I hadn’t given myself a chance to think about it—I’d just yelled at Mum and Dad that I was going out, and then I sprinted down the road. The policeman with the yellow tape at the end of the road had gone. The neighborhood was open once more.
It wasn’t long before I had to stop and walk. Aside from the fact that I was unfit, the heat was suffocating and the traffic deafening. My head vibrated with the noise.
As I got closer to town, Teddy’s face began to stare out at me. On lampposts, bus shelters, on the sides of trash cans and in every shop window—“MISSING: TEDDY DAWSON” posters were everywhere. It was the same photograph the TV reporter had held up on the news—the one of him in his little suit with his still-damp eyes.
I puffed along High Street like an old man, my heart pounding, but I felt good. I’d done it! I was out and I was actually doing something. I was investigating.
I looked through every shop window that I passed to see if I could spot a pale blue blouse. I got to the crosswalk and waited for someone to press the button, my gloved hands hidden in my pockets. Suddenly she was there, on the opposite side of the road. She shuffled along, her back bent over as she put her bag down on the ground so that she could push the button. It tipped forward and two balls of blue wool dropped onto the curb. She quickly grabbed them and stuffed them back into the bag, her pink scalp showing through her thin, white hair. The lights changed and I tucked my chin low and quickly crossed, avoiding any eye contact as we passed each other in the middle of the road. A few people were waiting at a bus stop and I hovered nearby, keeping my distance from anyone as I watched her go into a newsstand.
Balls of wool. Balls of blue wool. Was she making an outfit for a small boy? Or maybe she was planning on knitting something to replace his blue blanket! An old man walked up behind me and placed his shopping bags down with a huff. I realized he thought I was part of the bus line so I edged back slightly, keeping an eye on the other side of the road.
My throat was dry and I needed to wash. I needed to wash very, very soon. But a tiny little voice deep inside me was telling me that I could do this. If I didn’t touch anything and kept at a good distance, then I could watch Old Nina and get all the proof I needed that she had kidnapped Teddy. Then I could sprint home. Or maybe jog—yes, definitely jog home, then I’d tell the police and get straight into the shower and everything would be all right again.
Everyone in the line began to jostle around as a bus arrived. I turned to go but walked straight into the old man behind me, stumbling over his bags.
“Whoa, slow down! What’s the rush?” he said and he put his hands up. As I fell forward my cheek brushed against his dirty, brown cardigan and I got wafts of peppermint, vinegar, and stale aftershave. There was an orange, crusty stain near the buttons that looked like dried egg. I steadied myself, revealing my gloved hands, but he didn’t notice them.
“You all right, boy? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. I know I’m old, but I’m still alive, you know!”
As he laughed, stringy, white saliva stretched like elastic bands in the corners of his mouth.
“I-I … I’m sorry,” I said as I stepped over his bags. “I’m so sorry.”
So that was it. There was no way I could cope with that degree of exposure. I’d have to go home and wash immediately.
“Listen, son, if it’s worth knocking an old man over for, it must be important. Off you go!”
And then he threw back his head and laughed again and a gold molar twinkled in the sunlight. Putting my head down, I turned toward home. It was no good; I’d failed. My face was burning where it had brushed against the old man’s cardigan. I felt dizzy and my heart was pounding so badly it felt like it was about to erupt through my rib cage. My eardrums were throbbing and my throat felt gritty, but most of all I really, really needed to wash. I needed clean water—gallons and gallons of it—and lots and lots of soap. New packets of soap. Unopened and sterile.
I walked back to the traffic light and began to cross the road. Old Nina was just coming out of the newsstand, a magazine poking out of the top of her bag. She was headed in the direction of home but suddenly paused. Something had caught her eye in the window of a pharmacy. She put her shopping bag down and leaned forward, her forehead inches from the glass as she blinked at the display. I stood still, trying to look as if I was just waiting for someone. After a few seconds she picked up the bag, brushed her wispy hair from her forehead, and carried on along her way.
I jogged toward the window. Displayed symmetrically in a pyramid shape were boxes of pull-up diapers, the repeated photograph of the single toddler on its packaging faded in the sun. I looked up and watched as her pale blue blouse disappeared around a corner.