by Sam Hayes
Andy and I were taken in a police car to the Marriott Hotel and ushered into a private room. I could hear the commotion of the press nearby, checking their equipment, vying for the best spot to catch a shot of me pleading, crying.
I’d put on a pale blue suit, the one I’d worn to Natasha’s christening, but I wished I hadn’t. On my right shoulder was a small stain where Natasha had dribbled milk. I pressed my cheek onto the mark. DI Lumley handed me a piece of paper.
‘Your statement to the press, Mrs Varney. When you read it, make sure you’re loud and clear. I want the bastard to hear everything you say.’ He gave me that look again, as if I was in conspiracy with the person who had done this. I looked at Andy for support. He was peering over my shoulder, reading and nodding in approval.
‘I didn’t write this,’ I said.
‘No, this one’s been drawn up for you to read out. We have to be very careful what you say. We don’t want them to know how much we know but, likewise, we don’t want them to know that we don’t really know anything at all.’
I was confused. One single point of fire ignited in my heart. Looking back, it was the beginning of my anger. I wanted Andy to react, to say that we weren’t reading it, but by the expression on his face I could tell that he approved of my pre-written speech. I skimmed a few lines of it but knew it wasn’t what I wanted to say. It didn’t sound convincing enough and that, I knew, was paramount. It could all be thrown back at me in the future. I had to touch the hearts of the nation. I needed them on my side.
‘Best if Mum does it, Mr Varney.’ DI Lumley beat his fist against his heart and pursed his lips. Perhaps he truly felt sorry for us and just didn’t know how to show it.
A waitress from the hotel came into the room with a trolley and served us tea. I didn’t want it but was told to drink up to calm my nerves. I wanted PC Miranda to be with me but they said it was her day off. My cup and saucer rattled as we waited for two o’clock.
Every clock in the world got in my way. It was now Natasha minus four days and three and a half hours. What would I do when it was exactly a week later, a month, the anniversary? How would I feel on her birthday, at Christmas or the year she was supposed to start school?
‘I want my baby back . . . please . . .’ I cried, dropping my head to my knees. DI Lumley felt it was a good time to lead me out to the press, while I was animated enough to show some emotion. I stood, quivering, hyperventilating and sweating on a podium with about fifty journalists and TV crew waiting silently for my plea to the kidnapper.
Then, as I sat down at the table, as I leaned forward to the microphone and opened my mouth to speak, the flashing began. I scrunched up the piece of paper that DI Lumley had given me and dropped it on the floor. In my own words, I addressed the nation.
‘Death really is nothing to be scared of. But let’s look at this. The Fool is where you are now in your life. And see, he’s reversed.’ I watch for Sarah’s reaction, tune in to her involuntary twitches, expressions, a flick of the hair or nail picking or anything else that might give me clues. Her eyes widen as she edges forward in the armchair.
‘It means you’re stuck,’ I add. This, as I thought, elicits instant reaction from Sarah. I’m on to something.
‘You’re telling me.’ Her face sheds a layer of mistrust, like a guest removing their coat. She takes a first sip of tea, an indication that she’s warming to me.
‘Tied up in knots is what I see, Sarah. Backed into a corner and you’re only fifteen.’ How I hate myself. I turn to the cards again because it’s better than drowning in her eager spice eyes.
‘When will the baby be born?’ Now she asks something that takes only a bit of mental maths. I continue to stare at the cards, wishing she’d gone to see her family GP.
‘I can see there’s been much turmoil in your life.’ She’s said as much anyway. ‘So much sorrow and pain. You’ve had a life of heartbreak, Sarah.’ I’m sticking my neck out here, with little else to go on really. But she takes my lead flawlessly.
‘Since I was born. Tell me, when will it end? Will I ever be happy?’
‘Of course,’ I say, wondering if she will. ‘Your baby will bring you great joy and your father’s initial anger will diminish once he sees what a beautiful child you have given to the family.’ I’ve never told a child’s fortune before; never had to wonder about so much blank life ahead. ‘And you’ve got strength on your side. The cards are clear about that.’
‘Really?’ She takes more tea.
I spend the next forty minutes telling Sarah about all her good qualities and how to handle her father and young lover, how to breathe during childbirth and not once do I return to the cards for help. I feel like even more of a fraud than I already am. This is simply woman to young girl. Mother to daughter. It is all I can do not to beg her to give me her baby when it’s born.
When I had finished, when I had begged with the population of Great Britain to open their eyes and help find my baby, when I had told them about my stupidity and negligence and implored mothers everywhere never to leave their babies unattended even for a second, when I had described Natasha in every detail down to the length of her tiny fingernails and the pale shade of her milk-speckled tongue, when I had said all that, I made a point of speaking directly to the person who took my baby – one to one, just me and him, full-on eye contact through the cameras. It had to be done.
DI Lumley opened his mouth, raised an arm, gripped my elbow but then thought better of it. He stepped back and remained perfectly still by my side, letting me have my say, in spite of the pre-written statement crumpled on the floor. That afternoon, he proved to me that he had a heart. I stared deep into the BBC television camera and took a long breath.
‘When you first met my baby – she’s called Natasha Jane Varney, by the way – she would have smelled a little of me, perhaps a tang of the washing powder on her sleep suit, maybe a trace of my perfume or shampoo had rubbed off on her clothing. What worries me now is that she’ll smell of you. When I get my baby back, you’re going to be on her. What worries me, too, is that I found a bootee after you’d fled so one of my baby’s feet is going to be freezing. And I’m concerned that you won’t wind her after a feed.’ I can’t believe that I found it in me to laugh here. ‘If you actually bother to feed her, that is. Just so you know, she has six feeds in twenty-four hours but because she’s always been breastfed, you’ll probably have trouble coaxing her to take a bottle. You also ought to know that she likes to be held over your shoulder and patted gently on the back. She loves it when you lay her on your legs and sing nursery rhymes to her, pulling funny faces at the same time. “Rock-a-Bye-Baby” is her favourite. And she adores walks in her pram – I’m assuming you’ll be investing in one of those – but if it’s a really cold day, do wrap her up well, won’t you?
‘Natasha usually wakes about nine or ten times during the night. She’s never been a good sleeper. Except in the day, that is, but you’ll have far too much to do then to be able to catch up with sleep . . .’ I felt a hand slide up my arm. ‘You could always phone the health visitor but she might be too busy to come . . .’ The hand grips my elbow and tries to lower me back into the chair but I’m not stopping; not now everyone’s finally listening. ‘If you get really worn out, you can always leave her in the car and go into a shop.’ I pause and stare at the ceiling to make the tears stay in my eyes. ‘Then maybe someone will steal her.’
There’s something large and sticky in my throat, choking my words, making me swallow too much and now the hot tears are overflowing. The photographers go into a flashing clicking frenzy and Andy puts his arms around my waist. I hear someone call out, ‘That’s it, get close to your wife, Mr Varney,’ and then loads more flashing so that my eyes hurt and all I can see are thousands of electric blue dots, as if I’m spinning through the universe.
The room, the noise of everyone in it, gradually falls silent. I let my eyes close and allow my body to relax into Andy’s grip. Vaguely, I can hear questio
ns being fired at me but I can’t be bothered to answer. My world is filled with beautiful sparkles – perhaps what Natasha saw when she gazed up at the crystal mobile I’d hung above her cot.
Silence now as I head towards the centre of the starlit vortex. In the middle, there is nothing; complete blackness and emptiness and escape from all my pain. Then, at the very centre, I see Natasha, all wrapped up in her pretty baby clothes, gurgling and smiling and waiting for me. She isn’t crying at all. I hold out my arms to my baby and beg her to forgive me.
Even though it’s time for Sarah to go, I can tell she doesn’t want to. My usual signals of glancing at my watch and stacking the empty cups on the tea tray haven’t worked. I should probably just tell her that our session is over and she owes me twenty-five quid but I haven’t got the heart. And she’s got a baby inside her. One that might not be wanted.
‘I don’t have any other clients today.You can stay and keep me company, if you like.’ It could be shame for not really knowing what her future holds or a desire for company. Either way, the thick guilt that I’m wearing must be visible and flashing green neon to Sarah although she doesn’t hesitate in accepting my offer.
‘Sure. But only for an hour or so because my father and brothers have their meal at six and I haven’t even begun preparations yet.’
Something about her voice tells me that she is dolefully resigned to her lot in life. She, too, is wearing a suit of guilt, for killing her mother as she slid into the world, for shaming the family by carrying a child when she is only a child herself.
‘What about your school work?’ I pick up the tray and beckon her to follow me into the kitchen. Kitchens are good places for talking. I should see all my clients in the kitchen. I dump the crockery into the sink and put on my rubber gloves. Sarah sits at my wooden table. She is far more relaxed now.
‘I’ve never bothered to study hard. Since I was little, my father has always talked of the man I will marry and how happy and well-set-up in life I will be.’ Sarah pulls a face, one that tells me she wishes she could tell the future. ‘But now that I’m going to be a single mum, exams suddenly seem important because I’ll need a job.’
She rests her constantly mobile fingers on her belly for a moment, pulling her cardigan taught over the bump. Suddenly, I long to touch it again, to feel the hardness of her skin, perhaps the jut of an elbow or heel. ‘I doubt if anyone will give me a job now though. Or marry me. What am I going to do?’ Then she drops her head to the table and, within the privacy of the long dark hair that curtains her face, Sarah sobs for nearly two hours.
When she’s finished, I wash her face with a flannel soaked in warm water and lavender, make her another cup of tea and send her on her way feeling a whole lot better. She even manages a laugh when, at the front door, I bend down and plant a little kiss on her belly.
THIRTEEN
The M23 was a solid ribbon of cars. Multicoloured metal stitched permanently to the hot tarmac. Robert turned off the engine and stood up in his seat to see if he could spot the problem up ahead. He considered putting the roof up again, to shield himself from the sun that at only ten thirty was baking everyone’s anger and frustration rock solid. The radio, which had only been on in the background, suddenly interrupted Robert’s thoughts with a local traffic alert announcing that the M23 was closed southbound at junction 10A due to a jack-knifed lorry having dumped its load across all three lanes.
The car in front moved forward six feet. Only when the car behind hooted did Robert bother to start his engine and also move forward six feet. He couldn’t be bothered with road rage, not today. He studied an alternative route on the satnav. There was a junction coming up ahead although it would most likely be gridlocked with desperate motorists trying to find an alternative way around the mess.
As the car to the left of him moved forward, Robert pulled on the wheel and swerved his car into the nearside lane. He ignored the flashing headlights from behind and instead put his own headlights on main beam and set his hazard lights flashing. He drove his vehicle at the hard shoulder and accelerated towards the junction up ahead. He had to get to Brighton, which meant getting off the motorway. His nerves simply wouldn’t accommodate any further delay. The hard shoulder was for emergencies, he knew, but to Robert this was an emergency. He was going to save his marriage.
Robert’s instincts, fired up and on red alert, told him that Crawley was going to be congested from the still-stranded rush-hour traffic so as he approached the roundabout at dangerously high speed with his lights flashing and his horn blasting, he headed east and then south where, directed by the GPS, he eventually found open roads followed by deserted country lanes.
After twenty minutes, Robert pulled over into a field gateway and turned off the engine. Completely off course, he sighed and pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand and let his head drop back onto the seat. The heat had frazzled his nerves and shrivelled the determined spirit with which he had left home that morning.
He’d kissed Erin briefly, more of an accidental swipe of lips, as she’d left for work, without mentioning his planned trip to the south coast. Then he saw Ruby safely on the school minibus. Nothing out of the ordinary so far; he just prayed that neither of them would need him today. Explaining that he wasn’t around because he was in Brighton would ruffle Erin’s curiosity and suspicion enough to require him to lie about a business meeting and then they’d be as bad as each other. Both liars.
He pulled the cap off a bottle of water and sucked until it was nearly gone. He got out of the car to stretch his legs and gather his thoughts. Knowing what to wear to meet his wife’s lover had proved difficult. He’d dressed in his usual dark business suit with a short-sleeved summer shirt underneath but as soon as Ruby and Erin had left the house, he changed. He decided on jeans and loafers with a loose shirt and dark sunglasses. He wanted to leave behind as many years as possible because he had a foreboding that Baxter would be about ten years younger and far better looking.
He brought down his fist on the car bonnet and instantly regretted it. A dent in the silver metal reflected the glaring sun. At that moment he could have hated Erin for her lies, for her easy concealment of the truth but most of all for doing this to Ruby who would, after all, suffer the most. But it didn’t stick, the hate, so instead he hated himself for sneaking off to Brighton.
An hour later, Robert slipped the Mercedes into a space along the Promenade. The beach was spotted with pink and stripped bodies basking on the smooth pebbles. He locked the car and snorted, thinking that if he couldn’t locate Baxter then he would buy some shorts and take a dip in the sea to cool off.
He took a piece of paper from his back pocket and studied it. He had searched for King’s Flowers on the internet and printed off a street map. It was only a couple of blocks away from the seafront and within a few minutes of entering the darker lanes of historical Brighton, Robert had located the quaint shop on Market Street. The cream and green painted façade sported fashionable gold lettering advertising ‘King’s Flowers, Blooms for all Occasions. Proprietor: Baxter King’.
A quick scan of the window display told Robert that the flowers and other decorative goods for sale were very expensive, even compared to Erin’s London shop. But it was the minimalist sprays of twisted bamboo and fiery orchids, the roughly painted wooden palettes used to display bold arrangements of anthurium and bear grass, oriental lilies strewn horizontally over sand and beach stones – all of it sprayed with sugar water to make the whole scene appear as if it had woken up to a spring dew – that caused him to take a sharp breath. Erin’s shop window in London was virtually identical.
Robert leaned against a lamp post, hardly able to look at the frontage of King’s Flowers. Had Baxter King copied his wife’s ideas or was Erin so besotted with the creative Mr King that she had reproduced the Brighton display in London? Either way, Robert felt nauseous when he realised just how close they must be. Opposite the f
lower shop was a café bar. Robert took a table in the window and ordered a strong coffee while he mulled over what to do next.
King’s Flowers was obviously very popular. In fifteen minutes, Robert counted a similar number of customers leaving the shop, all with beautifully wrapped arrangements. Inside, he could see two young women wearing jeans and short tops with dark green canvas aprons slung low on their hips. They chatted and busied themselves with the customers and the blonde one took off her shoes and climbed into the window display with a pump spray to douse the arrangements. Robert had seen Erin do the same thing many times. He supposed she had picked up the tip from Baxter King. He wondered where the man was. Too important to be bothered with the everyday running of the shop, he supposed. He might not even catch sight of him at all, in which case his journey would have been wasted. Robert was keen to study him from this perfect vantage point before making himself known. Knowledge is power, he told himself, swirling the last of his coffee around the cup.
He stood up and was about to leave the café but froze. A man, short and stocky, wearing a purple and yellow seventiesstyle shirt, strode into King’s Flowers and immediately embraced both of the shop assistants. He then ducked behind the counter and leafed through some papers before laughing with the women and pacing around the shop, making minute adjustments to the stock.
‘Baxter King,’ Robert said, slowly sitting down again, relieved that the man was about five feet six tall and possibly as wide. From where Robert was, and through two layers of glass that bounced the sun jaggedly across the narrow street, he could see that King had a red face with a patchy beard in yellow and brown and a smattering of grey-streaked hair that clung to a sunburnt scalp. Robert laughed and ordered another coffee.
