Free Wronged Sons, The by John Marrs Page A

remained and there was much to absorb like William Marcel’s pre-first world war Golf-Hôtel and the ochre red Country-Club in Chantaco I’d read about in my father’s Reader’s Digest magazines.
    My evenings were occupied by listening to hostellers reminiscing of their pre-travelling lives. I, however, offered little about my own background. My scant smokescreen involved leaving university to spend a couple of years being part of the world, not merely studying it from the sidelines.
    It was a plausible story that I repeated so often; I’d begun to believe it myself.
     
    June 30, 11.10am
    “You should’ve told me you’re looking for a job,” asked Bradley, the American-born hostel manager. He was an amiable man in his late thirties with shoulder-length, salt and pepper hair and Elvis-sized sideburns. His surfer’s saline tan etched deep white lines into his face and aged him prematurely.
    “Yes, do you know of one?” I asked hopefully.
    “Well it ain't much, but we need a janitor. Someone who can check people in and out; do odd jobs. It doesn’t pay much, but you’ll get your bed and board for free.”
    It sounded ideal and I began the next day. The role offered extra perks I hadn’t accounted for. I could raid the cupboard of forgotten clothes; read literature in the ‘Take a book, leave a book’ library, and practice my language skills with other travellers.
    I gave walls fresh licks of paint, hammered loose floorboards, wiped up vomit from bathroom floors and welcomed new guests to the hostel’s heart. Ample free time and reliable surf enabled me to learn the skills of wave riding with Bradley’s patient lessons and his collection of colourful surfboards.
    Once I’d mastered the basics, scuba diving became my next challenge, followed by horse trekking excursions through the neighbouring mountain foothills.
    My evenings were golden – a day of work followed by an hour on the beach watching the sun set over a joint or two with Bradley and finally shots of Jack Daniels and Coke at one of the local bistros.
    I adapted to my new way of life with gusto. And with my baggage consigned to sealed boxes in my head, I was at ease living a life I’d never dared to dream of. To the eyes of a stranger, and even myself, I had no discernable essence.
     
    ***
     
    Northampton, Twenty-Five Years Earlier
    June 17, 6.50pm
    “Just tell us where he is!” she yelled as I grabbed her shoulder and shoved her out the front door.
    “Get out now!” I screamed back. Shirley’s exasperated voice bellowed around the house as I gave her and Arthur their marching orders.
    For half an hour, your parents had subjected me to a bitter barrage of questions and accusations, and I’d had enough. My nerves were already in tatters without them sticking their oars in. I’d expected them to turn up on our doorstep sooner, but they’d clearly been too busy spending their days festering over how you could’ve vanished into thin air. And of course, I must have had something to do with it.
    I made the most of the light summer nights and sent the children into the garden to play. I took a deep breath and slowly walked the green mile to the lounge. Inside, Arthur and Shirley sat side by side; their arms and legs folded.
    “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Simon,” I began, “but I didn’t want to worry you.”
    “You think it’s acceptable for us to hear from the police our son is missing?” barked Shirley. “We should have been told immediately.”
    “Yes, I know, and I apologise. But I asked Roger to keep you informed and he’s Simon’s closest friend so it wasn’t like you were told by a total stranger. And I’d really rather not get into an argument with you about it right now. It’s been a hideous week.”
    “Yes, it must be quite stressful spending afternoons with the children at the cinema while their father might be lying dead somewhere,” she sniped.
    “Shirley, it wasn’t like that. It was one afternoon, and