The Secrets She Keeps, page 27
“A lot of women lose babies.”
“You know what I mean.” He props his feet on the coffee table, which I hate. “They’re making out she needs help, but if someone took our Rory I’d want to kill her. I’d track her down, get him back, and do it with my bare hands.”
“You’d strangle her.”
“Yeah. I’m trained, you know—hand-to-hand combat.” He holds up his palms. “These are lethal weapons.”
“You’d kill a defenseless woman?”
“If she took our baby, yeah.”
He scratches at his crotch and examines a scab on his elbow. “She’s not going to get away with it.”
“Why not?”
“Someone’s going to turn her in. Stands to reason. She comes home with a baby that she can’t breast-feed or who wakes the neighbors with his crying. What happens when the baby gets sick or needs a jab? What happens when he starts school?”
“That’s years from now.”
He waves at me dismissively. “What about a National Insurance number, or a birth certificate, or a driver’s license, or if he applies for a passport?”
“People will have forgotten by then.”
“You sound like you want her to get away with it.”
“No. I’m just saying that she might.”
Hayden makes a scoffing sound and I wonder if he’s talking like this to goad me or because he suspects. The creature slowly uncoils, slithering through my intestines, turning my bowels to mush.
He knows! He knows!
“Shhhhhh!”
He knows! He knows!
“Who are you shushing?” asks Hayden.
“No one.”
I start making up a bottle for Rory. Hayden watches as I measure each spoonful of powdered formula and tip it into bottles of boiled water.
“I thought you were still expressing.”
“This is just for backup.”
“Why don’t you let him suckle on you?”
“My nipples are still sore.”
“When are they going to be better?”
“I don’t know.”
“That woman who stole the baby—what would she be doing?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“How would she be feeding Baby Ben?”
“Using baby formula, I suppose.”
He knows! He knows!
“How do you think she got away with it?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe she faked a pregnancy—convinced everyone that she was having a baby,” says Hayden.
“It’s not likely though, is it? I mean—nine months of faking it.”
He picks at the dirt beneath his fingernails. “I thought that’s why the police came here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Those two coppers—I thought they were looking at everyone who had a baby in the past two weeks.”
“I had Rory before Ben was taken.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” he says, sounding noncommittal.
He lights a cigarette and cracks open the sitting-room window, kneeling on the floor to blow smoke outside. I can still smell it. I want to tell him to go downstairs, but I don’t say anything. Instead I wonder if the police are checking up on me. I haven’t registered Rory’s birth, but the law gives me a month. He doesn’t need a birth certificate, so I can put it off for longer without anyone knowing.
“You should call that woman,” says Hayden, who stubs the cigarette out on the window ledge.
“Who?”
“Baby Ben’s mum—you should find out how she’s doing.”
“I don’t want to bother her.”
“But she’s your mate.” His face lights up. “Fuck!”
“What?”
He gets to his feet. “We should call the newspapers!”
“Why?”
“You could sell your story.”
“I don’t have a story.”
“Sure you do. Your best friend has had her baby stolen. They’ll love it—one new mother talking about another, her mate. The heartbreak. It could be worth a fortune—I mean, at least ten grand, maybe more.”
“She’s not my best friend.”
“They don’t know that.”
“No!”
He’s not listening. “You could do TV interviews. What’s that show—”
“I’m not going on TV. Meg isn’t that good a friend.”
“But you said—”
“We did yoga together.”
“You’ve been to her house.”
“Once.”
“Have you talked to her since it happened?”
“No. I sent her a message saying I was praying for her baby. I was thinking of sending a card, but I don’t know if that’s appropriate.”
Hayden slumps on the sofa, angry that I won’t agree.
“We could use that money.”
“We’re fine.”
He spends the next fifteen minutes in a bad mood. Finally he says, “I bet they’re making money out of this. They’ll be suing the hospital and selling their story to the highest bidder. Can you imagine—the perfect couple, a TV star and his hot-looking wife and a stolen kid. They’ll be milking this for all it’s worth.”
“They’re not so perfect,” I say.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
MEGHAN
* * *
Jack left the house hours ago without giving me a reason. I watched him from the upstairs window as he marched past reporters, ignoring their questions, and got into his car. He did the same thing yesterday, not coming home until after I’d gone to bed.
“What were you doing?” I asked him this morning.
“Walking,” he said, making it seem like a stupid question.
I know that he’s under pressure. With each passing day he looks more dazed, like a polar bear kept in captivity too long, rocking from side to side. He keeps asking why the police haven’t found Ben. He knows I can’t answer the question, but he asks it anyway because it improves on the silence between us.
We don’t have a police officer in the house full-time anymore, but Lisa-Jayne or Annie visits every day, keeping us informed. It has been two days since the media conference and the public response has swamped the police hotline with thousands of calls, including dozens of fresh sightings, none of them confirmed. Amid the tsunami of new information are the time wasters, trolls, psychics, seers, and conspiracy theorists. I closed down my blog today because some of the messages were so toxic.
In the meantime, I go through the motions of motherhood. I make supper and turn down beds and kiss foreheads and sing lullabies. I hope someone is doing the same for Ben.
Cyrus says the woman who took him is probably childless, or has lost a baby, or is trying to hold a relationship together. I have known marriages like that. I’m pretty certain that two of my best friends had babies to make their boyfriends commit—men who were hovering on the threshold. Is that so wrong? Their marriages have lasted. They have more children and mortgages and all the trappings. If I had the courage to ask, I’m sure neither of those women would regret what they did to “close the deal.”
The police call me at nine. A station sergeant at Fulham police station tells me Jack has been arrested for assault and trying to take a woman’s baby.
“Oh my God! Is the woman all right?”
“She’s fine,” the sergeant says, “but she’s insisting that we press charges. I did explain the situation, but couldn’t dissuade her.”
“Where’s Jack?”
“We’re holding him in one of the cells.”
“Do I have to post bail?”
“That won’t be necessary, but someone will have to come and pick him up.”
“Can you put him in a cab?”
“I’d feel better if somebody came and collected him.”
I hang up and wonder if I should call my parents, but I don’t want them knowing about this. Waking Lachlan and Lucy, I put them in their dressing gowns and slippers.
“Where are we going?” asks Lucy.
“To get Daddy.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s been talking to the police.”
The temperature has fallen and it’s too cold for the reporters and photographers to be standing outside. Most are sitting in cars, occasionally running the engine to stay warm. Moving quickly, I have the kids buckled up in their seats before the assembled media can react.
“Is there any news?” one of them shouts as I reach the driver’s door.
“No news.”
“Do you think Baby Ben is still alive?”
I flinch and turn. “That’s a horrible thing to say.”
He’s waiting for an answer. I slide into the driver’s seat and shut the door, fumbling for my keys. More reporters are shouting questions. Ignoring them, I pull out and almost hit a TV cameraman, who leaps out of the way.
“Why did he ask if Ben was alive?” asks Lucy.
“He didn’t say that.”
“Could Ben be dead?”
“No.”
“Who’s dead?” asks Lachlan.
“Nobody.”
I put on a storybook recording and open the window a crack, wanting the cold air to help me stay alert. I’m not supposed to be driving so soon after having a cesarean. Bloody Jack!
* * *
The station sergeant is lanky and slope-shouldered with scrubbing-brush hair. He lets us wait in his office, away from prying eyes, while Jack is brought up from the holding cells.
The police have managed to piece together his movements. He started off at the Kings Arms on Fulham Road drinking pints and whiskey chasers. From there he went to Duke on the Green and the White Horse. At some point he finished up at the Trafalgar on King’s Road, where the publican refused to serve him after he abused a barman. Less than a block away, Jack confronted a woman who was walking her dog and pushing a baby in a pram. She screamed for help. Two men came to her aid. Jack threw a punch, but they wrestled him to the ground. After calling the police, the bystanders told the woman she couldn’t leave until she verified her story, which made her even more upset.
“Where is she now?” I ask the sergeant.
“We sent her home.”
“I want to apologize to her.”
“Maybe it’s best if you leave her alone.”
Jack shuffles past the door, escorted by two constables. He has buttons missing from his shirt and a graze on his forehead that is weeping blood. I don’t know what the stain is on his trousers. I hope it’s not urine. He doesn’t acknowledge us as he signs for his wallet and mobile phone.
Lucy and Lachlan are quiet as we walk to the car. Neither of them takes Jack’s hand, as though sensing that he’s wounded. I want to say something. I want to berate him for his miserable self-absorption and his self-pitying macho bullshit. At the same time, I picture him walking the streets, lost in his own madness.
We drive home in silence. Jack tucks in his shirt and combs his hair before we face the firing squad of cameras outside the house. Once inside, he goes upstairs and I hear the shower running. Meanwhile I put the children to bed and make myself a hot chocolate. I take it to the front room, curling my legs beneath me on the sofa, nursing the mug.
I hear the stairs creaking. Jack looks for me in the kitchen and the laundry room and eventually finds me sitting in the dark.
“What are you doing?”
“Thinking.”
He sits on the floor and leans his head against my thigh. My hand hovers above his head but I cannot bring myself to stroke his hair.
“You have to forgive me, Megs,” he whispers.
“There’s nothing to forgive you for.”
He sits up. “Stop. Stop. Please. You’re breaking my heart. Look at me.”
I can’t.
“I know you blame me.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“Yes you do.” He lets out a muffled sob. “You think I didn’t want another baby. And you think this was my fault, but it’s not fair.”
“I know.”
“I miss him too.”
“Yes.”
I reach out and push back his fringe, running my fingers through his wet hair. His body shudders.
“I know it’s not fair, but I don’t know who else to blame,” I say.
“I can’t live like this, Megs. You can’t keep pushing me away.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I want us to go back to the way we were.”
“So do I.”
His eyes are shining. “I keep wondering what we did to deserve this.”
“Nobody deserves this.”
“It’s me,” he says. “I have a bad smell about me. Even Simon isn’t talking to me.”
Every muscle tightens. “When did you see Simon?”
“I went round to his place today. He accused me of wallowing in self-pity. I told him he had no idea what it was like to be a father and to have a child go missing.”
“What did he say?”
“He said I was talking out of my arse and he knew exactly how it felt. He said if I took better care of things at home, this might not have happened. I asked him what he meant and he said, ‘Ask Megs.’ ”
“Me?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know what he’s talking about.”
“Did something happen? I mean, you and Simon used to get on, but now you don’t want him in the house. Did he say something or do something? Did he touch you?”
“We’ve been through this.”
“Because if he did—”
“He didn’t touch me.”
Jack sighs and presses his fingertips to the cut on his forehead. “I’m sorry about today.”
“You should go to bed.”
“I can’t sleep.”
“Take one of my pills.”
He kisses me on the cheek and I hear him climb the stairs. Twenty minutes later, I follow him and find him snoring gently in our bed. I check that Lucy and Lachlan are also asleep before pulling on a warm jumper and lacing my sneakers.
Bundled up against the cold, I open the French doors and cross the back garden by torchlight. Dew glistens on the grass ahead of me. Reaching the shed, I use the trellis to pull myself up onto the wall and swing my legs over the side, dropping down into a pile of dead leaves and lawn clippings.
I’m not supposed to be climbing or lifting anything heavy until my stitches have healed. The torch throws shadows on a fallen tree and I notice a small clearing with signs of previous occupation. There are empty cans of soft drink and chocolate wrappers. Maybe this is a teenage love nest, uncomfortable but well hidden.
I glance back at the darkened house. Anyone sitting on the log could look across our garden to the kitchen and dining areas and see shadows against the curtains upstairs.
Turning away, I negotiate an overgrown path through blackberry bushes until I reach the railway tracks and turn east towards Barnes station. At the nearest level crossing, I follow the footpath, hearing the rattle of distant trains.
On the South Circular I hail a passing cab and give the driver Simon’s address. Twice on the journey, I almost ask him to turn back. I’m angry, which is not a good start.
We’re here. The lights are on. I ring the doorbell and listen for the footsteps. Gina answers—Simon’s girlfriend—I didn’t expect . . .
“Megs! What are you doing here?”
“I need to speak to Simon.”
“Of course. Come in. Your hands are freezing.”
She takes my coat and yells up the stairs for Simon. The house is overheated and smells of curry.
“Do you want a glass of wine?” asks Gina. “The bottle is open. Or a cup of tea?”
“No.”
“Have you eaten?”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m so sorry about . . . everything. I wanted to call you, but I figured you were probably overwhelmed with calls and messages.”
“I really need to speak to Simon.”
“Oh, right, of course.” She yells for him again.
Simon appears on the stairs, dressed in baggy jeans and a sweatshirt.
“Look who it is,” says Gina.
“I need to talk to him alone,” I say.
Gina’s smile fades. “Of course, I’ll . . . I’ll just pop upstairs.” She and Simon exchange a glance as they pass each other.
Remaining in the hallway, I look up the stairs and make sure she’s gone. Simon follows me into the kitchen.
“What did you say to Jack?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“He knows something happened between us.”
“He knows shit.”
“I told you to leave us alone.”
Simon matches my anger. “Is that why you sent the police around here—asking me questions?”
“What?”
“Two detectives came to see me. They wanted to know where I was when Ben was stolen. They asked me about my relationship with you. The word ‘blackmail’ was mentioned.”
“Did you tell them anything?”
“No. What did you say about me?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit!”
“I was angry. Something slipped out. I told them to forget what I said.”
“Clearly they didn’t get your instructions,” he says sarcastically. “Thanks to you, I’m a suspect. They know about my priors—the drug possession and dealing. Gina has started asking questions. If any of this gets back to the network, I’ll lose my job.”
“It was a mistake. I’m sorry.”
“That makes me feel much better.”
“You promised not to tell Jack.”
“That was before you dumped me in the shit. Now all bets are off.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Why not? You don’t care about me. I think Jack deserves to know who he married.”
“No. Please. I’ll do the DNA test as soon as we find Ben.” Even as I utter the words, I want to take them back, but it’s too late.
Simon cocks his head, looking at me dubiously. “What if he’s mine?”
“I’ll tell Jack. But if the test shows that you’re not the father, I want you to leave us alone. This stops once and for all. Is that agreed?”
Simon nods, no longer jacked up and tense. His voice softens. “I’m sorry I accused you of arranging the kidnapping.”
“You know what I mean.” He props his feet on the coffee table, which I hate. “They’re making out she needs help, but if someone took our Rory I’d want to kill her. I’d track her down, get him back, and do it with my bare hands.”
“You’d strangle her.”
“Yeah. I’m trained, you know—hand-to-hand combat.” He holds up his palms. “These are lethal weapons.”
“You’d kill a defenseless woman?”
“If she took our baby, yeah.”
He scratches at his crotch and examines a scab on his elbow. “She’s not going to get away with it.”
“Why not?”
“Someone’s going to turn her in. Stands to reason. She comes home with a baby that she can’t breast-feed or who wakes the neighbors with his crying. What happens when the baby gets sick or needs a jab? What happens when he starts school?”
“That’s years from now.”
He waves at me dismissively. “What about a National Insurance number, or a birth certificate, or a driver’s license, or if he applies for a passport?”
“People will have forgotten by then.”
“You sound like you want her to get away with it.”
“No. I’m just saying that she might.”
Hayden makes a scoffing sound and I wonder if he’s talking like this to goad me or because he suspects. The creature slowly uncoils, slithering through my intestines, turning my bowels to mush.
He knows! He knows!
“Shhhhhh!”
He knows! He knows!
“Who are you shushing?” asks Hayden.
“No one.”
I start making up a bottle for Rory. Hayden watches as I measure each spoonful of powdered formula and tip it into bottles of boiled water.
“I thought you were still expressing.”
“This is just for backup.”
“Why don’t you let him suckle on you?”
“My nipples are still sore.”
“When are they going to be better?”
“I don’t know.”
“That woman who stole the baby—what would she be doing?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“How would she be feeding Baby Ben?”
“Using baby formula, I suppose.”
He knows! He knows!
“How do you think she got away with it?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe she faked a pregnancy—convinced everyone that she was having a baby,” says Hayden.
“It’s not likely though, is it? I mean—nine months of faking it.”
He picks at the dirt beneath his fingernails. “I thought that’s why the police came here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Those two coppers—I thought they were looking at everyone who had a baby in the past two weeks.”
“I had Rory before Ben was taken.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” he says, sounding noncommittal.
He lights a cigarette and cracks open the sitting-room window, kneeling on the floor to blow smoke outside. I can still smell it. I want to tell him to go downstairs, but I don’t say anything. Instead I wonder if the police are checking up on me. I haven’t registered Rory’s birth, but the law gives me a month. He doesn’t need a birth certificate, so I can put it off for longer without anyone knowing.
“You should call that woman,” says Hayden, who stubs the cigarette out on the window ledge.
“Who?”
“Baby Ben’s mum—you should find out how she’s doing.”
“I don’t want to bother her.”
“But she’s your mate.” His face lights up. “Fuck!”
“What?”
He gets to his feet. “We should call the newspapers!”
“Why?”
“You could sell your story.”
“I don’t have a story.”
“Sure you do. Your best friend has had her baby stolen. They’ll love it—one new mother talking about another, her mate. The heartbreak. It could be worth a fortune—I mean, at least ten grand, maybe more.”
“She’s not my best friend.”
“They don’t know that.”
“No!”
He’s not listening. “You could do TV interviews. What’s that show—”
“I’m not going on TV. Meg isn’t that good a friend.”
“But you said—”
“We did yoga together.”
“You’ve been to her house.”
“Once.”
“Have you talked to her since it happened?”
“No. I sent her a message saying I was praying for her baby. I was thinking of sending a card, but I don’t know if that’s appropriate.”
Hayden slumps on the sofa, angry that I won’t agree.
“We could use that money.”
“We’re fine.”
He spends the next fifteen minutes in a bad mood. Finally he says, “I bet they’re making money out of this. They’ll be suing the hospital and selling their story to the highest bidder. Can you imagine—the perfect couple, a TV star and his hot-looking wife and a stolen kid. They’ll be milking this for all it’s worth.”
“They’re not so perfect,” I say.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
MEGHAN
* * *
Jack left the house hours ago without giving me a reason. I watched him from the upstairs window as he marched past reporters, ignoring their questions, and got into his car. He did the same thing yesterday, not coming home until after I’d gone to bed.
“What were you doing?” I asked him this morning.
“Walking,” he said, making it seem like a stupid question.
I know that he’s under pressure. With each passing day he looks more dazed, like a polar bear kept in captivity too long, rocking from side to side. He keeps asking why the police haven’t found Ben. He knows I can’t answer the question, but he asks it anyway because it improves on the silence between us.
We don’t have a police officer in the house full-time anymore, but Lisa-Jayne or Annie visits every day, keeping us informed. It has been two days since the media conference and the public response has swamped the police hotline with thousands of calls, including dozens of fresh sightings, none of them confirmed. Amid the tsunami of new information are the time wasters, trolls, psychics, seers, and conspiracy theorists. I closed down my blog today because some of the messages were so toxic.
In the meantime, I go through the motions of motherhood. I make supper and turn down beds and kiss foreheads and sing lullabies. I hope someone is doing the same for Ben.
Cyrus says the woman who took him is probably childless, or has lost a baby, or is trying to hold a relationship together. I have known marriages like that. I’m pretty certain that two of my best friends had babies to make their boyfriends commit—men who were hovering on the threshold. Is that so wrong? Their marriages have lasted. They have more children and mortgages and all the trappings. If I had the courage to ask, I’m sure neither of those women would regret what they did to “close the deal.”
The police call me at nine. A station sergeant at Fulham police station tells me Jack has been arrested for assault and trying to take a woman’s baby.
“Oh my God! Is the woman all right?”
“She’s fine,” the sergeant says, “but she’s insisting that we press charges. I did explain the situation, but couldn’t dissuade her.”
“Where’s Jack?”
“We’re holding him in one of the cells.”
“Do I have to post bail?”
“That won’t be necessary, but someone will have to come and pick him up.”
“Can you put him in a cab?”
“I’d feel better if somebody came and collected him.”
I hang up and wonder if I should call my parents, but I don’t want them knowing about this. Waking Lachlan and Lucy, I put them in their dressing gowns and slippers.
“Where are we going?” asks Lucy.
“To get Daddy.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s been talking to the police.”
The temperature has fallen and it’s too cold for the reporters and photographers to be standing outside. Most are sitting in cars, occasionally running the engine to stay warm. Moving quickly, I have the kids buckled up in their seats before the assembled media can react.
“Is there any news?” one of them shouts as I reach the driver’s door.
“No news.”
“Do you think Baby Ben is still alive?”
I flinch and turn. “That’s a horrible thing to say.”
He’s waiting for an answer. I slide into the driver’s seat and shut the door, fumbling for my keys. More reporters are shouting questions. Ignoring them, I pull out and almost hit a TV cameraman, who leaps out of the way.
“Why did he ask if Ben was alive?” asks Lucy.
“He didn’t say that.”
“Could Ben be dead?”
“No.”
“Who’s dead?” asks Lachlan.
“Nobody.”
I put on a storybook recording and open the window a crack, wanting the cold air to help me stay alert. I’m not supposed to be driving so soon after having a cesarean. Bloody Jack!
* * *
The station sergeant is lanky and slope-shouldered with scrubbing-brush hair. He lets us wait in his office, away from prying eyes, while Jack is brought up from the holding cells.
The police have managed to piece together his movements. He started off at the Kings Arms on Fulham Road drinking pints and whiskey chasers. From there he went to Duke on the Green and the White Horse. At some point he finished up at the Trafalgar on King’s Road, where the publican refused to serve him after he abused a barman. Less than a block away, Jack confronted a woman who was walking her dog and pushing a baby in a pram. She screamed for help. Two men came to her aid. Jack threw a punch, but they wrestled him to the ground. After calling the police, the bystanders told the woman she couldn’t leave until she verified her story, which made her even more upset.
“Where is she now?” I ask the sergeant.
“We sent her home.”
“I want to apologize to her.”
“Maybe it’s best if you leave her alone.”
Jack shuffles past the door, escorted by two constables. He has buttons missing from his shirt and a graze on his forehead that is weeping blood. I don’t know what the stain is on his trousers. I hope it’s not urine. He doesn’t acknowledge us as he signs for his wallet and mobile phone.
Lucy and Lachlan are quiet as we walk to the car. Neither of them takes Jack’s hand, as though sensing that he’s wounded. I want to say something. I want to berate him for his miserable self-absorption and his self-pitying macho bullshit. At the same time, I picture him walking the streets, lost in his own madness.
We drive home in silence. Jack tucks in his shirt and combs his hair before we face the firing squad of cameras outside the house. Once inside, he goes upstairs and I hear the shower running. Meanwhile I put the children to bed and make myself a hot chocolate. I take it to the front room, curling my legs beneath me on the sofa, nursing the mug.
I hear the stairs creaking. Jack looks for me in the kitchen and the laundry room and eventually finds me sitting in the dark.
“What are you doing?”
“Thinking.”
He sits on the floor and leans his head against my thigh. My hand hovers above his head but I cannot bring myself to stroke his hair.
“You have to forgive me, Megs,” he whispers.
“There’s nothing to forgive you for.”
He sits up. “Stop. Stop. Please. You’re breaking my heart. Look at me.”
I can’t.
“I know you blame me.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“Yes you do.” He lets out a muffled sob. “You think I didn’t want another baby. And you think this was my fault, but it’s not fair.”
“I know.”
“I miss him too.”
“Yes.”
I reach out and push back his fringe, running my fingers through his wet hair. His body shudders.
“I know it’s not fair, but I don’t know who else to blame,” I say.
“I can’t live like this, Megs. You can’t keep pushing me away.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I want us to go back to the way we were.”
“So do I.”
His eyes are shining. “I keep wondering what we did to deserve this.”
“Nobody deserves this.”
“It’s me,” he says. “I have a bad smell about me. Even Simon isn’t talking to me.”
Every muscle tightens. “When did you see Simon?”
“I went round to his place today. He accused me of wallowing in self-pity. I told him he had no idea what it was like to be a father and to have a child go missing.”
“What did he say?”
“He said I was talking out of my arse and he knew exactly how it felt. He said if I took better care of things at home, this might not have happened. I asked him what he meant and he said, ‘Ask Megs.’ ”
“Me?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know what he’s talking about.”
“Did something happen? I mean, you and Simon used to get on, but now you don’t want him in the house. Did he say something or do something? Did he touch you?”
“We’ve been through this.”
“Because if he did—”
“He didn’t touch me.”
Jack sighs and presses his fingertips to the cut on his forehead. “I’m sorry about today.”
“You should go to bed.”
“I can’t sleep.”
“Take one of my pills.”
He kisses me on the cheek and I hear him climb the stairs. Twenty minutes later, I follow him and find him snoring gently in our bed. I check that Lucy and Lachlan are also asleep before pulling on a warm jumper and lacing my sneakers.
Bundled up against the cold, I open the French doors and cross the back garden by torchlight. Dew glistens on the grass ahead of me. Reaching the shed, I use the trellis to pull myself up onto the wall and swing my legs over the side, dropping down into a pile of dead leaves and lawn clippings.
I’m not supposed to be climbing or lifting anything heavy until my stitches have healed. The torch throws shadows on a fallen tree and I notice a small clearing with signs of previous occupation. There are empty cans of soft drink and chocolate wrappers. Maybe this is a teenage love nest, uncomfortable but well hidden.
I glance back at the darkened house. Anyone sitting on the log could look across our garden to the kitchen and dining areas and see shadows against the curtains upstairs.
Turning away, I negotiate an overgrown path through blackberry bushes until I reach the railway tracks and turn east towards Barnes station. At the nearest level crossing, I follow the footpath, hearing the rattle of distant trains.
On the South Circular I hail a passing cab and give the driver Simon’s address. Twice on the journey, I almost ask him to turn back. I’m angry, which is not a good start.
We’re here. The lights are on. I ring the doorbell and listen for the footsteps. Gina answers—Simon’s girlfriend—I didn’t expect . . .
“Megs! What are you doing here?”
“I need to speak to Simon.”
“Of course. Come in. Your hands are freezing.”
She takes my coat and yells up the stairs for Simon. The house is overheated and smells of curry.
“Do you want a glass of wine?” asks Gina. “The bottle is open. Or a cup of tea?”
“No.”
“Have you eaten?”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m so sorry about . . . everything. I wanted to call you, but I figured you were probably overwhelmed with calls and messages.”
“I really need to speak to Simon.”
“Oh, right, of course.” She yells for him again.
Simon appears on the stairs, dressed in baggy jeans and a sweatshirt.
“Look who it is,” says Gina.
“I need to talk to him alone,” I say.
Gina’s smile fades. “Of course, I’ll . . . I’ll just pop upstairs.” She and Simon exchange a glance as they pass each other.
Remaining in the hallway, I look up the stairs and make sure she’s gone. Simon follows me into the kitchen.
“What did you say to Jack?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“He knows something happened between us.”
“He knows shit.”
“I told you to leave us alone.”
Simon matches my anger. “Is that why you sent the police around here—asking me questions?”
“What?”
“Two detectives came to see me. They wanted to know where I was when Ben was stolen. They asked me about my relationship with you. The word ‘blackmail’ was mentioned.”
“Did you tell them anything?”
“No. What did you say about me?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit!”
“I was angry. Something slipped out. I told them to forget what I said.”
“Clearly they didn’t get your instructions,” he says sarcastically. “Thanks to you, I’m a suspect. They know about my priors—the drug possession and dealing. Gina has started asking questions. If any of this gets back to the network, I’ll lose my job.”
“It was a mistake. I’m sorry.”
“That makes me feel much better.”
“You promised not to tell Jack.”
“That was before you dumped me in the shit. Now all bets are off.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Why not? You don’t care about me. I think Jack deserves to know who he married.”
“No. Please. I’ll do the DNA test as soon as we find Ben.” Even as I utter the words, I want to take them back, but it’s too late.
Simon cocks his head, looking at me dubiously. “What if he’s mine?”
“I’ll tell Jack. But if the test shows that you’re not the father, I want you to leave us alone. This stops once and for all. Is that agreed?”
Simon nods, no longer jacked up and tense. His voice softens. “I’m sorry I accused you of arranging the kidnapping.”
