Close My Eyes

by Sophie McKenzie

  ‘I’ll go to Hen’s,’ I say. ‘Would you drop me off?’

  ‘Sure.’

  I call to check this is okay with Hen, ignoring the five missed calls from Art that flash up on my phone as soon as I switch it on.

  ‘I won’t get in the way,’ I say to her. ‘I just want to sit and chill.’

  ‘You could never be in the way, Gen.’ Hen is speaking with characteristic warmth, but I can also hear the concern in her voice. I feel sure she has already heard about my latest outburst from Art. ‘We can talk properly when Nat goes to bed.’

  ‘Okay.’ I’m still not sure how much to say to Hen. Part of me can’t bear the prospect of opening up, knowing how she and Art have been talking about me. Part of me is desperate to convince her that I’m not imagining that Beth was born alive – that the man who attacked and threatened me is, like the CCTV footage, proof of a terrible crime. As soon as I’ve finished the call I turn my phone onto silent. On the way to Hen’s house, I explain to Lorcan exactly what the police said. The anger and the despair of my encounter with DS Manning are gone now. I’m strangely calm, in fact. So the police aren’t going to help me. At least I know where I stand. I’m on my own . . . wholly responsible for what comes next.

  Hen’s house is in uproar when I arrive. It sounds like she’s set up a crèche in her living room, though, in fact, the noise is emanating from just two kids: Nat and his friend, Josh, who have created a camp with sofas and blankets for tents. The room is one of those knock-through jobs with two fireplaces. Hen has decorated with chunky modern couches, two of which are currently covered with blankets. I’m still not used to her living somewhere so grand. Most of the time I’ve known her she’s survived in a succession of bedsits, getting by on a combination of luck, charm and indulgent landlords.

  I glance over at the bookshelves, where Hen’s English-degree novels sit side by side with Rob’s extensive collection of classic-car magazines. They only moved here last year and the house is still settling around them, their possessions not yet properly merged. Or maybe all Hen’s stuff just stands out to me because I’ve known her for so long.

  Right now, she’s flushed and harassed. I follow her into the kitchen and listen to her complaints about Josh’s manners for five minutes, while she takes two cartons of organic juice out of the fridge and forgets to make the cup of tea she offered me at the front door.

  At last she quietens down and puts the kettle on. The kitchen we’re sitting in is Hen’s dream room, from the mottled granite work surface to the pale green kitchen cupboards. The dying light outside glows off the aquamarine mosaic splash-back, casting shadows across Nat’s latest paintings that adorn the walls.

  When I close my eyes I can still feel the mugger’s grip around my neck. And yet, in Hen’s cosy kitchen, it feels like the attack happened years ago.

  ‘I’m sorry about the chaos, Gen,’ Hen says with a sigh, sinking into the chair opposite me. Shrieks of laughter drift towards us from the living room. Hen leans forward, her forehead creased with a frown. ‘I feel so awkward,’ she says. ‘Art keeps calling me. He was on the phone just before you rang earlier.’ She stops, catching the irritation that must have flickered across my face. ‘Gen, please don’t think we’re talking behind your back. He’s only calling me because he loves you so much and he’s worried about you. He says you’re convinced now that he stole Beth away from you just after she was born. Is that really true, Gen? Do you seriously think he’s capable of doing that?’

  I don’t know. I gaze into her eyes and my irritation dissolves. This is just Hen and me and she’s my oldest friend. Of course Art has turned to her – he knows that I turn to her. And if I can’t trust Hen, who can I trust?

  I open my mouth to tell her about the CCTV footage and how I was just mugged outside Art’s office, when Nat appears in the doorway asking for his and Josh’s drinks. Hen shoots me an apologetic look, then crosses the room to retrieve the juice cartons. Nat hovers in the doorway, watching me in that slightly detached way he has. He’s a miniature version of Hen in terms of both his pale colouring and the shock of wild, frizzy hair that frames his heart-shaped face. I still can’t look at Nat without remembering the darkness of the time surrounding his birth. And yet, the older he gets, the more I have learned to love him. He seems to carry all Hen’s best qualities – openness, charm and affection – but with an undertow of kindness and a genuinely sweet nature.

  Hen hands over the juice cartons and Nat trots away. If Beth hadn’t been taken away from me, then it might have been her and Nat playing camps in the living room. I wonder what Hen would have made of my daughter . . . whether Beth would have been as like me as Nat is like her . . .

  Then it strikes me . . . if Beth is still alive, then maybe she already is like me.

  Hen sits back down in her chair. ‘Go on,’ she says.

  ‘I found a film,’ I say slowly. ‘A film that shows Art with our baby.’

  Hen frowns. ‘How is that possible?’

  I explain about the CCTV footage from the Fair Angel hospital.

  ‘Art claims it was faked but—’

  ‘It must be,’ Hen interrupts. ‘There’s no other explanation.’

  ‘No, the film shows the nurse at the birth – Mary Duncan – actually handing Beth to Art. He—’

  ‘But you said you couldn’t remember what she looked like,’ Hen interrupts again. ‘When her sister came to see you, you said you couldn’t be sure the picture she showed you was the actual nurse from the hospital. I remember you saying that.’

  ‘I know,’ I concede. ‘But when I saw the film I did recognize her. And then I was mugged and the man who mugged me threatened me. He said I would end up like Lucy O’Donnell if I didn’t stop asking questions about Beth.’

  I stare into Hen’s eyes, hoping to see her look of bewilderment turn to an acknowledgement that this, at last, is proof that I am right – that Beth was stolen away from me. But all I see in Hen’s expression is fear – and pity.

  ‘Oh, Gen.’ She reaches across the table and takes my hand. ‘Gen, I’m so sorry, but where is that film now?’

  ‘The man who mugged me took it.’ I stare at her. Hasn’t she understood what I’ve been saying?

  Hen’s whole face crumples with concern. ‘Oh, Gen . . .’

  She squeezes my hand and I suddenly realize what she’s thinking. I can’t believe it. I stand up, pulling my hand away.

  ‘You think I’ve imagined all this?’ My voice cracks. How can Hen think I am that paranoid? That deluded? That sick?

  She doesn’t deny my question. She stands too, clasping her hands together – a supplicating gesture. ‘Please, Gen, don’t be angry. I don’t think you’re doing any of this deliberately. I just think you’ve been fragile for a long time and this woman turning up and telling you Beth is alive has tipped you over the edge. It’s not your fault, it could happen to anyone. Me and Art are—’

  ‘You and Art.’ My voice is hard and brittle. It stops her in her tracks.

  ‘Not like that.’ Her eyes widen, appalled. ‘It’s only because we love you, Gen.’

  ‘Right.’ For a second I’m faltering, sucked into the possibility that Art and Hen are right and I am, in fact, insane, imagining everything, from the film to the attack in the street to those threatening words that still echo in my ears.

  Stop raking up ancient history, or the same thing will happen to you.

  And then I remember that it’s not just me who has seen the film.

  ‘Lorcan Byrne saw the CCTV too,’ I said. ‘His son opened the file for us. He saw Art taking Beth away.’

  Hen shakes her head sadly. ‘How do you know it wasn’t Lorcan who faked the CCTV?’ she says.

  The idea spins like a knife in my head. I have a sudden flashback to a party, the year I met Art, where the two of us were among a group playing ‘truth or dare’. I spun the bottle. It pointed at Art.

  ‘Truth or dare?’ I’d asked.

  ‘Truth.’ He met my eyes
, unafraid, and I ran over possible questions in rapid succession, discarding each one in turn as too cheesy or too silly.

  ‘Can I trust you?’ The words spilled out of me, unbidden. The atmosphere tightened as everyone looked at Art. We had only been together a few months and I had, I realized, just exposed more of my feelings than I’d meant to.

  Art held my gaze, his look so intense that the rest of the room faded away.

  ‘With your life,’ he said.

  For a second we had stared at each other and, in that moment, I gave up my heart, knowing that he would one day ask me to marry him and that I would say yes.

  ‘Gen?’ Hen touches my arm.

  I come back to the present. I’m standing in Hen’s designer kitchen and she thinks Lorcan Byrne faked the CCTV footage of Art taking Beth away.

  ‘Lorcan’s an actor who knows a bit about carpentry,’ I say. ‘He wouldn’t have a clue how to fake a film.’

  Hen rolls her eyes. ‘He must know people who would – people in the film business.’

  I think of Lorcan’s son, Cal. He managed to decrypt the file. I guess it’s possible he could have faked it.

  ‘Or maybe Lorcan’s just humouring you,’ Hen goes on gently. ‘Maybe he’s agreeing that the film shows something it doesn’t so that you’ll rely on him more.’

  I feel sick. ‘Why would he bother to do that?’ I ask, though I know what she’s going to say.

  ‘Gen, you’ve heard his reputation,’ Hen says with a sigh.

  I step away from her. I don’t want to hear any more. I still feel sick. My head is a battleground of conflicting thoughts and feelings. I came here so I wouldn’t have to think, but Hen is making everything worse. I want to turn around and walk out, but I can’t bear Hen thinking I’m mentally ill.

  ‘It’s not just the film and the attack,’ I say, my hands defiantly on my hips. ‘What about the money I told you about? The fifty grand Art paid out just after Beth?’

  ‘Come on, Gen,’ Hen groans. ‘That was to Manage Debt Online. It can’t have anything to do with Beth.’

  I stare at her. ‘Manage Debt Online?’ My heart seems to freeze in my chest. ‘How do you know that’s who he paid?’

  Hen meets my gaze. ‘You told me, Gen.’

  ‘I told you MDO,’ I say, my voice rising. A new panic swirls in my head. What does Hen know? She spoke just then with assurance, like she was stating a fact. A fact she couldn’t have got from me. ‘I told you the initials because they were all that was written on the bank statement.’

  Hen is now staring at me as if I’m totally crazy. ‘But MDO stands for Manage Debt Online, doesn’t it?’ she says.

  ‘No . . . I don’t know . . . Hen, what do you know about this?’ The sunlight outside the kitchen window is fading. A thin shadow falls across Hen’s face. She crosses the room and switches on the lamp on the dresser. I stare down at my cup of tea, cold now, on the kitchen table.

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ Hen insists. ‘I just assumed MDO stood for that loan company.’

  ‘But Art said he couldn’t remember . . . that MDO was some business transaction . . . a payment for a client . . .’

  ‘Well, it probably was then,’ Hen goes on. ‘Clients have debts . . . Manage Debt Online only processes transactions over the internet . . . perhaps this client asked Art to pay the debt through one of the Loxley Benson accounts . . .’

  ‘How do you know about this . . . this Manage Debt Online . . .?’

  Hen blushes. ‘I heard about them once,’ she says vaguely. ‘Back when I had big debts, remember?’

  ‘Yes, of course I remember. But still . . .’

  ‘Jesus, Gen, maybe I’m wrong,’ Hen says. ‘Maybe MDO stands for something else. But I’m certain it’s got nothing to do with Art paying anyone to lie about Beth. That makes no sense at all.’

  I start to doubt myself, then I remember the mugger’s hot breath in my ear. He threatened me. Lucy O’Donnell was murdered. I have seen the film of my baby with Art.

  I chew the skin around the nail on my middle finger.

  ‘Gen, please?’ Hen’s voice wobbles slightly.

  How would she know about MDO? She didn’t suggest MDO was a debt company just now, she was sure of it. How is that possible, unless she has been talking to Art about it all behind my back?

  I can’t trust her. The knowledge settles on my chest. A dead weight.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say, more to myself than to Hen. Though it’s not okay. I’m living in a nightmare.

  Hen nods, apparently reassured, then the doorbell rings. ‘That’ll be Josh’s mum to pick him up.’ She hesitates. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Of course.’ I force a smile. ‘Go.’

  Hen disappears. I fish out my phone. There are more missed calls and voicemails from Art. I ignore these and Google Manage Debt Online. The company doesn’t appear to exist any more, at least under that name, but I find a newspaper article referring to it as a “loan-shark firm”. I shake my head. Was Art in debt eight years ago? Is that what the payment I found was about? Is that why Art refuses to talk about it? That would explain why the payment was in a file marked ‘Personal’.

  I rest my head in my hands and close my eyes. I can hear Hen chatting at the door. She’s apologizing for not inviting Josh’s mum inside. Josh himself is grumbling about having to leave.

  Maybe Hen’s right . . . maybe it’s a coincidence that Art paid money to MDO just after Beth.

  My phone, still on silent, lights up. It’s a text from Lorcan.

  Just checking you’re okay.

  I hesitate for a second. Out in the hall Josh is continuing to make a fuss about going home. Both kids and both mums are talking. Loudly.

  I call Lorcan. ‘Hi,’ I say softly.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  The sound of his voice calms me. I know I’m latching on to him because I’m feeling so vulnerable, but right now I feel safer with him than I do with Art – and more sure that he’s not hiding anything from me than I can be with Hen.

  ‘Do you fancy an early dinner?’ I whisper, suddenly desperate to get away from Hen’s house, from the domesticity and the pity. ‘No talk about Beth, tonight, I promise. Just dinner.’

  ‘Sure.’ If Lorcan is surprised at my change of heart, he doesn’t show it. He says he’ll come straight over to pick me up.

  ‘I’ll be waiting at the end of the road.’ I ring off.

  Out in the hall, the front door shuts. I can hear Hen talking, trying to usher Nat upstairs. ‘I know, but your hands are filthy,’ she’s saying.

  I should go out there and tell her I’m leaving. If she really does think I’m deranged, my running off will only feed her suspicions. But my instincts are telling me that she is hiding something. Which must mean she’s somehow involved.

  Two sets of footsteps on the stairs indicate Hen has taken Nat up to the bathroom. I grab a pen from the pot on the side and scribble a note on the back of an envelope lying by the toaster.

  Had to go. Sorry not to say goodbye. Gen x

  Then I rush away. My heart’s beating fast as I scuttle along the street. How has my life come to this? It occurs to me in a moment of grim humour that if I wasn’t insane before I’m certainly being driven mad now.

  Maybe that’s what they all want.

  I reach the end of Hen’s road and turn the corner so I’m out of sight of her house. I’m sure Hen will try and call me. Art too. I switch off my mobile and shove it deep into the bottom of my bag. As I lean against a lamp post, waiting for Lorcan, a single thought settles in my head: I’m not going to give up until I know about Beth for sure. However hard this gets, whatever I end up finding out and no matter what it costs, I’m following this through to the end. It’s no longer about the past, it’s about the future . . . it’s about tracking my daughter down. It’s time to focus on where Beth is now . . . to stop trying to find evidence she didn’t die, and just find her.

  I feel better. This, surely, is a plan.
I can work from this point, looking at the records of births in the area where I had my baby. If she was adopted by another family, there must be paper-work . . . a cover story . . . I can check the local press and the internet for tales of babies born in suspicious circumstances. It’s not much, but it’s a start. It’s something to build on.

  A few minutes later Lorcan pulls up. It’s a relief to sit inside his warm Audi and see his smiling face. ‘You okay?’ he asks.

  ‘No.’ I make a face. ‘But I don’t want to talk about it now.’

  And we don’t. I ask Lorcan more about his acting job in Cork while we drive north, to a restaurant he suggests in Finchley. He confesses that it’s a limited part, that he feels trapped by the show’s success.

  As we leave the car, the wind whips up. I lean against Lorcan’s arm. I have that sense I experienced before that his presence makes everything possible. I will find Beth. We sit down at a table in the window and I suddenly realize I’ve barely eaten all day. I order a steak.

  ‘Tell me about your dad,’ Lorcan says, as he pours us each a glass of wine.

  ‘He was an alcoholic.’ I trace around the base of the salt cellar on the table. ‘Vodka mostly. But a functioning, happy drunk. At least in front of me he was.’

  I stop, remembering how Dad would turn up and transform my dull, black-and-white world of school lessons and Brownie meetings into glorious technicolour, bursting with opportunity.

  ‘He once just whisked me off to Stonehenge on a school night. “For an adventure,” he said. That was what he was like with me. He made everything fun.’

  ‘And yet he killed himself?’ Lorcan says.

  ‘No.’ I feel a visceral revulsion at the idea. ‘He didn’t kill himself. He just drank too much.’

  Lorcan raises his eyebrows and I have a flashback to my first day at university. Mum had dropped me off and we’d argued, as usual. She’d driven away and I’d sat in my tiny student room, gazing out of the window, watching the other dads hugging their daughters goodbye and hauling their cases and boxes inside their rooms. For a single, terrifying moment it had struck me that by choosing to drink to the point where it killed him, my dad had taken all those ordinary experiences away from us. From me. Not because he was glamorous and exciting and important – as I’d thought for so long – but because he was weak and sad and sick.