Close My Eyes

by Sophie McKenzie

  The young mum shakes her head and retreats. ‘Sorry, no.’

  Lorcan and I silently turn and walk to the next house. And the next. Neither of us suggests splitting up again to cover more houses. And then, five doors down, we get our first break.

  A middle-aged woman answers. She blinks as soon as Lorcan mentions Rodriguez’s name.

  Lorcan stops. I know he’s seen the recognition in her eyes too.

  ‘D’you know him?’ I say. ‘Doctor Rodriguez?’

  The woman stares at me.

  ‘Please.’ I meet her gaze. ‘When we said he was an old friend, well, the truth is I was his patient a few years ago. I lost my baby and . . . and he always said that if I needed to speak to him he’d make the time. I know he’d want me to find him. It broke his heart too when I lost her . . . he was so kind to me and we’ve come all this way and I can’t believe we’ve lost all the contact details and . . . please . . .’ I run out of breath, my voice cracking with emotion.

  Lorcan puts his arm around my shoulders. His fingers absently stroke the top of my arm. My shoulder breaks out in goose bumps.

  ‘Any help you can give us would be very gratefully received.’ Lorcan hugs me to him. ‘My wife and I have been through a lot, as I’m sure you can imagine. We’re hoping to get some closure, that’s all.’

  My face reddens at the lie. I can’t meet the woman’s gaze any more, so I stare at the ground, watching her out of the corner of my eye.

  The woman gazes thoughtfully at Lorcan. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘I’m not sure, but I think I’ve seen him in the pub.’

  I glance over my shoulder, towards the pub across the green, where our enquiries drew a total blank.

  ‘Not that pub,’ the woman says. ‘The Star. It’s a couple of minutes away.’

  She points up the long road that leads away from the green in the opposite direction to the streets we’ve already searched. ‘The Star’s up the road. Other end of the village.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say gratefully.

  The woman nods and, as she shuts her front door, Lorcan slowly takes his arm from around my shoulders.

  I button up my jacket and adjust my beanie hat. The anxiety that’s been circling inside my stomach for the past few hours tightens into a knot. This, at last, is a proper lead.

  I sip, slowly, at my second mineral water. It’s well past 6 p.m. and Lorcan and I are sitting alone in a corner of The Star, looking out over the rest of the pub. Right now there’s only one person tending bar – a grumpy old guy who shook his head when we asked if he’d seen Dr Rodriguez recently. A few people have trickled in and out but no one, so far, who has heard of the doctor.

  Art rang earlier. I didn’t answer. He left a message saying he was going to try and get home early tonight. I felt guilty doing it, but I sent a text saying not to worry, that I was meeting up with ‘the girls’ in town and that I’d see him later. I carefully didn’t specify which ‘girls’, in case one of my friends randomly decides to phone the house later.

  In the pub, the clock above the fireplace ticks slowly on. Another thirty minutes pass and the light fades from the day outside. Lorcan and I read the newspapers left out on the bar in companionable silence. An older woman turns up and, from the way they speak to each other, I’m certain she’s married to Mr Grumpy who served us earlier. The woman serves a pint then bends over the sink, rinsing glasses. Mr Grumpy grunts something at her and disappears out the back. I catch Lorcan’s eye and we stroll over.

  ‘Quiet night?’ Lorcan says.

  The woman looks up. She’s got short, dyed brown hair with an inch of grey roots showing. There’s a fixed smile on her face but I can see the sadness of a stale marriage behind her eyes.

  ‘This is a great place,’ Lorcan says, leaning against the bar. ‘I’d expect it to be busier.’

  The woman raises her eyebrows. ‘It’s always quiet first half of the week,’ she says, then glances across at me. ‘Would you two like some food? I’ve done chilli pots tonight.’ She smiles, a warmer, more genuine smile than before. ‘That’s what brings in the punters, to be honest. We don’t offer choice but we do offer quality.’

  ‘Maybe later,’ I say.

  Beside me Lorcan nods. ‘I’ll take one.’

  ‘We were hoping we might bump into Martin Rodriguez,’ I said. ‘We drove up from London to see him but I stupidly left all his contact details at home and he’s ex-directory, so . . .’

  ‘Oh, Martin’ll be in later all right,’ the woman says with another smile.

  My heart skips a beat, but I just smile back.

  ‘Yes?’ I say enquiringly,

  ‘Oh, yes,’ the woman says. ‘He eats here most nights. I reckon he gets lonely rattling around that big house of his. Told me once I saved him a fortune on housekeepers. I thought he was joking, but you never know with Martin.’ She lets out a throaty giggle, which transforms her face, softening her features and taking at least ten years off her age. I have a flashback to my first meeting with Dr Rodriguez – and how impressed I was by the charismatic authority he exuded.

  ‘So how do you know Martin?’ the woman asks.

  The question is innocent enough, but I can hear the hint of ownership at its edges.

  ‘He used to be my doctor,’ I say. ‘A long time ago. We knew he lived around here and . . .’ I dry up, unsure which fibs about Rodriguez, if any, I’ve already told in this particular pub.

  ‘I think he’s mentioned you actually.’ Lorcan comes to my rescue. ‘Don’t you remember? Martin told us about the excellent food here once.’

  I find myself nodding in acquiescence. The woman behind the bar looks pleased and I supposed I should be pleased too. Lorcan’s help is making this very easy for me. And yet the lies he’s told trip off his tongue astoundingly easily and, at the back of my mind, I’m aware that this is not exactly a reassuring personality trait.

  ‘So is Martin’s house near here?’ I ask, trying to sound as casual as possible. ‘I’ve got absolutely no sense of direction.’

  ‘Sure,’ she says. ‘Just a few minutes up the hill.’ She smiles. ‘I guess you heard about the fuss the local council made about those lion statues of his. Personally they’re not my kind of thing, but it’s his land so we backed his bid to keep them.’

  I nod, wondering what on earth she’s talking about.

  ‘I’ll order a chilli pot for you, sir.’

  We watch her disappear into the back room then Lorcan places his hand on my arm.

  ‘She’s totally assumed that we’re married,’ he says in a low voice. ‘Play along with it.’

  I can feel myself blushing, but before I can respond the door behind us bangs open and a familiar voice drifts towards us on the sliver of cold air from outside.

  ‘Cold tonight, no?’ It’s Dr Rodriguez.

  I freeze. After all this time, all this effort, to track him down, he’s finally here.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The sound of Dr Rodriguez’s voice brings it all back – the excitement of my initial appointment . . . the tension as I got ready for the emergency C-section . . . the clock on the wall that was the first thing I saw when I came round, all woozy still from the general anaesthetic, then Art’s sad eyes as he spoke to me: I’m so sorry, we lost her.

  I feel Lorcan tense up beside me. I turn slowly. Rodriguez is greeting someone in the corner of the pub. Taking off his coat.

  I walk over in a daze. Lorcan and I rehearsed what we were going to say in the car, but I suddenly can’t remember a word. My heart is pounding as I reach the doctor. He’s still chatting to some old guy in a pork-pie hat. The old guy’s seen us, but Rodriguez is folding up his coat and laying it carefully on a seat. His fingers are long and brown and manicured.

  I’m standing inches away from him. He straightens up. Senses me. Turns.

  He’s as tall and lean as I remember, but that handsome, angular face is less tired-looking. His eyes register shock, then concerned recognition. Is that concern coming from guilt?
Shame? Or just bewilderment?

  ‘Mrs Loxley, isn’t it?’ His voice is carefully light as he offers his hand for me to shake. ‘What . . . what are you doing here?’ His eyes drift to Lorcan, standing to my right.

  I keep my own gaze locked on Rodriguez’s face. He has a moustache now – a thin pencil line – and a tiny goatee. They make him look even more dashing and authoritative than he did whenI first met him.

  ‘I was hoping I’d find you,’ I say, trying to stop my voice from shaking. ‘I . . . I’d like to talk to you about Beth.’

  Rodriguez nods slowly. His mouth trembles – just a fraction, but it gives away how shocked he is to see me. He moves his coat off the seat and indicates I should sit down. Lorcan is already sitting on the chair on the other side of the table. The old guy in the pork-pie hat has vanished.

  Rodriguez is still staring at me. ‘Is Mr Loxley . . .?’ He clears his throat. ‘Does Mr Loxley know you’re here?’

  I shake my head. Rodriguez looks at Lorcan: a long, full look. Then he turns back to me. This time the question is only in his eyes: who the hell is he?

  I choose to ignore it. My throat is dry. I swallow and take a deep breath.

  ‘I wonder if you would tell me what happened that day . . .’

  Rodriguez looks down and runs his hand along the table between us.

  ‘Mrs Loxley, you know how terribly sorry I was . . . I am . . . for your loss, but this is not the time or the place to . . .’

  ‘Please, I just want to hear what happened. The sequence of events.’

  ‘There’s not much to say that we haven’t said . . .’

  ‘Please,’ I insist.

  Rodriguez shifts in his seat. He looks uncomfortable.

  ‘Okay,’ he sighs. ‘You came in for a routine check. I did the scan myself because we had to wait for a machine and by the time one came free the radiographer had gone. I saw straightaway that the baby had died in utero so we decided to perform an emergency C-section. We acted immediately, which was at your and your husband’s insistence. I know how much you suffered but I can assure you the whole experience was also horrible for me and for the theatre staff involved.’

  ‘But most of them left,’ I interrupt. ‘Most of them came down with food poisoning while they were inside the operating theatre.’

  Rodriguez looks momentarily taken aback. Then he nods. ‘Three people out of the entire team were taken ill, that’s true, but there was only a short gap before substitute medical staff replaced them. My memory on the exact timing of that is hazy, but it was only a few minutes and I definitely had assistance when I worked on you after the C-section. You were in no danger at any time. And there was nothing that could have been done for your baby anyway.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us that staff were missing when you delivered my baby? Did you even tell the hospital directors?’

  Rodriguez clears his throat. ‘As I said, nothing untoward happened as a result of their absence. After the C-section was complete I went outside and spoke to your husband. He insisted on seeing your baby though I advised against it. Afterwards, we both agreed you should not see her yourself. Then we waited for you to come round in the recovery room.’ Rodriguez wipes his hand across his forehead. He is sweating despite the fact that we are on the other side of the room from the open fire. ‘That’s it. There is simply nothing else to say other than how sorry I am for your loss.’

  I glance at Lorcan. His gaze is fixed on Rodriguez.

  I turn back, my heart sinking. All this way and I’ve learned nothing. What did I expect? That Rodriguez was going to crumble and admit he faked my daughter’s death? That he let Art sell her on somewhere?

  I push my chair back and stand up as the woman from behind the bar appears with a pot of steaming chilli and a basket of bread on a tray.

  She sets the tray down in front of Lorcan.

  ‘I see you found Martin,’ she says pleasantly. ‘Martin, are you eating?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Rodriguez rises. His face is impassive. The woman wanders back to the bar. Rodriguez gathers his coat. ‘I’m afraid I’ve just remembered I’m . . . I have to be somewhere.’

  ‘Did anyone ever offer you money to lie to me about my baby?’ The words shoot out of my mouth like bullets.

  For a split second Rodriguez’s eyes fill with panic. ‘Money? Lie to you? No,’ he says. ‘No, of course not. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Excuse me, I really do have to go.’

  He heads to the door. He’s walking fast, but the man in the pork-pie hat has blocked his way, his face wreathed in a cheerful, drunken smile.

  ‘Did you see how shaken he was?’ I whisper.

  Lorcan nods. He glances down at his bowl of chilli, picks up a hunk of bread and tears off a strip. ‘And now look,’ he whispers back. ‘He can’t wait to get out of here. Although . . .’ He pauses. ‘You did virtually accuse him of lying to you, so . . .’

  I bite my lip. Rodriguez is, indeed, shuffling from foot to foot at the door, but the pork-pie-hat man is still standing in his way, urging him to stay.

  ‘We have to do something,’ I hiss.

  Lorcan raises his eyebrows, a strip of chilli-smothered bread halfway to his mouth. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Follow him.’ My heart beats fast. ‘Rodriguez knows something. You saw his face.’

  As I finish speaking, Rodriguez walks out of the pub at last.

  I stand up.

  Lorcan stares at me. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The shock on Lorcan’s face gives way to grim determination. ‘Okay.’ He stands up.

  I grab my coat and head for the door. It’s dark outside; the cold air slices at my cheeks. It must have dropped five degrees since we came into the pub.

  Rodriguez is clearly visible, pacing briskly up the hill away from us, shoulders hunched against the cold. I glance around. Where is Lorcan? I hesitate, buttoning my coat up to the neck. He still hasn’t emerged from the pub. Rodriguez is halfway up the hill. What on earth is Lorcan doing? Gritting my teeth, I set off. I can’t risk losing Rodriguez. A moment later he vanishes over the brow of the hill. I speed up. Footsteps sound behind me.

  ‘Gen?’ Lorcan calls softly.

  I glance over my shoulder as he runs up. A smear of chilli to the left of his mouth glistens in the light of the street lamp.

  ‘Where were you?’ I whisper.

  ‘Paying for the chilli,’ he pants, wiping his mouth. ‘Where’s Rodriguez?’

  I point over the hill. We’re still not close enough to the top to see over to the other side. Rodriguez might have taken a turning by now. My heart lurches into my mouth and I break into a run.

  A few strides and Rodriguez comes into view again. He’s still on the same road, halfway down the hill now.

  ‘Where d’you think he’s going?’ Lorcan asks.

  ‘I don’t know.’ My breath mists into the air.

  ‘What’s the plan when we get there?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Lorcan offers up a mirthless chuckle.

  Rodriguez turns down a side street. I speed up, determined not to lose him. As Lorcan and I reach the corner ourselves he is disappearing into a driveway.

  ‘Come on.’ I hurry across the road, Lorcan at my side.

  Two huge, ugly stone lions stand on either side of an imposing gate. Rodriguez has already disappeared inside a large, two-storey detached house. Privet hedges criss-cross a front lawn. Beyond these a sleek BMW is parked on a gravel drive. I get a sense of highly manicured flower beds, dark curtains hanging at the windows. The house is ornate, expensive . . .

  I look back at the lion statues. ‘This is his home,’ I say.

  ‘Now what?’ Lorcan stares at me.

  I hesitate. Ringing Rodriguez’s doorbell is clearly not an option. The pub landlady implied that he lived alone, but suppose there’s someone else in the house? What will trying to talk to him again achieve anyway? And yet, if I don’t challenge
him, then he’ll be free to get rid of anything that links him to Beth.

  ‘Let’s just wait a minute,’ I say. A light comes on in an upstairs room to the left of the house.

  We shelter behind the gates watching Rodriguez cross the room. He’s looking at something in his hand. I strain my eyes, but it’s impossible to see what he’s holding. He bends over for a second then straightens up. A moment later he has crossed the room again and the light is switched off.

  I pass through the gates, Lorcan right behind me. My heart is pounding in my chest. I still have no idea what I’m going to do. The front door of the house opens. Lorcan grabs my arm and we duck behind the privet hedge that intersects the front lawn as Rodriguez emerges from the house.

  He crunches across the gravel to his car. A phone is clamped to his ear, his voice carrying easily across the still, cold, night air.

  ‘Yes, she found me here, that’s what I am telling you. She’s with someone.’

  I freeze, Lorcan’s hand still on my arm.

  ‘It’s not her husband. I don’t think he knows she is here.’ Rodriguez is hissing into his phone now. ‘But she knows about the money.’

  My legs threaten to buckle under me.

  Rodriguez opens the car door and gets inside.

  ‘No, it’s safe, I just locked it away, so . . .’ The rest of Rodriguez’s sentence is lost as he slams shut the car door. I huddle behind the hedge as the engine starts and the car roars out of the gravel drive.

  I straighten up and Lorcan lets go of my arm.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he says, peering down the road after Rodriguez’s car.

  I’m in shock, trying to process what I heard. It’s too big to take in. She knows about the money.

  Does this mean Rodriguez did steal Beth away?

  Does this mean Lucy O’Donnell was right and my baby is alive?

  ‘Gen?’ Lorcan frowns, as if he’s already said my name and I haven’t heard him.

  ‘Oh, God, Lorcan . . .’

  ‘Rodriguez was talking about money.’ His frown deepens. ‘Just like you asked him about in the pub. Money to keep quiet, that’s what you said to him, wasn’t it?’