Uncle of the Dead Man took it upon himself to report the Dead Man missing. Mother in denial, father not wanting to appear to be fretting. Mother had said to him when questioned: What should I do, clear out his bedroom and bag up his belongings? What would I even do with the room? It was after that comment that he, the Dead Man’s uncle, made up his mind. Reported it to the police first. Filled out a form using a pen attached to the desk by a chain. Put it in the newspaper next. Physical description and last known whereabouts next to a grainy photo of the Dead Man as a skinny boy – well, a skinnier boy – not especially useful if you were not acquainted with the Dead Man. Maybe that’s who it was for – acquaintances, friends, family, in the hope they would begin to take his failure to return home seriously. Do something about it because this, pretending, was madness. Weeks had passed, after all. Maybe even a full month. Grainy, black and white photograph, originally taken in the spare room of the uncle’s house where the kids were kept while the adults gossiped and smoked and played games to mark one or another event. Anniversaries or birthdays or deaths. So the lighting was bad and he had made a copy then used scissors to cut around the Dead Man’s face and, well, the whole thing was well-intentioned, just not executed effectively. Had to be done. Last seen at the docks by friends – weeks ago. In good spirits and excited, nothing unusual. Nothing out of the ordinary. Put that in the newspaper. Photo, physical description, his demeanour when he was last seen and a phone number to call with information – that was the ad.

Somebody said he had been seen down by the water. Somebody else said he was overseas. People who had never known or even seen the Dead Man called to offer their condolences and their ideas. That the Dead Man’s uncle had gone to all that effort and gotten only phone calls from bored idiots made the Dead Man’s mother laugh. Like the whole thing was a strange joke. As if this was proof that her son, the Dead Man, was hiding away. Hiding in a hotel suite or on a fancy boat or just out there, somewhere, which, as we know, is not wrong.

…

Tristan Foster is a writer from Sydney, Australia. He is the author of three books: the short story collection Letter to the Author of the Letter to the Father, 926 Years with Kyle Coma-Thompson and Midnight Grotesques with Michelle Lynn Dyrness.