The Joshua Files: Invisible City

Extract

'It’s capoeira night. Capoeira is this cool Brazilian martial art that I’ve been learning for almost two years. Our teacher, “Mestre” Ricardo, takes a call on his mobile and calls me out of the roda – a circle we make around the two players who “fight”. He tells me to get my stuff, to go straight home. At the time I don’t really notice, but later I remember something about the look in his eyes.

Mestre Ricardo is a former soldier. Not an easy guy to worry would be my guess. The way he looks at me is something I’ve never seen from him, never dreamed I’d see: pity.

I remember every detail about the skateboard ride home, over the bridge, the college towers behind me, big puffs of marshmallow cloud in a blue sky reflected in the lead-paned windows. It’s the last memory I have where I’m really happy.

I arrive home to find my mother perched on the livingroom sofa. Jackie from next door, she’s there too, holding Mum’s hand. As soon as Mum stands up, I can tell she’s been crying. Her face is a colour closer to grey than her normal English-rose pink. There’s a smile of affection on her lips – it looks forced. The ends of her hair are wet, like she’s just washed her face. She tries to kiss me, and I shrink from her touch, pull back to look into her eyes.

She’s actually shaking, won’t even look at me.

She can’t.

A chill seeps into my blood. Dread floods through me. A suspicion grows, a tiny seed of horror in the deepest recesses of my mind. It’s such a heart-stopping idea that I can’t even bring myself to take it seriously.

Mum begins. “Josh, sit down; there’s some bad news, I’m afraid. Terrible, terrible news.”

She doesn’t get any further, though; she’s overwhelmed by tears. Her palms go up to her face, cover her eyes. She sinks back down on to the sofa. Jackie takes hold of both my hands, which feel rough, cold and huge in her small fingers.

Between Mum’s sobs I make out, “The Cessna plane your dad was renting in Mexico. It went down. And . . . Josh, I’m so sorry. So sorry, but . . . he’s dead.”

Then it’s like I’m disconnected from the moment. Bodily I’m still there, holding hands with my middle-aged neighbour, nodding slightly. But somewhere deep inside I begin a scream of rage and disbelief. I can hear that Jackie is talking, but she seems distant, remote. Mum’s face is nothing but a blur as I struggle to grasp what I’m hearing.

Then the screams in my head finally catch up with my mouth. It’s as though I’m possessed. I start shouting: “What? What?!”

Both women try to hug me, but I shake them off. I can’t take it in. Then I’m punching the living room door, yelling at them, “No, no, no, no, no.” For an instant I catch the fear in Mum’s eyes at my sudden violence.

But within seconds I’ve stopped, already exhausted. I feel sick. My legs actually buckle slightly underneath me. I slump on to the couch. When I glance up, I notice a shimmering haze around Mum and Jackie. I’m shocked, trembling, numb. Mum grabs hold of me, holds on tight, but all I can think is how her arms aren’t long enough for a proper hug. And I wonder: how it would have been if Mum, not Dad, had died? Would Dad’s arms be long enough? At the thought of losing Mum too, I burst into tears.

Yet there’s this hard little kernel of me that’s still ticking over. Still able to look on the bright side.

Wait a bit . . . what if it isn’t him?

I’m full of questions. How can they be sure it’s my dad? Maybe Dad changed his mind about hiring that plane. Maybe it’s some other bloke.

“No, Josh, no,” Mum murmurs. “The detective who came round – DI Barratt – says the Mexican police are sure it’s him. Your dad hadn’t been seen for three days, since he hired this plane.”

I shake my head, thinking furiously. Trying to find any loophole. “No. Not Dad. Just cos he’s gone missing . . . he could be camping near some ruins. They can’t be sure without proof. Have they got proof? What is it they do – they look at dental records, don’t they? Yeah, I’ve seen it a million times in films. I bet the dental records will show it’s not my dad.”

“I’m sorry, love,” Jackie explains kindly. “It wasn’t that simple. Wish it was, poppet.”

“What . . . why not?”

Mum holds my hand. They exchange a look. Mum nods at Jackie. Very slightly.
“Your dad’s plane hit a tree. A branch. Would have shot through the windscreen at God knows what speed. He had no chance, Josh. No chance at all.”

“What?! Just tell me,” I insist, through my tears. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Jackie straightens up; her voice steels, becomes faint, distant, cold. “He was decapitated,” she says. “In the plane crash. There is no head. Just your poor dad’s burned, broken body.”

I take a few moments to absorb that. I’m already beginning to join Jackie in that remote place. That’s where I need to be now. Somewhere else. Anywhere. Death would have been instantaneous, she’s quick to assure me. Better hope so. The thought of something like that happening slowly is unbearable.

There was no sign of foul play. No severed fluid lines, nothing suspicious. The best guess from the Mexican police is that he fell asleep at the controls, lost altitude, plunged to his doom.

My emotions start to shut down. Movements become purely mechanical. Would I like some tea? I’m nodding, asking for milk and two sugars.

Like it matters.

I wish I could stop the TV scenes that begin to play through my head. Two sympathetic policemen at the door, the phone call from the hospital, the phone call from abroad. On TV, I’ve seen bad news delivered lots of ways. Now it’s my turn.

Jackie seems to know just what to do. She has nerve; in the midst of our little storm, she holds firm. She’s all gentle Irish humour as she makes us hot buttered toast. She serves us thick slices with mugs of sweet, milky tea. She turns on the TV. We watch a whole film, but later I don’t remember a single detail. I keep glancing at Mum, wondering what we do now. Am I supposed to hug her? Or what?

I know what Dad would say: Son, you take care of your mother, you got that? Mum’s eyes look glazed, staring. After my initial outburst, things are calm. We take it quietly then.

Later, when I go to bed, I get to thinking. I can’t stop wondering about something Jackie said; something I hardly noticed at the time.

So far, the Mexican police haven’t actually found his head. The rest of his body was burned beyond recognition. They are sure of two things: it was the plane Professor Andres Garcia rented, and his luggage was found thrown clear of the crash.

That’s where it begins, that’s the root of the matter. Call it what you like: doubt, suspicion, a hunch.

I don’t believe it. Not “can’t”. I’m pretty sure that I could if it only felt true. But something doesn’t feel right. Dad has only been flying for three years. I know he’s still cautious, plans every detail.

There’s no way he’d fall asleep at the controls.

There has to have been some horrendous, monumental mistake.'