The Drowning Lesson

by Jane Shemilt

  ‘Say goodbye to the girls for me.’ Adam unhooks the keys. The metallic jingle summons a memory: Adam coming in through the door in Islington, putting his keys down, smiling, lifting Sam from me. Was I smiling, too, or was my face tense because I’d been with the baby all day and would rather have been at work?

  Adam leans towards me, his hand on my shoulder. ‘See what Elisabeth can tell you about Teko. Any fragment could be vital.’

  I follow him to the veranda. He runs down the steps, but turns at the car and shouts back, ‘Try Megan. Phone me.’

  Megan? Muddled with fear, it takes me a few seconds to remember that it was Megan who asked her friend to organize help, which was how Teko came to us in the first place. We should be able to track Teko down through Megan. Even her name makes me feel better, bringing with it her calmness, her thoughtful eyes, her kind voice.

  Adam opens the car door. Even from this distance his shirt looks creased and sweaty. He’s forgotten his hat and in the humid air his hair is already sticking to his forehead. The engine starts and the car speeds down the drive, stones spinning from the wheels.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Botswana, March 2014

  Megan doesn’t pick up. Clumsy with haste, I text instead, making mistake after mistake, leaving damp smudges on the keys. Zoë runs from the table to loop her arms around my waist, glints of mauve and green sliding along each strand of blonde hair. I’ve never seen Sam’s hair in the sun. We kept him covered up and parked him in the shade to be safe. Women here strap their babies to them, even safer. Regret and fear mount. Zoë presses her face tight against my skirt. ‘I want Sam.’ Her voice is muffled. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Daddy’s gone to look for him now, Zo-Zo.’ My voice sounds casual, implying Sam might be down the road under a tree, or in a garden sleeping, perhaps waving to the figure bending over him, in the new way he’s discovered, his chubby arms moving jerkily up and down.

  Zoë nods, as though I had answered her question, wipes her nose with the back of her hand and clambers back on to the chair. ‘Look at my beans, Mummy.’

  We could be back in Islington and this an ordinary Saturday morning. Zoë could be drawing at the kitchen table, wanting my approval, Adam fetching Alice from her Mandarin lesson. Sam would be on the table in his seat, close to Zoë, smiling when she looks up and grins at him. Safe. I would have been on the phone to my registrar, talking her through some problem, and absent-mindedly tickling Sam’s tummy.

  ‘Look.’ Zoë’s voice is insistent.

  I’ve forgotten what I’m supposed to look at. ‘Clever girl,’ I say automatically. The green heap in front of her shines and swims.

  Alice turns her head away when I kneel by her chair.

  ‘Daddy’s gone to find Teko.’

  Her face whips round. ‘Why? Where is she?’ she asks, her voice thin with surprise. ‘She didn’t tell me she was going anywhere.’

  Tell? I put an arm around Alice. The outline of her shoulder blades feels sharp. Teko could have told her anything and I can’t confront her about lying, not now.

  ‘I don’t think Teko planned ahead, Ally. I think she left because she was upset about Sam disappearing, a spur-of-the-moment thing.’

  It wouldn’t have been like that, though. Teko must have planned this very carefully. I can guess exactly what happened. Having settled Sam in a car, she would have left her accomplice to wait out of sight; then she must have gone back to collect some last-minute things. When Adam returned unexpectedly early, she would have been trapped. The driver would have had to leave without her but, tiptoeing away in the early hours and hitching lifts, she would have caught up now.

  ‘We think she’ll be with the people she knows at the orphanage,’ I whisper, though I don’t tell her we think she has Sam with her. ‘She might be able to tell us something.’

  ‘What kind of thing?’ Alice searches my face, her hands are tightly clenched.

  ‘She might have seen or heard something. She was the first to find out he’d gone.’

  She turns away and stares straight ahead; the bright bulge of a tear slides down her cheek.

  ‘Just before Teko discovered Sam was missing, Ally, did you see anything unusual in the front garden?’

  Alice is motionless, as if she hasn’t heard me.

  ‘We were round the back,’ Zoë blurts out in the silence.

  ‘The back? By the pond? But …’ How could it matter now that I’d told them never to go near the pond again?

  I turn to take Zoë’s hand. ‘Did you hear anything then, Zoë? A noisy car, maybe?’

  Maybe there was no car. Maybe they came on foot, silently. In my head there are two, one reaching into the cot. Sam might have smiled at him. The other would have gone to the corridor and listened. They would be thin, hats pulled low, bare feet. Would they look cruel? Amused? Or intent, doing a job, wanting the money? Teko must have saved up for a long time to entice them to help her.

  Zoë is shaking her head. ‘We banged drums. It was a concert – Elisabeth had a ticket.’

  ‘Was that Teko’s idea, to make a loud noise?’

  ‘Ally said about the concert.’ Zoë sounds confused. ‘Then Teko shouted something from inside.’ Tears are gathering in her eyes. ‘So Ally and me went and Sam wasn’t there …’ She bursts into noisy sobs.

  Alice puts her fingers in her ears. I kiss Zoë and stand, resting my hand on Alice’s head. Her hair feels burning. I find her hat in her room, and hurry back while trying Megan again. She picks up as I reach the veranda.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Megan, it’s Emma.’

  ‘Emma!’ Her voice lifts. ‘I’ve just woken and seen your message. We’re an hour behind you so I thought I’d just get Andrew up, then –’

  ‘Sam’s gone. He was taken yesterday.’ I walk down the veranda steps to be out of earshot of the girls but my legs give way and I half collapse on the bottom step.

  ‘Taken? What do you mean, taken?’ She sounds confused. ‘Where to?’

  ‘I mean abducted taken. Someone broke in through the windows and took him. We were at work. Teko was supposed to be looking after him, but she’s disappeared too. We need the name of the orphanage she came from.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Her voice is hollow with shock. ‘I don’t understand any of this. Sam, abducted? I don’t understand … I can’t take it in. Who is Teko?’

  ‘The girl your friend found. We have to trace her.’

  ‘Where are the police? Shall I –’

  ‘The important thing is the name of the orphanage.’ I don’t care if I sound frantic – I am frantic.

  ‘But I don’t know. David never said. It was always just “the orphanage” in his Christmas cards.’

  ‘What’s the address, then?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How come you don’t know anything?’ I shout. ‘You arranged it all.’

  ‘I emailed him originally asking him to look for someone.’ Her voice is trembling. ‘He emailed back, promising to help. After you told me you didn’t need anyone, I phoned but his housekeeper said he was in hospital. I left a message for him but he didn’t ring me back. I lost track. It must have gone ahead … Oh, Emma, I’m so sorry, it’s my fault, then…’

  ‘No, I’m sorry …’

  It’s not her fault. David must have set it up before he went to hospital. It’s not his fault either: it’s ours for not checking, mine for employing someone I didn’t know at all.

  ‘I can find out where she came from,’ she says quickly. ‘I’ll phone David right now. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can, it may take a while, sometimes he doesn’t pick up for days.’ She rings off.

  There is a sudden flicker of colour on the ground. A great snake is gliding towards me from the darkness under the steps. A snake here, after all this time. The skin is bright with bars of orange on grey. The scales shine as if greasy; a streak of orange-red tongue slithers in and out.

  It stops as I pull my feet away.
The triangular head lifts, darting to and fro. In a second it twists and disappears into the grass.

  Claire warned me; she knew. I start fumbling through numbers on the phone; Claire runs an orphanage. She’ll know the orphanages in Molepolole and who runs them.

  ‘Yes?’ The South African voice is businesslike.

  ‘Claire, it’s Emma. I texted you a while back, you’d said to keep in touch …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘My son’s been kidnapped.’ There is a shocked silence. ‘The girl who looked after him has vanished. Adam’s gone to look for the orphanage she came from but we don’t know its name, so –’

  ‘Where is it?’ she interrupts.

  ‘Somewhere in Molepolole. If you can give us a list, I’ll phone him …’

  ‘Molepolole? God, I’m sorry. If it had been an orphanage in Gaborone, I’d know. Molepolole is way out of our area.’ My heart falls but she is continuing: ‘… not a large place, it won’t take him long. Would it help if I came over?’ The words are kind and I almost weaken.

  ‘Maybe later. Thanks, Claire.’

  Though she can’t help us now, the thought of her on our side is something to hold on to in the midst of roaring panic. The sun is scorching. The air above the empty drive shimmers, like the start of a migraine. The door opens behind me. Elisabeth comes out of the house with a tray, holding a water jug and glasses; she walks slowly, her head bent. She comes down the steps, takes Alice’s hat from me and goes back up to the table. The hat is put on, and there is a moment of gentle laughter from the women round the table.

  ‘Elisabeth.’ I climb up the steps and put a hand on her arm as she walks back towards the door. ‘Did Teko tell you where she was going?’

  ‘Teko didn’t talk to me.’ She shakes her head slowly.

  I’ve never seen them talking, but I’d imagined they might chat at night round the table, swapping details from their lives.

  ‘Do you know why she left?’

  She stiffens slightly. I am treading too close for comfort. Then, smoothing the skirt of her apron, she leans towards me. ‘She told Josiah, and he told me.’

  Josiah would make a good listener; he would nod and smile. He wouldn’t judge.

  ‘She is frightened,’ Elisabeth confides, in a whisper.

  ‘Frightened?’

  ‘She thinks people will say it is her fault. She is worried she may go to prison, so she says she will run away.’

  And ask Teko why the fuck she wasn’t with Sam this afternoon. She should have protected him.

  I feel an unexpected stab of pity for Teko; I see her stumbling from the house in the dark, frightened by my words, crying for Sam, scared of blame.

  ‘Did she ever mention where she came from? She won’t get into trouble, but she may have clues that would help.’

  Elisabeth’s head bowed in thought. ‘I ask her once,’ she murmurs. ‘Teko say nowhere special.’ Then she makes a little movement with her hands, taking in the house: she wants to go back, continue with the tasks of the day. Life has to carry on, though life has stalled. Food must be prepared, rooms cleaned, curtains pulled against the sun. I put my hands together.

  ‘Thank you, Elisabeth, I’m grateful.’

  She nods, and walks away.

  Megan doesn’t know which orphanage Teko came from. Try all. I text Adam. E says T left because scared of blame. Maybe T not involved. Be careful.

  I walk up and down, up and down the drive, pushing through the scorching air. The truth is somewhere; I just need to reach it.

  I surface for the second time. My father leans over the edge of the boat, hands stretched out.

  Move, child. Move your arms. Kick your legs.

  I bang my arms into the water, scissor my legs, dip below the green surface, swallow water, come back up.

  The sun is at its height, the heat baking the scent from the little yellow-green bushes that line the drive. The cicadas’ grating noise fills the air: like thousands of tiny saws. Twenty hours have passed now. My breasts ache with unused milk.

  It makes sense that Teko ran away out of fear. Why would a young girl want someone else’s baby when she could have one of her own? A black girl with a white baby would attract attention. She would need a network of friends. Teko didn’t have shoes when she arrived; she doesn’t own a phone. How could she organize a kidnap? If Teko was involved there would have been no need to break the windows, she could have opened any door to her accomplice. Who has him if she doesn’t? Esther’s story slips free of its mooring and floats in front of my eyes. Perhaps he is dead already, murdered in the minutes after he was taken. Was he maimed first?

  I sit on the steps again, huddle over the phone, rocking backwards and forwards, conscious that the low keening I can hear is coming from the back of my throat.

  A hand touches my shoulder. A cup of tea is set down on the stone next to me. Soft footsteps retreat. I look round but the front door closes quietly.

  The tea slips down, scalding my throat. Peo knows how a kind gesture can halt the slide into darkness.

  Tread water.

  Survive.

  Josiah is digging at the back of the house. His hat is pulled low, dusty feet wide planted on the soil.

  ‘Josiah, did Teko tell you where she was going?’

  He shakes his head; he doesn’t understand. There is a mound of soil by his feet, a rough cross at one end, two sticks tied with string; so he went to the ditch last night, found the remains of his dog and brought them back to bury.

  ‘I am sorry.’

  He looks away. The skin beneath his eyes is sodden. Loss swells in the space between us, and the question about Teko dissolves in the air.

  As he picks up his spade again, I describe the snake, writhing my hands together. He follows me round to the steps at the front of the house. I point out the place it disappeared. He stoops to peer into the grass, fingers tightening on the spade. At that moment a white car with a thick blue stripe swings into the drive and a couple of policemen get out. Josiah disappears. The taller man looks around as he walks and, like one half of a comic act, almost bumps into a tree. The shorter, thick-set man strides purposefully; he holds an Alsatian tightly on a leash, the animal slinking close to him, as they approach the house.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Botswana, March 2014

  The policemen stand as if to attention. The room shrinks and darkens around them. The younger man’s face is cavernous; his skin tightly stretched over sharp bones. He drops a large case to the ground, then straddles it, hands behind his back. His colleague, a narrow-eyed bulky man, shakes my hand. He introduces himself as Detective Goodwill; his partner is Officer Kopano. I am to call them simply by their surnames.

  ‘Thank you for coming.’ The floor tilts as I speak. I haven’t eaten for a day, maybe two. ‘Please sit down.’ Gesturing to the chairs, I sit quickly.

  ‘I regret the delay today.’ Goodwill eases himself into the leather chair; he takes out a handkerchief and wipes his forehead.

  Elisabeth opens the door from the kitchen and brings a tray of yellow juice, ice clinking in the jug. His eyes follow her closely as she bows and walks softly from the room.

  He fills and drains a glass, then settles again with a sigh. ‘We questioned your husband last night. He has phoned today to say he has gone to recall a servant. He will tell us more this afternoon.’

  ‘I’m glad you have come. I know–’

  He holds up a silencing hand. ‘Do you wish to hear what is happening in the search for your son?’

  This man has the power to find Sam: I have to let him order the conversation any way he wants.

  ‘There is surveillance operating on all main roads.’ He is watching my face; am I meant to thank him? Could there be some protocol for this conversation that I am failing to follow? It is taking all my strength not to fall to my knees and beg, weeping, for help.

  ‘There are police officers in Kubung, calling at every house. There are men at the airport and the r
ail stations. Interpol and the consulate have been informed.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  They will find him. Missing children turn up close to home. The headlines of the newspapers that I used to read in the coffee room between operations detailed kidnapped children found in the next house or down the street. The police might walk into a hut in Kubung at any minute, and Sam could be there, sleeping in a cot in the corner.

  ‘There has been a press release.’ He has to say it twice.

  ‘Already? I’d thought, somehow …’ That they would find him so quickly it would be pointless to involve the press. He holds up his hand again. Beads of sweat glint along the creases of his meaty palm. ‘The media has to be involved. It’s important that the public know a child is missing. It can make all the difference.’

  Less than twenty-four hours ago Sam was asleep yards from where I sit. I kissed his cheek before I left; his skin had been hot. He’d belonged only to us. Now his image will be shared with the world. We should be grateful.

  ‘We will take any reported sightings very seriously indeed,’ Goodwill adds. He sounds angry.

  Will a stranger remember Sam, should they glimpse him in a pram in crowds? Would they bother to tell the police? My fingertips push against each other, as though in prayer.

  ‘If members of the press get in touch, I’d advise you to pass them on to us. We will talk to them as necessary. Tomorrow you can speak on television. It will help.’

  What happens to those parents, once they have stumbled out of the limelight? There must be armies of broken mothers and fathers, people we pass in the street unknowing. I drink a glass of juice, then another.

  ‘We will need to examine the room your son was taken from, then all the house and the grounds.’

  ‘The entire house?’

  Goodwill stares at me, expressionless. In that silence I understand; in case I or Adam have hidden him. Killed him and concealed his body. I make myself meet his gaze; he is eliminating possibilities. I don’t care. I don’t need him on my side, just on Sam’s.

  Kopano bends to his case, pulling out a camera, overalls and gloves. I lead him down the corridor and he aims his lens from the door of our bedroom, the shots exploding like gunfire. Then he puts on white overalls and steps in on tiptoe, graceful as a cat.