by Jane Holland
‘I hope you didn’t mind me texting you.’ Emily is leaning across the table, keeping her voice low, as though she does not want anyone else to hear. ‘Any news at all?’
‘Not yet, no.’
‘God, that’s awful. I don’t know how you’re doing it.’
I hesitate. ‘Doing what?’
‘Staying so calm, of course.’ She adjusts her glasses, her eyes wide, fixed on me. ‘If it was my child who was missing, I’d be climbing the walls by now. A complete basket case.’
‘Jon says the police may have some kind of lead on a suspect.’ I shrug, helpless to elaborate. ‘Meanwhile, all we can do is wait.’
‘Well, I think you’re incredibly brave. Both of you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I hope they find him soon. Before . . .’
She gives a sharp sigh but does not finish, looking distraught on my behalf. An onlooker could be forgiven for thinking she is the bereft mother and I the comforting friend.
Jon and Simon return. They have been talking about me, I can tell. Simon shoots me a quick, assessing look as he places the fruit juice – a cloudy and astringent grapefruit, I discover – in front of me.
‘Thanks.’
Simon meets my gaze. ‘You’re welcome.’ He hesitates, then asks, ‘Jon tells me you’ve been in touch with your parents. Are they flying over from Spain?’
‘I don’t know.’ I feel rather than see Jon shift restlessly beside me. He does not like my parents, and I am sure he does not want them to visit. But I will need someone with me if the worst happens. ‘Perhaps later.’
The unspoken words hang in the air between us like smoke.
If all this goes bad. If Harry never comes back. If Harry’s found dead.
‘I know you miss them badly. Emily misses her mum sometimes, having to live so far away.’ Simon gives me his sympathetic lawyer look. Jon has one just like it, though he stopped using it on me soon after we married. I suppose it works best with people who do not know you intimately, which tends to exclude wives. ‘But you’ve got enough on your plate right now without having to look after house guests. I perfectly understand.’
Jon has definitely been talking to him.
My head turns abruptly.
No, I was not imagining it. I can hear a baby crying somewhere.
It’s a faint whine on the breeze at first, pitched high, more like a distant siren than a child. Then it drops and thickens into an angry wail that cuts across the tinkling music from the carousel and the low buzz of voices all around us.
An angry, hungry wail. The wail of a baby demanding to be fed, to be held close, to be loved.
It’s Harry.
Chapter Eighteen
My body responds instinctively to that familiar cry, everything tingling and aching again, tightening with love.
‘Oh my God,’ I say without thinking, staring out across the busy square of shoppers. ‘That sounds like Harry. I really think that’s Harry.’
‘What?’ Emily sits up, looking at me blankly from behind her large-rimmed glasses. ‘Harry?’
‘Help me, help me.’ I jump up, then look round urgently at Jon, who has his pint glass partway to his lips. ‘Don’t you hear him too? Please help me. Where . . . Where is he? Quick, can any of you see him?’
Nobody moves. They just stare at me.
I hear Harry again. That long keening wail when he’s hungry.
‘Please,’ I moan.
I run from the table, knocking over my chair and struggling through the makeshift barrier that separates the pub’s outside tables from the square itself. I can still hear that piercing wail somewhere ahead of me through the crowd.
But where?
There are people everywhere.
I stare helplessly, standing on tiptoe to see beyond them to the colour and noise of the carousel, then begin to weave and push between the tight-packed shoppers. But it’s slow progress. I have to keep stopping whenever I see a buggy, just to bend down and check, just to be absolutely sure it’s not my baby.
There are buggies everywhere, it seems, and parents frowning at me, pre-school kids with helium-filled balloons on ribbons tied round their wrists, old people leaning on sticks, others stopping every few yards to window-shop, a man selling copies of the Big Issue at the shadowy mouth to the underpass, a skinny mongrel loyal at his side.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ one mother accosts me when I turn, staring down at the bald, chubby-faced baby in her three-wheeler buggy.
I can’t blame her for being angry.
‘Sorry,’ I mutter, and run on.
I hear my name called out behind me but do not stop. This is more important. I could lose him if I stop now. May already have lost him.
At the carousel, the crowd is thinner. I come to a halt, bending at the waist, breathing hard, then lift my head and scan all the buggies. Only a few babies the right age. Most of the kids are two and three-year-olds, all pre-schoolers out in the May sunshine. Mothers standing in groups look at me as I slip past. Some of them swear at me, others are frankly shocked when I pay no attention and bend over their prams and buggies, peering at babies’ faces.
Then I see a woman crossing the road, pushing a red buggy.
And hear Harry again.
I break into a run once more, knocking into people, thumping my leg against benches and buggies, but by the time I have crossed the busy square and the road beyond, the woman has vanished, wheeling the buggy into the old indoor market along the block from the main theatre in Truro, the Hall for Cornwall.
I do not hesitate but plunge into the market too. The narrow network of aisles feels gloomy out of the sun, and people turn and stare, surprised to see this panting, red-faced woman run past. The way divides once, and then again, a maze of little wooden booths crammed with goods on display and boxes and sales posters, some narrow and pokey, others several booths long.
Numerous women with babies, which I eye from a distance. Not Harry. No sign of a woman with a red buggy either.
I close my eyes, trying to fix an image of her in my mind. Thick-set, medium height, greying hair, fairly nondescript. She was wearing a light-blue jacket, and perhaps blue denim jeans, I’m not sure.
I choose one corridor at random and hurry down it, glancing all around in case she’s stopped in one of the little shops. One booth-owner is arranging cheap trainers on a stand, and stares at me.
‘Can I help you, love?’
‘Yes, I . . . I’ve lost my . . . mother,’ I lie, hesitating. ‘Grey hair, about my height, blue jacket. With a buggy. Have you seen her?’
The man nods, and points on towards the next row of booths. ‘Went past a minute or so ago.’ He grins as I start to run. ‘Sure I can’t sell you some running shoes?’
That reminds me. I’ve left my handbag back at the pub. And my jacket. And my husband.
Jon will be furious.
I pause at the next intersection, peering along all the aisles, then catch a glimpse of light blue moving rapidly towards the exit into the next street that runs parallel with Lemon Quay. My heart thudding wildly, I take the nearest corridor, nearly knocking an old lady flying as she backs out of a booth entrance with her plaid shopping trolley.
‘Sorry,’ I shout over my shoulder, feeling awful, but I keep running. That woman’s got my baby, and I have to catch her.
Nothing else matters.
Daylight is ahead, a tiled passageway, glass cabinets, books arranged on a stall. I stumble headlong down the steps, bursting out into the sunlit street, and almost collide with a white van pulling into a parking space. The driver leans on his horn, startling me, and I stare up into his angry, bearded face.
‘Sorry,’ I say again, gasping. ‘Sorry.’
I stare about the street, searching every passing face, scouring the crowds for any sign of a greying head and blue jacket, that distinctive red buggy.
‘No, no, no.’
I want to scream. I am on the verge of tears, my mouth a grim
ace, my heart hurting like I’ve been punched in the chest.
How could I have been so stupid? It was Harry in that red buggy, I’m sure of it. He was right here, within my grasp, and I was too slow. I didn’t run fast enough. I didn’t look hard enough. I let the woman get away.
I failed him again.
I turn round and round on the spot, looking everywhere, a blur of colours and faces, even staring back into the indoor market. But there is no one in the entrance now but a few astonished shoppers, who immediately look away and pretend not to be watching me. I must look crazed, I suppose. My face is hot, sweat on my forehead, my hair coming loose from my ponytail.
‘I’ve lost him, I’ve lost him.’
I lean my forehead against the cool stone wall, feeling dizzy. I have no idea what to do now, where to go, who to tell. I have failed Harry again.
A hand on my shoulder makes me jerk violently. It’s Jon.
‘Meghan, thank God.’
I stare at him. ‘I saw Harry,’ I tell him desperately. ‘I’m sure of it.’
‘You saw him?’
I hate the incredulity in his voice. ‘That is, I . . . I heard him. Heard him crying.’ I see the flicker of scorn in his face. ‘I know his cry. It was Harry. I’d stake my life on it.’
‘So where is he now?’
I look around helplessly, and feel again the crushing weight of my own failure. The tears begin to come, burning my eyes. ‘I don’t know.’
‘For God’s sake, Meghan.’
‘I heard him.’
He nods. ‘You heard a baby. Not Harry.’
‘No, I’m certain it was Harry. Some woman had him.’ I try to picture her in my mind, but all I can see are a few tantalising glimpses of her greying hair and the blue jacket. ‘I only saw her from the back. But I think she was middle-aged, maybe older. Sixty? We have to call the police, make them search the streets for her. She can’t have gone far.’ A thought hits me. ‘What’s DS Dryer’s number? You need to call him right now.’
‘Meghan, slow down. You’re not making sense.’
‘I’m making perfect sense,’ I insist. ‘I heard Harry crying. He was in a red buggy being pushed by a woman with grey hair. We have to tell the police.’
‘Let me get this straight. You want me to ring DS Dryer, and tell him to arrest any grey-haired grannies he finds pushing buggies round Truro?’
I stare. ‘You don’t believe me?’
‘I want to believe you. But that panic attack the other day, and the way you ran off just now without even a word, all this wild behaviour . . .’
‘You expect me to be calm?’ I raise my voice, perhaps more than I intend. ‘Jon, someone came into our house and took our baby. Who in the world could be fucking calm about that?’
Jon looks at me intently. So intently that I take a step backwards, my back against the wall, suddenly uncomfortable.
‘Meghan, have you taken your pills today?’ he asks. ‘The ones Dr Shiva prescribed for you? They seemed to be helping. You were so much more relaxed yesterday.’
‘Yes, because I was totally stoned.’
I see the warning flash in his eyes. I had originally intended to lie to him about the prescription, to keep things calm between us for a little while, but now discover that I can’t.
‘Answer my question.’
‘No,’ I admit. ‘I didn’t take the pills. In fact, I threw the bottle in the bin.’
His mouth tightens as he studies me, then he says, ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’
I shrug.
‘Right, come on.’ He glances at the passers-by, as though aware that our argument is attracting some attention. ‘I can’t take you back to the pub in this state. We’ll have to take a taxi straight to the press conference instead. If you’re hungry, we can always grab a pizza on the way home afterwards.’
He steers me off the pavement and away from the indoor market.
I go with him, momentarily thrown by his forcefulness and unsure what to do. But the old road is cobbled and uneven, and one of my wedge heels catches between the stones.
‘Wait,’ I say urgently. ‘My shoe.’
Jon stops, watching while I adjust my shoe. The heels are not high, only a few inches. But they are not made for crossing cobbled streets. He runs a hand through his hair, his tone distracted. ‘I’ll ring Simon in the taxi, give him our excuses.’
‘But my bag . . .’
‘I’ve got it,’ he tells me, and holds it up. ‘And your jacket.’
I think about Emily. She remarked on how calmly I was taking Harry’s abduction. Now what will she be thinking? Simon had just bought me a drink too. Our lunches will be waiting.
‘No,’ I say again, more firmly, and straighten up. Our eyes meet. I see the angry jut of his chin and waver, almost giving in. Then I remember how he would try to railroad me into decisions before we were married, and only capitulate if I stood up to him. ‘I want to go back to the pub and have lunch. I’m okay now.’
This time, standing up to him does not work.
‘That’s too bad,’ he says curtly, and grabs my elbow, hustling me forward. His fingers hurt my arm, gripping me so violently, but when I make a distressed sound under my breath, he only pushes harder. ‘Come on, stop fussing. There’s a taxi rank five minutes’ walk from here, not far from my office.’
We are halfway across the road, with a car heading towards us, when I stop dead.
‘No, I’m not going,’ I say.
‘What? ’
‘I’m not going to the taxi rank with you,’ I tell him breathlessly. ‘I’m going back to the pub. I want to see Emily and . . . and talk to her.’
The car slows. The driver sounds his horn.
‘Meghan, for God’s sake.’
He tries to pull me forward. But I wrench my arm free from his iron grip and turn, fleeing back across the cobbles to the pavement, flushed and unsteady, not really looking where I’m going. The driver, who has tried to navigate round us, has to slam on his brakes to avoid hitting me.
I hear Jon swear, but keep running.
All I can think about is Harry. Jon can say what he likes about my state of mind, but I heard him, and I know it was my son.
Jon catches up with me on the narrow pavement a few feet from Lemon Quay. ‘Stop,’ he says furiously, and drags me round to face him. We are blocking the pavement and people have to step into the busy road to get past. ‘You could have been killed back there. What the hell are you trying to do, Meghan?’
‘Have lunch.’
‘Don’t be bloody smart with me, or I swear I’ll—’ Jon stops mid-threat, suddenly aware that we are being overheard, and takes a reluctant step back, releasing me.
A weathered-looking man of around sixty has hesitated in passing, glancing from Jon’s face to mine, then stopped beside us. He is wearing a bulky fisherman’s sweater and leaning on a stick, but not with his full weight. I expect he could use it as a weapon if he wanted.
‘You all right, love?’ the man asks, focusing on me, though I can see that he is very aware of Jon’s icy glare.
He has smiling eyes, wrinkled around the lids, a grandfather type. I know he would protect me if I asked. But I can’t drag a stranger into this. Especially someone well over twice Jon’s age.
‘Fine, thank you,’ I tell the man, though it is obvious from my high-pitched voice that nobody here is fine. Taking a breath, I add more calmly, ‘He’s my husband.’
The man glances at Jon again, a very stern look on his face, then shrugs and moves on without saying anything.
I wait for the explosion. But to my surprise it does not come. Instead, Jon looks at me coldly. ‘Go, then,’ he says, and hands me my bag.
I do not move, confused. I blink up at him in the sunlight. ‘What?’
Go, then.
For a few dizzying seconds I think he’s leaving me. That he’s finally had enough of me and this marriage. The worst thing is that I am almost relieved, until I realise that’s not what
he means.
‘Back to the pub. For lunch with Simon and Emily. My friends.’ Unsmiling, Jon nods in the direction of Lemon Quay. ‘That’s what you want, isn’t it? So let’s do it.’
I have never seen him like this before. There is something in his voice that terrifies me. But I turn and keep walking along the narrow pavement, aware of him a few steps behind me the whole way.
Go, then.
Chapter Nineteen
Simon has to get back to work after lunch but Emily volunteers to come with us to the press conference. By then my head is screaming and I am grateful not to be alone with Jon, even for a few minutes.
‘Thank you,’ I tell her.
‘As long as I’m not intruding,’ she says, and glances at Jon while he’s talking to Simon. ‘I just thought you could do with some support. All those cameras, you know. I expect it can be quite intimidating.’ She pauses, then adds, ‘Though I’m sure you’ll be fine.’
Somehow her reassurance makes me feel more nervous. But I know she means well, so I smile and nod.
‘Good luck, Meghan,’ Simon tells me before leaving, and he bends to give me a warm kiss on the cheek, very near my lips. I am not expecting it, and look up at him, surprised. But his smile is innocent when he straightens, and aimed at both of us. ‘If you need me later, for advice or whatever, just call.’
Once Simon has gone, Jon rings for a cab. ‘Five minutes,’ he tells us, a touch of strain in his voice, then disappears inside to the toilets.
I shiver in the breeze, and catch a hint of salt air. We are quite close to the sea here, something that always surprises me, because Truro feels like an inland city when you’re walking around it. I remember only last week, taking the path that runs alongside the river, trying to point out the seabirds to Harry as they swept over the long shimmer of water, and promising him we would go to the beach once the weather was warmer. I was never sure how much he was taking in on our walks, but his sleepy gurgles were always enough for me.
I miss him so much, it hurts to remember.
Emily finishes her drink, then looks at me compassionately. ‘Are you feeling better now?’ She leans forward to touch my hand. ‘We were so worried. Did you really . . . I mean, you thought you saw Harry, is that why you ran off like that?’
