thomas pritchard

August 3rd. 6:03am. The tranquil summer’s morning was shattered by the desperate screams of Thomas’ mother echoing down the near deserted suburban street. The few people milling about outside getting ready for their daily business had said they couldn’t make out what the cries were about when they were interviewed. Not initially. Not until Anne, a pretty woman in her early thirties with shoulder length blonde hair, spilled out onto the street wearing nothing more than her dressing gown and slippers anxiously calling out for her five year old son, Thomas, to come out from wherever he was hiding. Eye witnesses reported Anne was closely followed by her husband Bill - a professional, clean-shaven man in his late thirties with dark, short hair - half dressed for work in his suit trousers and unbuttoned white shirt, and that he too looked just as frantic as the mother did. The year was 2003; the year Thomas disappeared from his home without a trace. * * * * * August 3rd. 6:03am. A young, fragile looking hand knocked confidently on the white PVC of the front door to number twenty-two. The hand belonged to a smartly dressed, skinny fourteen year old, fresh-faced boy. Whilst waiting for an answer to his knocking he slid a brown leather satchel off his shoulder down onto the floor as though the weight was too much for him to bear any more. He went to knock again but stopped himself when he heard the sound of footsteps from the other side of the door as the freshly woken homeowner came to answer his initial knocking. There was the slightest of pauses as keys were twisted in locks before the door opened as much as the strong, gold, security chain would permit it to. ＂Can I help you?＂ asked the homeowner, a frail looking woman in her late sixties. ＂Where’s my mum?＂ asked the boy. The year was 2012; the year Thomas came home.