The Secrets She Keeps, page 22
“I can ask a nurse.”
“No, it’s fine,” he says, putting the pad away. He takes out a folded white handkerchief, shakes it open, and begins cleaning his wire-framed glasses. I wonder if this whole routine is part of a performance. He’s pretending to be forgetful and preoccupied so that my defenses will be lowered.
The silence expands.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” I ask.
“No, thank you.”
Cyrus places his glasses on his nose and adjusts them. He’s handsome in a disheveled, obviously English way and reminds me of a tutor that I had at university. He was Cyrus’s age and I was a lot younger, but like a lot of students, boys and girls, I had a crush on him. For some reason, the tutor seemed to call on me more than the others. I was flattered. I even fantasized about him because he was clever and accomplished, with ungovernable dark hair and a small cleft in the center of his chin that I wanted to touch with my tongue to see how deep it went.
One day he invited me to his rooms. I accepted. I thought he might make a pass at me, a notion that terrified and excited me, but instead he handed me an unbound proof of his latest novel, asking if I would read it for him because I had “a good eye.”
“A good eye?” I asked.
“You’re strong on grammar and spelling.”
The memory makes me cringe with embarrassment.
Cyrus has been watching me. “How are you sleeping?”
“They give me pills.”
“Are you eating?”
“You’ve been talking to the nurses.”
“They’re worried about you.”
He notices a framed photograph of Lucy and Lachlan in my open suitcase and asks me their names. Half an hour later I realize that I’m still talking. Imperceptibly, he has drawn me into a one-sided conversation, learning where I was born and went to school, about my parents and sister and Jack. Soon I’m telling him about buying the house in Barnes and falling pregnant again. I don’t mention the arguments or the doubts or the one-night stand with Simon.
He has a soft voice that washes through our discussion, nudging it in different directions or exploring new corners. I can’t remember the last time I revealed so much to a man like this—a stranger.
Eventually we reach the present. Cyrus knows the general details of the abduction and has seen the CCTV footage, but he wants me to recount the story again. He explains the nature of cognitive interviewing; how it can help people recall more of what they’ve been through.
“There’s no pressure. Relax. Lie back. Close your eyes. Tell me about the birth. Imagine you’re a film director trying to re-create the moment, telling people where to stand and what to say.”
I do as he says, describing the cesarean. How Jack made me laugh. “For a long while he didn’t want a third child, but he took one look at Ben and melted.”
By eleven o’clock, I told Cyrus, we were back in the shared ward. I slept for a few hours, woke, ate lunch, and slept again. Jack called my parents and Grace, telling them the good news. My parents came to see me during visiting hours. Grace was looking after Lucy and Lachlan.
“When you went for a shower, did you notice anyone in the ward?”
“No.”
“Picture the scene.”
“Jack helped me walk to the bathroom. He had his arm around me. We walked between the beds.”
“Did you hear any voices?”
“The woman in the next bed was talking to her husband.”
“Anyone else?”
“A nurse.”
“Where?”
“Beside one of the beds. I didn’t see her face. She was straightening the sheets.”
“What about her hair?”
“Dark. Long.”
“How was it styled?”
“It was tied back.”
“Look beyond her, what do you see?”
“A curtain.”
“Open or closed?”
“Partially open.”
“What else?”
“A woman. I think she’d just had a baby. Her family had come to visit, bringing flowers and balloons. They might have been Italian. Noisy.”
“Were any of them facing the nurse you saw by the empty bed?”
I concentrate, trying to think back.
“The grandmother! She was looking in my direction. She apologized about the noise.”
My eyes flash open. “She must have seen the nurse.”
“Perhaps,” says Cyrus. “It’s worth talking to her.”
“Could I remember more if you hypnotized me?” I ask.
“There might not be any more.”
In the same breath I remember Simon and suddenly change my mind. Cyrus seems to register the U-turn, but says nothing. I hate the way he uses silence like a lever and fulcrum, moving me to speak.
“Are you married?” I ask, wanting to change the subject.
“No.” He smiles ruefully.
“Why did you make that face?”
“I don’t think I’m the marrying kind.”
“Are you saying . . . ?”
“I’m not gay, if that’s what you’re asking. I live with my girlfriend. She’s a lawyer.”
“But you don’t think you’ll marry her?”
“My parents weren’t a great advertisement for marriage.”
“Are they divorced?”
“They’re dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It happened a long time ago.”
Cyrus gets up and goes to the window, staring at the sky as though something has scratched at the edge of his memory.
“Why did she take Ben?” I ask.
He runs his finger down the glass. “It could be any number of reasons. Pedophiles are very age specific and they don’t usually target babies. More likely we’re looking for a woman who cannot conceive or who has miscarried or lost a child. She may be trying to hold a marriage together or to stop a relationship falling apart. A baby is her solution—something to paper over the cracks and keep a man from leaving her.”
“A lot of women have miscarriages.”
“You’re right. And most of them learn to cope with their distress. Sometimes a person like this has a history of parental neglect. It could be a broken home or abuse. She may have been starved of love and is seeking a baby who will love her unconditionally.”
“You sound like you sympathize with her.”
“I understand her. She’s vulnerable and damaged.”
“Will she hurt Ben?”
“Not unless she’s backed into a corner.”
“So what now?”
“I draw up a profile and a media strategy.”
“What do you mean by ‘strategy’?”
“Whoever took Ben will be watching the news and reading the newspapers. She’s listening. This means we can communicate. We can send her messages. We can keep her calm.”
“How?”
“By not treating her like a criminal or demeaning her or making her frightened.”
“How does that help get Ben back?”
“We show her your pain. If she’s lost a child, she knows what you’re going through. We can use that.”
Cyrus picks up his satchel, swinging it onto his shoulder. He looks around the chair as though he might have dropped something and then seems unsure whether he should shake my hand.
“Try to stay positive,” he says, without sounding patronizing.
I want to tell him the same thing, but don’t know why. Then it dawns on me. Cyrus reminds me of the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz. He’s not so much broken as in need of oil. Something has happened in his life that weighs down his steps and makes his movements creak and groan. Maybe that’s the fate of someone who spends his life delving into other people’s minds—listening to their worst fears, unmasking their flaws, and discovering their motives. Maybe a man like that begins to rust or seize up—haunted by too many ghosts in the machine.
AGATHA
* * *
I’m learning to cook. Up until now poaching eggs and warming baked beans was the frontier of my culinary capabilities, but I want to show Hayden that I can be a good wife and look after him. Tonight we’re having chicken Kiev with green beans and honeyed carrots.
“Where are the chips?” he asks.
“The recipe doesn’t have chips.”
“I like chips.”
“Not everything has to be served with potatoes.”
He prods the chicken Kiev with his fork, but once he takes a mouthful he scarfs the lot and asks for seconds.
After I’ve cleaned up the kitchen, we cuddle on the sofa, flicking between channels on the TV. Rory is asleep, but he’ll wake before midnight.
“Shouldn’t you be expressing?” Hayden asks, stroking my hair.
“Since when did you become the breast-feeding police?” I reply, poking him in the ribs.
“Can I watch you expressing?”
“I get embarrassed.”
“Why?”
“It makes me feel like a cow on a milking machine.”
“I want to see.”
“Maybe later.”
I take the remote control, mute the sound, and straddle Hayden’s thighs, kissing him on the lips and moving my hips in tiny circles until I feel him grow hard. I lead him to the bedroom, whispering that we have to be quiet. Rory is asleep in his crib.
“What if he sees us?” asks Hayden.
“He’s a baby.” I kiss him again and slide my hand into his jeans. “I love it when you stand to attention.”
We make love for the first time since he went away to sea. He braces himself on his arms, not wanting to lower his weight on me.
“Are you sure we should be doing this?” he asks.
“It’s fine.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t hurt me.”
He’s much more gentle than when we first met. Back then he was like a rutting bull, pinning me to the mattress as though trying to punish me for the wrongs of other women—girls who wouldn’t sleep with him, or who dumped him, or who were out of his reach.
“Shouldn’t we be using a condom?” he asked.
“Shhhhhhh.”
He begins moving, showing his urgency yet trying to hold himself back, but I raise my hips to meet each thrust until I feel him surrender. He shudders and sighs, kissing my earlobe and whispering, “I love you.” My heart expands to fill every corner of my body, leaving no room for the creature or the doubts that it feeds upon.
I fall asleep with Hayden’s arms wrapped around me. Truly happy.
* * *
I know motherhood is hard, but I love this new gig. I don’t mind waking at 4 a.m. to feed Rory or getting hosed down while I’m changing his nappy. I don’t care that he cries so often or that he vomits on my clothes. Nothing is too big of a chore. I did three loads of washing yesterday. I folded, ironed, vacuumed, sterilized bottles, and made formula. Between times I locked myself in the bathroom and pretended to use my breast pump.
Fatherhood has changed Hayden. He’s softer and more caring. He does chores around the flat and volunteers to do the shopping, often taking Rory with him strapped in a sling against his chest. There is nothing sexier than a man with a baby. It doesn’t feminize or weaken him—it makes him look like a good provider and a role model, someone who will stick around.
The navy has given him two weeks’ paternity leave on full pay. After that he’s taking holidays, so we’ll be together until mid-January, when he’s due to rejoin his ship in Portsmouth.
I wish he could stay longer. Part of me wants to hold on to this feeling forever—the newness and excitement—but another part is fearful of exposing myself and trusting too much. I am not used to people staying with me. Normally I prepare myself for disappointment, expect rejection, or assume the worst.
I’m still cautious around Hayden’s parents. I know that Mr. Cole likes me and Mrs. Cole is a besotted grandmother who hovers around Rory, making any excuse to pick him up and show him off. She’s already planning a christening for the spring, when Hayden is next home on leave. She wants to invite aunties, uncles, and cousins. I’ve never had a big extended family that gets together at Christmas or for anniversaries, and sometimes this feels like I’ve stumbled into a Disney movie or one of those family sitcoms where the worst thing to happen is when someone burns the turkey or spikes the punch.
We’re visiting Mr. and Mrs. Cole for Sunday lunch, which is proper roast beef with all the trimmings. Yorkshire pudding. Horseradish. Baked spuds. Gravy. Hayden’s sister, Nigella, has come down from Norfolk, leaving her husband behind but bringing a strange antagonism towards me. Every time I say something about pregnancy or childbirth she makes a sniffing sound, as though she disagrees, but she doesn’t follow up with a comment.
When I try to chat with her about babies she makes a snide remark about new parents being boring because all they can talk about is their children. I pull Hayden aside in the kitchen, muttering, “What’s her story?”
“It’s not your fault,” he whispers. “She’s been trying to have a baby and has miscarried twice.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Nobody is supposed to know. Mum only just told me.”
“What about your dad?”
“Totally in the dark, so don’t say anything.”
Over lunch, Mrs. Cole asks Hayden when he’s going to make me “an honest woman.”
“Agatha is honest.”
“I mean, when are you going to marry her? A baby needs a proper name.”
“He has a name,” says Hayden.
“Not in the eyes of God,” says Mrs. Cole. “Otherwise, people might think he’s a . . .”
She doesn’t finish the statement.
“People don’t care about stuff like that anymore,” says Hayden, looking uncomfortable.
I interrupt. “If we get married too soon, people will think it’s only because of Rory. By waiting, we show them that we’re really in love.” I squeeze Hayden’s hand.
Nigella makes a gagging sound like she might throw up. I feel my hackles rising.
When the table has been cleared, we retire to the parlor. Hayden turns on the TV to watch football. The news is showing—another story about Baby Ben.
“Oh, I didn’t tell you,” says Hayden. “Agatha knows Meg Shaughnessy.”
Mrs. Cole is pouring tea. “Who?”
“Baby Ben’s mother.”
The whole family looks at me.
“We did yoga together when I was pregnant,” I explain.
“And you visited her house,” adds Hayden.
“What’s she like?” asks Mr. Cole.
“She’s really nice.”
“Her husband’s a bit handsome,” says Nigella, picking polish from her fingernails.
“They have two children—Lucy and Lachlan. They’re six and four, I think.”
“That poor woman,” says Mrs. Cole. “Is their house nice?”
“What difference does that make?” sniffs Mr. Cole.
This puts her back up. “Well, him being on TV, I expect they have a very nice house.”
“Very nice. Four bedrooms. It’s in Barnes, not far from the river,” I say. “It’s close to where I used to work.”
“Where did you work?” asks Nigella.
“In a supermarket.”
“A supermarket!” She makes it sound like a leper colony.
The TV is showing closed-circuit footage from the hospital. A grainy figure in a nurse’s uniform is walking away from the camera, turning and entering a lift. The frame freezes and the camera switches to a close-up.
“She looks like you, Agatha,” says Nigella.
“Me?”
“Yeah.”
“She looks nothing like her,” says Hayden defensively.
Mr. Cole leans closer from his armchair. “She does a bit.”
I feel my chest tighten, but manage to laugh. “You’re right.”
“Your hair is shorter,” says Hayden.
“I could have been wearing a wig,” I say.
“You have the same shaped face,” says Nigella.
“It wasn’t always this round. Pregnancy bloated me.”
“You’re not bloated,” says Hayden.
“No, but I could lose a few pounds.”
I sense Nigella smirking from the other sofa.
The TV is showing a picture of Meg and Jack leaving the hospital.
“So who do you think took Baby Ben?” asks Mr. Cole.
“Probably someone who couldn’t have her own baby,” I say, watching Nigella stiffen. “Sometimes when a woman miscarries or can’t get pregnant, she loses the plot.”
“Maybe we should change the subject,” says Mrs. Cole.
“I’m not saying all women—just some of them. They grow bitter and jealous. I feel sorry for them.”
Nigella excuses herself and leaves the room, holding her hand over her mouth.
“Is she all right?” I ask. “Did I say something to upset her?”
MEGHAN
* * *
Dozens of reporters are milling outside the house, blocking the pavement and taking up parking spots with their broadcast vans and satellite trucks. Our rubbish bin is overflowing with their coffee cups and fast-food wrappings.
Jack has to park around the corner and we run the gauntlet of the TV cameras, flash guns, and boom microphones. Lisa-Jayne tries to force a path through the scrum, yelling at reporters to stand back.
“Mr. and Mrs. Shaughnessy have nothing to say. If you don’t get out of our way, I’ll have you arrested . . . I’m not going to ask again.”
Recording devices are thrust into my face. Questions are shouted. Someone touches my arm. I pull away as though scalded. A female reporter forces a letter into my hand. Without thinking, I take it from her.
“We can offer you more,” yells someone else.
“Don’t trust her,” a third person replies.
Lisa-Jayne is calling for backup on her shoulder radio. We’re nearing the front gate. Jack has his arm around me. I can feel that he wants to lash out at someone, or scream abuse, calling them ghouls and pariahs, but he works on TV; he knows how the media operates.
