Nobody's Son

England – Autumn, 2022
As the plane touched down at Birmingham International airport, Tom Sutton looked out of the rain-streaked window. He grunted his disapproval as the small propeller plane came to rest away from the terminal. “Shit,” he grunted, knowing that a quick departure was not on the cards. After switching his phone back on, he waited for the door to open, his handset buzzing on the fold-down table.
A quick jog through freezing rain and he was on the bus, being jostled and prodded by fellow passengers before the doors finally closed. His watch told him that he wouldn’t get home until after seven, the skies above growing ever darker. After filing through passport control and collecting his luggage, he found himself in a multi-storey car park, where he opened the boot of his black Volkswagen. The motorway was still busy, remnants from the daily commute slowing his progress to the small town of Bromsgrove and the chip shop that was occupying his thoughts. My phone, he thought, accessing his calls and messages through the infotainment system. Tom frowned, seeing missed calls from his father, Colin Sutton, plus one answerphone message. He pressed call, waiting a few seconds for the connection.
“Tom, it’s Dad,” the message began. “Something’s not right. I can’t get hold of your mother or grandmother. I’ve been trying for two days, but nothing. No one in the village has seen them, so I’m flying out to Turkey. I’ll call you as soon as possible. I’ve left Daisy in the utility room, so let her out when you get home.”
The line crackled once then the call ended. Tom’s heart began to beat faster. He’d called his mother a few times on his business trip to Germany, but the call had gone straight to the answerphone. “What’s going on?” he said to himself as the car’s wipers struggled to keep up with the onslaught from above.
The traffic thinned, the black car accelerating until the man steered off the motorway towards the suburb of Catshill on the edge of Bromsgrove. Climbing stiffly out of the Volkswagen, he walked towards the chip shop as the rain eased. After a quick chat with the proprietor, Tom drove away from Catshill, heading towards the sleepy village of Harewood that sat a mile out of town. As the car wound its way along country lanes, he swerved a few times as delivery vans and boy racers sped in the opposite direction. After a few moments, the fields gave way to a vast forest that encircled his village, the sight of the Fallen Dragon, his local pub, coming into view. He rolled along, turning away from the village green framed by chocolate box cottages and shops before the car stopped on the gravel driveway that gave way to the Sutton family home.
After running towards the Georgian house to unlock the porch and front door, Tom ducked back into the drizzle to fetch his suitcase and laptop bag. Dumping his luggage in the hallway, he walked through the kitchen towards the utility room as excited barks and scrabbling paws took his mind off the potential dire situation in Turkey. The Labrador bolted from the room, her tail wagging feverishly as Tom knelt down, letting the dog slobber over his hands and face. “Hello, you,” he smiled. “You hungry?”