Emma's Baby

by Taylor, Abbie

  'Well, maybe if I'd bothered to follow them, I wouldn't have made such a mess of my life, would I?' Rafe snapped.

  Emma fell back in her seat. She put her hand to her eyes. All the time, all the time, every step she took, she was pushing through some giant, clinging web, and with every step, the web grew and recoiled on her, pushing her right back again to where she'd started.

  After a minute, Rafe said, 'I'm sorry. I really am. I don't know how to advise you. I don't want to make things worse for you. I could tell you to just walk away from them and do your own thing, like I did. But you can't, can you? You don't have a choice.'

  She didn't answer. Neither of them spoke again for a while. They sat there, limp and miserable, velcroed to the sweaty seats. Out on the road, the tractor droned on. Through the window, Emma breathed petrol and hot tar. Another quicksand day. Well, she'd come this far. She could do this. She pressed her eyes with her finger and thumb. A game, was it? Fine. Ridiculous as it was, she would play it. She would get through this. She would keep on going, and sitting here, and breathing in and out, and no doubt, at some point, the DNA result would come back and all of this would come to an end.

  At least she knew that Ritchie was all right. She'd seen that for herself. Right now, that was if the Hunts hadn't taken him off somewhere, he was probably asleep in bed. He should have gone for his nap an hour ago. Or was he keeping to the same timetable here as at home? Would Antonia notice he was tired? Would she insist on him staying up, or would she let him have enough rest?

  And he had no Gribbit here. He never went to sleep without Gribbit. Did he miss him? Or did he have another one now? A newer, plusher, shinier Gribbit; a Gribbit that didn't smell or have stains.

  Emma forced the thoughts away. This waiting and hanging around was doing her head in. But she had to trust Rafe that waiting was the best thing to do. If it wasn't for him, she wouldn't have seen Ritchie at all.

  Thank God, they were moving again. The tractor had finally made it around the wall. The youth waved at Rafe before hopping back up into his seat. Rafe didn't follow the tractor, but turned left to where the road was clear. They were coming into a town now. They seemed to have reached the coast. A fresh, welcome breeze lifted Emma's hair from her eyes. Between pale-coloured buildings, she glimpsed the sea. Boats bobbed in the distance; the blue-grey water was dotted with bright, white triangles. Further into the town, people in shorts and flip-flops thronged the paths. Children skipped ahead, trailing towels and fishing nets.

  'This is Arcachon,' Rafe said. 'I think we should stop here. Stretch our legs a bit. There's a famous sand dune somewhere nearby. The Dune of Pyla. I read about it when I was looking up the area. Biggest sand dune in Europe, supposedly. We can climb it, if you like? Get some exercise?'

  On cue, through some trees ahead, rose what looked like a massive yellow wall.

  'That's a sand dune?' Doubtfully, Emma peered up at it. Little black specks dotted the side. People, she realized.

  'Impressive, isn't it?' Rafe said. 'Come on.' He indicated to pull in. 'Let's give it a go. It'll take our minds off the wait.'

  It was a relief to get out of the car. Being in there was like sitting in an oven. They walked through some trees, stepping over heavy growth and fallen branches to reach the dune. Emma tilted her head back to see the top of it. It really was steep.

  'I don't think—' she began.

  Rafe was already climbing.

  'Come on,' he called. 'There'll be a great view once we're up.'

  Emma made a half-hearted attempt to follow him. Within a minute, she was out of breath. Her feet sank in the sand, sliding backwards with every step. Her bag swung down in front of her, getting in the way. She didn't seem to be getting anywhere at all.

  'How are you doing?' Rafe called. He had stopped to wait for her.

  Emma straightened, pushing her hair off her face. Her T-shirt stuck to her chest. This was crazy. Here she was, climbing a pile of sand while her child was being held prisoner in some madwoman's house. What did she think she was doing?

  'I'm not going any further,' she said. 'You go on if you want to. I'll wait here.'

  Rafe slid back down the dune.

  'Take off your shoes,' he advised. 'Look at the way those people are doing it.' He pointed. A couple of hundred yards away, a group of teenagers were climbing the dune on all fours.

  'I'm not doing that,' Emma said scornfully.

  'Why not?'

  'Because I don't want to. This is stupid.'

  'Just give me your bag and shoes,' Rafe tried to persuade her. 'Free up your hands.'

  He really was irritating her now.

  'I don't need your help,' Emma snapped. 'I'm perfectly able—'

  'I know you're able.' All of a sudden, Rafe sounded annoyed as well. 'But you're carrying more of a load than me. All I'm doing is trying to help you.'

  The two of them glared at each other. Then, to Emma's own surprise, she bent down and took off her shoes. One by one, she slapped them into Rafe's hands.

  'Happy now?' she asked.

  She dumped her bag on top of the shoes. Then she turned back to the dune. She planted one foot on the sand, placed her hands to either side of it, and began to climb.

  This time, without the bag and shoes, she moved faster. Now she could see herself climbing, making progress. Drops of sweat rolled from under her arms, soaking her T-shirt, and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, but she kept going. The higher she climbed, the steeper the slope became; but by now it didn't matter because she was concentrating, chest burning, everything forgotten except her determination to get there.

  Then she was over the top, and the grey sea, the whole of the Atlantic spread out before her.

  'Oh.'

  She was surrounded by whiteness. Wind swept her face and hair. A lid had been lifted off the world, and all of its contents had flown away. All that was left was the sheer pleasure of being up there and of not having to climb any more. Her legs felt like jelly. It would be OK. Everything would be OK.

  'Well done,' Rafe called. He had reached the top ahead of her and was sitting a little way away, cross-legged on the sand.

  Emma was too out of breath to reply. She let her knees fold, sinking her to the ground, and lay on her back, arms out, staring up at the sky. The wind cooled her forehead and neck and lifted the hem of her T-shirt. She closed her eyes, listening to the waves and the faraway cries of seagulls, like babies. Her breath slowed. The jelly feeling faded from her legs.

  A little while later, she sat up again. Rafe had been busy. A knee-high sandcastle stood in front of him, dampened into place with Evian water. The lower, squarer part of the castle was decorated with stones. In the centre was a tower, with finger-marks down the sides. On top of the tower, the wooden stick from an ice lolly pointed into the sky.

  'The fortress of Helm's Deep,' Rafe explained when he saw Emma looking. 'Impenetrable to all forces of darkness.'

  A breeze came up. Helm's Deep trembled, very slightly, and collapsed into the sand. Rafe muttered something to himself.

  'So,' he said to Emma, 'how are you feeling now?'

  'Better,' she admitted. She began to brush sand off her T-shirt.

  'Can I ask you something?'

  'Sure.'

  'Where is your family?'

  Emma stopped brushing. Of course. He didn't know. She took a moment to push her hair behind her ears.

  Briefly, briskly, she told him about her mother's death.

  'I'm sorry.' Rafe looked at her. 'So soon before Ritchie.'

  'And my dad,' Emma added, 'left when I was three. Went to Swindon to live with a woman called Jackie. So now you know the story of my family.'

  'Do you still see your dad?'

  Emma shook her head. 'He died when I was nine. I never really knew him anyway. He didn't stay in touch much after he left.'

  'Must have been hard on your mum,' Rafe said.

  'Well, yeah, it wasn't exactly a barrel of laughs. She was left in a lot of
debt. She had to work two jobs to keep us. But she just got on with it. It's what you do, isn't it?'

  Rafe paused. Emma could almost hear the inevitable next question: And what about Ritchie's father?

  She didn't feel like going into all that, not now, so she said, 'So, what about your family? Are you from London?'

  'I grew up in Lewisham,' Rafe said. 'My mum still lives there, with my stepdad. My real father moved out when I was a kid.' He made a face. 'Snap. Like yours.'

  Ritchie's too, Emma thought with a pang. Was there something wrong with them all, that none of them had fathers who wanted to see them grow up?

  'Do you keep in touch with him?' she asked politely.

  'Now and then. He moved to Spain a few years ago. Fifty-seven, and still trying to find himself. He plays guitar with a band in Malaga, can you believe that? Got himself a twenty-three-year-old girlfriend.'

  Rafe's grin faded. He picked up the wooden lollipop stick and stirred the fallen heap of sand.

  'Since I left the police,' he said, 'I can see myself turning into him. Drifting about. Trying to find myself.'

  'I'd say you were a good policeman,' Emma said. She meant it.

  'Yeah, well. I grew up in a pretty tough estate, gave my mum a hard time after my dad left. A few of us got into nicking cars and the cops used to come and chase us up and down the estates. Lucky we never killed anyone. Or ourselves, come to think of it – not that that would have been any kind of loss. Most of the time, no matter how fast we went, the police caught us. After a bit, I was impressed by that. I thought about how pointless I was being, just pissing about and stealing things, when I could actually try to do something useful with my life.'

  'Didn't you have a problem getting into the police?' Emma was curious. 'After you'd stolen the cars?'

  'Nah. Well, I walked into our local station when I was about fourteen – they all knew me by then – and told them I wanted to join, and the bloke behind the desk thought it was the most hilarious thing he'd ever heard. But when they'd all finished having a laugh, one of them was actually quite helpful. He told me to keep out of trouble, go back to school and stay there, and who knew what might happen.' Rafe smiled, remembering. 'My mum was thrilled.'

  'You liked it, didn't you?' Emma said. 'Being in the police?'

  'Yeah.' For a minute, his face lit up. 'Yeah, I did.'

  His eyes were narrowed against the light. The narrowing gave them a keen, watchful look, made him seem the type of person he was: active, energetic, used to the outdoors. Emma had no trouble picturing him zipping easily over fences and walls, leaping off a bridge to bring down the baddie with the gun. But to balance that, what so many of the police didn't seem to have, or had lost: the kindness and compassion he had shown the day he'd called to her flat to see if she was OK.

  'I couldn't believe they were paying me to work for them,' Rafe was saying. 'I'd have done it for nothing. For a while anyway. But then . . .' He lifted a shoulder. 'You know the rest. I had this clichéd notion I could make a difference. But it's such a machine. They were all so full of shit. I didn't want to be a part of it.'

  'All the more reason to stay,' Emma said. 'People who care are needed everywhere. If the good people are on the outside, nothing will change.'

  She was watching a child roll, squealing, down the dune. A woman slid after him, laughing and calling. The child had blond, wispy hair. She thought she saw Rafe looking at her, but when she turned to him he was gazing at something over the other side of the dune.

  'Let's cheer that couple on,' he said, jumping up. 'They look like they could do with some help.'

  A man and woman who looked to be in their seventies were climbing the dune. The man, breathing hard and purple in the face, gallantly tried to push his well-padded partner from behind. She had given up and was lying face down in the sand, only a few feet from the top.

  'Keep going,' Rafe called. 'You're almost here.'

  'I keep telling her that,' the man gasped. He had an American accent.

  'Listen to you,' the woman said. She lifted her head to shoot him a look. 'Don't you pretend you're not glad of an excuse to stop.'

  But she got to her knees and started to climb again. By now, several other people were peering over the edge of the dune. A group of teenage girls who had been sitting in a circle, eating crisps and chattering in French, jumped up and arranged themselves in a line along the top.

  'Come on,' they shouted, their hands around their mouths. 'You can do eet.'

  When the couple finally reached the top, the girls, all long legs and skinny, cut-off jeans, squealed and clapped, jumping up and down. Emma surprised herself by clapping too.

  'Oh, my.' The woman knelt in the sand, blowing her cheeks out and fanning herself with her hand. 'How nice of you. I really thought I wasn't going to make it.'

  'Of course you were,' Rafe said.

  Emma noticed several of the French girls looking over at him. He'd caught the sun today. Already he was dark enough to be French himself. He looked like an overgrown kid, loping and messing about there on the dune with the American couple; but there was something adult about him as well, a toughness, like he could take care of himself if he had to. What did they call it? Streetwise. He glanced towards her then, and she smiled. For a second, Rafe looked surprised. Then he smiled back, straight at her. Emma's mind had moved on. She was thinking again about the little boy, rolling down the hill and shrieking. She hugged her arms to herself. She would bring Ritchie here. They'd never really, properly, had fun together. It would be like this.

  On the way back to Bergerac, they stopped in one of the yellow stone villages for something to eat. Inside, the restaurant had walls of rough brick, and candles in wine bottles on the tables. Waiters in waistcoats and white aprons bustled about with buckets of ice and menus.

  The walls of the building were inches thick. Emma had to step outside again to get a signal on her mobile. Further downriver, a bridge with arches caused the water to divide and ripple. Where the water was disturbed, the moon cast blue tips. Emma phoned Brian Hodgkiss again, and waited in the shadow of walls that must have seen a hundred generations of mothers like her come and go.

  'All well,' Brian Hodgkiss said when he heard her voice. 'The test has been done. I spoke to the Hunts a little while ago. They're still in the area.'

  Oh, the relief of it. She still had no idea what the Hunts were playing at, but whatever it was, at least Ritchie was safe.

  She said, 'I was wondering if there was any way I could see him tonight?'

  'I don't think that would be possible.' Brian sounded apologetic.

  'Even a quick meeting,' Emma pleaded, 'even with other people there? Even with her there, I don't care . . .'

  'It wouldn't be possible,' Brian repeated. 'Not unless they agreed to it, and I really don't think they would. I'm sorry.' He did sound as if he meant it.

  He added, in a kinder tone, 'Not too much longer now. The results should be back by tomorrow.'

  He sounded a lot more friendly than before, as if he was finally coming around to her side.

  Emma reported the conversation back to Rafe.

  'I could have him soon,' she said, her voice wobbling.

  Rafe was quiet. His earlier high spirits on the dune seemed to have passed. A waiter appeared at their table, a row of plates along his arm. Pyramids of ham, cheese and tomatoes; chunks of warm French bread. Emma sampled them all, hungrier than she'd been for days, but Rafe ate very little. Tired, no doubt, after all that climbing. Plus, he'd done all the driving again that day. She was in no doubt as to how much she owed him.

  The B&B was shut up and silent by the time they got back. They let themselves in the front door, careful not to jingle the keys or trip over the rug in the hall. Emma followed Rafe up the stairs, tiptoeing on the steps, peering to see her way in the sepia light from the window.

  Rafe's room had its own entrance, a little way down the hall from Emma's. He stopped outside Emma's door to say goodnight.


  'Thank you for today,' Emma said, keeping her voice low so as not to wake their hostess. 'It helped a lot. Kept me from thinking too much.'

  It was true. She felt easier inside now, less knotted and hopeless than before. Things were going to work out. She just had a feeling.

  'I enjoyed it too,' Rafe said. 'I'm glad it helped.'

  'We owe you a lot,' Emma said. 'Ritchie and I. You found the address for us. None of this would have happened without you.'

  Rafe's hands were at his sides, just hanging there between them. Emma reached down and took them in hers.

  'Why did you do this for us?' she asked. 'You hardly know us.'

  Rafe had taken a breath, as if to say something. But then he didn't.

  'Well, whatever it was,' Emma smiled at him, 'I'm glad we met you.'

  She went to kiss him goodnight. But then a peck on the cheek didn't seem enough. On impulse, she released his hands and put her arms around him.

  'Thank you,' she said.

  Rafe's arms came around her too, holding her as tightly as she held him. His cheek, solid and a bit scratchy, pressed against hers. He smelled of sweat and the sea, and some faint, appley scent.

  'I was happy to do it,' he said.

  They held each other for a moment. Rafe was the first to let go. He took his arms away from her and stood back.

  'We should get some sleep,' he said. 'Tomorrow could be a busy day.'

  'I hope so.' Emma was fervent.

  But once in her room, Emma knew she was still a long way from sleep. When she pulled her jeans off, sand drizzled out over the carpet. Her socks were stuck to her feet. A bath might be the thing to settle her; tire her out.

  She went into the bathroom. Quietly, so as not to disturb Rafe, she pulled off her T-shirt and draped it over the towel rail. She reached behind her to unhook her bra. In the mirror over the sink, she saw the lines on her stomach, the folds of extra skin. There were blue veins on her legs that hadn't been there before. Ritchie had put those veins there. She'd freaked a bit when she'd first noticed them, but she was used to them now.

  She was leaning over the bath, about to turn the taps on, when the door to Rafe's room opened and in he walked, holding a toothbrush. He looked up and saw her, and jerked back, sucking a breath between his teeth.