The Secrets She Keeps, page 33
“You’re saying that it should be me? Why is it always the woman?”
“It’s not, I promise you. I talked to Jack. He’s devastated.”
“Good!”
“He thinks he’s lost you.”
“Even better.”
I wrap my arms around my chest and look out the window.
“Do you still love him?” asks Cyrus.
“That’s not a fair question.”
“You’re right. I should ask if you can forgive him.”
“How do I do that?”
“Talk to him. Let him explain.”
I don’t want to hear the details. I don’t want to imagine him and Rhea Bowden together. I can’t bear the thought of touching him, after what he’s done—where he’s been. I want to cut his penis off.
Cyrus is still talking. “It’s not easy. First you have to look behind you at what you’ve shared, then you look ahead. You focus on rebuilding, not blaming.”
“Is that what happened to you?” I ask.
“Almost,” he replies, steering the car onto our street. “I didn’t try hard enough.”
* * *
Jack meets us in the hallway, unsure whether to hug me or stay back. He reaches for my bag. I turn my head at the last moment and press my lips against his, holding the back of his head. His body shudders and melts against mine. I can taste coffee on his lips.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“I know.”
“It will never happen again.”
“No, it won’t . . .”
I kiss him again because I don’t want to talk about Rhea Bowden or think about Simon Kidd. The fate of my marriage can wait. All my energy has to go into getting Ben back. After that I will decide if I still want Jack.
PC Soussa has been reassigned as our family liaison officer. She’s in touch with MacAteer, who is back at the station, commanding the task force. Agatha hasn’t returned to her flat in Fulham and her mobile phone stopped transmitting in Chiswick in West London shortly before 2 p.m. Twenty minutes later she used a pay phone at Kew Bridge station to call her fiancé, Hayden Cole, who has denied knowing anything about Baby Ben or the abduction. He claims to have been duped by Agatha, who faked her pregnancy while he was away at sea.
Agatha’s phone records and email accounts are being searched, looking for clues to where she might go. In the meantime, DCS MacAteer has decided not to release her name or photograph in case he pushes her to do something desperate. I can understand the logic, but the maternal part of me wants to plaster her image on every lamppost and yell her name from the rooftops.
The phone rings. Jack answers and puts MacAteer on the speakerphone. The DCS sounds energized, as though the previous weeks have been a warm-up. Now we’re into the main game.
“We know Agatha Fyfle traveled to Leeds by train on December fourth, but have found no evidence of her giving birth,” he says, his voice sounding hollow and metallic through the speakerphone. “At midday on December sixth, she caught a bus from Central Leeds to London Victoria. CCTV footage shows her holding a baby carrier, but doesn’t show an actual baby. According to her fiancé, she didn’t spend that night at her flat in Fulham, which means she may have somewhere else to go—a friend’s house or accommodation, perhaps a hostel or a hotel. This puts her in London before you went into hospital.”
“She called me that night,” I say. “She said she was in Leeds.”
“That was seven fifty-five p.m. Technicians have triangulated Agatha’s mobile signal. The call came from London—somewhere quite close to you.”
“How close?” asks Cyrus.
“Best estimate—the back garden.”
Something seems to shake loose and drop into my stomach. I glance out the French doors and remember the conversation. I was in the kitchen, making a cup of tea. Agatha told me all about her baby and the birth. I pictured her in her mother’s house in Leeds, but in reality she was outside, looking at me through the glass doors. We both heard the same train.
“Why us?” I whisper.
“She couldn’t have her own child,” says the DCS. “Her mother confirmed it.”
“But why us?” I ask, louder this time. “I only met her two months ago.”
“I think she saw you a lot earlier,” says Cyrus. “I suspect Agatha thought very carefully about what baby she wanted. It helped her to rationalize what she planned to do.”
“There is nothing rational about any of this,” says Jack, who is scornful of giving Agatha any motive or justification.
“She idolized you,” says Cyrus. “You were successful, wealthy, well liked. You have two children already—a boy and a girl. Agatha would have seen you as having the ideal life.”
If only she knew the truth.
MacAteer’s call has been interrupted. He apologizes and makes us wait while he’s briefed. We can’t hear the other side of his conversation.
“Are you sure? How many? . . . OK. . . . Get forensics. I want the scene locked down and sealed off.”
He comes back on the speakerphone, but I hear something new in his voice, an added gravity that makes me frightened.
“Our technicians have been tracing Agatha Fyfle’s movements in the days leading up to the abduction. She traveled by train to Leeds on December fourth and went to her mother’s house. The following day, she woke early and traveled to the outskirts of the city where she walked along a canal into the woods. The technicians have identified where she stopped by triangulating signals from her mobile phone. A team of police reached the location twenty minutes ago—a ruined farmhouse in a clearing above a weir.” The detective hesitates. “They discovered three stone cairns arranged around the clearing.”
My hand flies to my mouth as my mind collapses inwards like a house of cards accosted by an open door.
“Graves,” I whisper.
“It’s too early to speculate.” says MacAteer. “Forensic teams are on their way.”
“She’s taken other babies,” I say, looking at Cyrus. “You predicted this.”
“We shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”
My mouth has gone dry. “Is she going to kill Ben?”
“They may be miscarriages.”
“Three of them?”
“Christ!” says Jack, leaning his head against the wall.
My mood has been swinging wildly between elation and despair. Suddenly it plunges again. We must find her. We have to get Ben back.
At the same time, I’m torn between two opposing desires. One part of me wants to force Agatha to run, giving her nowhere to hide. Another part of me knows that she needs to find somewhere warm and safe to shelter my baby for another night.
I am trapped between these two thoughts—willing her onwards, yet hoping she fails.
AGATHA
* * *
December cold, I shiver through the last hour, hugging Rory tightly to my chest, keeping him warm. Crouching behind rubbish bins, I watch Mr. Patel lock up the supermarket and leave through the rear door, twirling his keys on his forefinger as he walks down the alleyway to his Mercedes.
A dark-colored cat streaks out from behind the bins, chasing something smaller and equally dark. I almost scream and drop Rory, whose eyes pop open. He doesn’t cry. Such a good boy. I’ve given him another dose of antibiotics, squirting the medicine in the back of his mouth so he didn’t cough it up. He’s hungry, but I have nothing to feed him unless I get inside.
Keeping to the shadows, I reach the dead-bolted door and lift a loose brick at the base of the wall. The key is attached to a plastic fob and is meant for whichever employee is tasked with opening up each morning.
Feeling for the lock, I stab at it blindly, knowing that once inside I will have about twenty seconds to get to the control panel and punch in the code to deactivate the alarm.
The key slides into place and turns. The door opens and I hear the first shrill pre-alarm beeps, getting louder as I approach the panel. My hands are so cold I hit the wrong code. I cancel the attempt and try again. How long do I have left? Ten seconds? Five? Unless the code has been changed?
I’m halfway through the sequence of numbers when sound explodes around me and the lights begin flashing, illuminating every aisle of the supermarket. I hit the last number. Enter. Silence. I must have woken half of Barnes.
I look down an aisle through the front windows at the street beyond. A red bus passes. An elderly couple, out walking their dog, glance into the supermarket and keep going.
Rory lets out a muffled sob from beneath my coat. I carry him inside and lock the door. The heating has gone off but there’s enough residual warmth in the supermarket to shrug off my coat. Lifting Rory out of the sling, I rock him back and forth, making shushing sounds, telling him it’s all right. He settles by sucking on my little finger.
The aisles of the supermarket are lit by low-watt security lights, which give everything a yellow-green tinge. I’m going to be visible to anyone passing outside. I get changed into a smock left behind by one of the staff and move along the aisles, collecting nappies, wipes, baby powder, formula, and bottles. It’s not until I see the shelves full of crisps, biscuits, and chocolate bars that I realize my own hunger.
Using the staff kettle to boil water, I sterilize two bottles and make up formula, wedging a bottle in the freezer between the frozen peas and oven chips, trying to cool it down. I check on it every few minutes, testing the temperature.
In the meantime, I clean and change Rory, checking for any signs of a rash. Dr. Schur said he was underweight and malnourished, but that’s not my fault. I’ve tried to feed him. I did everything they said in the books.
Sitting on sacks of rice, I feed Rory, who finishes a whole bottle, sucking on air to get the last drops. I burp him against my shoulder, praying that the milk stays down. He doesn’t fall asleep immediately. He watches me as I make another two bottles in case we have to leave in a hurry.
I find a steak-and-mushroom pie in the freezer cabinet and use the microwave in the storeroom to thaw it out. I cook it up with a packet of frozen vegetables and serve my feast on a paper plate with plastic cutlery. Scanning the shelves, I find the most expensive bottle of red wine and open that as well, raising a glass to Mr. Patel and toasting his generosity.
“This is the life, isn’t it?” I say to Rory, who watches me eat. “Wouldn’t it be nice to stay here forever?”
I know that’s impossible. At six in the morning someone will show up to open the supermarket and the deliveries will begin—the bread and milk and newspapers. At six thirty the doors will open and the early risers will drift in, picking up supplies on their way to work.
“I feel like something sweet,” I say to Rory, whose eyes are growing heavy. I walk to the freezer chest and open the sliding lid, perusing the tubs of premium ice cream.
“Will it be Ben & Jerry’s, Häagen-Dazs, or Bessant & Drury’s? Why not try them all?”
I start with three tubs, tasting each one. I’m opening a fourth when someone knocks on the front doors. A young couple, teenagers, are signaling me. They’re both drunk and holding each other up.
“We’re closed,” I yell.
“We need cigarettes,” says the boy, waving a twenty-quid note.
“Try the pub.”
“They kicked us out.”
“Not my problem.”
The girl twists up her face. “Don’t be such a cow. You can open for one minute.”
“Can’t do it. Register’s closed.”
The boy slams his hand against the doors, making them vibrate. He does it again and I have to warn him that I’ll call the police.
He steps back and looks around until he spies a plastic milk crate. Picking it up, he hurls it against the glass, but it bounces off and hits him in the shin. It must hurt, because he’s hopping around. His girlfriend kicks at the door.
“I’m calling the police,” I say, holding up my phone.
“Fat cow!” she replies.
The girl drags her boyfriend away, weaving across the road to the bus stop, flipping off a passing driver who toots his horn.
Pouring another glass of wine, I glance at the magazine covers featuring beautiful women with airbrushed bodies and celebrity couples with varnished lives, who will grow old gracelessly and cling to fame. One of them shows a woman in a bikini and sarong on a white-sand beach, where the azure water matches her eyes. A little boy is playing with a bucket and spade at her feet. I once asked Hayden if he would take me to Tahiti, but he laughed and said I’d get seasick. That was before Rory.
I want to go home. I want to sleep in my bed. I want Hayden’s arms around me and to hear him say that he loves me. We were so happy together. We could have been a great couple, envied by others, like Jack and Meghan. Not perfect, I realize that now, but worth preserving. A marriage should have children. It’s hard enough to keep one together even with a child. Without them, I don’t know if it’s possible. I saw that with Nicky—how the joy and spontaneity and laughter went out of our marriage when he was forced to wank into a cup while I was prodded, poked, and inseminated with my legs in stirrups and a stranger’s hands touching me.
Rory is asleep. I run my finger down his cheek and across his parted lips, knowing how little time we have left. There’s nowhere we can hide. I don’t have the money or the anonymity. I don’t have the energy.
Curling up on the floor next to Rory, using my coat as a blanket, I try to sleep and dream of Tahiti—the warm water and soft breeze and my little boy playing in the sand. Everything scares me—the traffic outside, the creaking of the roof, and the silence. The creature has won. He knows that. He is feasting on my inner organs, enjoying his last supper.
MEGHAN
* * *
Trapped between wakefulness and terrible dreams, I toss and turn, occasionally opening my eyes, hoping for morning to appear beyond the window. The curtains remain dark and the city sleeps.
At some point I get out of bed and walk through the quiet house. Jack is sleeping in an undersized bed in the newly decorated nursery.
“Are you awake?” I whisper.
“Uh-huh,” Jack says, mumbling into his pillow.
I sit next to him. The bed sags. “What are you thinking about?”
“Same as you.”
“Do you think he’s all right?”
“I hope so.”
The curtains are open and the branches cast shadows on the wall.
“Are you sure we can survive this?” I ask. “Maybe we’re not meant to stay together.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why did you sleep with Rhea Bowden?”
“Because I am monumentally stupid.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He takes a deep breath. I feel his chest expand and contract. “I wish I could tell you.”
“I can make it a multiple-choice question. Was it a midlife crisis? Boredom? Did you stop loving me?”
“No, no, never that.”
“She’s not younger than me. She’s not prettier.” My voice is growing strident. “Explain it to me?”
“She was there,” he whispers.
“What?”
“Rhea Bowden. She was there.”
“Mount Everest is there. You could have mounted that.”
“I don’t love her. I never did.”
“Oh, so it was just sex.” My sarcasm stings him. He shifts uncomfortably. I catch the scent of his deodorant and the warm fug of his body. “I’m giving you a chance to explain.”
He turns to face me, propping his head on his hand. “It was exciting at first. Frightening. Different. You and I had stopped talking to each other.”
“We talk all the time.”
“We talk about bills and expenses and kids, but not about each other. We don’t share our intimate thoughts anymore. We don’t talk about the future or laugh about the past. I used to believe that life was leading somewhere, but it’s not, is it? This is it! We’re simply existing.”
“And Rhea Bowden changed that?”
“No. I thought she might, but I was being stupid.” He reaches across the bedspread and touches my hand. I pull it away.
“Every time I think of you with that woman . . .”
“Don’t, then.”
“How do we get beyond this?”
“We start again. We do it for Lucy and Lachlan and Ben. We owe it to them.”
He reaches for my hand. I let him take it. “Every word I said at the church was true. I think you’re truly remarkable. And whatever happens—whether we’re together or apart—I will always love you.”
I pull back the covers and slide onto the narrow bed next to him. His arms close around me and we spoon as though trying to mold our bodies into one.
“This doesn’t mean you’re forgiven.”
“I know.”
I notice a suitcase on the floor and a pile of Jack’s clothes.
“Are you leaving me?”
“I didn’t know if you wanted me to stay.”
“I thought maybe you had already gone.”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
AGATHA
* * *
I wake with a start, frightened that I might have overslept. The clock on the microwave says 5:14. I touch Rory’s forehead. He doesn’t stir. The fever has gone. Getting stiffly to my feet, I put on my coat and warm a bottle in the microwave.
Rory’s mouth opens at the touch of the teat and he sucks automatically, taking the whole bottle. I change his nappy again and pack a few spares. The clock says 5:40. I have another fifteen minutes.
Mr. Patel’s secret place is a drawer beneath the cash register. It’s where he stores the mobile SIM cards and lottery scratch cards and the cash float for the registers. He keeps a spare key in the broom cupboard so that whoever opens up each morning has cash for the register.
Unlocking the drawer, I take a handful of SIM cards and the bundle of banknotes, leaving the coins behind. Reaching farther into the drawer, my fingers search for something heavy, wrapped in an oily cloth. The gun. The one Mr. Patel boasts about and shows to new employees, hoping to impress them. The gun he doesn’t like to use. My fingers close around the handle. I draw it out, unwrapping the cloth, weighing the pistol in my hand. I spend a few moments identifying the safety catch and how to remove the magazine. The knot inside my chest seems to loosen. I have options now. I won’t be bullied or rushed. I will decide how this ends.
