Gods Without Men (35 page)

Each time she woke up, there was a moment before she remembered. Then the helmet was lowered over her head. She tried to stay alive inside it, to remember there’d been a time
before
, but it took all her strength. She had nothing left for them, the reporters, the TV anchors, the strangers who’d begun to blog and tweet and post comments about her family. One day she found she’d forgotten the face Raj made when he liked something. The more she tried to call it to mind, the worse it got. She listed things that gave him pleasure
—raw carrot, trucks, his plastic dinosaurs, empty cardboard boxes
—and tried to picture him with them, but something had gotten muddled up, and she couldn’t form a clear image in her mind. Her son was receding, slipping away. She began to panic. What if it was a sign? Was this what happened when someone died? Or worse, a precondition for death: Was he slipping away
because
she’d stopped imagining him properly? If he died now it would be her fault. It was all her fault anyway, her punishment. Jaz found her on the floor of that hotel bathroom. He thought she’d taken an overdose and started yelling into the phone. She couldn’t find the words to tell him what had really happened, just couldn’t make the shapes with her mouth. I don’t want him to die, she whispered. Jaz couldn’t hear. She was disappointed. She thought he would be able to hear. The paramedics shone a little flashlight in her eye. They asked questions. She told them:
I don’t want him to die
. It seemed to be the only important thing to say. She didn’t want Raj to die and God shouldn’t think she did.

By then he’d been gone three weeks.

Price tried to tell her things. You’re holding it together real well, he
said. Too well, in a way. People are confused. Now I know you’re a classy lady. You got poise. But you’re selling yourself short. You’re not showing them the real you.

How did a person do that? How did you show them the real you? She’d tried so hard, reading out the talking points, looking at the camera lens when they made that sign, the two fingers pointing to their eyes. She’d tried to stare straight through the lens into the world, into the heart of the man who had her son. Bring Raj back. If you have any information, phone this number. Complete anonymity. All we want is our son. But the viewers didn’t seem to like her. They didn’t like her clipped voice, her thin-lipped mouth. They preferred Jaz, who could say the words they expected in the tone they expected, words like
these last days have been the most harrowing of our lives
and
we’d like to thank the police and the public for all the support we’ve received in this difficult time
. Jaz seemed to be able to sleep. She started to wonder if he was really feeling it, really missing Raj in the way she was.

Then there was the confusing business about the rock star, Nick Capaldi. She’d never heard of him or his band. On TV he looked like those boys you saw cycling up and down Bedford, scrawny and bearded, their pumping legs sausage-skinned in tight jeans. Jaz swore he’d had no idea Capaldi was so famous. He’d found him asleep on one of the loungers by the pool and thought he was a homeless person. Raj had run inside his room. She couldn’t understand. There was nothing about this man that she could connect with her child. He was feral, faintly repulsive. Jaz said he was pretty sure he was on drugs.

They showed video of a concert, this Capaldi wrapped around a mike stand in a forest of outstretched camera phones. It was a surreal experience, he said to the interviewer. I was out there just trying to think, you know? Commune? Like, with the desert? I was trying to get away from stuff and somehow I just got more involved.

The local police had held him overnight. Then a whole phalanx of lawyers had arrived from L.A. and the cops realized they’d made a big mistake. The Internet went crazy. No one seemed to think it was a coincidence. There had to be a
reason
. Sent by Jesus, the devil, the banks. He was back in England now, with his own TV special, saying how
harrowing
he’d found his
detention
, how the
not knowing
had been
the hardest part
. Raj had hugged him, held his hand. She stared into his blank eyes and saw nothing human in them at all.

The public would find that ironic. They liked Capaldi. It was her they had trouble with.

For the first few weeks they’d tried to find a label for her. The suffering mother, holding up with dignity
in this difficult time
. The change came without warning, a sudden reversal of polarity that took her completely by surprise. She said something sarcastic to a journalist, a woman with pearl earrings and frozen blond hair. This woman seemed to think Lisa should cry for her, to fit in with the images of Raj she wanted to show on her local news program, the scanned family photos, the video from his birthday party cut to a sentimental pop song. She asked questions, digging hungrily, scrabbling away like a dog. Lisa wanted to know why she thought she deserved to watch her break down. I don’t even know you, she said. The woman looked at her with open hostility. Mrs. Matharu, she asked, don’t you think you bear some responsibility for what happened to your son?

After that they shouted at each other. How dare you. You took him out there. Unprofessional. Irresponsible. Inadequate supervision. All on camera.

The clip went viral.

The logic of the story demanded something new. A twist.
LISA MATHARU SHOWS HER TRUE COLORS!!!
Never rise to the bait, said Price. You might think it’s intrusive, but you got to make it work for you. You got to keep bringing it back to your agenda.

Someone’s kidnapped our son, she reminded him. He’s not an agenda, he’s our son.

Blowing out candles. By a swimming pool. Swinging on a swing.

There was something sinister about it. About what they were doing to him. They were making him a little saint. Every day he became less real. Her suspicion grew that it was only her own effort of will that was keeping him alive. She was the anchor stopping him from drifting across the border into death. That was when she stopped speaking. No one was really listening to her anyway. She focused on trying to remember
what he was actually like, particularly in the bad times, two, three hours into a tantrum, when she hadn’t slept and his animal screaming began to sound like the cawing of a crow. The times she’d change his diaper, wondering if he’d still be shitting his pants at ten, at fourteen.