The Secrets She Keeps, page 30
“We’re investigating the disappearance of Baby Ben,” explains DC Paulson.
Hayden sits on the edge of my armchair. Beads of water are clinging to his chest hair.
“You might want to put some clothes on,” says the DS.
“Last I checked, this was my place,” replies Hayden.
She nods as though accepting his ground rules. “Your wife was telling us about your new baby.”
“We’re not married.”
“I see.”
Hayden doesn’t seem to like the fact that she’s a woman.
“We’re engaged,” I say.
“Are you Rory’s father?”
“Yeah,” replies Hayden.
DC Paulson has taken out a notebook. Pencil poised.
“When was your baby born?” he asks.
“Almost three weeks ago.” I give him the exact date.
“Where did you have him?”
“In Leeds—that’s where I’m from. My mother lives there.”
I’m volunteering too much information. I should wait for their questions.
DS McGuire toys with a loose thread on the cuff of her jacket. A man would tear or bite it off. A woman will wait for scissors.
“I’ve spent some time up north,” she says. “What hospital did you choose?”
“I had a home birth. I wanted familiar surroundings.”
A trick question, deflected easily, but now she’s unsure how to follow up.
Hayden has put his hand on my shoulder, as though offering support.
“Were you present at the birth?” she asks him.
“No, I just missed it,” Hayden explains. “I’m Royal Navy. I flew in from Joburg. Arrived a day too late.”
“I went into labor early,” I say.
“So who was with you for the birth?”
“A midwife,” I say, trying to sound calm.
“And your mother,” adds Hayden, lying for me.
Why would he do that?
“I emailed photographs to Meghan,” I say. “She was so excited for me. Now I feel guilty.”
“Guilty?”
“Given what happened. There I was, celebrating and feeling so clever, and two days later Meg had her baby stolen.”
“You couldn’t have known,” says Hayden.
“I know, but still . . .”
“Do you have photographs of the birth?” asks DC Paulson.
“Of course.” I pick up my phone and scroll through the pictures until I find the ones that I took upstairs in Leo’s bedroom. “I didn’t take many. My mother isn’t much of a photographer.”
I hand him the phone. He passes it to his colleague.
“How long have you known Mrs. Shaughnessy?” asks DS McGuire.
“Not that long. We do yoga together. I used to see her when I worked at the supermarket in Barnes. She gave me some baby clothes.”
Again, I’m talking too much. The detective glances slowly around the room, as though noting the general shabbiness and cheapness of my furniture.
“When did you see her last?”
“A few weeks ago—before I went up to Leeds.”
“You knew she was having her baby on December seventh?”
“Yes, she told me.”
“Have you met her husband, Jack?”
“No. I’ve seen him on TV. He’s a sports reporter.”
Stop talking, Agatha!
DS McGuire returns my phone. “When you were at yoga classes, did you ever notice anyone hanging around, or asking questions? Someone who might have taken a special interest in the fact that Mrs. Shaughnessy was pregnant?”
“Special interest?”
“More than usual.”
I think about this. Begin a sentence. Stop. Shake my head.
“What is it?” asks DC Paulson.
“It’s probably nothing,” I say.
“Let us decide.”
“Well, there was this one woman . . . Meg and I were having coffee in Barnes. As I was leaving, she came up to me and asked where I was having my baby.”
“Did she talk to Mrs. Shaughnessy?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What did this woman look like?”
“My height, dark hair, heavyset, but not fat,” I say, pausing to concentrate. “She looked like she’d just had her hair done—maybe at one of the local hairdressers.”
“How do you know that?”
“You can tell when it’s been cut and blow-dried.”
“How old was she?”
“Late thirties or early forties.”
“Was she pregnant?”
“Not obviously. I guess her clothes were baggy.”
A pencil scratches on the page.
“Why does it matter whether she was pregnant?” I ask.
“We think whoever took Ben might have faked a pregnancy to hide their crime.”
“Really?”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“Is that even possible? What about all the scans and tests? Surely somebody would find out.”
DS McGuire wants to get back to talking about the woman. “Had you ever seen this particular woman before?”
“No.”
She opens a folder and takes out an identikit picture from the hospital. “Could this be her?”
“It’s hard to tell.”
The next image is a still photograph from the CCTV cameras at the hospital. I am being presented with a photograph of myself as a brunette with long hair. The grainy image shows the top of my head. A second image is from behind. That uniform made me look huge.
“It could be her,” I say. “I can’t be certain.”
There is a squawk from the baby monitor resting on the kitchen bench. Rory is awake. He grumbles and lets out a louder cry.
“He’s hungry,” I say, getting to my feet. I cup my breasts. “I still can’t get over how he does that—one little cry and my milk starts flowing.”
Hayden has gone to get Rory. He emerges from the bedroom, holding him in the folds of a blanket. Rory is wide-awake, watching the detectives, neither of whom look particularly paternal or maternal.
“You’re welcome to stay,” I say, “but I’m getting my boobs out.” The younger detective wants to be somewhere else. I walk them to the door.
“If you see Megs, tell her . . . tell her . . . I’m thinking of her. And if there’s anything I can do to help . . .”
I wait on the landing, watching them leave, listening to the creature. What if they look for a record of Rory’s birth? What if they call your mother? What if they look for the midwife?
Hayden is sitting on the sofa, jiggling Rory in his arms. “They weren’t very friendly.”
“They were OK.”
“I don’t like cops.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “A lot of them have mini Hitler complexes, you know. They enjoy pushing people around.”
I want to ask him why he lied for me, but I’m afraid of the answer. I’m hoping he’s still on my side. Nobody could fake a pregnancy as well as I did. The police should ask Meghan. She’ll tell them. She doesn’t doubt me.
MEGHAN
* * *
Lachlan and Lucy have been bathed and dressed in their best clothes, hair washed and brushed, shoes polished. They’re under instructions to stay clean while I get ready. I keep changing my mind about whether I want to go to the candlelight vigil, but Jack says we should thank people and acknowledge their support.
I have nothing to wear. I don’t want to dress in maternity clothes and I can’t fit into most of my pre-pregnancy dresses, apart from one clingy woolen number that makes me look lumpy.
Jack is polishing his shoes on the landing. I’ve told him not to do it there because he’ll get bootblack on the carpet, but he never listens. I turn back and forth in front of the mirror, not liking anything about myself, but also not caring. I just want to get this over with.
Downstairs, I put on my coat and call the others. Lachlan runs down the hallway. His trouser cuffs are too short. I swear I took them down only a few days ago. I want to put a brick on his head to stop him growing.
Lucy looks pretty in a tartan dress with red tights and black patent leather shoes. She has matching red gloves to wear because it’s cold outside.
“Are you ready?” asks Jack.
“I guess.”
“We can do this.”
I try to give him a smile.
The security lights trigger as we leave the house and reach the front gate. Two police officers are waiting to escort us to St. Osmund’s, which is about half a mile from here. They offered to drive us, but we’re going to walk in a kind of candlelight procession, collecting people as we pass. TV cameras and photographers are being kept behind barricades. The bright lights whiten every face and turn every breath into a pale fog.
Hooking my arm into Jack’s, we each take a child’s hand. Neighbors appear, holding lamps, torches, and candles flickering in paper cones. They nod as we pass and fall into step behind us as our procession wends its way through the narrow streets, across Barnes Green and along Church Road where it turns left into Castelnau and heads towards Hammersmith Bridge.
Soon it’s clear the church isn’t big enough. People are standing in the aisles, along the walls, and spilling outside onto the steps. Seats have been reserved for us at the front. Lucy and Lachlan sit between us, both too small for their feet to touch the floor. My parents and Grace are next to me. Jack’s brother and sister-in-law have come down from Scotland.
Around us there are mothers, friends, neighbors, workmates, babysitters, and people I’m only on nodding terms with, like the butcher and the Korean woman who does my nails. My yoga teacher has had her baby and looks impossibly thin. The headmistress from Lucy’s school is directing people into pews, making sure they make room for more. Two of my oldest friends from university have made the journey from Leicester and Newcastle.
A woman with a lovely voice leads a choir, which entreats everyone to lift their hearts to God. Most people move their mouths silently, pretending to sing. After the hymn, Father George gives a nice sermon about those times when God seems absent and how we must hold on to faith, or risk falling into fear.
He calls on Jack to say a few words. My heart lurches. I had no idea he had planned this. Jack climbs several steps to the lectern, where he pauses and adjusts the microphone, tapping it with his finger. Apologizing.
“Since Ben was taken, I have asked myself countless times: Why? Why him? Why us? There is no answer, but that doesn’t stop me searching for one. A child is reported missing every three minutes in the UK. Across Europe that number rises to one child every two minutes. In America it is close to one child every minute. I know figures like this sound shocking, but we only hear about a fraction of these cases because most of the children come home or are found quickly. We have all sorts of safeguards. Amber Alerts. Digital billboards. Child-rescue organizations. Facebook. Twitter. Stranger Danger campaigns. CCTV cameras. Yet still children disappear. Until two weeks ago, I thought I understood what it would be like to have a child go missing. I had watched other parents on TV. I had put myself in their shoes. I was mistaken. To lose a child is beyond comprehension. It defies biology. It derails common sense. It violates the natural order.
“Like a lot of people, I sometimes fail to appreciate how lucky I am to have such a wonderful wife and family, a good career, great friends, and, as this evening shows, a very close-knit community. Often I forget to give thanks and I take things for granted. Not anymore. To the woman I love, sitting in the front row: I cannot give you what you desire the most—a chance to hold your baby boy. I have seen your selfless devotion to Lucy and Lachlan and I know how deeply you feel Ben’s absence because there is no loss quite like a mother’s loss.
“On every occasion over the past fortnight when I have wondered how I can get through this—I have looked at you. Your strength of character, fortitude, and resolve are truly inspirational. I love you, Meghan Shaughnessy. I love you, Lucy and Lachlan. And Ben, wherever you are, I love you too.”
That’s when I dissolve, collapsing into sobs. The rest of the vigil passes in a blur. I find myself standing and moving through the crowd. Thanking people. Shaking hands.
I notice Agatha. That must be her fiancé, Hayden. He’s carrying their baby in a pouch against his chest.
“I didn’t know if I should bring him,” Agatha says, unsure of whether to hug me or shake my hand. I kiss her cheeks. “I thought it might be insensitive.”
“No, it’s OK.”
“This is Hayden.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say. He nods and looks uncomfortable, as though sadness might be infectious.
Stepping closer, I look at their baby, whose face is partially hidden in the folds of Hayden’s shirt.
“He’s beautiful,” I say, struggling to get the words out.
“I’m sorry about Ben,” says Hayden. “I hope they find him.”
I don’t answer. I’m being moved on.
I turn to Agatha. “Look after him.”
She doesn’t understand.
“Your baby,” I explain. “Never let him go.”
AGATHA
* * *
There are reporters, photographers, and cameramen everywhere. Surely there must be bigger stories to report. What about the wars, terror attacks, homegrown jihadists, or drowning refugees? Public attention should have moved on by now. Something newer and fresher should have captured the headlines.
Reporters are mingling with the crowd, asking the same questions: “How do you feel? Are you shocked? Fearful?”
What do they expect people to say? Clichéd questions get clichéd answers. “Nothing like this has ever happened around here,” someone says. “What’s the world coming to?” says another. “It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” adds someone else.
Wonder what? I want to scream. Wonder why bad things happen to good people? Wonder if we’ll be home in time to watch Dancing with the Stars?
Why won’t people accept that Ben is gone? Rory is the one who matters. It would be cruel to send him back. The interests of the child must always come first—that’s what judges always consider in child custody cases. Rory has a mother. He has a family. Ben doesn’t exist anymore.
Meg was fine until Jack made that speech and now her mascara is smeared on her cheeks and she has panda eyes. Lucy and Lachlan look like they’re handling it well. People often forget about other siblings in situations like this. It’s like what happened to me when Elijah died. I was forgotten. Unloved. Less important. That’s what I want to say to Megs. “Love your other children. Focus on them.”
People linger outside the church, hugging and handing out tissues. Random strangers touch Rory’s head and smile, as though reassured that the world goes on. The priest draws a small sign of the cross on Rory’s forehead and says a blessing.
I turn and almost bump into Megs. She looks at Rory and I feel a rush of fear.
What if she can tell? Some animals can smell their own children or recognize their cries. I don’t know if Megs spent long enough with Rory to know these things, but she carried him for nine months inside her womb.
“He’s beautiful,” says Meg.
“I wasn’t sure I should bring him,” I stammer.
“Of course you should. Is he a good baby?”
“They’re all good babies,” I reply, before realizing how that sounds. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
She hugs me and looks at Hayden.
“It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“And you,” he says.
“Did you make it home for the birth?”
“Not quite.”
“Well, you’re here now.”
“I’m sure they’ll find your little boy,” says Hayden.
“Thank you.”
Megs is ushered away by a police constable, who is keeping reporters at bay.
“Let’s go,” says Hayden, who seems to share my unease.
A photographer steps between us. Without asking, she begins taking pictures of Rory and Hayden.
“Can we get a shot with you?” she asks. “We’re doing a story on the candlelight vigil. Do you know the Shaughnessys?”
“Yes.”
“Can you lift him out of the sling? That’s it. Hold him a little higher. Next to your cheek.”
The flash keeps firing. A recording device is thrust under my chin.
“Are you frightened for your own baby?” asks a reporter.
“No. Why?”
“It’s shocking, isn’t it? You don’t expect babies to be stolen.”
“No. I guess not.”
“Do you have a message for the person who took Baby Ben?”
“No, not really, I think everything has been said.”
MEGHAN
* * *
Morning, 6:15. Red digits glow on the radio clock. My hand slides across the cool sheets, but the bed is empty. Jack must have woken early and decided to get up. We made love last night after the vigil. He didn’t penetrate me (my stitches) but we found other ways to get close and it did more to heal us than a dozen counseling sessions.
Yet even as he moved against my hand and lips, I felt Jack slowly running down like the mainspring of a clock. I pulled his face close to mine and saw the tears. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hide them as he moved faster and moaned my name.
I doze again. When I wake the second time, I turn on my mobile. There are dozens of messages—questions about a story in the newspaper. I open a link but the doorbell chimes downstairs. I hear Annie’s voice and DCS MacAteer’s. I jump out of bed and shrug on a dressing gown, pulling my hair into a band.
They’re in the kitchen—Annie, Jack, and MacAteer. Lucy and Lachlan are watching cartoons in the sitting room. Newspapers are spread across the bench. Jack is poring over them, looking shocked and pale.
I join them and glance at the pages, noticing a photograph of Jack and me. A second picture shows a glamorous-looking woman with tousled hair, white teeth, and a low-cut blouse. I recognize her: the estate agent who sold us the house.
