A Special Relationship

by Douglas Kennedy

  We made Putney in record time – a mere half-hour from the airport. The driver helped me to the front door with my bag. I took out my key and unlocked it, opening it as quietly as possible. I stepped inside. And immediately knew that something was astray. The front hallway had been stripped of a collection of framed historical photographs of Old Cairo that Tony had brought back from Egypt.

  Maybe he’d decided to put them elsewhere in the house …

  But then, as I headed up the stairs towards the nursery, I glanced sideways into the living room. This stopped me dead. Almost all the bookshelves had been emptied, along with Tony’s extensive collection of CDs, and the fancy overpriced stereo he’d treated himself to shortly after we moved in.

  We’d been burgled.

  I ran up the stairs, shouting for Tony. I threw open the nursery door. Nothing … by which, I mean: no crib, no playpen, no toys, no carry-chair, no Jack. I stood in the middle of the empty room – divested of all its furniture, all its toys, and every bit of clothing I’d bought for him.

  I blinked in shock. This wasn’t a burglary.

  Then I dashed upstairs to Tony’s study. It had been completely stripped bare. I rushed down to our bedroom and flung open the wardrobe. All his clothes were gone, but mine were still there. And when I charged into the bathroom, all that I found in the medicine cabinet were my toiletries.

  I reeled back into the bedroom. I sat down. I told myself: this isn’t making sense … this simply isn’t logical. My husband and my son have vanished.

  Nine

  IT TOOK ME several minutes to force myself up off the bed. I had no idea where this story was going. All I knew was: I had just walked into a nightmare.

  The kitchen. It was the one room in the house I’d yet to check. I stood up. I went downstairs – and immediately saw that the sterilizer, all baby bottles, and the high chair we’d bought were gone. So too was the entire stock of formula, diapers, baby wipes, and all other infant paraphernalia.

  I couldn’t fathom it. Someone had come along and expunged every trace of Tony and Jack from the house. No sign of them remained whatsoever.

  I grabbed the phone and punched in the number of Tony’s mobile. I was instantly connected with his voice mail. My voice was decidedly shaky as I spoke. ‘Tony, it’s me. I’m home. And I must know what’s going on. Now. Please. Now.’

  Then I rang his office – on the wild off-chance that he might be in at seven-something in the morning. Again I was connected to his voice mail. Again I left the same message.

  Then I rang Cha. No voice mail this time. Just a computer-generated voice informing me that the mobile phone I was ringing had been switched off.

  I leaned against the kitchen counter. I didn’t know what to do next.

  The front doorbell rang. I ran towards it, hoping against hope that Tony was outside with Jack in his arms. Instead, I found myself facing a large beefy guy in his late twenties. He was in a tight, ill-fitting suit, a white shirt open at the collar, a tie dappled by food stains. He had no neck – just a straight roll of fat from his chin to his collar bone. He radiated greasy menace.

  ‘Sally Goodchild?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, that’s me,’ I said.

  ‘Got something for you,’ he said, opening his briefcase.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m serving you with papers,’ he said, all but shoving a large document in my hand.

  ‘Papers? What sort of papers?’

  ‘An ex parte court order, luv,’ he said, thrusting a large envelope into my hand.

  Job done, he turned and left.

  I tore open the envelope and read. It was an order given by The Honourable Mr Justice Thompson, yesterday at The High Court of Justice. I read it once, I read it twice. It didn’t make sense. Because what it stated was that, after an ex parte hearing in front of Mr Justice Thompson the court had granted Anthony Hobbs of 42 Albert Bridge Road, London SW11 ex parte interim residence of his son, Jack Hobbs, until a further order was given.

  I ran down the street until I caught up with the process server, getting into his parked car.

  ‘You’ve got to explain this to me,’ I said.

  ‘Not my job, luv,’ he said.

  ‘Please,’ I said. ‘I need to know …’

  ‘Get yourself a solicitor, luv. He’ll know what to do.’

  He drove off.

  I went back to the house. I sat down at the kitchen table. I tried to re-read the court order again. Three sentences into it, I dropped it, clasped my arms around me, and felt the sort of deep chill that sparked off a low-level internal tremor.

  This can’t be happening … this can’t be …

  I stood up. I looked at the clock on the wall. Seven fifty-seven. I grabbed the phone. I tried Tony again. His voice mail answered again. I said, ‘Tony – I don’t know what sort of game you’re playing here … but you have to talk to me now.’

  The court has granted Anthony Hobbs of 42 Albert Bridge Road, London SW11 …

  I got to my feet. I opened the kitchen cabinet and reached into the bowl where all car and extra house keys were kept. The car keys were gone. Which meant that he had taken the car along with …

  A wave of terror seized me.

  After an ex parte hearing in front of Mr Justice Thompson …

  Why did he need a hearing? What was he arguing? What did I do that merited … ?

  I reached again for the phone and called the local minicab company. They had a car at my front door in five minutes. I gave the driver the address: 42 Albert Bridge Road, SW11.

  We headed right into rush hour traffic. The driver was a recent arrival in England. He had yet to master the A-to-Z atlas of city streets, and his battered C-reg Volvo was in need of a new set of shocks. But he kept humming contentedly to himself as we sat, becalmed, in eight am gridlock. He also lost his way twice – but seemed genuinely concerned by my ever-growing agitation in the back seat.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I get you there.’

  But it took nearly an hour to negotiate the two-mile crawl to Albert Bridge Road. When we arrived, some instinct told me to ask him to wait for a moment while I got out of the cab and negotiated the ten steps up an imposing three stories-over-basement Victorian town house. I used the brass door knocker to announce my arrival, whacking it frantically. After a moment, it was opened by a diminutive, olive skinned woman with tired eyes and a Hispanic accent.

  ‘Yes?’ she asked, looking at me warily.

  Peering over her shoulder, I got a glimpse of the entrance foyer. Very minimalist. Very sleek. Very architect designed. Very expensive.

  ‘Who lives here?’

  ‘Miss Dexter.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘She has a friend.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Mr Tony.’

  ‘And does Mr Tony have a little boy?’

  ‘A beautiful little boy’ she said, actually smiling.

  ‘Are they here now?’

  ‘They’ve gone away.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The country.’

  ‘Whereabouts.’

  ‘I don’t know. Miss Dexter has a place in the country.’

  ‘Do you have a phone number, an address?’

  ‘I can’t give …’

  She began to shut the door. I put my foot in its way.

  ‘I’m the little boy’s mother. I just need to know …’

  ‘I can’t,’ she said.

  ‘Please help me here.’

  ‘You have to go.’

  ‘Just a phone number. I’m—’

  The word ‘desperate’ was on my lips, but I couldn’t get it out, as I found myself overwhelmed by despair and shock. The housekeeper looked at me with alarm.

  ‘Please,’ I whispered.

  She glanced around nervously, as if somebody could be watching us, then said, ‘They went to his office.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Half-an-hour ago. They had to stop there before
they went to the country.’

  I touched the top of her hand.

  ‘Thank you.’

  I walked quickly back to the cab.

  ‘Can you get me to Wapping now?’

  En route, I tried to process the limited information I’d received. The woman was named Dexter. She obviously had money – not just for that big Albert Bridge Road pile, but also for a country place. And the fact that my husband was referred to as Mr Tony meant …

  What? That he’d been around and about this house since … ?

  After an ex parte hearing in front of Mr Justice Thompson …

  I reached for my phone, about to try Tony’s mobile again. But then I stopped myself, thinking that if he knew I was on my way to the Chronicle, he’d have a chance to run interference or …

  What is he doing? What?

  ‘Get yourself a solicitor, luv. He’ll know what to do.’

  But I knew no solicitors in London. I really knew no one here. No one at all I could call now and say …

  No, this is all too absurd. This is some horrible prank, some fantastical misunderstanding which has ballooned into …

  And he was so friendly on the phone when I was back in Boston. Before then, he couldn’t have been more considerate when Sandy’s ex fell off the mountain. Go darling, go … and here’s a better class of air ticket to make your journey more comfortable. Because while you’re out of town …

  Stop it, stop it – you sound like one of those demented conspiracy theorists.

  We approached the Wapping gates. I paid the driver £30 and then approached the security cordon – a place which Tony always referred to as Checkpoint Charlie. But instead of the Stasi on duty, I found myself face-to-face with a uniformed guard at a little visitor’s booth.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m here to see my husband,’ I said.

  ‘Which paper does he work for?’

  ‘The Chronicle. Tony Hobbs – the Foreign Editor.’

  ‘Oh right, him. And you’re his missus?’

  I nodded. As he rang a number, he asked me to take a seat. He spoke into the phone, explained who I was, and then heard something from the person on the other end which made him cast a sideways glance at me, as if I was potential trouble. After he hung up, he turned to me and said, ‘Someone will be out here in a moment.’

  ‘Someone?’ I said, standing up. ‘Didn’t you speak with my husband?’

  ‘Someone will explain …’

  ‘Explain what?’

  ‘She’ll be here shortly’ the guard said.

  ‘Who is she?’

  The guard looked a little alarmed by my raised voice. But instead of saying anything, he just turned away from me and busied himself with paperwork.

  So I sat down in one of the plastic waiting room chairs, clutching myself tightly. A minute or so later, Judith Crandall walked in. She was Tony’s secretary – a woman in her late fifties who had been working for the Foreign Desk since she joined the paper thirty years earlier. ‘The original Chronicle lifer’, as Tony called her (takes one to know one) – and someone who knew where all the bodies were buried. She was also a rabid chain smoker, and had a lit cigarette in hand as she approached me. Her face looked grim, uneasy.

  ‘Hello, Sally,’ she said.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I said, my voice loud again.

  She sat down in the chair next to mine, and pulled it towards me, so we were huddling together conspiratorially.

  ‘Tony resigned from the paper yesterday,’ she said.

  This took a moment to register.

  ‘You’re lying,’ I said.

  She took a deep drag off her cigarette.

  ‘I wish I was.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask him.’

  ‘But he’s here, isn’t he?’

  ‘He was here – until about fifteen minutes ago.’

  ‘You’re lying. He’s here. With Jack.’

  She stubbed out her cigarette and immediately lit up another one.

  ‘I am not lying,’ she said in a low, conspiratorial whisper. ‘He left fifteen minutes ago.’

  ‘With my son?’

  ‘He was on his own. He showed up with his car and cleared his desk. Then he came over to a few of us and said goodbye and left.’

  ‘Did he give you any forwarding address?’

  ‘Albert Bridge Road in Battersea.’

  ‘Same address that was in the court order …’

  She said nothing, but looked away – which is when I knew that she was aware of everything that had happened.

  ‘Who’s this other woman?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You do know,’ I said.

  ‘He didn’t talk about her.’

  ‘Please …’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘Liar,’ I shouted.

  The guard stepped off from behind his desk and approached me.

  ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.’

  ‘Sally,’ Judith said, taking me by the hand, ‘this is doing no good.’

  ‘He took my child. You know that. He’s disappeared with my son. And now I’m not leaving. Because I know you’re hiding him. I know it!

  That last sentence came out as a shriek – causing Judith and the guard to blanch. He recovered quickly, however, and said, ‘I’m saying this just once: you leave now of your own accord, or I will be forced to escort you off the premises myself. And if you fight us, I will have no choice but to call the police.’

  Judith was about to reach for my hand, but thought better of it.

  ‘Please Sally, don’t make him do that.’

  ‘You know everything, don’t you?’ I said, my voice a near-whisper. ‘You know who this Dexter woman is, and how long he’s been seeing her, and why he’s taken out an order barring me from …’

  I started to weep. Judith and the guard backed away. I dropped into the chair, sobbing wildly. The guard was going to make a move towards me, but Judith stopped him, whispering something in his ear. Instead she crouched down beside me and said, ‘You need help. Can I call someone for you?’

  ‘Oh, is that what he told you ... that I’d gone completely ga-ga and needed help?’

  My angry voice prompted the guard to approach me again.

  ‘I’ll go,’ I said.

  I stormed out of the security hut without looking back.

  I found myself on a road called The Highway, staggering in the direction of Tower Bridge, but not really knowing where I was headed. A high, long wall ran the southern length of The Highway. After around twenty paces, I slumped against it – unable to move any further. Though I was still standing on my feet, I could feel myself plummeting: that same descending swoop I so associated with the initial stages of my postnatal disaster. Only this time, it was accentuated by the realization that my husband had vanished with my son – and had obtained a court order to bar me from seeing him.

  Here, finally, was legal confirmation of what the world already knew: I was a disaster as a mother. Here, finally, was proof that I should do everyone a favour and walk the quarter-mile to Tower Bridge, and climb over one of the railings and—

  ‘Ma’am, are you all right?’

  It was a constable – walking his beat and finding me slumped against the wall. Looking—

  Well, I must have been looking pretty damn desperate for a big city policeman to take notice of a lone woman holding up a wall.

  ‘Ma’am … ?’

  ‘Yeah, fine.’

  ‘You don’t sound fine.’

  ‘I’m … uh …’

  ‘Do you know where you are now?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Where then, please?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘Yes, but where exactly?’

  ‘Wapping.’

  ‘You’re North American?’

  I nodded again.

  ‘Visiting London?’

  ‘No – live here.’ />
  ‘And you don’t need help right now?’

  ‘Just … upset … private thing ... uh ... a taxi.’

  ‘You’d like a taxi?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Going where?’

  ‘My house.’

  ‘And where’s that exactly?’

  I told him. Saying Putney immediately identified me as a proper resident – because what American tourist ever ventured to that southwestern corner of the city?

  ‘You sure you just want to go home?’

  ‘Yes. Home. Can I go now?’

  ‘No one’s stopping you, ma’am. Could I get you a cab?’

  ‘Please.’

  He raised his hand. A taxi stopped within seconds. I thanked the constable, climbed in, gave the driver my address, then slumped across the back seat.

  I was back home by ten. The silence of the house was huge. I glanced at the court order on the table, the stripped shelves, the bare nursery. I walked into the bathroom and popped two anti-depressants. I lay down on the bed. I shut my eyes, opening them a moment later out of some strange hope that I would suddenly find myself back in my restored former life. But instead, I found myself dominated by one sole horrifying realization:

  They’ve taken Jack away from me.

  I reached for the bedside phone. I dialled Tony’s mobile. Again, the voice mail came on. Again I left a message.

  But I knew that he didn’t have to call me. He had his court order, good for two weeks. He’d gone away, with no forwarding phone number, bar his mobile – on which he could use his voice mail to screen all calls and dodge the possibility of talking with me. He had it all thought out.

  But why had he resigned his job? The Chronicle was the one great constant in his life – and a place from which he would loathe being permanently separated.

  I put down the phone. I picked it up – and tried Cha again. This time I got lucky. She answered on the third ring. But when she heard my voice, she was immediately nervous.

  ‘I cannot talk,’ she said in her tentative English.

  ‘Why not? What did they tell you?’

  A hesitant pause. Then, ‘They told me I am not working for you again.’

  ‘When did they move everything out?’

  ‘Two days ago. They also brought a nanny to be with the baby.’

  A nanny’? What nanny?

  ‘When you say “they”, you mean my husband and …’