Gone Away

Little of what I've been writing recently turns out suitable for this site. The majority of readers who comment seem intent on getting stories that repeat what they've already read and I can't see any reason to upset them with my stuff. But I wrote this some time ago, no doubt in response to something I'd read here, and it certainly takes place in the familiar terrain of LW unhappy marriages. It's a reflective piece and concentrates on thoughts and feelings and includes no sex. And be warned: I find life much more complicated than the black and white scenarios beloved by Anonymous of LW. As far as I'm concerned it's the ambiguity of the human condition that makes it worth writing about. So you have been warned.

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When I arrived home from work I turned on the heating and began to cook dinner. Sausages and beans. I was hungry and too tired to prepare anything complicated. Unsure whether my wife would be home in time to eat, I cooked for two but finally ate alone in front of the television news with half a bottle of wine. Later, I began to worry about Sophie. I'd fallen asleep to the news and woken to a game show and was still alone. It wasn't uncommon for her to be delayed at work, but she mostly warned me if she expected to be later than nine.

At ten I went round the house looking for clues. Had I forgotten a parents' evening or some other after-school event? Now I was jumpy, glancing out at the driveway every few seconds to see if she had arrived. What was the appropriate thing to do? Deciding I had waited long enough, I phoned her work, but there was no answer. I tried her mobile and was switched straight to voicemail. Ringing the police or the hospitals would be an over-reaction, I decided, and I talked myself out of driving to her work to see whether I could find her -- I'd be over the alcohol limit for driving. Calming myself with an effort, I decided she was delayed at school by an emergency, her mobile phone was discharged and she would be back at any moment. In bed I closed my eyes, expecting her to be home before I slept.

The next morning I spent breakfast working things out. Surely I would have heard if Sophie had been in an accident; her driving licence with address was in her wallet. Deciding I must do something, I rang her work and was put through to the Head Teacher's secretary. Yes she knew Mrs Lambton. No, she didn't know where she was. She'd not been to school the day before and they were, in fact, intending to call me to ask where she was. I put down the phone and started to worry in earnest. Sophie wasn't the sort to skip work, and where could she have gone? For lack of anything better, I went to work. Mid-morning I rang my home, knowing it was futile, and listened to the phone ring in the empty house.

It was time. I rang the police to tell them Sophie was missing. Just to say those words was a shock and I was trembling and finding it difficult to concentrate. Getting a grip, I understood the person I was speaking to was going down a stock list of missing person questions. When did I last see her? Any medical conditions? Had I checked other family? Did she have money or cards? Did she take anything with her? I didn't know and realised how incompetent I had been. Finding a missing married woman over the age of consent wasn't on the police list of important things and my ignorance added support for their view. But they would like me to give them a photo. I promised to do so.

So that was that. My wife now existed on a police missing persons file and I was on my own. I struggled to find what to do next. Eventually I decided to leave work and get the photograph for the police record. I went home after lunch and the house was still empty. Remembering the police checklist, I looked for anything missing and was startled to find a pile of empty clothes hangers in the corner of the bedroom and a missing overnight bag. Further search failed to discover her laptop and phone chargers. I called her phone and again it went to voicemail.

"Sophie, this is Neville. I don't know where you are and I'm worried. Can you ring back?"

I called Sophie's parents and asked if they knew where she was. It was unusually her father who answered and he failed to sound especially worried or surprised and claimed to have heard nothing from his daughter. He chatted on, sounding embarrassed and conciliatory and so I was left knowing nothing but ready to believe the worst.

I turned up at the local station and the police seemed to have no record of my previous call. Eventually they accepted the photograph after asking many of the questions I'd already answered.

"So what do I do now?" I asked at the end of the interview.

The policemen looked at me as if I had asked him how to boil and egg. "Go home and get on with whatever you do. Let us know if she turns up. Mostly they do."

He was an expert and understood what he was saying. Was there any alternative? I could think of none. But at home I had nothing better to do than puzzle over Sophie. I'm not an idiot and it didn't take long to make the obvious connections: absent wife, missing clothes, silence. She'd not had an accident or been abducted. She'd gone and there are few reasons why a wife sneaks out on her husband without a word. None of them had much appeal for me.

Now I knew the truth, should I have seen this coming? Of course I should. We'd been married five years and knew one another well enough. But we were both preoccupied with work, or so it seemed, and our life together was a routine of surviving the week and indulging ourselves at the weekend. We more or less kept one another company as we went through each day - ate meals, visited friends and relatives, shopped, improved the house, relaxed on holiday, slept. It was an animal companionability we all crave - unremarkable but necessary. There was nothing I could think of to suggest that Sophie was anxious for something more. She was content to do what we always did, enjoyed her work and was happy to let me take the initiative in most things. She liked shopping and good meals, where I indulged her. I was mostly good-tempered and didn't try to boss her about. We enjoyed our last holiday together in the winter in Venice. No moments of inattention came to mind, when she might have been privately missing a secret lover, or when my moody introversion seemed more than she could bear. We had our own interests as well. I liked sailing and mountain climbing and she disliked being wet and was afraid of heights. She liked country houses, gardens and museums, which I found dull. We fitted our lives around these idiosyncrasies without much trouble and neither of us was put out.

And we were both hopelessly busy. If Sophie was having an affair, when did she find time? An affair would have involved suspicious phone calls to the house, awkward excuses to account for sudden absences. But of course, these days love affairs would be organised by text message, although I didn't recall Sophie's phone having a password or that she was careful to make sure I never had a chance to inspect it. It was rather the opposite. I couldn't recall her ever sending a text message. She would put the phone to charge in the kitchen and forget to take it with her. As for a lover, it was hard to imagine such a person. Sophie was a good-looking woman, but never coquettish or flirtatious, even when young. It had taken ingenuity and courage to prize her out of her library seat and girl set at uni and make a date with her. I thought of myself as a solitary adventurer when it came to storming Sophie's defences.

Long, solitary reflection led me to decide that she must be shacked up with someone from her work. I knew I would have to call the school again to check whether she had slipped back to her job. It was likely she wasn't missing at all; just hidden from me. Practising teachers couldn't change job mid-term, it wasn't allowed. She'd have never left her work after so long crawling her way up the lower slopes of teaching management. She just wouldn't.

For a few days I was barely functioning, miserable and off work until I made myself go back. I couldn't talk about what had happened and did my best to submerge myself in routine. I tried to do the normal things, cooking myself a meal in the evening, read my yachting and literary magazines, catch up with some work and do the housework. But there was nowhere to hide. After a week the nightmare was broken by a call from the police. Sophie's car had been found in a car park in the city centre. I went to pick it up and paid a hefty penalty charge. When I was grumpy about the charge the attendant pointed out with relish the time and date on the parking slip: seven thirty a.m. on the morning she vanished.

Shortly after, I had another call from the police. They had checked Sophie's bank account and she'd taken a thousand pounds in cash from the bank by the car park and had not touched her account since. These were different questions they asked me now, with purpose and tactics. Suddenly they were serious about finding Sophie. I agreed they could visit in the evening to look round the house.

Before they came, I went to her work and spoke to a deputy head teacher. He was a tall, blue-eyed rugby player and I watched him carefully as he assured me they had heard nothing from Sophie. He wanted me to understand it was a huge problem for them. She was head of the department of business studies and there was no one to teach her lessons or guide a department of novice teachers. I sympathised while thinking, "Is this my nemesis?" Mr Good Guy with designer stubble and gym biceps was bland and watchful. An affair with her line manager was corny enough to be true, but with this man? It made me miserable to frame the question.

I had nothing to lose and was miserable enough to think it was the turn of someone else to squirm.

"You know the police are looking for her?" I said. "Is that really all you know? I don't think they'll believe you."

Surprised, he thought before answering. "I don't know what you imagine, but really she's not been here. I only wish she were."

If there was a secret, he wasn't going to give himself away. I was a fool to imagine he would.

"If you hear anything, let us know," the man continued. "She's a good colleague and we're really anxious about her and would like to know what's happened."

We eyeballed one another and once more I realised how far behind the game I was. If this man was my wife's lover he had been planning for this moment, rehearsing every line and mannerism of his pompous act. What chance did I have of finding the truth in my bereaved and emotional state? I was behaving like a madman, which was clearly what he thought I was.

Retreating from this confrontation made me think again about whether Sophie had run to her unseen lover. If he was an invention of my disturbed imagination, then what else might have happened? She might have had a breakdown. Unable to cope with work any longer she had fled, too embarrassed to face those around her. It was possible, but if so she had hidden her mental state well. She was highly strung and had been working hard, but I didn't think she would snap. If it had happened she would have gone to someone for help. Her family? I remembered my awkward conversation with her father. Now I didn't know what to think.

I returned to another line of thought. What if instead of running off to her lover she had been abducted by an admirer - a stalker? She might have gone to the city centre before work to pick up a present, perhaps for a colleague, and been caught by the stalker in the car park. I must ask the police if they had checked the CCTV.

The instant I stepped into the hall that evening I knew Sophie had been home. I moved cautiously to the kitchen, glancing into the sitting room. Had I heard or smelt something? Was she still there? I rushed upstairs as if to surprise a burglar and looked swiftly in each bedroom. Back in the kitchen I saw that my breakfast coffee cup had been moved from the table and was in the dishwasher. Beside it was a second dirty cup. I took it out and sniffed it. Only Sophie drank rose hip tea. I searched for the tea bag and it wasn't in the waste can or the organic, compostable waste. Outside in the dustbin I found it tucked into a plastic bag, still wet, with tissues and other rubbish. Clearly I'd not been meant to find it, but why such an incompetent effort to hide the evidence of her visit? I sat in the kitchen, but got up at once and looked for more clues. An hour's frantic search uncovered the possible removal of a pair of red shoes I was sure had been at the bottom of her wardrobe and a summer jacket which had hung on the purple velvet-cushioned hanger which now highlighted the space in the downstairs closet.

It was worth informing the police. When I called, there was a long pause before I was put through to a female detective constable. She listened to my stumbling account of Sophie's phantom visit and then said:

"Mr Lambton, I'd like you to come in and see me. I think we're making progress in looking for your wife and I'd like to get this case settled."

Was I a suspect again? The brisk detective sounded as if she had her suspect.

"That's fine," I replied calmly. "Shall I come in now?"

"Tomorrow will do. Ten o'clock. Ask for DC Thompson."

I was there in good time and was taken to an interview room and sat alone for a few minutes before DC Thompson, a short, brisk woman with blonde cropped hair, took the seat opposite. She left the door open but the place had the appearance of a cell and I wondered if I was being interrogated. She sat with her hands square on the top of a file of papers, waiting for me to indicate that I was ready.

"I'm glad to hear about your wife coming home Mr Lambton. It confirms that nothing's happened to her and that this is not a case for the police. You can be sure your wife's come to no harm. I was assigned to review the evidence and I'm satisfied there's nothing to investigate. Your wife waited for you to go to work and left home with an overnight bag. She wanted to leave without having to confront you. If you search your mind and are honest I'm sure you'll find the reason why. Maybe she was afraid of how you would react. Go home and think carefully about what you want to happen. You know she's safe. That's good news. Think about why she came home when you were at work to collect her things. I expect she needed something for her new life -- documents perhaps, or some possessions that were important to her. Whatever it is, she's sticking with her new life and doesn't want to see you."

I tried to speak, but she put up her hand. "There's more. We examined her work and private email. It's not what I expect you want to hear, but her emails are enough to show us that she had a plan to leave home and that there are no suspicious circumstances. Go home and sleep soundly tonight. You don't have anything to worry about, but you do have to come to terms with the change in your life." She opened the file on the desk and flipped through a few pages to remind herself of the details. I saw copies of emails with Hotmail headers. "Before she left she exchanged emails with a man, a friend she had clearly known for some time. They discussed her leaving and made arrangements to meet up. It's really not so unusual and I'm sorry, but that's the way it is. It was always the most likely explanation that she left you for someone else. Most missing persons aren't missing, they're hiding from someone - or everyone. I expect she couldn't face telling you and so she ran away."

So that was the explanation. I must have looked stunned because the DC was silent, giving me time to compose myself. I used the time to search through our last weeks together for clues I had overlooked, without finding anything significant. Eventually she said in a kindly way, "This has been a rough time for you. Go home, watch the football and forget everything for a while. Things will soon start to look better. Be thankful for good health, a house, a job and a future."

I finally came up with some words. "Who is this man she went to meet? It doesn't make sense. There was no time for her to get to know him. Where are they?"

Her reply came from the rule book. "No crime has been committed. Your wife left you by her own choice. She doesn't want to be found. The police are not concerned with why she did it and I have no reason to tell you who she met. As of today, the case is closed. She's no longer a missing person. Move on. If you have to know where she is, get yourself a solicitor. There are likely to be civil reasons, legal or financial, why she has to communicate with you, even if it's through your solicitors."

The DC's phone rang again and she stood up, impatient to get on. I remained seated, as if still paralysed by events. As she walked to the door, back turned, speaking into her phone, I leaned forward, turned the file and flipped through the papers until I came to the Hotmail headers. There were dozens, mostly short and copied into a continuous list, page after page. I glimpsed the pet name 'Dibble', which was my name for Sophie. The email address of the man was H.P.Hardiment and I noticed the sign-off: 'Harry'. Harry Hardiment. I read a random sentence in the middle of a message -- "now it won't be long and then we can be happy" -- but DC Thompson turned back. I straightened up, leaving the file where it lay. Maybe she knew what I'd, but she said nothing and put out her hand to shake mine and conclude the meeting.

"I have to get on. Go home, ring off sick. Things will look better tomorrow."

I thanked her and left. Strangers were kind by instinct to the hard-pressed, but the world stank all the same. A little kindness was no antidote even to the tiniest prick of this venom. As I wandered back through the shopping centre I watched the mothers pushing buggies, retired men on their way to the library, youngsters in a group -- the world away from work. It was a long time since I'd been in the town centre in the mid-morning. Life had tilted on its side and was tipping me helpless into the daylight.

By the time I reached home I had a plan. The start was an energetic cleansing of the house to remove Sophie's things, thinking all the while of Harry Hardiment. It had a familiar sound, but did I know the name? I worked on, filling rubbish bags with the contents of drawers and cupboards, the name nagging away at me. When the bags filled the hall, I loaded the car and took them to the charity shop in town. It was then, after I dumped them and paused to glance at the books on display in the shop window, that the idea came. I'd seen an old maintenance handbook on Mini cars and flipped through the pages. I'd owned a Mini at University, not as an antique but as the real thing, an economical form of transport. But its rotting body and leaky engine had cost most of my spare time to keep it on the road. Looking at the oil-stained book I sensed an unexplained connection with Harry Hardiment. It bugged me all the way to the municipal tip, where I dumped a huge unsalable collection of Sophie's possessions.

As I released the load of waste into the cruncher, I was struck by a painful thought and couldn't get home quickly enough. The instant my PC had booted, I sent emails to the two acquaintances I still knew from University. With that done, I spent another few hours clearing the house of reminders of Sophie until I was tired and fell asleep in front of the television. When I woke it was evening and I didn't want to be alone in the house. I went to a pub and watched football. The next day I went to work and managed pretty well.

On the way home I bought a chilled madras curry and nan bread and ate and showered before opening my email. There was one reply to my enquiry: Harry Hardiment had been student union president in my final undergraduate year at university.