by Amanda James
Often since I discovered he was still alive, I have woken with Alex’s question running through my head. Providing they have looked after him properly, loved him, he might miss them. Mightn’t he? He’ll be taken from everything he’s ever known. Smells, sights, sounds. But in the long run he’ll thank me. If he’d been a toddler it would be much harder, I think. How can anything ever replace his true mother’s love? I believe he’ll bond with me quickly… or at least I hope so. Whatever the case, he’ll soon be back where he belongs.
*
South Milton is a small but beautiful Devon village about three miles from its larger Kingsbridge neighbour. It really does look like a backdrop to Midsomer Murders, yet if possible even more picturesque with its thatched cottages and beautiful old church. I so wish we were here under different circumstances, because it is just stunning. But we aren’t, and that’s that.
Because it is so tiny, there are only a few choices for a bed for the night and we booked into a lovely old farmhouse B&B online before setting off this morning. In my wildest imaginings, we won’t have to actually stay there at all, because we’ll just waltz up to the Jensons’ house and take my boy. But life isn’t that simple, is it?
We have had an almost silent journey here because I have been very uncommunicative. Since we left the house I have been worried about Iona, Ruan, the future, everything. I was very emotional this morning when I kissed my daughter goodbye. I know I’m just at the end of phone and Demi is a capable person, even though she’s not had many dealings with babies, but I have never left her for more than a few hours. What if something happens to her? Jowan has tried to calm me and assure me nothing will, but I don’t want to talk to him. In the end he gives up and concentrates on driving.
Fear of losing your children or something happening to them isn’t unusual for a parent, is it? But because I actually did lose my boy, those fears are all the more real. Jowan tries to understand, but how can he? He’s not a parent and so whatever he has to say is all a little twee. Too many clichés and placations. And the other reason I haven’t spoken much on the journey is because there is this ‘love’ information doing lazy laps around my mind. Demi should have kept her big trap shut last night. It’s made travelling in such close proximity to Jowan hard, because now I know for certain he loves me, every little look or smile he gives me seems to suggest so much more. I don’t want it to and the whole situation is irritating me. All I care about is finding my boy and getting out of here.
At the B&B we check in and tell lots of lies about what we are doing here. I hate it. Deception. Debs and Michael, the people who run the place, are so lovely, as was Isadora according to Jowan, but we have no choice, do we? This time we are travel journalists doing research about Devon and Cornwall. We are writing a book together and hopefully it should be out next year. Just friends, hence separate rooms.
‘A friend of mine mentioned that there’s a lovely old house here called Harebrook or Harefields? Do you know it?’ Jowan drops casually into the conversation. I try not to look surprised, because we were still wondering on the way up here how we would find out the exact location of the Jensons’.
‘Harefields,’ Debs says. ‘Yes, it is gorgeous. Used to be the old manor house back in the day.’
‘So it would be worth taking a photo or two for the book?’ I say.
‘It would. All red brick, gravel drive and sweeping grounds,’ Michael says. ‘You’d have to get permission from the owners, I expect. The Jensons are pleasant, but they don’t really mix in the village much. Their main home is in London and they keep themselves to themselves pretty much. I did hear they have a baby now though, and the wife has been spending more time here.’
‘Lovely,’ Jowan says. ‘Is it hard to find?’
‘Not at all. Just follow the road round out of the village and it’s in the clearing on the hill surrounded by trees. Can’t miss it. It has a grand view out to the sea.’
In my room with the door shut I slap Jowan on the back. ‘That was brilliant; you’re a natural liar, Jowan.’ The sarcastic tone of my voices surprises me. It wasn’t intended, well not really, but the stress of everything is getting to me.
Jowan raises an eyebrow and folds his arms. ‘Well, at least I got the information we needed.’
‘Yes, you did. I’m sorry… it’s just…’
‘I know exactly what you mean. It’s rubbish having to pretend. Let’s go and have a bite to eat at the cafe by the beach and then drive up to the Jensons’.’
‘How can you think about eating at a time like this?’
‘We need to eat. We left early without breakfast and an army marches on its stomach, don’t forget. I can’t think with an empty belly.’
‘A two-man army…’ I look out of the bedroom window and see green fields leading to the hills not too far away. My boy is waiting over there. The last thing I want to do is eat, but Jowan does and we need energy, I guess. Talk of armies has me wondering about Jowan’s experience again, and before I have time to think properly, out comes, ‘Jowan, I suspect you had a really traumatic time in the army. You said the way you behaved with Neville was to do with it, but you wouldn’t say more.’
He’s just getting ready to leave the room but then turns quickly. ‘Eh? Why do you say that?’ A shutter has started to wind down across his face and his eyes turn ice-blue.
Why the hell did I open my mouth about that right at this particular time? Don’t we have enough stress? ‘Sorry, let’s leave it for now and go to the cafe. You’re right. We can’t think straight on an empty…’
‘No. I want to know what you mean,’ Jowan says quietly. He sits on the bed, fixes me with his no-nonsense stare.
Buggeration. I turn back to the view, say to a field of sheep, ‘It was when you were staying at my apartment the first night. I’d got up to get Iona a bottle and you yelled out in your sleep – no, take cover, over and over. Then you sat up with your eyes open, flailing your arms, and I thought you were awake, but you weren’t.’
Jowan sighs. I turn round and he closes his eyes, flops back on my bed, one arm across his face. He says nothing and I watch his chest rise and fall, listen to his rapid breathing, and curse my big mouth again. Just as I’m about to say we should go, he says, ‘I witnessed a roadside bomb going off. There were two patrol trucks. I was in the second one. One minute there was a truckload of my mates pulling up to the curb in the marketplace, the next it was raining body parts.’
My hand flies to my mouth and I sit on the end of the bed. ‘Oh, Jowan, I’m so sorry, I…’
‘I haven’t finished. I jump out yelling for people to take cover because the truck’s ablaze; lumps of metal were flying through the air. But the market was busy and I saw people stumbling towards us.’ There’s a sob in his throat. ‘They were on fire, Holly. Men, women and children… on fire. I can’t describe the sounds they were making, the smell of their flesh…’
‘Oh Jesus, no! Stop. Please stop.’ He looks at me, but doesn’t see. I know he’s far away, lost in the horror of that memory. My poor Jowan. I realise I’m shaking and I wrap my arms around myself. I daren’t wrap them around him.
Jowan’s eyes refocus and he shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go into detail like that. It’s not something I talk about – well, apart from the counsellor the army provided. That helped some, but it’s never far away from my mind. How could it be? Once you’ve witnessed something like that, it stays with you.’
‘Of course. No wonder you have nightmares. Please believe me that I’m so sorry for bringing it up. I hadn’t planned to, it just came out. My head is all over the place.’
‘Bound to be. I’m glad you told me anyway, as I had no idea I shout out in my sleep. Maybe I need more counselling.’
‘Perhaps you do…’ I was going to add that he might because of the overzealous ‘handling’ of Neville too, but this definitely wasn’t the time.
‘I’m just so glad I got out when I
did. I hated everything about it. What it was turning me into. One of the worst things was that nobody really knew why we were there or whether we were doing any good or not. It’s just one horrendous shambles.’
‘Afghanistan, wasn’t it?’
‘Yeah, but I mean, Syria, Iraq, the Middle East in general. When you look at the history of that area and our involvement – when I say ours, I mean Europe’s – it makes me so angry. It’s complicated, granted, but half the problems were caused by us in the first place.’
My instinct is to put my arms around him, kiss his cheek, make him feel safe. But that would be a disaster the way I’m feeling. It could lead to more… no, it would lead to more. I smile and touch his shoulder. ‘I’m glad you got out too, while you’re still my… still the Jowan I knew.’
Jowan smiles and the horrors of the past are gone from his eyes. ‘What were you going to say?’ I frown and shrug, though know exactly what he means. ‘You said “my”.’
‘Did I? No idea.’ I stand and walk to the door. ‘Right, let’s go.’
The cafe on the beach is grounded, cool and real. This is what Jowan says at intervals as he demolishes a huge burger with all the trimmings. I pick at a sandwich, my thoughts far away on the blue horizon. I wish I was on a boat with my children, heading to a desert island. Nobody could find us, or steal my Ruan away ever again. I’m dimly aware of Jowan talking through a mouthful of burger about surfing and the music in the cafe. Then a spark of irritation snaps my head from the window and my eyes onto his. Is he crazy? How can we have a normal conversation, with our imminent visit to the Jensons’ hanging over us like a thunder cloud?
‘Can we go soon?’ I say. My voice is flat, ironed out.
Jowan swallows and rinses the food down with a swig of Coke. ‘Yeah, just thought we’d try and relax a bit. We can’t show up pretending to be journalists if you’re screwed up with nerves.’
Relax a bit. I almost laugh out loud so bite the inside of my cheek. He has no idea how I feel.
No.
Bloody.
Idea.
The journalist act feels wrong all of a sudden. Wrong and stupid. ‘We’re dropping the journalist thing. We’re going as us. I am going as me, the mother of my child.’
His eyes nearly pop out of his head and he chokes on the drink. ‘But that’s not going to help, is it?’ he asks after getting his breath back. ‘At least with the journalist thing she might allow us to wander round the place, pretending to get the best camera angles and stuff. Then we might get her, Angela, to relax enough to bring Ruan outside.’
‘Where’s our ID and camera?’
A sigh and a shrug. ‘No ID. I have a camera in my rucksack; it’s not grand but it…’
‘We’re going as us.’ I stand and walk to the door. ‘And we’re going now.’
Inside my gut there are little churny cogs, pistons and pulleys too, all driven by a steam of fear and anxiety. Jowan hasn’t said a word so far, just climbed in the car beside me and taken the wheel. Good. There’s nothing more to be said. My plan, such as it is? To win Angela over, appeal to her as a woman. Surely she can see what she’s doing is wrong. Beyond that I will let my instinct lead me.
A sidelong glance at Jowan’s set profile tells me he’s pissed off. It can’t be helped. He promised to do as I asked the day at the flat when I said no heroics and that he must follow my lead and decisions. His help has been priceless and I’m so grateful he’s by my side now, but I know I’m doing the right thing. Amongst the churny cogs, pistons and pulleys, there’s a certainty and calm, and it’s growing. Angela is the key to my boy’s release.
*
Harefields is an imposing but beautiful building nestled between sweeping oaks on the crest of a hill. The car engine idles as we look up the drive and then, getting the nod from me, Jowan turns off the road and up to the gabled front door. We park next to a black four-by-four Mercedes and then Jowan cuts the engine. In the silence, my heartbeat thunders in my ears and I have to employ all the calming techniques I know. Jowan asks if I’m okay and I nod. Of course I’m not, but there’s little point in saying so.
Once out of the car we walk a few steps, the gravel crunching underfoot, and then Jowan stops. ‘What’s that?’ he puts his head on one side, listens.
A melancholy cry splits the still air and I realise it’s a fox a little way off behind us. I turn and look back to the road and in the direction of the cry, and my breath is taken by the rolling fields, village and ocean beyond. My breath is taken again by another melancholy cry. The cry of a baby from somewhere in the house.
‘My boy. It’s my boy,’ I whisper, linking arms with Jowan before my knees give out.
He squeezes my hand. ‘Yes, at last.’
On hearing my boy’s cry, renewed strength and confidence surge through my core and I’m about to lift the brass knocker on the door, when an upstairs window opens and a woman sticks her head out. I don’t know what I was expecting – perhaps a ravishing beauty with immaculate hair and make-up – but this woman looks like a normal person. A person who has sole care of a young baby. Short, dark, messy hair, shadows under her green eyes indicating sleep deprivation, and a look on her face indicating that she’d like to murder us.
‘What do you want? I’m not buying anything.’
‘We’re not selling anything,’ Jowan says, because my tongue appears to be stuck to the roof of my mouth.
‘That’s what they all say. Look, my son has just this second gone to sleep and…’
‘But he’s not, is he?’ My tongue has become unstuck.
Angela frowns, looks surprised, but there is fear behind her eyes. ‘He’s not what?’
‘Your son.’ I glare at her. ‘He’s mine.’
Her face, already pale, turns ashen and her hand comes up, grabs the window frame. ‘What the hell are you talking about? Just leave before I call the police.’ Her voice betrays her apparent bravado.
‘You know that’s not true, Angela,’ I say, trying to be as calm as possible. I don’t want her to slam the window on us. ‘Please. Please, if you love my boy, you know it’s wrong to keep him from me. Can you even begin to imagine how I feel?’
Angela opens and closes her mouth, shakes her head in bewilderment. ‘How… how do you know my name? I…’
Jowan snorts and there’s fire in his eyes. ‘Is that the issue here? How we know your…’
A quick elbow to his ribs shuts him up. ‘Look, I know you couldn’t have children and I’m sorry.’ My eyes find hers again and hold them. ‘A new baby must have been a dream come true for you, but…’
‘He said you were sectioned… might not ever get out of hospital because you had tried to…’ Angela’s voice trails off and she stares beyond me, out over the sea. She looks totally destroyed.
‘Who said?’ Jowan snaps. Angela ignores him. Just stares ahead. ‘Angela, who said, and tried to do what?’
Her head snaps back down to us. To me. ‘My husband, Mark… he said you had tried to kill yourself when you were carrying my Harry. Said you would kill him once he was born… you’d been an addict in the past. You were psychotic, a danger to yourself and others.’
A wave of anger and indignation threatens to drown me and I hold on to Jowan again. Take deep breaths. How could Mark have said such vile things, told such lies? But then why am I surprised? And she said – my Harry… he is not yours and his name isn’t fucking Harry!
‘Well, your husband is a bloody liar then, isn’t he?’ Jowan growls, throws his hands up.
Gathering my strength and resolve to be calm I look up at her. She has tears rolling down her cheeks and is shaking her head as if she’s trying to banish unwelcome thoughts. Then hope enters her eyes and she says, ‘You might have been released, might have hired an unscrupulous doctor to say you were fit to leave and…’ Angela ends on a sigh. She knows she’s talking rubbish.
‘Look, come down and we’ll discuss it. I’ll tell you exactl
y what happened to me and…’
Angela sends a humourless laugh down. ‘No. If I come down you’ll barge in and steal my son. You have no proof he’s yours and…’
I expected this and a flash of inspiration has me holding my phone up to her as I scroll down the photos. ‘From what you’ve said, you obviously don’t know my son has a sister. Iona is missing her twin too. If it’s true I’m a danger, which I’m clearly not, because the whole thing is a huge lie, would they allow me to keep my daughter?’ Her mouth drops open and she clutches at the window frame again.
‘He’s a twin?’
‘Yes.’ I hold up more photos. ‘Please come down and…’
She holds up her finger and shakes her head. ‘No. I can’t see those photos properly; they could be of any baby. The whole story is preposterous. Go away before I call the police.’ There’s a cold light in her eyes and a new edge to her voice, a determined no-nonsense edge I haven’t heard before, and it scares me.
‘You don’t want the police involved, believe me,’ Jowan says quietly. ‘Come down to the French windows over there.’ He cranes his neck around the side of the house. ‘They look very secure and probably triple-glazed. Holly can show you the photos close up, and if I tell you my number, she can talk to you on my phone. Please, Mrs Jenson, just listen to what Holly has to say?’ Jowan gives me a quick sidelong glance and squeezes my hand.
Angela looks ready to just shut the window and perhaps even call the police, but then she stops, heaves a sigh. She’s obviously struggling with her conscience. Then the cold chips leave her eyes. ‘Okay, I’ll come down. But I warn you, my husband will be here in a few minutes and he won’t be happy to find you here.’
Chapter Twenty
While we wait, I grab Jowan and hiss in his ear, ‘You told me Isadora said Mark only comes down at weekends!’
He hisses back, ‘Yes, that’s right. But it is Thursday; perhaps he’s decided to have a long weekend.’
