Vox Meditantis

Into the Silence

Mary woke to silence, and that was the first wrong thing.

Michael was always the first up on Saturday mornings, his internal clock seemingly calibrated to weekend cartoons. By seven o’clock, she’d usually hear the creak of his bedroom door, the patter of small feet on the landing, the whispered negotiations between siblings about who got to choose the first programme. This morning, the house held its breath in unnatural quiet.

She lay still for a moment, listening. George slept on beside her, one arm flung across his pillow, his face slack with the deep exhaustion of a man who’d finally stopped worrying long enough to rest. Outside, the wind had died during the night, leaving the kind of crystalline stillness that sometimes followed storms.

The bedside clock read seven forty-five. Late for the children to still be sleeping, especially on a Saturday. Mary pushed back the covers and padded across the cold floor to the landing, her bare feet silent on the worn carpet.

Michael’s door stood slightly ajar, exactly as she’d left it the night before. She pushed it open wider and peered into the small room, expecting to see the familiar lump of her youngest son under his Spider-Man duvet. Instead, she found herself staring at an empty bed, covers thrown back, pillow still bearing the indent of a small head.

A flutter of unease moved through her chest. Michael sometimes crept into John’s room during the night if he’d had a bad dream, though he was getting too old for such things and would deny it if asked.

John’s room was empty too. Both beds unslept in, covers barely disturbed.

The flutter became something sharper. Mary’s breath caught as she pushed open Wendy’s door to find the same thing – an empty room, curtains still drawn, school clothes laid out for Monday morning still draped over the chair where Wendy had left them.

“George.” Her voice came out as barely a whisper. She cleared her throat and tried again. “George!”

“Mm?” His voice was thick with sleep.

“The children. They’re not in their rooms.”

“What d’you mean?” George sat up, instantly alert in the way that came from years of interrupted sleep.

“They’re not there. None of them. Their beds…” Mary couldn’t finish the sentence. It felt too enormous, too impossible.

George was out of bed and moving past her before she could process what was happening. She heard him checking each room in turn, his footsteps quick and purposeful. Then came the sound of his voice calling their names – first hopefully, then with increasing urgency.

“Wendy! John! Michael!”

Mary followed him downstairs, her legs unsteady. The front room was empty, cushions still bearing the impressions of last night’s television watching. George was already in the kitchen, wrenching open the back door.

“Kids! Where are you?”

Nothing. The garden lay still and empty in the grey morning light, the grass heavy with dew. Nana wasn’t in her usual place by the radiator.

“Nana’s gone too,” Mary said, though the words felt strange in her mouth, as if she were speaking a foreign language.

George spun around, his hair wild from sleep. “Gone? What d’you mean gone?”

“She’s not here. She’s not anywhere.”

They stared at each other across the kitchen, both trying to process something that didn’t make sense. Children didn’t just vanish from locked houses. Dogs didn’t disappear without trace.

“Maybe they took her for a walk,” George said, but even as he spoke, Mary could see he didn’t believe it.

“At eight o’clock in the morning? Without telling us? Without getting dressed properly?”

George was already moving again, checking the front door. “It’s locked. Deadbolt’s still on.” He rattled the handle as if it might have fastened itself. “How could they have got out?”

Mary felt the first real stab of panic. “The back door?”

“Locked from the inside. Key’s still in it.”

They ran through the house together, checking windows, calling the children’s names with increasing desperation. Every room told the same story – empty spaces where children should be, no sign of disturbance, no explanation.

“This doesn’t make sense,” George kept saying. “This doesn’t make sense.”

Mary found herself in Wendy’s room, touching the school uniform laid out so carefully, still holding the faint scent of her daughter’s perfume – the cheap body spray she’d bought with her pocket money. The bed was definitely unslept in, but Wendy’s pyjamas weren’t on the floor where she usually dropped them.

In Michael’s room, his treasures were still arranged on the windowsill, but his slippers were missing from beside the bed. John’s torch – the one he used for under-cover reading – was gone from his bedside table.

“George,” she called, her voice tight. “Some of their things are missing. Slippers, clothes…”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what any of this means.”

George appeared in the doorway, his face pale. “I’ve been all through the house. They’re not here, Mary. They’re just not here.”

The words hung between them like something toxic. Mary felt her chest constricting, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

“Maybe they went to see someone,” she said wildly. “Maybe John had a sleepover he forgot to mention, or – “

“All three of them? With the dog? Without saying anything?”

“Maybe there was an emergency. Maybe someone in the family – “

George was already reaching for the phone. “I’ll ring my parents. Then yours.”

Mary listened to one side of the conversation, watching George’s face as he spoke to his mother, then his father. No, the children weren’t there. No, there’d been no emergency. Yes, something was wrong.

Her own parents were equally bewildered. No, they hadn’t seen the children. Yes, of course they’d ring immediately if they heard anything.

“We need to call the police,” Mary said as George hung up from the second call.

“The police?” George stared at her. “You don’t just call the police because your children aren’t in their beds on Saturday morning.”

“Then where are they, George? Where are our children?”

The question seemed to break something in him. His shoulders sagged, and for a moment he looked utterly lost. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

Mary was already dialling 999, her fingers shaking as she pressed the numbers. The operator’s voice was calm and professional, asking questions that seemed to come from another world entirely.

“I need to report missing children… Three children… No, they’re not teenagers, they’re twelve, ten, and seven… This morning. I found them gone this morning… No signs of… I don’t know, I don’t know how…”

The operator asked for their address, asked Mary to stay calm, told her officers would be dispatched immediately. Mary gave their details automatically whilst George paced the kitchen like a caged animal.

“They’re coming,” she said as she hung up. “Police are coming.”

“Christ.” George ran his hands through his hair. “This is really happening, isn’t it? This is actually happening.”

Mary couldn’t answer. The impossibility of it all was crushing down on her – the empty bedrooms, the missing dog, the complete absence of her children from a house that had been locked from the inside. It felt like a nightmare from which she couldn’t wake.

The sound of the front gate made them both freeze. George was at the window in seconds.

“It’s Mrs Quinn,” he said. “She’s coming up the path.”

Their neighbour appeared at the back door before Mary could decide whether to let her in. Mrs Quinn was in her seventies, a widow who’d lived next door for decades and appointed herself unofficial guardian of the street’s moral standards.

“I heard shouting,” she said without preamble. “Are you alright, dear?”

Mary opened her mouth to speak but no words came. How did you tell someone that your children had simply vanished overnight?

“The children are missing,” George said bluntly.

Mrs Quinn’s expression shifted from curiosity to alarm. “Missing? What d’you mean missing?”

“They weren’t in their beds this morning. We’ve searched everywhere. They’re just gone.”

“Gone?” Mrs Quinn stepped into the kitchen uninvited, her sharp eyes taking in George’s wild appearance, Mary’s stricken face. “Children don’t just disappear, Mr Darling.”

“No,” George said tightly. “They don’t. But ours have.”

“Have you called the police?”

“They’re on their way.”

Mrs Quinn nodded approvingly. “Good. Though I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation. Children these days, they don’t have the same respect for – “

“They’re seven, ten, and twelve,” Mary interrupted. “They don’t just wander off without telling anyone.”

“Well, no, of course not. I didn’t mean to suggest…” Mrs Quinn trailed off, clearly uncomfortable. “I’m sure they’ll turn up. Probably just gone to see friends or something.”

“At eight o’clock on Saturday morning? Without getting dressed? Without taking keys to get back in?”

Mrs Quinn had no answer for that. She hovered awkwardly in the kitchen whilst George and Mary avoided looking at each other, both lost in their own spirals of panic and impossibility.

The police arrived fifteen minutes later – two uniformed officers who introduced themselves as PC Bateman and PC Mehra. They were younger than Mary had expected, professional but not unkind. PC Bateman had kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses; PC Mehra was brisk and efficient, notebook already in hand.

“Mr and Mrs Darling? We understand you’ve reported three children missing?”

“That’s right,” George said. “Wendy, she’s twelve. John, ten. Michael, seven. We found their bedrooms empty this morning.”

PC Mehra was writing everything down. “And when did you last see the children?”

“Last night. When they went to bed. About half past nine for Michael, ten for John, ten-thirty for Wendy.”

“And this morning?”

“I checked on them around eight. They weren’t there.” Mary’s voice sounded strange in her own ears, mechanical and distant.

“Any signs of disturbance? Broken windows, forced entry?”

“No. Nothing. The house was locked up exactly as we left it.”

PC Bateman was looking around the kitchen, his trained eye taking in details. “And there’s been no family discord? No reason the children might have wanted to leave?”

“No,” George said quickly. “We’re a close family. The children wouldn’t just run off.”

Mrs Quinn cleared her throat. “I should mention, officers, there was rather a lot of shouting yesterday evening. From this house, I mean. Could hear it through the walls.”

Mary felt her face flush. “The children were arguing about homework. Normal family stuff.”

“Of course, dear. I wasn’t suggesting anything untoward. Just thought the officers should know.”

PC Mehra made a note. Mary could see George’s jaw tightening, the defensive anger that always flared when he felt judged.

“We’ll need to search the house, if you don’t mind,” PC Bateman said. “Just to be thorough.”

“Of course. Anything you need.”

Mary watched the officers move through her home, looking in wardrobes and under beds, checking windows and examining locks. It felt invasive and necessary all at once – strangers in her private spaces, searching for answers she couldn’t provide.

“The dog’s missing too,” she told PC Bateman as he examined Wendy’s bedroom window. “Our Newfoundland, Nana. She sleeps downstairs usually, but she’s gone as well.”

“That’s interesting. Family pet, is she? Close to the children?”

“Very close. She’d never leave them. And they’d never go anywhere without her if they had a choice.”

PC Bateman nodded, making notes. “Can you think of anywhere they might have gone? Friends, relatives, favourite places?”

Mary tried to think, but her mind felt blank with panic. “John likes the library. Wendy sometimes goes to the park with her friends. Michael…” She stopped. What did Michael like? Where would a seven-year-old go at eight o’clock on a Saturday morning?

“We’ll need a recent photograph of each child,” PC Mehra said. “And we’ll want to speak to their friends’ parents, teachers, anyone who might have had contact with them recently.”

“You think someone took them,” George said. It wasn’t a question.

“We’re not jumping to any conclusions at this stage, Mr Darling. But we have to explore all possibilities.”

“Someone took our children.” George said it again, as if testing the words. “Someone came into our house and took our children.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” PC Bateman said gently. “There could be any number of explanations.”

But Mary could see it in their faces – the careful neutrality that meant they were already considering possibilities she didn’t want to think about. Strangers in the night. Predators. Things that happened to other people’s children, in other places, never here.

Mrs Quinn had made herself useful by putting the kettle on, bustling around the kitchen with the efficiency of someone who’d appointed herself helpful in a crisis. Mary wanted to tell her to stop, to leave them alone, but the words wouldn’t come.

“I’ll need you both to come to the station later today,” PC Mehra said. “For a more detailed interview. Just routine, but we need to build a complete picture of the children’s movements, their state of mind, any changes in behaviour recently.”

“State of mind?” Mary repeated. “They’re children. Michael still believes in Father Christmas. John reads books about Romans. Wendy worries about her English homework. What state of mind?”

“Mrs Darling, I understand this is distressing, but we have to ask these questions. The more information we have, the better chance we have of finding them.”

The word ‘finding’ hit Mary like a physical blow. It meant they were lost. It meant someone had to look for them. It meant they weren’t just hiding somewhere close by, playing an elaborate game that would end with laughter and relief.

“How long…” she started, then stopped.

“How long what, Mrs Darling?”

“How long before… I mean, when do children who disappear… when do you usually find them?”

PC Bateman and PC Mehra exchanged a glance. “Every case is different,” PC Bateman said carefully. “But the first twenty-four hours are crucial. Most children who go missing are found quickly, usually with friends or relatives.”

“And if they’re not with friends or relatives?”

Another glance. “Let’s take this one step at a time, shall we?”

Mary felt George’s hand find hers, his fingers cold and trembling. For the first time since they’d discovered the empty bedrooms, they were united in their fear.

“We’ll have officers canvassing the neighbourhood,” PC Mehra continued. “Speaking to anyone who might have seen the children this morning, or anything unusual last night. We’ll also need to search the immediate area – parks, wasteland, anywhere children might go or be taken.”

Taken. There was that word again, hanging in the air like smoke.

“What about the media?” George asked suddenly. “Should we… do you put out appeals?”

“That’s something we’ll discuss at the station. For now, I’d suggest keeping this as quiet as possible. Sometimes publicity can hinder an investigation in the early stages.”

But even as PC Mehra spoke, Mary could see Mrs Quinn listening intently from the corner of the kitchen, her eyes bright with the kind of horrified fascination that came with being close to real drama. By lunchtime, she’d have told Mrs Wilson from number fourteen, who’d tell her daughter, who worked at the local paper.

“Right, we’ll leave you for now,” PC Bateman said. “Try to think of anywhere the children might have gone, anyone they might have contacted. And please, call us immediately if you hear anything, even if it seems unimportant.”

They left contact cards and instructions about the station interview, then departed with the same professional efficiency with which they’d arrived. Mrs Quinn lingered, offering tea and sympathy in equal measure, until George politely but firmly suggested she let them have some time alone.

The house felt different after everyone left – larger and smaller simultaneously, full of spaces where children should be and empty of the sounds that usually filled them. Mary found herself standing in the doorway of Michael’s room, staring at his unmade bed as if it might offer answers.

“We should ring the schools,” George said from behind her. “Let them know what’s happened.”

“It’s Saturday.”

“I mean for Monday. In case… in case they don’t come back before then.”

The assumption that the children might still be missing on Monday morning was too enormous to contemplate. Mary turned away from Michael’s room and walked downstairs, George following.

In the kitchen, she began mechanically clearing away the breakfast things that had never been used – three bowls still stacked beside the sink, a loaf of bread waiting to be made into toast, Michael’s favourite cereal sitting unopened on the counter.

“Mary, stop.” George caught her hands as she reached for the bowls. “Leave it. Just leave it for now.”

“I don’t know what else to do,” she whispered.

“I know. I don’t either.”

They stood in the middle of their kitchen, holding each other’s hands like survivors of some disaster, trying to make sense of a world that had shifted fundamentally overnight. The silence pressed down on them – no children’s voices, no cartoon theme tunes, no sound of Nana’s claws clicking on the floor.

The telephone rang at half past eleven, shrill and urgent. Both of them froze.

“Answer it,” Mary said.

George picked up the handset. “Hello? … Yes, this is George Darling… What? Who is this?”

Mary watched his face change, saw confusion give way to something like hope.

“You’ve found them? … What d’you mean you can’t tell me over the phone? … No, we can be there in twenty minutes…”

He hung up and turned to Mary, his face pale but animated. “That was PC Mehra. They want us at the station immediately. They’ve found something.”

Mary felt her heart leap. “The children?”

“She wouldn’t say. Just that they need to speak to us urgently.”

They were in the car within five minutes, George driving with unusual haste through the Saturday morning traffic. Mary stared out the window at the familiar streets of Walworth, ordinary life continuing around them – people walking dogs, children playing in front gardens, families heading out for weekend adventures.

The police station was a modern brick building that managed to look both authoritative and depressing. PC Mehra met them at the front desk and escorted them through a maze of corridors to a small room with institutional furniture and fluorescent lighting.

“Please, sit down,” she said, gesturing to plastic chairs arranged around a metal table.

“Have you found them?” Mary asked immediately. “Have you found our children?”

“Mrs Darling, we haven’t found the children yet. But we do have some questions we need to ask you both, and some information that’s come to light.”

The hope that had carried Mary through the journey deflated like a burst balloon. “What information?”

PC Mehra opened a folder and consulted her notes. “We’ve spoken to several of your neighbours this morning. Mrs Quinn mentioned that there was shouting from your house yesterday evening?”

George’s face darkened. “I told you, the children were arguing about homework. Normal family stuff.”

“She also mentioned that you often seem stressed when you come home from work, Mr Darling. That sometimes you raise your voice.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We’re just trying to build a complete picture. Mrs Wilson from number fourteen said she’s noticed tension in your household recently. Arguments between you and your wife.”

Mary felt the room tilting slightly. “Arguments? We don’t argue. Not properly.”

“She mentioned raised voices, doors slamming, that sort of thing.”

“We’re a normal family,” George said, his voice tight with controlled anger. “We have normal disagreements about normal things. Money, work, the children’s behaviour. What family doesn’t?”

“Of course. But we have to explore every angle. Can you tell me about your financial situation, Mr Darling?”

“Our what?”

“Your finances. Are you under pressure financially?”

George’s hands clenched on the table. “What’s that got to do with our children being missing?”

“Financial pressure can cause stress in a marriage. Stress can lead to arguments, arguments can escalate – “

“Are you suggesting I’ve done something to my own children?” George’s voice was dangerously quiet.

“I’m not suggesting anything, Mr Darling. I’m asking questions that need to be asked.”

Mary watched her husband’s face cycle through emotions – disbelief, anger, something that looked almost like panic. “This is insane. Our children are missing and you’re sitting here asking about our mortgage payments?”

“Mr Darling, please calm down. These are routine questions – “

“Routine?” George stood up abruptly, the plastic chair scraping against the floor. “There’s nothing routine about this situation.”

“George, sit down,” Mary said quietly. “Please.”

He looked at her, seemed to register something in her voice, and slowly lowered himself back into the chair.

PC Mehra continued with professional calm. “Mrs Darling, how would you describe your relationship with your husband?”

The question felt like a trap. Mary looked at George, saw the defensiveness in his posture, the way his jaw was clenched tight.

“We love each other,” she said finally. “We’ve been married fifteen years. We have our difficulties, like any couple, but we love each other.”

“And your relationship with the children?”

“We adore our children. They’re everything to us.”

“No problems with discipline? No concerns about their behaviour?”

“They’re normal children. Sometimes they misbehave, sometimes they need telling off. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

PC Mehra made notes, her pen scratching across the paper in the too-quiet room. “Mr Darling, your work has been stressful lately?”

“Yes, but – “

“You’ve been working longer hours, coming home later?”

“Sometimes, yes, but what’s that – “

“And you’ve been worried about potential redundancies?”

George stared at her. “How do you know about that?”

“We spoke to your employer this morning. They confirmed that there’s been talk of restructuring, possible job losses.”

“You spoke to my boss? Without asking me?”

“It’s a missing persons investigation, Mr Darling. We have to explore all avenues.”

Mary felt the world shifting around her, the ground becoming unreliable. “What are you saying? Do you think George… do you think I…”

“We’re not accusing anyone of anything, Mrs Darling. But statistics show that in cases of missing children, family members are often involved. We have to eliminate you both from our enquiries before we can focus elsewhere.”

“Eliminate us?” George’s voice was incredulous. “We’re the victims here. Someone has taken our children.”

“Or the children have run away. Or there’s been an accident. Or any number of other possibilities.”

“They didn’t run away,” Mary said desperately. “They wouldn’t. They’re too young, too sensible. And where would they go?”

“Children sometimes leave home if they feel unsafe, or if there’s been abuse – “

“Abuse?” The word came out as a strangled whisper.

“We have to ask, Mrs Darling. It’s our job to ask.”

Mary felt George’s hand find hers across the table, both of them clinging to each other as their world tilted further off its axis.

“There’s been no abuse,” George said through gritted teeth. “Physical, emotional, or otherwise. We’re good parents. We love our children.”

“Then you won’t mind if we arrange for you both to take polygraph tests? Just to eliminate you from the investigation?”

The question hung in the air like a challenge. Mary looked at George, saw her own shock reflected in his face.

“Lie detector tests?” George said slowly. “You want us to take lie detector tests?”

“It’s voluntary, of course. But it would help us move forward more quickly if we can rule out family involvement.”

“Christ,” George muttered, running his hands through his hair. “This is actually happening. You actually think we’ve done something to our own children.”

“We think nothing at this stage, Mr Darling. We’re exploring all possibilities.”

Mary felt something breaking inside her chest, a splintering that started small and spread outward like cracks in ice. “Our children are missing,” she whispered. “Someone has taken our babies, and you’re treating us like criminals.”

“Mrs Darling, I understand this is distressing – “

“Distressing?” Mary’s voice rose. “Distressing? My seven-year-old son is God knows where, probably terrified, and you’re asking me if I abuse him?”

“Mary,” George said quietly, “they’re just doing their job.”

But Mary was beyond consolation. “Are you out looking for them? Are there officers searching? Or are you all sitting in rooms like this, asking parents if they’ve murdered their own children?”

PC Mehra’s professional mask slipped slightly. “We have officers canvassing the neighbourhood, yes. And we’ll be expanding the search as needed. But the statistical reality is that most missing children are taken by someone they know, usually a family member.”

“We’re not statistics,” Mary said brokenly. “We’re parents whose children are gone.”

“I know. And we’re going to do everything we can to find them. But part of that process involves eliminating possibilities, including family involvement.”

George leaned forward, his voice carefully controlled. “What do you need from us? What questions do you need answered so you can get on with finding our children?”

PC Mehra consulted her notes again. “We need a detailed timeline of last night. What time everyone went to bed, who was last to check on the children, whether you heard anything unusual during the night.”

Mary closed her eyes and tried to think back to the previous evening. It felt like a lifetime ago – the normal domestic chaos, the arguments about homework and bedtime, the familiar routines that had seemed so ordinary at the time.

“I checked on them all before I went to bed,” she said. “Around half past ten. They were all asleep.”

“You’re certain they were asleep?”

“Yes. Well, John might have been reading under his covers, but he was in bed. They all were.”

“And you, Mr Darling?”

“I went up around eleven. Looked in on them briefly. Everything seemed normal.”

“And during the night? Any sounds, any disturbances?”

Mary tried to remember. Had there been anything? Any small noise that might have been significant?

“I don’t think so. I slept quite heavily. George was exhausted – we both were.”

“So someone could have entered the house during the night without waking you?”

The implication made Mary’s stomach lurch. “The doors were locked. The windows were locked. How could someone have got in?”

“That’s what we’re trying to establish.”

PC Mehra asked more questions – about the children’s friends, their school, their teachers, any recent changes in behaviour or routine. With each question, Mary felt the net of suspicion drawing tighter around her family.

By the time they were allowed to leave, the day had turned grey and cold. George drove home in silence whilst Mary stared out at the passing streets, trying to process what had just happened. Their children were missing, possibly taken by strangers, and somehow the police suspected them of being involved.

“They think we did it,” she said as they pulled into their street.

“They’re just being thorough.”

“Do they? Really? Do you think they’re out there looking for Wendy and John and Michael, or do you think they’re building a case against us?”

George parked outside their house and sat for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel. “I don’t know, Mary. I honestly don’t know.”

The house felt even emptier when they returned. Mary found herself moving from room to room, touching things the children had touched, trying to find some trace of their presence. In Michael’s room, she picked up his favourite teddy – a battered brown bear named Captain – and held it against her chest.

“They’ll come home,” she whispered to the empty room. “They have to come home.”

But as the afternoon stretched on with no word, no sightings, no miraculous return, Mary began to understand that their old life – the life of ordinary worries and familiar routines – was over. Whatever came next would be different, marked forever by this absence, this terrible silence where children’s voices should be.

Outside, she could see curtains twitching in neighbouring windows, people gathering in small groups to whisper and stare. By evening, there would be reporters. By tomorrow, their private tragedy would become public property.

And still the children were gone, vanished as completely as if they had never existed at all.

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