‘The one asking us to forgive her?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Can you? Forgive her, I mean?’

A cloud passes over the sun and I wrap my arms around my body as the wind bites at my thin cardigan.

‘I already have. Billy too.’

We pass silently under the thick metal struts of the pier. By the time we come out the other side the sun has reappeared from behind the clouds.

‘Look at that!’ Mark points into the distance where two young boys, bundled up in coats and hats, are running along the beach side by side trying, and failing, to launch their kites into the air. ‘Reminds me of our two.’

‘I remember that holiday.’ I catch his eye and smile. ‘We kept telling them to just buy one kite and take it in turns to be the one that ran with it and the one that threw it up in the air, but they insisted on having one each.’

‘And neither of them could get their kites into the air.’

‘Until we stepped in to help.’

Now we watch as the boys charge up and down the sand laughing and shouting and tripping over their own feet as their parents point and smile and take photos.

One day those boys will be teenagers and they won’t look to their parents for reassurance any more. They’ll make their own decisions and come up with their own definitions of right and wrong. I blamed myself for Billy’s disappearance for far too long. For not understanding what was going on in his head. For not knowing what he was up to. For not being there when he needed me. But you can’t hold your children for ever. You have to let them choose their own path and hope that, if they choose the wrong one, they’ll come back to you and reach for your hand.

As I gaze across the sand, one hand raised to shield my eyes from the sun, it’s Billy and Jake racing across the beach and throwing their kites up into the air. They play until they get bored and then Jake points out to sea and Billy nods excitedly. The sea is further than it looks, maybe a quarter of a mile from where we’re standing. The kids will have to wade through thick mud before they reach it. But they don’t care. They whoop with delight, their faces tipped up to the sun as they speed towards the sea without looking back. I could call them back. I could tell them the mud is dangerous. I could tell them they won’t make it.

I let them run.

A conversation with C.L. Taylor

1. Where did you get the idea for The Missing?