The Secrets She Keeps, page 19
Becoming conscious is like rising up from the depths of a dark well, swimming towards the light, my lungs empty, screaming for air. Suddenly my body arches and my eyes fly open and I draw in a breath as though screaming in reverse.
A stranger is bent over me with a hand on my chest. Not a nurse. She’s wearing a police uniform—dark trousers and a long-sleeved blue shirt buttoned at her wrists. She says my name.
Snippets of memory flash into my mind as though I’m watching a frenetically edited music video. I picture myself having a shower, sitting on a plastic chair under a stream of hot water. Jack helps me get dressed. Together we return to the bed. I see an empty crib.
“Where is the baby?”
“A nurse took him for a blood test.”
“What blood test?”
“She said it was routine.”
Another nurse walks past us.
“Our baby was taken for a blood test,” I say. “When will he come back?”
She looks at me blankly.
“Who took him?” I ask.
The shoulders of her uniform rise and fall on either side of her head.
“Why did he need a blood test? Can you find out?”
Minutes pass. The matron arrives. She asks Jack what the nurse looked like. I grow anxious. Agitated.
“Your baby wasn’t scheduled for a blood test,” says the matron.
“But the nurse said . . .”
“Where is our baby?” I ask, my voice rising in panic.
“I’m sure there’s an explanation.” A mole dances on the matron’s top lip.
“What explanation?”
Something is wrong. I hear an alarm. People are shouting. Running. I wish I could remember more, but I can’t hold on to the half-formed images and snatches of dialogue. I think I collapsed. I must have cried. A doctor came. He had red hair and freckles on his forehead and he slid a needle into my arm. The world grew dark, closing in to a single white point, until this last star went out.
The policewoman is still next to my bed. She is young with fleshy cheeks that give the impression she’s hiding bubblegum inside them.
“Where’s Jack?”
“Your husband isn’t here.”
“I want to see Jack.”
“I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”
I try to get up. The pain takes my breath away.
“You’re not supposed to move,” she says.
“I want to go home.”
“You’ve had surgery.”
The policewoman goes to the door and talks to someone in the corridor—a nurse. They’re whispering. The constable comes back to the bed.
“What did you say to her?”
“I told her to get the doctor.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is PC Hipwell. You can call me Annie. Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“Thirsty?”
“I need to use the toilet.”
“I can help you.”
Annie pulls back the sheet and I swing my legs over the side, testing the firmness of the floor. She puts an arm around my waist, supporting me on the short walk to the en-suite bathroom. When did I get a private room? I don’t remember getting here. Where’s Jack?
Sitting on the commode, I look at the bandages on my abdomen and recall the birth. I was conscious, but didn’t feel a thing when Dr. Phillips made the incision. Jack was next to him, wearing a surgical mask and giving me commentary, pretending to call the Grand National.
“Coming to the final turn and Meg Shaughnessy is three lengths ahead of the field, making it look easy. She’s approaching the last. Up and over. Kicking for home. She’s five lengths clear—make that six. The crowd are on their feet. Listen to that roar!”
I wanted to kill him because he was making me laugh.
“And it’s a boy,” he said. “Son of Shaughnessy—a champion in the making.”
I flush the toilet and Annie helps me back to the bed. There’s another knock on the door—the same nurse as before. She and Annie are whispering again—talking about me. What are they hiding?
Annie comes back to the bed. “Are you sure you’re not hungry?”
“I want to see Jack.”
“We’re trying to find him.”
My voice grows more strident. “Where has he gone? What have you done to him?”
“You must stay calm, Mrs. Shaughnessy. Otherwise they’ll sedate you. You don’t want that, do you?”
She has an annoying, cloying voice, like a kindergarten teacher telling a child that she’s letting the class down.
“You’ll feel better after a nice cup of tea.”
“I don’t want tea. I want Jack.”
Annie holds up her hands and says she’ll ask. She leaves me alone in the room. Ignoring the pain, I get out of bed and search for my clothes, opening cupboards and drawers. I find a dressing gown and slippers. Where’s my phone?
Edging the door open, I peer left and right along the corridor, trying to get my bearings. I need to find a telephone. Jack will know what to do. I turn left and shuffle towards double doors. A nurse appears. I change direction and pass a maternity ward. I recognize this place.
From somewhere nearby comes the sound of a baby crying. My heart leaps. They’ve found him! I follow the sound and push open a curtain. A woman is holding a newborn.
“That’s my baby!” I yell.
Her eyes go wide. Terrified by the sight of me.
“Give him back! He’s mine!”
She hugs him tighter. I try to wrench him from her arms. Nurses come running. The constable is with them, her face flushed with anger or embarrassment.
“Let go, Mrs. Shaughnessy,” says a nurse. “It’s not your baby.”
I’m sobbing into her shoulder. “Not mine,” I say, repeating the words as the memories coalesce and I remember what happened.
My baby is missing. Stolen. Snatched away. Why? Who would do such a thing? What if he’s been dumped somewhere? What if he’s been left on a doorstep or in a rubbish bin? He could be buried under leaves or locked in the boot of a car. People might be walking past him and not know. They might not hear him crying.
Children get taken all the time. They wander off. They fall into swimming pools, or get into strange cars, or wander into the woods. But babies don’t disappear. Babies don’t follow kittens, or fall asleep in garden sheds, or get lost in shopping malls. Babies can’t flag down passing cars or follow signs or knock on doors or phone home or ask strangers for help. Babies can’t tell people that they’re missing or find their way home like lost dogs.
Where is Jack? He should be here. I can hear myself yelling his name.
Strong hands are holding me down. The hypodermic pricks my skin and my mind slides and falls, tumbling into a chemical void.
I fight the needle. I sleep. I dream.
AGATHA
* * *
Rory had a good night. He slept beside me in the double bed. I woke every half hour and put my hand on his chest, checking to make sure. I do not feel guilt or shame. My contrition has been overtaken by love. My sense of self has been erased. Rory is all that matters. I could lie next to him for the rest of my life, staring at his beautiful face, putting my forefinger into his little fist, brushing my lips across his forehead, listening to his fluttering heart.
I whisper to him, “You are my fifth baby. Fifth time lucky. Five is my favorite number.”
The sun is up. I’m cradling Rory in my arms, looking in the mirror, picturing myself in the eyes of others. His head is a funny shape—a little squished on one side like a very cute alien, but that’s likely to pass in a few days.
Holding up my phone with one hand, I take photographs, selfies, smiling as though my face might break from happiness. The pictures are emailed to Jules and Hayden and Mr. Patel and my landlady and all of my friends. I tell them about the days since his birth, constructing a narrative, setting the timeline in people’s minds and memories.
When I came in last night the front desk was empty. There were two teenage girls talking on the stairs, who paid little notice to a woman carrying a baby in a sling. I stepped around them and unlocked my door. Having showered and changed, I fed Rory and then turned on BBC news. There was no mention of a baby being taken. It was still too early.
This morning it’s a different story. The screen shows a reporter standing outside the hospital, talking to the camera. I turn up the volume.
“At this stage details are scant, but police have confirmed that a woman posing as a nurse abducted a newborn baby from the Churchill Hospital in Central London last night. The baby boy was only ten hours old when taken from a maternity ward by a woman in a nurse’s uniform who claimed the newborn needed a blood test. The alarm was raised by the baby’s father and the Churchill locked down, but the woman had already left the hospital.”
The footage switches to police cars parked in the street and detectives entering the doors.
“The name of the family has not been released, but police are appealing to the kidnapper to surrender the baby to police or medical services. Sources are also suggesting the newborn may need medical attention.”
“Rubbish!” I say to Rory. “You’re perfectly fine, aren’t you? They are such worrywarts.”
Letting the TV play in the background, I warm up a bottle in a sink full of hot water. Rory doesn’t seem to like the baby formula, either that or he’s not sucking strongly enough. When he latches onto my little finger he seems to get the idea, but he turns his face away from the bottle after one or two sucks. I try for almost half an hour, until he falls asleep. He’ll be hungry later, I tell myself.
I check the messages on my phone. Hayden has left most of them. I called him last night and told him I’d be home today. I apologized for being out of touch, saying that my mobile had died and I didn’t have a charger. Now I send him another message saying that I’m on the train and should be home by midday. He tries to call me straight back but I don’t answer, letting it go to voicemail.
“I can pick you up from the station,” he says. “I’m staying at your flat. Your friend Jules let me in. I hope you don’t mind. I can’t wait to see you.”
I smile to myself. Fatherhood has already transformed him. He wants to see his son. He wants to see me.
It’s cold this morning. I dress Rory warmly and make sure his head is covered with a woolen hat. He opens his eyes fully when I’m changing his nappy. His arms and legs wave in the air, as though he’s frightened of being naked.
The receptionist is back at the front desk. This time I put the baby carrier on the counter, letting her see Rory. She doesn’t seem very interested. I make a comment about the weather, saying he’ll get a shock when he goes outside.
“Who?”
“Rory.”
“Oh.”
“He’s only three days old,” I say.
“That’s young to be traveling.”
“We’re going home.”
“What about your boyfriend?”
“I’ve forgiven him.”
I ask her to call me a minicab, and I wait in the warmth until I see the car pull up outside. The driver has to help me buckle the baby carrier into the backseat. I should have practiced. My clumsiness makes me look amateurish.
“Where to, love?” he asks in an East End accent that sounds more like an affectation than something born and bred. He’s chatty and cheerful. The conversation jumps from the weather to Christmas crowds and then his own children—three of them: six, eight, and eleven. “I prefer them as babies, because they can’t talk back,” he says, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. “Your little one looks straight out of the oven.”
“Pretty much.”
“Shouldn’t you still be in hospital?”
“Not really.”
He asks why I was staying at the hotel.
“My parents own the place,” I reply.
“Good for them.”
Now he thinks I’m rich. “I mean, they manage the place—it’s owned by some Russian guy.”
“The Russians are buying everything,” he says. “The oligarchs.” He makes oligarchs sound like aardvarks.
We’re circling Hammersmith roundabout and taking Fulham Palace Road. My mobile begins ringing. Hayden again.
“Where are you?”
“Almost home. I’m in a minicab.”
“I’ll meet you downstairs.”
The driver glances in the mirror again. “Did you hear the news about that baby taken from the hospital?”
“No.”
“Yeah, last night—someone snatched a little boy right out from under their noses.”
“Do they know who?”
“Someone dressed up as a nurse.”
“How awful. That poor mother—does she have any other children?”
“Report didn’t say.” Our eyes meet in the mirror. “I didn’t mean to upset you, love.”
I realize that I’m crying. I wipe my cheeks, apologizing. “I’m sorry. It must be the hormones. I cried all the way through my pregnancy.”
“I’m a big softy as well,” he says. “Ever since I had a family I can’t read stories about kiddies being abducted or abused. Chokes me up every time. If someone hurt one of mine, I’d kill him. Forget about the police or the courts, they’d never find his body—know what I’m saying?”
I don’t agree or disagree. He’s warming to the subject. “That’s why we need the death penalty in this country. Not for everyone—for pedophiles and terrorists.”
We turn onto my street. I see Hayden waiting on the steps. I’m barely out of the car when he scoops me into his arms.
“Gently,” I say, flinching. “I’ve just had a baby.”
“I’m sorry. I forgot, I’m so stupid.”
He doesn’t know where to put his hands. He tries his pockets first. Front. Back. Then he looks into the car. Seeing Rory, he opens his mouth in wonderment.
“Say hello to your little boy,” I tell him.
Hayden reaches out and touches Rory’s cheek. His hand is bigger than Rory’s head.
“He won’t break,” I say.
“But he’s so small.”
“All babies are small.” I laugh. “You can carry him inside.”
He lifts Rory out of the car while I pay the driver and wish him a merry Christmas. Hooking a bag over my shoulder, I follow Hayden up the stairs. He’s holding the carrier with both hands like it’s a Ming vase. Once inside the flat, I shrug off my coat and notice the flowers—two huge bouquets are bookending the mantelpiece.
“Those arrived an hour ago,” says Hayden, who can’t seem to sit still. “One lot is from Mum and Dad and the other from Jules.”
“Where is Jules?” I ask. “I thought she’d be here.”
“She and Kevin have gone to Glasgow to see her folks.”
“When is she coming back?”
“Not for a few weeks. She tried to call you.”
“I know, I’m sorry. My mobile ran out of juice. I didn’t have my charger.”
“Couldn’t you use another phone?”
“I didn’t have your number, or Jules’s. Like I said, my phone died.”
Rory’s carrier is on the coffee table. Hayden is staring at him. “Why did you run away like that?”
“I didn’t run away. I had a premonition that I was going to have the baby early. That’s why I went up north. I didn’t want to be caught on my own.”
“But I wanted to be at the birth,” he says, sounding hurt. “I came all this way.”
“I know, but I got scared.”
“Scared?”
“It wasn’t just the thought of having a baby—but of you being there. I thought you might not want to touch me again if you saw me go through childbirth. It was pretty gross stuff. I was sitting in a paddling pool, screaming my head off.”
He puts his arms around me and I lean into his chest, feeling his strength, smelling his smell.
“I know it sounds stupid,” I say, “but I haven’t seen you since the end of March. We’ve only spoken a few times on the satellite phone. I worried that you might have second thoughts if you saw me like that—perched on all fours, pushing a baby out.”
“Not likely,” he says, kissing my lips. Lovely.
Rory lets out a mewling squeak as though missing out on the action.
“Is he hungry?” asks Hayden.
“No, he’s just waking up. Would you like to hold him?”
“I might drop him.”
“No, you won’t.”
I unbuckle Rory and lift him out of the carrier. Hayden perches on the edge of the sofa, both feet on the floor, his back straight. “When you pick him up, you have to support his head,” I say. “Right now his neck isn’t strong enough to hold his head, but he’ll get stronger. Now rest him in the crook of your arm with your hand under his bottom. See? That’s not so hard.”
Hayden looks stiff and uncomfortable, but he’s smiling like he’s bending bananas with his face.
“You can breathe,” I say.
“Sorry. I’m a bit nervous. Maybe you should take him back.”
“You’re just getting to know him.”
“I’ll hold him later.” He hands Rory back, then wipes his palms on his jeans.
“Do you like the name?” I ask.
He nods. “How did you know?”
“Your father told me. He said Rory was your grandfather’s middle name and your father’s and then yours.”
“And now we have another Rory.”
“Do you like him?”
“He’s the business.”
MEGHAN
* * *
“Meghan . . . Meghan . . . Are you awake?”
The voice is slowly getting closer, filling my head. I try to open my eyes but they seem to be glued shut. Wrestling my way through a haze of drugs, I try to get a hold on reality and make it solid. Images coalesce. Voices. Light. My eyes are wet. I have been crying in my sleep.
A different police constable is sitting next to my bed. She’s leaning forward as though I’ve said something that she didn’t quite catch. I open my mouth, but my lips are dry. I try again. “My baby?”
She hands me a cup with a closed lid and a straw. Water. I empty it completely.
A stranger is bent over me with a hand on my chest. Not a nurse. She’s wearing a police uniform—dark trousers and a long-sleeved blue shirt buttoned at her wrists. She says my name.
Snippets of memory flash into my mind as though I’m watching a frenetically edited music video. I picture myself having a shower, sitting on a plastic chair under a stream of hot water. Jack helps me get dressed. Together we return to the bed. I see an empty crib.
“Where is the baby?”
“A nurse took him for a blood test.”
“What blood test?”
“She said it was routine.”
Another nurse walks past us.
“Our baby was taken for a blood test,” I say. “When will he come back?”
She looks at me blankly.
“Who took him?” I ask.
The shoulders of her uniform rise and fall on either side of her head.
“Why did he need a blood test? Can you find out?”
Minutes pass. The matron arrives. She asks Jack what the nurse looked like. I grow anxious. Agitated.
“Your baby wasn’t scheduled for a blood test,” says the matron.
“But the nurse said . . .”
“Where is our baby?” I ask, my voice rising in panic.
“I’m sure there’s an explanation.” A mole dances on the matron’s top lip.
“What explanation?”
Something is wrong. I hear an alarm. People are shouting. Running. I wish I could remember more, but I can’t hold on to the half-formed images and snatches of dialogue. I think I collapsed. I must have cried. A doctor came. He had red hair and freckles on his forehead and he slid a needle into my arm. The world grew dark, closing in to a single white point, until this last star went out.
The policewoman is still next to my bed. She is young with fleshy cheeks that give the impression she’s hiding bubblegum inside them.
“Where’s Jack?”
“Your husband isn’t here.”
“I want to see Jack.”
“I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”
I try to get up. The pain takes my breath away.
“You’re not supposed to move,” she says.
“I want to go home.”
“You’ve had surgery.”
The policewoman goes to the door and talks to someone in the corridor—a nurse. They’re whispering. The constable comes back to the bed.
“What did you say to her?”
“I told her to get the doctor.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is PC Hipwell. You can call me Annie. Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“Thirsty?”
“I need to use the toilet.”
“I can help you.”
Annie pulls back the sheet and I swing my legs over the side, testing the firmness of the floor. She puts an arm around my waist, supporting me on the short walk to the en-suite bathroom. When did I get a private room? I don’t remember getting here. Where’s Jack?
Sitting on the commode, I look at the bandages on my abdomen and recall the birth. I was conscious, but didn’t feel a thing when Dr. Phillips made the incision. Jack was next to him, wearing a surgical mask and giving me commentary, pretending to call the Grand National.
“Coming to the final turn and Meg Shaughnessy is three lengths ahead of the field, making it look easy. She’s approaching the last. Up and over. Kicking for home. She’s five lengths clear—make that six. The crowd are on their feet. Listen to that roar!”
I wanted to kill him because he was making me laugh.
“And it’s a boy,” he said. “Son of Shaughnessy—a champion in the making.”
I flush the toilet and Annie helps me back to the bed. There’s another knock on the door—the same nurse as before. She and Annie are whispering again—talking about me. What are they hiding?
Annie comes back to the bed. “Are you sure you’re not hungry?”
“I want to see Jack.”
“We’re trying to find him.”
My voice grows more strident. “Where has he gone? What have you done to him?”
“You must stay calm, Mrs. Shaughnessy. Otherwise they’ll sedate you. You don’t want that, do you?”
She has an annoying, cloying voice, like a kindergarten teacher telling a child that she’s letting the class down.
“You’ll feel better after a nice cup of tea.”
“I don’t want tea. I want Jack.”
Annie holds up her hands and says she’ll ask. She leaves me alone in the room. Ignoring the pain, I get out of bed and search for my clothes, opening cupboards and drawers. I find a dressing gown and slippers. Where’s my phone?
Edging the door open, I peer left and right along the corridor, trying to get my bearings. I need to find a telephone. Jack will know what to do. I turn left and shuffle towards double doors. A nurse appears. I change direction and pass a maternity ward. I recognize this place.
From somewhere nearby comes the sound of a baby crying. My heart leaps. They’ve found him! I follow the sound and push open a curtain. A woman is holding a newborn.
“That’s my baby!” I yell.
Her eyes go wide. Terrified by the sight of me.
“Give him back! He’s mine!”
She hugs him tighter. I try to wrench him from her arms. Nurses come running. The constable is with them, her face flushed with anger or embarrassment.
“Let go, Mrs. Shaughnessy,” says a nurse. “It’s not your baby.”
I’m sobbing into her shoulder. “Not mine,” I say, repeating the words as the memories coalesce and I remember what happened.
My baby is missing. Stolen. Snatched away. Why? Who would do such a thing? What if he’s been dumped somewhere? What if he’s been left on a doorstep or in a rubbish bin? He could be buried under leaves or locked in the boot of a car. People might be walking past him and not know. They might not hear him crying.
Children get taken all the time. They wander off. They fall into swimming pools, or get into strange cars, or wander into the woods. But babies don’t disappear. Babies don’t follow kittens, or fall asleep in garden sheds, or get lost in shopping malls. Babies can’t flag down passing cars or follow signs or knock on doors or phone home or ask strangers for help. Babies can’t tell people that they’re missing or find their way home like lost dogs.
Where is Jack? He should be here. I can hear myself yelling his name.
Strong hands are holding me down. The hypodermic pricks my skin and my mind slides and falls, tumbling into a chemical void.
I fight the needle. I sleep. I dream.
AGATHA
* * *
Rory had a good night. He slept beside me in the double bed. I woke every half hour and put my hand on his chest, checking to make sure. I do not feel guilt or shame. My contrition has been overtaken by love. My sense of self has been erased. Rory is all that matters. I could lie next to him for the rest of my life, staring at his beautiful face, putting my forefinger into his little fist, brushing my lips across his forehead, listening to his fluttering heart.
I whisper to him, “You are my fifth baby. Fifth time lucky. Five is my favorite number.”
The sun is up. I’m cradling Rory in my arms, looking in the mirror, picturing myself in the eyes of others. His head is a funny shape—a little squished on one side like a very cute alien, but that’s likely to pass in a few days.
Holding up my phone with one hand, I take photographs, selfies, smiling as though my face might break from happiness. The pictures are emailed to Jules and Hayden and Mr. Patel and my landlady and all of my friends. I tell them about the days since his birth, constructing a narrative, setting the timeline in people’s minds and memories.
When I came in last night the front desk was empty. There were two teenage girls talking on the stairs, who paid little notice to a woman carrying a baby in a sling. I stepped around them and unlocked my door. Having showered and changed, I fed Rory and then turned on BBC news. There was no mention of a baby being taken. It was still too early.
This morning it’s a different story. The screen shows a reporter standing outside the hospital, talking to the camera. I turn up the volume.
“At this stage details are scant, but police have confirmed that a woman posing as a nurse abducted a newborn baby from the Churchill Hospital in Central London last night. The baby boy was only ten hours old when taken from a maternity ward by a woman in a nurse’s uniform who claimed the newborn needed a blood test. The alarm was raised by the baby’s father and the Churchill locked down, but the woman had already left the hospital.”
The footage switches to police cars parked in the street and detectives entering the doors.
“The name of the family has not been released, but police are appealing to the kidnapper to surrender the baby to police or medical services. Sources are also suggesting the newborn may need medical attention.”
“Rubbish!” I say to Rory. “You’re perfectly fine, aren’t you? They are such worrywarts.”
Letting the TV play in the background, I warm up a bottle in a sink full of hot water. Rory doesn’t seem to like the baby formula, either that or he’s not sucking strongly enough. When he latches onto my little finger he seems to get the idea, but he turns his face away from the bottle after one or two sucks. I try for almost half an hour, until he falls asleep. He’ll be hungry later, I tell myself.
I check the messages on my phone. Hayden has left most of them. I called him last night and told him I’d be home today. I apologized for being out of touch, saying that my mobile had died and I didn’t have a charger. Now I send him another message saying that I’m on the train and should be home by midday. He tries to call me straight back but I don’t answer, letting it go to voicemail.
“I can pick you up from the station,” he says. “I’m staying at your flat. Your friend Jules let me in. I hope you don’t mind. I can’t wait to see you.”
I smile to myself. Fatherhood has already transformed him. He wants to see his son. He wants to see me.
It’s cold this morning. I dress Rory warmly and make sure his head is covered with a woolen hat. He opens his eyes fully when I’m changing his nappy. His arms and legs wave in the air, as though he’s frightened of being naked.
The receptionist is back at the front desk. This time I put the baby carrier on the counter, letting her see Rory. She doesn’t seem very interested. I make a comment about the weather, saying he’ll get a shock when he goes outside.
“Who?”
“Rory.”
“Oh.”
“He’s only three days old,” I say.
“That’s young to be traveling.”
“We’re going home.”
“What about your boyfriend?”
“I’ve forgiven him.”
I ask her to call me a minicab, and I wait in the warmth until I see the car pull up outside. The driver has to help me buckle the baby carrier into the backseat. I should have practiced. My clumsiness makes me look amateurish.
“Where to, love?” he asks in an East End accent that sounds more like an affectation than something born and bred. He’s chatty and cheerful. The conversation jumps from the weather to Christmas crowds and then his own children—three of them: six, eight, and eleven. “I prefer them as babies, because they can’t talk back,” he says, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. “Your little one looks straight out of the oven.”
“Pretty much.”
“Shouldn’t you still be in hospital?”
“Not really.”
He asks why I was staying at the hotel.
“My parents own the place,” I reply.
“Good for them.”
Now he thinks I’m rich. “I mean, they manage the place—it’s owned by some Russian guy.”
“The Russians are buying everything,” he says. “The oligarchs.” He makes oligarchs sound like aardvarks.
We’re circling Hammersmith roundabout and taking Fulham Palace Road. My mobile begins ringing. Hayden again.
“Where are you?”
“Almost home. I’m in a minicab.”
“I’ll meet you downstairs.”
The driver glances in the mirror again. “Did you hear the news about that baby taken from the hospital?”
“No.”
“Yeah, last night—someone snatched a little boy right out from under their noses.”
“Do they know who?”
“Someone dressed up as a nurse.”
“How awful. That poor mother—does she have any other children?”
“Report didn’t say.” Our eyes meet in the mirror. “I didn’t mean to upset you, love.”
I realize that I’m crying. I wipe my cheeks, apologizing. “I’m sorry. It must be the hormones. I cried all the way through my pregnancy.”
“I’m a big softy as well,” he says. “Ever since I had a family I can’t read stories about kiddies being abducted or abused. Chokes me up every time. If someone hurt one of mine, I’d kill him. Forget about the police or the courts, they’d never find his body—know what I’m saying?”
I don’t agree or disagree. He’s warming to the subject. “That’s why we need the death penalty in this country. Not for everyone—for pedophiles and terrorists.”
We turn onto my street. I see Hayden waiting on the steps. I’m barely out of the car when he scoops me into his arms.
“Gently,” I say, flinching. “I’ve just had a baby.”
“I’m sorry. I forgot, I’m so stupid.”
He doesn’t know where to put his hands. He tries his pockets first. Front. Back. Then he looks into the car. Seeing Rory, he opens his mouth in wonderment.
“Say hello to your little boy,” I tell him.
Hayden reaches out and touches Rory’s cheek. His hand is bigger than Rory’s head.
“He won’t break,” I say.
“But he’s so small.”
“All babies are small.” I laugh. “You can carry him inside.”
He lifts Rory out of the car while I pay the driver and wish him a merry Christmas. Hooking a bag over my shoulder, I follow Hayden up the stairs. He’s holding the carrier with both hands like it’s a Ming vase. Once inside the flat, I shrug off my coat and notice the flowers—two huge bouquets are bookending the mantelpiece.
“Those arrived an hour ago,” says Hayden, who can’t seem to sit still. “One lot is from Mum and Dad and the other from Jules.”
“Where is Jules?” I ask. “I thought she’d be here.”
“She and Kevin have gone to Glasgow to see her folks.”
“When is she coming back?”
“Not for a few weeks. She tried to call you.”
“I know, I’m sorry. My mobile ran out of juice. I didn’t have my charger.”
“Couldn’t you use another phone?”
“I didn’t have your number, or Jules’s. Like I said, my phone died.”
Rory’s carrier is on the coffee table. Hayden is staring at him. “Why did you run away like that?”
“I didn’t run away. I had a premonition that I was going to have the baby early. That’s why I went up north. I didn’t want to be caught on my own.”
“But I wanted to be at the birth,” he says, sounding hurt. “I came all this way.”
“I know, but I got scared.”
“Scared?”
“It wasn’t just the thought of having a baby—but of you being there. I thought you might not want to touch me again if you saw me go through childbirth. It was pretty gross stuff. I was sitting in a paddling pool, screaming my head off.”
He puts his arms around me and I lean into his chest, feeling his strength, smelling his smell.
“I know it sounds stupid,” I say, “but I haven’t seen you since the end of March. We’ve only spoken a few times on the satellite phone. I worried that you might have second thoughts if you saw me like that—perched on all fours, pushing a baby out.”
“Not likely,” he says, kissing my lips. Lovely.
Rory lets out a mewling squeak as though missing out on the action.
“Is he hungry?” asks Hayden.
“No, he’s just waking up. Would you like to hold him?”
“I might drop him.”
“No, you won’t.”
I unbuckle Rory and lift him out of the carrier. Hayden perches on the edge of the sofa, both feet on the floor, his back straight. “When you pick him up, you have to support his head,” I say. “Right now his neck isn’t strong enough to hold his head, but he’ll get stronger. Now rest him in the crook of your arm with your hand under his bottom. See? That’s not so hard.”
Hayden looks stiff and uncomfortable, but he’s smiling like he’s bending bananas with his face.
“You can breathe,” I say.
“Sorry. I’m a bit nervous. Maybe you should take him back.”
“You’re just getting to know him.”
“I’ll hold him later.” He hands Rory back, then wipes his palms on his jeans.
“Do you like the name?” I ask.
He nods. “How did you know?”
“Your father told me. He said Rory was your grandfather’s middle name and your father’s and then yours.”
“And now we have another Rory.”
“Do you like him?”
“He’s the business.”
MEGHAN
* * *
“Meghan . . . Meghan . . . Are you awake?”
The voice is slowly getting closer, filling my head. I try to open my eyes but they seem to be glued shut. Wrestling my way through a haze of drugs, I try to get a hold on reality and make it solid. Images coalesce. Voices. Light. My eyes are wet. I have been crying in my sleep.
A different police constable is sitting next to my bed. She’s leaning forward as though I’ve said something that she didn’t quite catch. I open my mouth, but my lips are dry. I try again. “My baby?”
She hands me a cup with a closed lid and a straw. Water. I empty it completely.
