaning to turn the dial down a little. He didn't try to stop me and this time
I caught the very brief glance he gave me. He's never been too comfortable with pet names
or endearments - at times I've been frankly told to shut up - but he doesn't exactly
dislike it either. He didn't move while I washed his back, massaging far more than any
kind of efficient cleaning, until I pulled my shirt off over my head, unbuttoned my pants
and got under the water with him.
As I expected, his arms wrapped around me and
his lips were hungry. The water, colder now,
did nothing to quell either of us. A passion
borne of shock, of needing to reconnect after the bombshell of earlier.
I was shivering slightly when we finally turned the water off. He didn't bother
grabbing a towel. Just stepped out of the shower, towed me with him into our room and
tackled me like a scrum half.
"You ought to eat." I said softly,
but he shook his head.
"Not hungry."
Pressing that question at this time of night
wouldn't usually be an option, but I knew there was a lot that needed to be said tonight.
Burying this news at this point in time wasn't going to help either one of us.
I gripped a hand gently in his dark hair and shook, just enough to make him turn
his head towards me.
"What?"
"What do you remember?" I asked
frankly. "Who was this Green woman?"
Finn lay back and looked at the ceiling for a
moment, then I heard him sigh.
"Not much."
"Try something easy."
I prompted quietly. "Where were you living right before you went into foster
care?"
His shrug was helpless. "I don't know.
I've been trying to think all evening. I don't know. When I was in the kids' home - like I
said to Coulson, social workers told me it's not unusual for kids in care not to remember
much. I don't really have THAT much clear before I was thirteen and went into the
home."
"Remember anything about school?
A classmate or a particular friend at the time?"
Finn shook his head again, slowly. "We
lived in several houses. I know it was around
"Was Molly a good cook?
Is that why you remember the kitchen?" I
was grasping at straws, but if anything helped it would be worth it.
"She never cooked. Sometimes we had
bacon from the shop - I could fry that.
Sometimes I boiled potatoes. Bread and butter mostly. And Charlie used to give me money
for fish and chips."
"Who was Charlie," I asked,
intrigued.
Finn looked slightly startled for a moment.
Then he shook his head. "I'd forgotten Charlie. I don't know who he was. I think he
was only there when I was very young - must have been a boyfriend of Molly's. Sometimes he
slept on the sofa in the lounge. I remember walking past him a few times and smelling
alcohol of some type. I don't know what but I can still smell how disgusting it was."
"I heard somewhere
once that smells are a sometimes powerful way to remember things."
I could see him
thinking with that, but nothing more seemed to come. After a few moments he turned over,
resting his chin on his arms beside me.
"I don't even know
what happened to Molly. I don't remember her leaving, but I suppose she must have done. I
remember being driven to the children's home in
I rubbed what I could reach of his arm and ignored the clock as it stood near to
"It was a safe place." Finn agreed, and he sounded fairly relaxed about it.
"Other kids my age. I went to school properly - enjoyed that. They got me into
organised sport too. Football."
I knew there had been a time when he had seriously considered taking up footballing as a
career.
"And you were a star player," I said, as
a way to keep him talking. I wasn't going to push or harass, but I did want to know
what he did to determine what could or could not help in the interview tomorrow with the
police.
"I liked it." Finn said bluntly and I
knew then I'd lost him. "It was a safe place, that was all. I got through a couple of
years of school, cleared out of there and went to college, it was over with. Didn't really
think about it again, and once I got shot of
the social workers I was glad to see the back of them. It's done. I got through it. Over
with."
"You did alright for yourself," I said in sympathy, pulling gently at his arm.
"Let's get under the covers? I'm getting chilled."
Finn moved without comment, settling next to me with his arms behind his head. I leaned
over on one elbow as I settled under the quilt and kissed him, a brief and gentle kiss
that was about as much sympathy as I knew he'd allow. I felt him settle against the
pillows but the deep, even breathing of sleep didn't come for either of us for a while.
*
Inspector Coulson was back the following day at
ten, and I sat listening while Finn went through what he remembered of addresses and
names. It wasn’t much.
“I know it was
“What we can start doing now,” Coulson said,
scribbling in his notebook, “Is start checking the schools and GPs and hospital records
in those areas. DHSS records. This Ms Green must have got her income from somewhere, we
should track some details down. Some addresses. As soon as we hear anything we’ll get
back to you.”
”Can I ask what involvement the Curtis family have here?” I asked. I’d been thinking
about that one all night, while Finn had made it clear he didn’t want to talk about
anything to do with the entire subject. Coulson looked up at me.
“They’ve been notified that we think we’ve
located their son.”
“They know he’s alive?”
“At the moment all they know is that we need to
carry out some identification.” Coulson said slowly. “It’s a delicate situation Mr
Turner. If we’d found Samuel Curtis as a minor- or we’d found the body of Samuel
Curtis as a minor- there’d be no doubt of Mr and Mrs Curtis’s primary rights to
information. But Mr Finn is not a minor. We have a responsibility to protect his right to
privacy. We’re not at liberty to share with them Mr Finn’s name, address or any other
details. If the blood test results are conclusive – and I must say we fully expect they
will be- then as two of the victims of this abduction they will be told that yes, Mr Finn
is Samuel Curtis, and that he is alive. Any other information or contact they may be given
is entirely in the hands of Mr Finn. Although I think I should warn you, Mr Finn. I can
pretty much assure you that the Curtises will do everything in their power to contact you
as soon as they have the news.”
"There isn't a point to that," Finn
said, standing up. "Thank you," he
managed by way of goodbye, stopping only to grab his keys on the way out the door for yet
another marathon run, followed by work no doubt.
"It's been quite a shock," I said
to the rather speechless officer. "And he lost time this morning going for the blood
test."
As a matter of fact so had I, I'd taken the
morning from work, cancelled my appointments and gone with him. Not that he needed me, but
I wasn't about to leave him to do this alone.
"Can I - what do we know about the
Curtises?"
"Tara and David Curtis." Inspector
Coulson said, giving me one of his blunt smiles. "Two other kids. Both older."
"So he was the baby of the family,"
I said quietly.
"Yes.
It's the mark of a good marriage that the family was able to stay together through
the entire mess. They were suspects at one
time, but were cleared of course," Coulson said, standing up.
"I'm not one to give unwanted advice," he said seriously, "but that
family has been through hell. I don't think they'll be able not to try and see him and I'm
not sure it's fair to ask them to."
"Suspects?" I said, confused.
Coulson gave me a gentle look.
"Standard practice. In a child murder
hunt the first people we investigate are the parents. Especially the father."
That gave me serious pause for thought. After
they left I sat for some time in the living room, less thinking of anything than trying to
imagine. What could it possibly be like to lose a child aged just seven? To have to
believe he was dead. To go through the police investigation that you or your partner
killed him. I didn't know; but just imagining it haunted me.
We seemed to sleepwalk
around the subject for the next two days. We worked. Came home. Went out. Played our usual
round of sports which was how we liked to fill our evenings. Ate. Slept. Talked as usual.
Finn carried on as though nothing had happened. I honestly don't know how upset he really
was. I think in his head, all this had happened to someone else, and it was someone else
he didn't even know. As he had said to me that first night: 'it's done. I got through it.
It's over with'.
The only problem with that was, that I wasn't
done. Those few short sentences that the
officer said after Finn left stayed with me. It
made the people far more real. They weren't
just Finn's birth parents, although I was damned grateful to them for that alone; but they
were also real people, with real feelings about a child that they had loved.
Even if Finn wasn't didn't know them and didn't care to know them, they had strong
memories and images that they'd been nursing for years. It wasn't just about Finn, as much
as I'd like it to be. Finn was a part of a
bigger picture and while it was his right to not want to be a part of that picture, I
couldn't talk myself into believing it was his right or his place to write himself out of
it without taking them into account.
But it wasn't up to me either. It wasn't
exactly something I could demand of him - this wasn't my problem, I had no right to
interfere here. After all I couldn't imagine what he'd been through either.
The
"Well Samuel Curtis. I never thought I'd
see you like this. I always thought I'd end up meeting you in a forensic tent
somewhere."
"I go by 'Finn'," my partner
corrected quickly, leaving out the 'Darren' part as usual.
I wondered actually if his hatred of it had anything to do with having known at
some level that it wasn't his name.
The inspector didn't seem at all shaken; just
tugged up his trousers and sat down on the sofa, propping his elbows on threadbare knees.
All the inspectors appeared to go about in suits that looked fresh from Oxfam.
"After you've dug up sixteen fields and
three woodlands looking for a kid you get quite used to expecting bones, not faces. It's
been a long time son. No one seriously expected to find you alive after the first two
weeks."
"Did they find any information out yet
about Ms. Green?" I asked to break the silence.
The inspector turned his casual smile on me.
"Not a thing. That may not have been the name she used, but we'll keep looking. The
information's there. I brought pretty much everything we had." he added to Finn,
opening the bulging, buff coloured folder he'd placed on the table.
I was shocked at the amount inside. Piles of
paper. Scribbled notes, typed reports. Transcripts. Photographs. Polaroids of woods.
Fields. Dug ground. Police with spades. Rough ground beside a canal. And underneath those
several pictures which the inspector took out and offered to Finn. The top picture showed
a family - dressed up and grouped together. The
next few showed an adult couple with two children, a boy and a girl. It was clear where
Finn's slimness came from as both the man and boy were of the same build.
The girl had the same brown hair as her mother and was a very pretty child of about
ten, with the boy older and at the leggy stage of early adolescence. The last two pictures
were of just Samuel - Finn. It was hard to
reconcile the child with the man I had sitting on the sofa beside me. One was taken at
Christmas or on a birthday, and in the old photograph the little boy's eyes were wide and
bright with wonder at the drum he'd just taken out of a brightly wrapped box.
"That's David and Tara," the
inspector said, looking over as Finn sorted through the pictures. "That's their older
two kids. The boy's Steven, the girl's Melissa. I've seen Steven in the last year or two,
you look very like him."
Finn grunted and put the pictures down
without really looking at them. It was still
someone else's family that he was looking at. I
picked them up and immediately saw the strong family resemblance.
Both father and brother had the same wide shoulders and strong face that Finn had.
I was wondering if Steven had ever played football when I looked up and caught a
tiny glimpse of something in Finn's eyes before he shut it down again.
The picture he was looking at was of himself - a small boy looking with delight at
a newly unwrapped drum.
"We've had those on file since the
start." the inspector said mildly. "We like to have a few pictures tacked up on
the walls to remind us who it is we're talking about.
"Thanks." Finn said matter of
factly. "Is there anything I need to see? Or do? We're waiting for the DNA results
but Inspector Coulson didn't mention anything else that had to be done."
"The DNA results should be released
within another day or so. As soon as we have
that last piece of evidence, our missing persons case for Samuel Curtis will be closed.
Your parents will be notified of that, after that, it's up to you if you'd like to
re-establish contact. There will be a criminal
file opened up on Ms. Green, but there's nothing you'll need to do unless and until we can
find and prosecute her. We may need a
statement at that time. You know, I remember...."
I watched as Finn's face settled into the
look I know means 'you can talk but I'm not listening'.
To the casual observer he appears interested but after living with him as I had, I
knew not a thing was getting in. The small
group of police had worked long and hard hours, days and weeks on the case and they were
understandably excited to get to talk to him about it.
More often than not as the lead inspector said, they ended up with a body rather
than a person. I let the inspectors talk for a
short while and when they were finished, ushered them out and closed the door. Finn got up
and wandered into the kitchen, snapping the kettle on.
"Want some tea?"
"Yes, thanks," I said, going into
the kitchen and taking him into my arms from behind, kissing his neck and then resting my
chin on his shoulder.
"They were glad to see you, weren't
they?"
He wriggled, giving me one of his looks over
his shoulder. "Gerroff, don't flop on me. I suppose it's a good end for them. Better
than a body."
*
The letter arrived on Wednesday morning. Finn
picked up the mail and brought it back to the table. We don't exactly set it for breakfast
- he was eating cereal, I was having a few pieces of toast and we were both gulping back
coffee while I glanced through the papers. Finn sat opposite me and flicked a few
envelopes in my direction, handled a few more without looking at them, and dropped the
junk mail by the recycling bin as he went to shave. I picked it up with the two pieces of
junk mail I had and would have disposed of them, save a handwritten sheet caught my eye.
It was on blue paper, the writing neat and stilted as though the writer had thought for
some time and drafted and re drafted what to say, and it was heartbreakingly tentative.
Dear Mr. Finn,
It seems strange to address you as such as we
only ever knew you as our dearest Sam. A lot
has happened in the years since we last saw you, and we understand from Albert Coulson -
the police Inspector - that you like to be called Finn. He was kind enough to visit us and
to let us know a little about you.
We understand too from Inspector Coulson that
this has come as a shock and you had no memory of us or the kidnapping. That seems almost
as awful to us as having tried to convince ourselves for so long that you had to be dead.
We worked hard with the police to find you,
answering questions, visiting various crime scenes and worst of all, having to try and
identify a couple of children as you. We're
only able to try to imagine now what your life has been like and to wish desperately that
we'd been able to be a part of it. While we know you're a grown man now with a life of
your own, we want you to know that you have always had a family that loves you, and wants
nothing more now than the chance to get to know you again.
We enclose our phone number, email and
address. We would be happy to meet you on neutral ground or to welcome you to our home
here, whatever you would feel comfortable with, but we most want simply to hear from you.
With love always
David and Tara Curtis
I had to take a couple of steadying breaths
by the time I finished the letter. The years
of hope that were emanating from the words were almost palpable, yet Finn hadn't even
acknowledged that the letter had arrived. It
was set to go into the recycle bin like so much trash. It was painfully obvious the effort
it had taken the Curtises to write, and it was equally apparent that they were desperate
not to spook him- their own pain was visible in it but suppressed as much as I suspected
was at all possible. It was more than I could stand. I folded the letter, stuck it in my
pocket and glanced at the clock. It was too late to talk now – we both needed leave for
work in a few minutes. But this evening we needed to talk about this, fully and properly,
and I was done putting up with Finn stalling.
I handled a range of patients that day, and I
didn't particularly remember any of them. Several times, in between patients, I took the
letter out of my pocket and re read it. Eventually I got through my scheduled
appointments, put away paperwork uncompleted and went home. It was nearly six before Finn
came home, and when he did it was with his usual noisy bang at the front door and a call.
"Going for a run. Want to come?"
I came in from the kitchen with a couple of
mugs of tea, setting them down on the table in front of the couch.
"The run can wait, we need to talk."
Ever seen a man look trapped? Finn virtually
showed the whites of his eyes. In the belief I might as well make it clear where we were
headed, I pulled the letter from my pocket and held it up.
"I found this. You can't just bin it Finn. It
isn't right or fair."
"You're talking about a piece of paper
from a group of people I don't know - just like the junk mail that I intended for that to
go out with. It was addressed to me - I get to
make that choice."
Finn was sounding tough and we both knew it wasn't
washing. I shook my head.
"This affects both of us and them too.
We can't just write this off without even thinking about it."
"Why not?" Finn dropped down on the
couch, looking and sounding furious. "It
was a freak occurrence that I got into that fight and my blood ended up on police files.
It's not like I went looking for them. I
did what I thought I needed to at the time, and now this?"
"Because they're involved too." I
sat down at the table, giving him some distance. "You can't get away from that.
Whether you want to be involved with them or not is entirely your right, but what about
them Finn?"
"What ABOUT them?" Finn snapped
back.
I looked at him. Hard and steadily. Finn
looked away but I saw the wince.
"They know I'm alive now, that should
settle it."
"You think that EVER settles it?" I
demanded.
“It’s too late. It doesn’t matter any more.
Twenty years ago yes, but what the hell can it help now? I don’t know them, they don’t
know me, I was seven years old when I last saw them according to all this – crap-“
Finn’s wave took in the letter lying on the table. “I don’t even bloody REMEMBER
them. They haven’t got their kid back, they’ve got a 34 year old with his own life who
doesn’t know them, HOW is that supposed to help?”
“I think they have a right to see you.” I said
again quietly. “The police told you, they can’t insist. Tara and David Curtis don’t
even have the right to know your name and phone number, but they lost their child,
they’ve been through the same hell you have-“
”I haven't been through any kind of hell, I did ok.” Finn interrupted me shortly,
getting up. “I can’t give them a sob story to feel any better about, I can’t do a
damn thing except make the damage done to them still worse.”
”They can see you. They can see who their child became.” I followed him into the
kitchen, watching him turn the cold tap on full blast and lean over the sink, rinsing his
hands and then his face. “They can know your name and that you’re healthy, happy, you
have your own life. They can know for themselves that you’re ok.”
”They don’t even know me, what the hell difference can it make knowing I’M ok?”
Finn grabbed a towel from the side, dried his face and flung the towel back on to the
counter. “I’m not Sam. I don’t even know who Sam was, I have nothing to do with
their Sam. It’s been too long.”
It was the utter dismissiveness of his tone that made my stomach tighten, partly with
anger- not entirely with Finn either- and partly with determination.
“There’s something I want you to look at.”
”What.” Finn said shortly, without interest.
“A website David Curtis runs.”
”Why?” Finn demanded. “What good are you hoping to do here? We are not going to do
the finale from ‘Annie’, this is NOT going to work out. This is just going to make
everything worse and more difficult for everyone concerned.”
“You’re going to see.” I shouldered past
Finn’s shrug away and took his upper arm in a grip of steel, pushing him towards the
bedroom we use as a study. Finn fought briefly, one short and fierce attempt to break my
grip- he hates any form of restraint even in play, he fights back furiously if pinned or
wrestled with- but when I held on he swore under his breath and stalked where I took him.
I pushed him into the small study, putting him down in the chair in front of the computer.
There I pulled up the bookmark menu and clicked on a site I’d saved a few hours ago,
then put the mouse in Finn’s hand.
“Read.”
”Why?” Finn said just as bitterly.
“Read.” I repeated.
I was aware how much it meant that he actually
would take that order from me, and stay sitting in that chair. For a moment Finn’s dark
blue eyes glared at me, unreadable and hard, then he swung the chair around and began to
scroll down through the text under a blue, stylised heading. I knew what it said. I’d
read it hours ago, and it had chewed through my stomach like acid. I wish I knew what it
was making him feel now.
Our
Story.
Our youngest child, Sam, was the only member of
our family who liked marmite in his sandwiches. He was musical, like me, and athletic like
his mother. He loved to swim with his brother and sister, to ride on his bike, to read
Bobby Brewster and Mrs Pepperpot stories, and to tell ‘knock knock’ jokes. He had
thick and very dark brown hair and blue eyes and half his baby teeth still in place. He
was permanently hungry, interested in everything, beautiful, clever, loving, lively and
utterly perfect.
Our precious Sam was abducted on
For 26 years, we have flinched every time the
phone rang or someone came to the door in the faint, remaining hope and dread that it was
news of Sam. Several police officers have become close personal friends from hours and
months and years of contact and support, and their retirements came and went without our
little boy’s case being closed. For 26 years my other two children have known, don’t
ever forget to tell Dad where you are unless you want to see a grown man in a total panic.
For 26 years we have been one child short to kiss goodnight, had one child we struggle not
to buy Christmas gifts for- we don’t always succeed. Tara and I both over the years have
guiltily hidden a wrapped package from the other to cover a moment of weakness- and every
21st of June we count the years, remember 1972 when we first met our beautiful
son, and we wonder what he would look like at ten, at fourteen, at twenty, at thirty. Sam
would have been thirty three this June.
On Sam’s 21st birthday we declared
him legally dead. Something that police and family had gently encouraged us to consider
for some time. We thought that it might give us all some sense of peace, finally. It
didn’t. It never could.
Somewhere in the world is our Sam. We have no
grave, no remains, not even a place or a date to remember him by. Suspects have come and
gone, numerous people have been questioned in regard to Sam’s murder and each time we
hoped and feared that we would finally know what happened and where Sam might be, but no
evidence has ever come to light and suspects remain only suspects. Whatever happened to
Sam, we have only the cold and awful hopes that it was quick, painless and that he knew
nothing about it. And that he knew we loved him, even though at the moment in his life he
most needed us, we weren't there. Of the many things you wish for your child, of the many
things we wanted to give him, these are not what we ever would have dreamed of asking the
fairy godmother for.
When he was seventeen my long suffering eldest son
finally turned around to me and shouted “Why won’t you just accept it? Why do we ALL
have to go on waiting like this? We KNOW Sam isn’t coming back!”
This year in May our first grandchild- his daughter- was born. Standing in the hospital
with him, he looked at me and said “Dad, I get it now”. I knew exactly what he meant.
David Curtis. November 2005.
Finn wasn't moving, even after I knew he'd
finished reading. There was nothing else I needed - or felt I ought to - say to him. I'd
just wanted him to know what I'd seen on that webpage. His shoulders were rigid. I got up
to put my hands on his shoulders, meaning just to squeeze them and to leave him alone, but
he put his hand up and grasped mine, and his blue eyes were distraught and appealing. I
sat down again on the arm of his chair and he held on to me with one hand, even as the
other scanned the mouse down to David Curtis's name and clicked the email link.
It should have been an easy process.
Click the mail link, type in a few words and press the send button.
But for Finn it was far more than that. It
was going to be the contact that he'd struggled to ignore since the first inspector
starting talking with him. I sat in silence,
wanting to be there if Finn wanted the company, but in no way pushing him any farther.
It was ultimately his choice. I just needed to be sure he thought through it before
dismissing anything.
In the end I sat for over an hour while he
wrote an email of three lines, of which every single word was changed at least four times.
It was terse, if not downright stilted, but it was his: saying nothing more than he'd
received their letter and he accepted their right to meet him. It took him another twenty
minutes before he pressed send. In my usually decisive Finn it was an uncertainty that
hurt to watch. When at last the mail was gone, he checked the inbox reflexively and I knew
he was going to sweat blood from now until the mail was answered.
I took his hand from the keyboard.
"They won't respond instantaneously. How
about that run you asked about earlier?"
We ran. Maybe five or six miles, a little
longer than our usual average, but I could see it helping. On the way back we stopped off
at a Chinese takeaway, ordered food and took it home with us. As we unlocked the door Finn
slipped past me and I knew he'd gone to check the computer.
I set the food by the couch and got plates
and drinks. If Finn was going to eat he'd do
better on the couch than at the table. When he
didn't emerge I went back into the room, finding him staring at the screen.
"Did they answer?"
He sat back, letting me look over his
shoulder. He looked frankly terrified. The mail was short and I could see the effort
within it on the part of the Curtises to be calm. It was simply a warm, kind mail that
thanked him sincerely and invited him - and anyone else he cared to bring - to meet with
them at their home.
"I said Saturday." Finn said to my
surprise and I realised he had already answered. "Saturday morning."
In a way it made sense. Finn never wanted to
wait, particularly over anything that scared him. He wanted to get this over with as fast
as possible. I looked at the mail again, signed simply 'David and Tara', and their
invitation to bring someone, and for the first time felt a faint qualm.
"We might need to break it to them first
about us, love-"
"They know I'm gay and in a committed
relationship." Finn shut the computer down with an effort. "Inspector Coulson
told them. Bloody tactful of him too. If they'd been going to freak about it better they
did it then than now."
"I suppose there is still the issue of
the blood test," I said as Finn got up. Finn shook his head.
"There isn't. The results were in the post with their letter this morning, they both came from the police together. It's me. I'm him. Q.E.D."