‘No. It’s not just that picture. He’s told me other stuff too. I don’t want to frighten him off.’
I regret saying it as soon as the words have left my mouth. In defending myself I’ve exposed myself to further attack.
‘Why?’ Jill says, adjusting her glasses. ‘What else has he told you?’
I look away from her. I can’t tell her about Esme and Libby.
‘There’s no point,’ I say. ‘You won’t believe it.’
‘No, I certainly won’t.’ Jill sits down next to me. ‘Look, that picture, the things you say he’s told you, it’s all just a question of interpretation. I can see how you might jump to the conclusions you’ve drawn, but to someone else . . . it could mean something completely different.’
I squirm further into the sofa.
‘Such as?’
‘Well,’ says Jill, placing a cushion behind my back, ‘it could mean that Amy is safe and happy in heaven with Jesus.’
‘But he’s got his . . . thing out!’
Jill grimaces.
‘Maybe that’s not what that represents,’ she says. Her eyes dart around the room, as if looking for another feasible explanation. ‘It could just be the light of Jesus showing the way out of darkness.’ She pats my hand. ‘So the fact that the light switch is in the “off” position could be a good thing. An invitation to reach for the light of faith and take comfort from it – even if it does look . . . unfortunate. It’s all a matter of interpretation. Of seeing what you want to see.’
I lean my head against the back of the sofa. Snippets of the last few days explode in my head; shrapnel digs in. Smoulders.
‘Best not to take things at face value,’ Jill says. ‘Help yourself and try to see the other side.’
‘You don’t do that when it comes to psychics.’ There’s an involuntarily curl in my lip.
‘Well, there’s only so much an old lady like me can believe in. Who knows, maybe I’ll see the other side of the “other side” once I’ve passed on.’ She smiles. ‘Now, how about that tea? It’s half eleven and I’m missing my second fix of the morning.’
I sit up quickly.
‘Half eleven?’ I say. ‘I’ve got to go. Can you give me a lift?’
‘Of course, but wouldn’t you be better off staying in and resting?’
I stand up, push my hair back from my face.
‘You’re the one who’s always telling me to get out and go places and meet people.’
‘And that’s what you’re doing?’ Jill says.
‘I’m not going to track down a vicar and accuse him of all sorts, if that’s what you mean.’
‘No?’ Her eyebrows rise in accusation.
‘No, Jill. I’ve arranged to meet a friend of mine – Libby.’
‘I’ve never heard you mention her before.’ Jill sounds doubtful. I wonder if she’s more uncertain over not hearing me talk about Libby before than she is about what I might really be up to.
‘Oh, she did a work placement at Brian’s agency,’ I say. ‘Some time ago now. Then she moved to Manchester. She’s brought her daughter down to London for the first time. They want to go on the London Eye. I can’t not go, as I don’t know when I’ll get another chance to see them.’
‘Well,’ Jill says, getting to her feet, ‘if you’re sure you’re up to it.’
I’m not sure, but I have to go.
Fifteen minutes later, Jill pulls the car into a space just behind the Royal Festival Hall. I’m about to open the door but she tells me to wait and let her finish parking.
‘I’ve still got the disabled badge I used for Arthur,’ she says. ‘Should have given it back really, but . . .’
‘You’re not coming with me.’ I don’t mean it as a question, but that’s how she takes it.
‘Why ever not? I just want to make sure you find your friends.’
‘You want to keep an eye on me, more like. Make sure I don’t go wandering off again. I’m not a child, Jill.’
She tugs on the handbrake and turns the engine off.
‘No,’ she says, ‘but you’re not yourself either.’
I get out of the car quickly.
‘Hold on!’ Jill calls out as she locks the door. ‘I feel like I’m in a race.’
She is. I have to get there first and warn Libby and Esme not to say or do anything to make Jill suspicious. But there’s little I can do to hide Esme’s resemblance to Amy. Jill is sure to notice it. And Esme could recognise Jill as the school’s lollipop lady. Everything is unravelling too fast, too soon.
I plunge into the crowds swarming around the concert hall, walk briskly along the path to the London Eye. It rears above me, the metal frets like a spider’s web, sunlight glinting from the capsules as they move in a slow, ponderous circle. People inside the capsules wave at those on the ground, point cameras in every direction.
‘There they are!’ I say, waving vaguely in the direction of a couple of strangers. I turn back to Jill. ‘It’s okay. You can go now. You don’t want to get caught with your dodgy parking permit, do you?’
Jill slips her arm through mine. She’s a little out of breath, her cheeks flushed.
‘No rush,’ she says. ‘It would be nice to say hello. I’ve never met any of your friends before. It’s always been me introducing you.’
My panic increases as the strangers I pointed out turn and melt into the crowd.
‘Gotcha!’
The hand grabbing the back of my coat makes me jump and turn around.
‘Hello, Esme!’ I say. ‘Is that really you? Goodness, how you’ve grown since I last saw you.’ Nerves make me speak too loud and too fast.
Esme frowns, goes to say something. I press her head into my belly, but only briefly. Through the crowd I see Libby walking towards us. She puffs her cheeks out and pushes a strand of hair from her face.
‘I thought we were going to miss you,’ she says. ‘It’s crazy down here.’
Libby looks quizzically at Jill, then back at me. I shake my head quickly, clench the muscles in my cheeks.
‘This is my friend Jill,’ I say. ‘She brought me down here but she can’t stop. Can you, Jill?’
I feel Esme pull back from me. She looks up at Jill. There’s a moment’s hesitation. Then a shy, curious smile. Not a trace of recognition. I was stupid to think there would be. Jill looks older now. Her hair is white, her skin more wrinkled. She’s not in her lollipop uniform either, all that Amy ever saw her wearing. Maybe all old people look alike to children.
Jill, though, is wide-eyed, her lips slightly parted, her gasp audible above the hubbub all around us.
‘This is Esme,’ I say.
Jill flinches.
‘Esme?’ Her voice is no more than a whisper, her eyes fixed and unblinking. ‘But . . .’
I imagine it’s how I looked when Esme first appeared on my doorstep. We stare at one another, looking for clues in each other’s eyes.
‘She’s so . . .’ Jill shakes her head. Fear and fascination flash across her face. ‘Such a . . . pretty little girl.’
‘We’re going up there! Aren’t we lucky?’ Esme says, pointing to the sky. ‘Mum’s taking me.’ She nestles against me and I edge away as subtly as I can.
‘Is she?’ Jill says, nodding at Libby. ‘You are lucky. Luckier than me. I’ve never been on it.’
Esme jumps up and down.
‘Then why don’t you come too?’ she squeals.
‘No!’ I say, too loudly. ‘Jill’s got to get back, haven’t you?’
Jill purses her lips.
‘No,’ she says. ‘Not especially.’
I put my hand to my forehead.
‘Now that we’re here, I really don’t think it’s a good idea,’ I say. ‘For any of us. I just don’t feel up to it.’
‘Beth’s not been too well this morning,’ Jill says to Libby. ‘Had a bit of an upset.’
I smile feebly. Esme slips her hand into mine and gives it a sympathetic squeeze.
‘I’m sorr
y to hear that,’ Libby says. ‘Anything I can do?’
I tell her that a chance to chat and catch up on things would be just what the doctor ordered. I hope she catches the significance in the glare I give her, the imperative in the tone of my voice. Her eyes narrow with understanding. With questions.
‘Maybe we’ll leave the Eye for another time,’ she says.
Esme looks crestfallen. She takes a camera from her pocket.
‘But I wanted to take some photos!’ she says.
‘Ah,’ says Jill, ‘it’ll be a shame for her to miss out. Why don’t I take her? It’s about time I finally had a go on it. And it will give you two some time together. On solid ground – which is probably just what Beth needs.’
‘I don’t know . . .’ I begin, wary of what Esme might say to Jill during the ride.
‘Oh that’s really kind of you,’ Esme says. ‘Please, Mum, can I?’ She starts to bounce around once again.
‘You can if you promise to be good,’ Libby says firmly. ‘This is a real treat. Make sure you take it all in and take lots of snaps. The views should leave you speechless – which will be a first!’ She puts a finger to Esme’s lips, then looks at Jill. ‘She’s such a chatterbox it drives you mad, and there’ll be no escaping it up there.’
We wait in line with them until it’s their turn. Esme skips along the platform and steps carefully into the pod, Jill right behind her.
‘I really don’t think this is such a good idea,’ I say. ‘Are you sure Esme won’t say anything to her?’
‘She understands. Esme’s not stupid.’
No, I think. She isn’t. She’s as bright as Amy was – but Amy wasn’t crafty, and I don’t know Esme well enough to be sure the same is true of her. But, I realise with a start, I do like the girl. She’s been considerate, polite and cooperative, remarkably restrained given the circumstances – just as Amy would have been.
Libby looks at her watch.
‘It takes about half an hour to go round,’ I say. ‘Let’s find somewhere to talk.’
Over a cup of coffee in the café at the Festival Hall, I tell Libby about Ian’s email. She leans in close to me as I describe the picture of the light switch, pulls away again, her face screwed up in disgust. She’s even more appalled when I suggest we might consider showing it to Esme.
‘Are you mad?’ she says. ‘Look what it did to you, for fuck’s sake. Imagine the effect it would have on her.’
‘But it might jog her memory about the man who took her!’
‘Exactly. So I’m not going to make her do anything,’ Libby says. ‘It’s got to happen naturally. Shit, in many ways I don’t really want it to happen at all. I feel sick when I think how traumatic it will be for Esme if she does ever finally remember what happened to her. What mother wouldn’t?’
I feel the familiar slap of the press claims about me being an unfit mother. I’m about to defend myself when Libby stands up.
‘You promised you wouldn’t pressurise her,’ she says. ‘I don’t trust you, Beth. You’re too . . . unpredictable. Flaky. It’s dangerous for Esme. God, I wish I’d never started this. I tell you, as soon as they get off that ride, I’m taking Esme back to Manchester.’
‘No! You can’t.’
‘Watch me.’
I leap to my feet; my head swims in stuffy air dense with the smell of coffee and cooking fat. I run after Libby as fast as I can, bump into people and almost lose my balance. A man catches my arm and helps me to the door, where he fans my face with a booklet he’s holding in his hand. I lean against the window, press my head against the cool of the glass.
‘Will you be okay?’ he says. ‘Should I get someone?’
‘No, thank you. I just need a moment.’
I take the booklet from him and walk away, fanning myself. Libby is already waiting at the platform where the passengers disembark, her head tilted back, looking up at the capsules, hands shielding her eyes from the sun. I look up too, and see Jill talking, Esme beside her, listening intently. Then she waves at me, raises her camera and takes a picture.
‘Libby!’ I shout. ‘Wait.’
She turns to me.
‘I mean it, Beth,’ she says. ‘Leave us alone. We need some space. All of us.’
Esme glides by as the capsule draws level with the platform. She jumps off, holds out her hand to help Jill down, then runs down the gangway towards us.
‘That was awesome!’ she says breathlessly. ‘You could see everything. For miles and miles and miles. I wished you’d come on too!’ She spots the booklet in my hand and prises it from my fingers. ‘What’s this? More treats? Is this what we’re doing next?’
‘No,’ Libby says, putting her hand on Esme’s shoulder. ‘Come on. We’re going.’
Esme doesn’t move. Not her feet, anyway. Tremors ripple through her body, slowly at first, then gather and intensify until she’s shaking so hard her legs collapse beneath her. She looks up from the booklet and lets out an anguished squeal.
‘No!’ she cries. ‘Don’t take me there!’
‘Esme? What’s wrong?’ Libby says, dropping to her knees and scooping the girl into her arms. Esme thrashes her way free.
‘It’s the wolf!’ she screams, pointing at the booklet. ‘And the duck!’
‘What?’ Libby takes the booklet from her.
I realise it’s a programme for Peter and the Wolf. I took Amy to see it at the Royal Albert Hall and it gave her nightmares. She whimpered about the poor duck being swallowed alive, how she could hear it quacking inside the wolf’s belly. How Peter’s grandfather was mean and grumpy, not how grandfathers were meant to be at all.
Esme curls into a ball and drums her feet against the floor.
‘It’s the wolf. The wolf. I hate it. She knows that!’
‘I didn’t know it was a programme,’ I say. ‘For anything. Let alone Peter and the Wolf. Honestly. Somebody gave it to me—’
‘Save it, Beth,’ Libby says, lifting Esme to her feet. ‘You just couldn’t help yourself, could you? Just wouldn’t wait. Now see what you’ve done.’ She throws the programme at me. ‘Stay away from us. Got it?’
Neither of them looks back as they walk away. I jump at the touch on my shoulder.
‘Beth?’ says Jill. She’s pale and tight-lipped. ‘What the hell was all that about?’
I hold my arms out, a picture of innocence.
‘I wish I knew.’
‘She seemed to think you did.’
I bend down and pick up the programme. A cartoon wolf, dark and shaggy, licks drool from glistening teeth. I can almost feel Amy’s tense and trembling body in my arms, the dampness of her tears on my shirtsleeve.
I look up at Jill.
‘What did Esme say to you up there?’
‘Nothing, really,’ Jill says. ‘Nothing that gave any hint she was about to have a hissy fit.’
‘I want to go home,’ I say. ‘I’m so tired I don’t know which way is up any more.’
As we walk towards the car, I sense an unease in Jill.
‘Esme was quite the tour guide,’ she says. ‘Knew London rather well for a tourist on her first visit. Pointed out all the major sights.’ She draws breath as if about to speak, then changes her mind. A moment later she half turns to me.
‘I know I shouldn’t say this at all, let alone now, when you’ve been . . . when you still are so . . . upset, but . . .’
‘Go on.’
Jill shudders and hunches her shoulders.
‘There were times up there when that girl gave me goosebumps,’ she says. ‘I can’t explain it really . . . She didn’t say or do anything. She didn’t have to.’ She shakes her head. ‘It’s probably just me being silly, but once I’d thought it I just couldn’t get it out of my mind.’
‘Get what out of your mind?’
‘That it was just like having Amy by my side.’
7
Libby doesn’t return my calls. I’ve left so many messages on her voicemail it won’t accept any more.
Without an address, directory enquiries tell me they can’t find her home number and, as I don’t know the name of the hotel she stayed at, I can’t ask them if she has actually checked out or for the address she used when checking in.
There’ll be too many questions if I ask the police to track her down. If I tell the truth, my answers will only make them laugh. If I lie, say she’s a relative who’s gone missing after a row, they’ll tell me to wait a bit longer or that they can’t interfere. And even if they did help, I’ve no reason to believe they’d be any more successful than they were in finding Amy.
It’s a new chapter in an old nightmare. Amy might have vanished – again. Snatched away right in front of my eyes. Once more I am culpable in her disappearance; an innocent mistake, an oversight. Yet again I am powerless to change it. Lost.
My only option is to see if Ian can help me, but an email to him gets no reply. The other side is as silent as it was before.
For days I mope around the house, blank and anxious. Then it dawns on me: Libby will have to come back to me even if she doesn’t want to. The impulse that first brought her to my door still exists – if anything, it has more momentum now that Esme has met me and knows that I believe her. If her behaviour caused Libby distress before, it will only get worse now. Libby can’t hold the fire back for ever. Whether Esme’s my girl or not, she will come back to me.
A rush of optimism pushes me into action. I strip the wallpaper in Amy’s bedroom, take up the carpet. I trawl the West End, collecting swatches of curtain fabric and browsing furniture and carpets. My experiments with samples of paint make a mosaic of the bedroom walls – pink of every hue, soft blues, yellow, vanilla, off-whites and greens.
I tell myself I’m redecorating the bedroom for my benefit, not Esme’s, but I can’t deny the fact that my indecision over the colour scheme is because the choice should really be Amy’s. It was her room after all. In a way, it might yet be again.
I have the same thought when I find myself shopping for clothes. I hold up jackets and trousers to check the sizes and Amy hangs in the air, the same size as she was – and maybe still is. The clothes are empty but soon they could be filled. Every item brings her closer, makes the possibility of her more real.
The Second Life of Amy Archer Page 10
