Butter Wouldn't Melt

Butter Wouldn’t Melt

This metaphoric expression alleges that one is literally so cool that butter inside the mouth would not melt.

It was an ordinary trip to the library with my son, Gregor. An adventure, for me. A kaliedoscope of new sights sounds and smells for a 4-year-old.

There is a car park at the rear. A short walk, hand in hand, through a lane brought us out at the library. I smiled, he smiled back, not sure what he was going to see.

I showed him the children’s section. Tables and chairs, pencils and paper, picture books with a rainbow of colours to browse through. He was smitten. Instantly absorbed.

“I’ll be back shortly," I said, as he explored his new surroundings.

I handed in my borrowed books and stopped at the fiction section to hunt down the latest Ian Banks.

It's my happy place. I can spend hours browsing a library. Not today. I marched my fingers through the Bs, found what I was looking for. It was under my arm in a flash. I skipped back to the children’s section. Maybe he’d want me to read him a story.

He wasn’t there.

My head looked up and down each aisle, eyes scanning back and forth. I scurried through the library, a trained police officer in fast forward mode. Down as far as I could go and then retraced my steps, almost at a run.

He was gone.

I was back at the desk. I butted in, ignoring the man getting his book stamped.

“Did you see a kid in a blue top leave on his own?”

The librarian shook her head, a frown appeared. She was annoyed at the rude man. Except, I wasn’t being rude. I was being me, a police officer. A police officer who knows decisive action is essential when tracing a missing person. Especially with kids. In the first minutes' speed is of the essence.

“My son is missing.”

She continued to stamp her books. Her shoulders rose an almost imperceptible amount and back down again. She couldn’t muster the effort to show her lack of concern. I breathed in a deep lungful of stale library air. Training. Breathe in. Concentrate on the expansion. Exhale.

It wasn't enough to calm my rising panic. I knocked over the ‘keep quiet’ notice on the counter and climbed onto it. Roared at the top of my voice, "Gregor, Gregor," and a third time, "Gregor." Bookcases grew eyes and ears, staring— none of them Gregor.

He’d gone.

I called 999.

“Police please, my son is missing.”

I took my search outside. Scanning the street for his ash grey shirt. Pinning my hopes on spotting that shade against the backdrop of concrete and legs. Then running. Distraught. Tears welling.

Up the street. Down the street. Phone to my mouth, urging the police to get officers here quick. Holding back the ball of grief in my throat. The scene blurred. I wiped my eyes on my sleeve, it helped for a moment.

Control. Breathe. Think. What more can I do?

Scan for grey. Scan for grey. Then sky blue.

"Please. I beg you."

Nothing.

I clenched my fist. Raised it, but God knew. He knew.

I ran back through the lane. Into the car park. Searching. Suspicious of every car or van. Glancing through windows as they passed.

Then my car. I circled around it — and there he was. Standing by the passenger door. He had that expression on his face, butter wouldn’t melt.

How is it possible to love someone so much?

Sometimes the scariest pictures are the ones we paint in our heads.