37. Regroup
thirty-seven
Regroup
Liam
Ican’t calm down. I can’t stop it. Five years— five years of wondering, of searching, of calling them—calling that man over and over again, asking him where my brother was, why he wasn’t looking harder, why everything came to a dead end so long ago, not a single lead, not a single thread of hope.
And he knew. This whole time, he knew.
My mother’s breakdowns, her passed out on the floor from drink, her wasting away because she couldn’t eat, her weeks of lying in a dark room, silent, never saying a single word to me. When I was so sure she would end it if I left her alone for too long.
All of it. Everything. Five long years.
One word from him. One word from any of them, and we would have known.
“This whole time,” I cry against Archer’s shoulder.
“This whole time, they let us think he was missing. This whole time, they told us he was the bad guy. That he got himself mixed up in this shit. They told us!” My fingers scrunch into him, and he only pulls me tighter, so much strength in his arms that I need so badly right now.
I cannot hold myself up. I can barely think.
No more than one thought. “They told us he was the bad guy. And he was helping them. But I knew. Archer, I knew. I knew he wasn’t like that. ”
His hand strokes over my back. He doesn’t say anything. What can he say? What could anyone possibly say?
My brother was mixed up in some bad stuff. And I was so worried about the awful things they told me he’d done. But now I can see. Archer can see. Jem was trying to help. Trying to make up for everything.
Just like that, all my knowledge of him is turned upside down.
Selling drugs to kids? Was he really? He was no angel, but Jem…
I never thought he’d do that. I knew he wouldn’t do that.
Not when he loved me so much. Cared about me so much.
Told me over and over who to stay away from, to never touch any of it, no matter what.
Why would he do that to other kids when he had a little brother he was so determined to take care of?
And those fuckers killed him. They killed him, then they laughed about it. They tried to cut him all to pieces so we’d never find him.
But it wasn’t even them who kept us from finding him. It was the people we were supposed to be able to trust.
Reality slams back into me. Not just this place—Archer’s house, real around me again—but the wider world. The machine that took my brother, swallowed him whole, and never gave us a clue about where he was. “I need to go.”
I try to push up from Archer, but he grasps my arms to slow me down. “Go where? Maybe we should take a minute—”
“I need to…” I shove away from him, stumble into the middle of the attic, running a hand through my hair as if it will help me get my brain in order. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I need to find him. Find his body. I need to bring him home.”
“Liam…” Archer moves for me, but I step away because I know he’ll try to stop me.
All I can think about is how much I need to do this, a list that runs off my tongue as I begin to pace.
“I need to find him. I need to tell my mum. God, Archer, I’m going to have to tell her.
But I can’t tell her. Not until I have his body.
Not until I know where he is. Then I need to tell her.
And to organise a-a funeral. A real one. And I need to…”
“Slow down, Liam.”
But I don’t. I can’t. It’s like the world’s rushing by at a million miles an hour, and I can’t keep up with any of it.
“Then I need to get back here. I need to… Tezcatlipoca…” I search around for him, for any sign of him.
Any sign that he was here—that he really did this.
“I need his mirror.” The thought slams into me, and I shout for him, “I need your mirror, don’t I? Tezcatlipoca? Is that your name?”
I wait as a thick silence falls over us, dust swirling slowly in the sunbeam cutting through the window.
But it never forms into anything. Not Tezcatlipoca.
And this time, not Jem. “If I get it…” I call, on another frantic search of the room, and when Tezcatlipoca doesn’t appear, my eyes focus on Archer.
I hate the way it sounds like I’m begging when I ask him, “If I get it, will he give Jem back?”
“Oh, Liam… I don’t…” He comes to me, and this time I let him take me, pull my head to his chest, soak his shirt through with the tears that keep coming. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like this. I can’t answer your questions.”
It’s not what I wanted to hear. Or what I needed. But either way, I know deep down I have one chance at this. “I have to get that mirror.”
This time his grip is strong, immovable when he grabs my arms and looks into my eyes. “Let me do this with you.”
“I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know where to start. It’s so much…”
“I know. We’re going to figure this out. We’ll do all of it, one step at a time.” His voice is so calm. Warm. Grounding.
Of course it is. This is Archer. This is what he does. His whole business, his whole life, is built on exactly this. Dealing with harrowing messages from the dead.
For the first time in so long, I feel like I’m not alone. Like I have someone I can turn to. Someone I can hand just a bit of this weight to, without worrying he’ll crumble beneath it.
“We’re going downstairs,” he says, his voice like a balm. “We’re going to sit down, and we’re going to make a plan.”
“But I need to—”
“Liam, it’s been five years.” The words are hard to hear, but they’re true. Too true. It’s been so, so long. “Nothing’s going to change in the next few minutes, all right? We need to get our heads straight. This has been a lot.”
The understatement of the century.
But I know he’s right.
I let him take my hands and lead me out.
Down the rickety stairs. Down the hall, where I watch every shadow carefully, hoping this time that I will see something supernatural.
But I don’t, and we keep on. Down and down into the living room.
Into Archer’s kitchen, where he flicks the kettle on, and where it feels so ridiculous to be here, in this cosy, casual space.
To know there’s a gateway to a whole other world up there.
A place that opens and closes on the whim of some god.
Where it was trying to tell me something—showing me what those bastards did to my brother.
And the way the cops swept the whole thing under the rug.
My hand moves automatically, reaching into my pocket, plucking out my phone.
I type in the name I need. Detective Peter Marsden.
My finger touches the link, and there he is—some awkward photograph of a man you’d never even notice on the street.
The same man I saw upstairs in that vision.
The same man I met when my mother dragged me into the station because they weren’t giving her any answers.
The same man she cried in front of, held his hand, and begged him to please bring her baby home.
He watched her cry, pour her heart out, and he knew her child was dead. Gone. And he promised he’d help her. He looked her in the eye, and he promised her, and he knew.
I click on the number, press the phone to my ear and wait.
And wait. So many rings while Archer’s movements stay busy, his eyes focused on what he’s doing.
I can tell he’s thinking hard between grabbing mugs, measuring tea leaves, looking through his pantry, sighing before pulling out store-made biscuits.
I bet he’d bake them fresh right now if I weren’t so upset.
And that makes me feel even worse, somehow.
A sharp voice shoots across the line. “Metropolitan Police.”
“I need to speak to Detective Peter Marsden. It’s about… about an open case.”
Sounding bored, as if death and horror are an everyday occurrence for her, and I guess they are, the operator says, “Who can I tell him is calling?”
“Liam Locke. About my brother. Jem Locke. He’s missing.”
“Please hold.”
Terrible music comes on, slow and plodding and electronic, and I feel like throwing my phone.
Terrible music droning endlessly, and every single person who calls after something awful has happened stands there and listens to this.
Wondering where people they care about have disappeared to.
Wondering what’s happening on the other end of the line.
Believing these people they’ve turned to for help are looking. Believing they care.
Eventually, she comes back. “I’m afraid he can’t take your call right now. But if you’d like to—”
“Why can’t he take my call?” She cuts off, and even I’m surprised by how harsh my voice sounds. “Why not? Is he there? What’s he doing that’s so important?”
“I’m afraid I can’t—”
“My brother’s missing,” I snap at her. “He’s been missing for five years. And Marsden’s supposed to be finding him. And I haven’t had a word from him, and he isn’t helping us at all, and I want to know why that is.”
Archer’s hands land on my arms, stroking over them, squeezing. It’s calming, but it’s too calming. It’s like a soft place I’m not ready to crawl into yet. I don’t want to cry again. I just need to get through this.
The woman’s words come cold and final. “If you’d like to leave a message, I’ll have him call you.”
It’s my first instinct to yell at her. Tell her to get off her ass, walk into his office, and put the phone in front of him.
But after all, I know this is just a job to her. And she probably gets yelled at all day by people like me, caught in a system that’s too slow, too distant, in a world full of horrible ordeals just like ours.
“I’m sorry,” I find myself saying. “I’m sorry, I just… I miss him.”
I’m crying anyway. No matter how hard I try not to. The tears just come, and all I can see is him dead on the floor, all night long, alone. And where’s his body now? What have they done with him?