Page 113 of The Time of My Afterlife

An uncomfortable feeling passes through me. I remember Jack asking me to talk last night at the barbecue, but I had got distracted by Bread and Margo turning up. I’d promised Jack that I would chat, but he needed to give me five minutes. I never spoke to him again. Guilt gnaws away at me. Why didn’t I talk to him? For goodness’ sake. He’s not quite forgiven me for the football match.

‘He must have sneaked out before the storm. On his bed I found this note.’

I take it and read Jack’s handwriting.

Dear Mum, I have decided to run away. It’s Dad’s birthday, and I feel like you have forgotten about him.

‘I’ve been waiting for him to come home,’ sobs Jane.

I hand the note to Florence. She reads it and looks at me. ‘Let’s go and find him, Clark.’

‘Yes. Jane – go home and phone the police.’

She gets to her feet. ‘The storm is bad. I hope he’s all right.’

Florence puts her arms around Jane. ‘We will get Jack back.’

She looks at me. ‘Come on, Clark.’

The weather outside is like something out of a film; the rain is not falling from the sky, it’s hurtling and pelting the ground. A loud roar of thunder makes us all yelp. I feel like the sound is travelling through my body.

Jane races across the road to go back to her house and I unlock my car, Florence immediately jumping into the passenger seat. As I start the engine, the wind gives my car a furious shove.

‘Let’s think where an eleven-year-old lad would go if he were running away?’ Florence says as I reverse onto the street.

Lightning forks across the sky, which makes us gasp.

‘Somewhere safe and dry I hope,’ I pray as I swing the car out of the cul-de-sac.

‘It was weird reading his letter,’ says Florence. ‘It was everything I’ve been thinking about my dad.’

I reach out and squeeze her hand. ‘I know.’

‘Where would he be?’ Florence asks as we speed through the housing estate.

‘Maybe he’s gone to a mate’s house?’

My windscreen wipers are struggling against the rain. I pray we find him soon.

‘Clark,’ gasps Florence. ‘Stop the car.’

‘What?’

She winds down her window. ‘Excuse me.’

A man who looks sodden and annoyed with his broken-down car looks at us both. His dark hair is plastered against his face, and his T-shirt looks more like it’s a wet suit. ‘Have you seen a young lad by any chance? He’s run away. Eleven years old.’

The man wipes away raindrops from his face. I hold my breath and pray he’s not going to angrily shout at us about how he’s more concerned with pushing his broken-down car in a violent storm than keeping a lookout for runaways.

‘There was a boy who ran past me when I pulled up.’

‘Oh, really?’ Florence leans closer out of the window as it’s hard to hear him in the torrential rain.

‘He stopped to tell me there was smoke coming out of my bonnet.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘As if I didn’t know that.’

‘That’s Jack,’ I say.

‘He said he was off to the river and I told him a storm was coming…’