As soon as his head sank into the pillow, he slept soundly and deeply. At seven-thirty, the alarm on his phone beside the bed emitted a soft peal. Even at weekends, Mitchell set his phone alarm to go off at the same hour. The temptation to kill the alarm and sleep through came and went. Even sleep-fogged, priorities nagged him. His nephew had to fly home that day. After switching to silent mode, he stuffed the device into his dressing gown pocket. The flight wasn’t until after lunch, but he’d need to get Zane breakfast, help him pack, organise a taxi and get him to the airport in good time for his journey home.
He showered, dressed and completed his usual morning rituals as quietly as possible. Feeling more alive and awake, he filled and switched on the kettle, waiting until eight-thirty before tapping lightly on Zane’s bedroom door.
“Wakey, wakey, sleepyhead. You’ve got a long journey ahead of you.”
Nothing. This time, Mitchell knocked a little louder.
“Zane. Come on. You need to get moving.”
After still getting no response, he opened the door. Not only was Zane not there, but his bed had not been slept in, although his case appeared already packed and ready, sitting in the corner of the room. For a second Mitchell froze, until he calmed himself and allowed logic to take over. He yanked out his phone and checked for messages. Nothing. First of all, he fired off a quick note to Zane. His nephew had taught him about the ticks on the bottom corner of messages to indicate whether the note had been received and read.
Nothing changed. When he called Zane’s number, the phone rang repeatedly, eventually going to voicemail. Why wasn’t Zane picking up? Mitchell shook away the fearful thoughts beginning to fill his brain. He would not allow himself to panic again like the morning he’d heard about Joel. Instead, he calmed himself. There had to be a simple explanation. If something had happened, somebody would have contacted him. Think, Mitchell, he told himself. He needed to contact one of the crew members Zane had befriended. Or somebody who might know how to get hold of them.
Tommy.
After six rings, just as Mitchell was about to abort and rethink his options, the call was picked up.
“‘Lo,” came a gravelly voice.
“Morning, Tommy. It’s Mitchell. Mitchell Baxter. Yes, you probably gathered that. Sorry, I know you love your Sundaymorning snoozes, especially after a night of—um, well, let’s not go there. Look, I wouldn’t call if this wasn’t urgent. I need a very quick favour. Zane didn’t come home last night. I have no idea where he is and he’s not answering his phone. As you know he flies home today and I’m a little concerned. Could you ping me over the phone numbers of any of the stage crew you might have, Shelly and maybe Emily? I’m really sorry to bother—”
“Let me ring round. Then I’ll come over.”
“No, you don’t need—”
“I’m awake now, Mitch. Make yourself useful while I get dressed. Head down to that little coffee shop at the end of your road and order me the biggest latte they serve. And one of their awesome Danish pastries. I’ll get a taxi and meet you there. Shall we say forty-five minutes? Taxis are a little harder to come by from here on Sunday.”
“Thank you,” said Mitchell before a thought came to him. “Look, about last—”
But before Mitchell had a chance to speak, Tommy rang off. Mitchell stared at the display for a second before jumping into action.
* * * *
The barista in the café had just called out Mitchell’s order when he noticed a taxi pull up outside the café. Somebody was leaning across the back to pay the driver. Not knowing Tommy’s pastry of choice, he had ordered an assortment of baked goods, including cinnamon, apple and peach custard Danish tarts to accompany their coffees.
“Are those all for me?” Tommy’s humoured voice came as he approached the table.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked. So, I got a selection.”
“Well, you guessed perfectly. I love cinnamon Danish, but any of these would have done. May I?”
“Be my guest.”
“First of all, relax,” said Tommy, sitting opposite and taking the pastry. Mitchell felt almost grateful for the diversion, eclipsing any awkwardness from the night before. “Zane would not be the first nineteen-year-old to stay out all night. At his age, overnighting at the weekend was the norm for me. Although I would usually let my mother or sister know.”
“Exactly,” said Mitchell. “And I doubt you’d have done so the night before you’re due to catch an important flight. What did you manage to find—?”
“Hang on,” said Tommy, placing his phone on the tabletop. “Can you let me have a sip of coffee first? I’m gasping.”
Mitchell waited patiently while Tommy blew on the surface of his coffee, took a couple of sips and released a groan that sounded a lot like the ones Mitchell had wrung from him in bed earlier that morning. As Mitchell crossed his legs, his knee knocked painfully on the bottom of the table. Tommy didn’t appear to notice.
“Nobody seems to know what happened to him. Shelly says he spent the latter part of the evening stuck to Emily. She tried Emily’s mobile but she’s not answering. Apparently, she lives in Tai Po. One of Emily’s friends who worked on the theatre set lives nearby and her father has offered to drive her to Emily’s apartment.” Tommy stopped speaking when an unfamiliar pop melody issued from his phone. “Hold that thought. I think this might be her now.”
Tommy grabbed the device, stood and walked away from the table to take the call. Mitchell could see by Tommy’s expression and brief sigh that the news wasn’t helpful.
“Yes, that was the friend calling back. Emily lost her phone last night. But she got home in the early hours—alone—and slept in her own bed. They’d all gone to Causeway Bay for karaoke after finishing at the bar. That’s where she thinks she lost herphone. Anyway, she told the friend that her and Zane had said their goodbyes on the street outside the karaoke bar at around one. Zane took a separate taxi and she assumed he was heading back to you.”
“Then where the hell is he?” said Mitchell, feeling panic begin to rise. “And why is he not answering his phone?”
