by Simon Booker
‘Feel better?’
Her daughter pulls a face.
‘I’m not throwing up. That’s progress.’ She points at the mound of rubbish. ‘Since when are you a bag lady?’
Morgan gets to her feet.
‘The noble science of garbology. I’m going through Jukes’s rubbish.’
‘And?’
‘I’ll tell you over a bacon sandwich.’
Lissa closes her eyes.
‘Don’t mention food.’
She remains silent for a moment, then her face crumples. When she opens her eyes, they’re glistening with tears.
Morgan tenses.
Her daughter has made a decision.
Life comes down to a few key moments. This is one of them.
‘Time to talk?’
Lissa nods, then bites her lip as tears well in her eyes.
‘I keep thinking about what Pablo said.’ She fumbles for a tissue. ‘He asked me what was the worst thing you could do to a woman, I said, “Kill her, rape her?” He said that would be too easy, too ordinary.’
Morgan blinks.
‘So what was his “worst thing”?’
Her daughter’s gaze remains fixed on the horizon. Her hands tremble, her voice is shaky.
‘The worst thing would be to sentence her to a life with a child she’d never wanted, fathered by a man she despised.’
Morgan lets the words sink in.
What kind of person would think this way?
She recalls the video of the man setting fire to the Porsche.
The Joker.
‘But I’m so going to prove him wrong,’ says Lissa, her lips quivering. Morgan holds her breath. She knows what’s coming.
‘I’ve researched this psychopath bullshit,’ says Lissa. ‘There’s no concrete evidence to prove it’s hereditary. And even if it is, lots of people say that nurture trumps nature.’ She draws breath. ‘So I’m going to keep my baby, Mum. And I’m going to love it to within an inch of its life.’
Exhaling slowly, Morgan does her best to make her smile tender and reassuring. After all the talking, no explanation is required. The decision seems inevitable – already the new normal. For more than a year Lissa has been a lost soul, struggling to find her way in the world, but now there is purpose, something larger than herself, something to get out of bed for every day. It’s not the raison d’être Morgan would have chosen for her daughter – life will be hard – but John Lennon’s observation remains as true as ever.
Life is what happens while we’re making other plans.
‘Will you help?’ says Lissa.
Morgan hugs her daughter close.
‘Try and stop me.’
Lissa is shaking, her body heaving with sobs.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m so sorry . . .’
‘We’ll be fine,’ says Morgan. The ‘we’ is crucial.
Lissa blows her nose, then tucks the tissue into her sleeve, turning her face to the sun and breathing out slowly. Crouching down, Morgan stuffs the rubbish back into the bags.
‘Find anything?’ says Lissa.
‘Not unless you want a Harley-Davidson or a villa in Spain.’
Turning away, Morgan surreptitiously slips the mooring invoice into her pocket, then gets to her feet. Linking arms with her daughter, she leads her towards the hotel. She will check out the houseboat soon – without involving Lissa.
From now on, there are three lives to consider.
The world feels a colder, darker place.
*
It’s seventy-two hours before Morgan manages to get away to visit River Marsh Farm. The second half of the week passes in a flurry of activity: a visit to the GP; appointments with the midwife; stocking up on folic acid; buying new bras and baby books; deciding when to break the news to Lissa’s father in LA.
‘He’ll be hurt if you don’t tell him soon,’ says Morgan, driving back from a shopping trip to Canterbury. But Lissa has made up her mind.
‘Not till the second trimester.’
Having prevaricated for so long, she now seems decisive about what lies ahead. There’s no debate about home birthing; her child will be born in hospital with every available form of pain relief. Rebecca for a girl; Jake for a boy.
There’s no mention of how Lissa intends to provide for her child (Morgan maintains a diplomatic silence on the subject), nor any further discussion of the baby’s father – at least, not until suppertime on the second day after the decision to proceed with the pregnancy. The inn’s small restaurant is almost full, a harassed-looking Eric Sweet acting as both waiter and chef.
‘Will he have any legal rights?’ says Lissa, looking gloomy.
Morgan lays down her fork and takes a sip of wine. Her daughter is barely eating, and sticking to water. The drunken binge was a one-off, and there have been no more vodka bottles stashed under the bed. From now on, no alcohol, no caffeine. Morgan has considered trying to quit smoking – again – in a show of solidarity, but there’s too much going on. As a compromise, she’ll smoke only when Lissa isn’t around.
‘Legally, Karl is dead,’ says Morgan. ‘How can he claim rights unless he surfaces and gives himself away?’
A shrug. Lissa pushes a cherry tomato around her plate.
‘Am I like Dad?’
The question takes Morgan by surprise.
‘In some ways.’
Bolshie. Self-absorbed. A fan of the three-day sulk.
‘So what happens if my baby is like Pablo?’
The certainties of the other day have evaporated.
‘You mean, tall, dark and handsome?’
Her daughter is in no mood for levity.
‘I mean, what if it’s a psychopath?’
‘That’s not how it works.’
‘You don’t know that.’
Morgan reaches across the table, taking her daughter’s hand.
‘You are going to have a gorgeous, healthy baby. And meet a lovely man, if that’s what you want. And have a great life.’
Her daughter’s eyes fill with tears.
‘Can we change the subject?’
‘What would you like to talk about?’
‘Anything to take my mind off how I’ve fucked up. How about you and the fire scene investigator? The fit bloke with the nice arse.’
‘And the romcom-loving girlfriend?’
‘Have you heard from him?’ Lissa wipes her nose. ‘Texted? Called?’
‘I am so not having this conversation.’
Her daughter shrugs, swallowing the tomato then laying down her fork with a clatter. She seems scattered, unable to focus. She switches to another topic. ‘What about the baby farm?’
‘I’ve written to the prison governor.
‘And?’
‘He’ll deny all knowledge. At best, he’ll launch an internal enquiry, which will uncover nothing.’
‘So that’s that?’
‘Unless I can persuade someone at the prison to go on the record, which isn’t going to happen.’ Nigel Cundy’s face flashes briefly into Morgan’s mind. ‘Everyone has something to hide or something to lose.’
Lissa blows out her cheeks, a picture of misery.
‘When did everything get so complicated?’
*
The following morning, while her daughter is walking on the beach, Morgan sits on the balcony, trying to imagine what she might say in a text to Ben Gaminara.
My daughter is pregnant by a sociopath who faked his own death. I’m thirty-eight and sick of doing everything on my own. I hate romcoms except The Apartment and When Harry Met Sally. Drink?
She composes a number of variations but deletes them.
He’s in a relationship. Focus on your daughter. And finding out what happened to Kiki and Charlie. And helping Anjelica and Marlon. Isn’t that enough?
Pocketing her phone, she lights a roll-up then stares out to sea, eyes fixed on the horizon until she falls asleep, the cigarette dropping onto the deck.
In her dream, a baby
boy with a heart-shaped mole on his forearm is locked in an adjoining hotel room. She can hear him but can’t reach him. She smells smoke, hears the crackle of flames . . .
And wakes with a start.
Sits bolt upright.
Heart pounding, she takes a moment to recover her composure, then goes inside to check on her daughter. Lissa has taken to bed with a pile of pregnancy books and her iPad.
‘I’m going out,’ says Morgan, poking her head around the door. ‘Will you be OK?’
Her daughter doesn’t look up from the screen. Her voice sounds thick with cold.
‘Did you know that callous and unemotional traits associated with psychopaths can now be detected in infants?’
Morgan ignores the question.
‘Do you need anything, Lissa?’
A brisk shake of the head, then she is dismissed.
*
Twenty minutes later Morgan is driving past a wind farm on the road to Romney Marsh. Mile after mile of bleak but beautiful wetlands. Aside from flocks of birds and sheep there is no sign of life. The landscape is deserted, a bitterly cold wind blowing in from the sea. This used to be smugglers’ terrain. The seventeenth-century gangs were known as owlers because of the owl-like noises they made when signalling at night. During the Second World War the government drew up plans in case of invasion. The marsh was to be flooded, then drenched with oil and set ablaze. Now there is a wide variety of wildlife, the Royal Military Canal and huge fenced-off tracts of land, designated as Ministry of Defence training areas.
River Marsh Farm is not easy to find. A succession of villages and lanes with no signposts builds an impression of an inbred community wary of outsiders. If it weren’t for Google Maps, Morgan would be lost. Instead, reaching her destination, she pulls to a halt on a verge opposite a muddy, rutted track leading to the farm. She glances at the invoice in her hand.
For the attention of Mr T Jukes
Annual houseboat mooring fees for Wandering Star: £200
Half a mile along the lane she comes to a disused track overhung with sycamore trees. She overshoots, then reverses, squeezing the Mini alongside the hedgerow. Stepping out of the car, she grabs her wellingtons from the boot, donning them while straining to catch the slightest sound. The sea-salted wind is gaining force, but there is no birdsong, no traffic, no farm machinery.
She listens, savouring the silence.
How the world used to sound.
She walks along the lane until she comes to a dilapidated fence. Climbing over, she drops down into the wheat field, stalks bristling from the harvest. The landscape is flat. She sees the farmhouse in the distance, surrounded by outbuildings. No sign of life, no dogs in the yard, no smoke rising from the chimney. Staying low, keeping to the edge of the field, she heads for the river. It’s further than she thought, requiring her to cross another field and negotiate a barbed wire fence that borders a hedgerow on one side, a thicket of trees on the other.
Emerging into a clearing, she can see the river up ahead: a sliver of still water, green with algae and barely broader than the width of a houseboat. The banks are overgrown with ferns and reeds; the water smells brackish and stale.
No sign of a path. No choice but to trample along the bank, feeling the dried-out reeds crunch underfoot. Rounding a bend, the river curves away from the direction of the farmhouse, broadening to a stretch rendered gloomy by overhanging trees.
And there it is. The houseboat. Or what’s left of it. Wedged between the banks of the river. Its name, Wandering Star, was daubed on the side long ago. The faded paint is the only decoration. Years of neglect have reduced the vessel to little more than a wreck: one cabin window is boarded up, the weather-beaten door is sealed with a rusty padlock.
Morgan inches forward. Her eyes dart everywhere, searching for signs of activity – broken reeds, flattened ferns – but there is no indication that anyone has been here recently. A few more steps bring her alongside the houseboat. Cupping her hands over a porthole, she peers inside, but the darkness is total.
Then she hears it in the distance.
Faint but unmistakable.
Someone whistling.
The theme from The Archers.
Blood pounding in her ears, she scans the riverbank. There is no sign of life. The whistling grows louder, coming from the opposite direction, further along the river. Hastily retracing her steps, wincing as reeds crunch underfoot, Morgan retreats, pausing as she reaches a clump of bushes.
The whistling stops.
Craning her neck, she glimpses movement in the distance. Someone is heading her way. Making for the houseboat. She backs into the bushes. Crouching low. Pulling the branches around her.
Two figures are approaching. The whistling starts again.
She sees Trevor Jukes clutching a holdall and drawing alongside Wandering Star. The second figure follows close behind. Morgan can’t make out a face. She watches Jukes clamber aboard the houseboat. He moves aside, revealing his companion.
Stacey Brown.
Holding her baby.
Twenty-Two
Speeding back to Dungeness, Morgan considers telling Neville Rook about Stacey’s return from Istanbul but dismisses the idea. The DI couldn’t have been more clear.
No more Mr Nice Guy.
Next time she tries to tip off the police she needs hard evidence that someone is breaking the law.
By the time she gets back to the inn, the beach is in darkness apart from the beam from the lighthouse and the distant lights of the power station. Lissa is still confined to bed, nursing her cold, her face illuminated by the glow from her iPad, her cheeks streaked with tears.
‘What’s up?’
Her daughter points to a photo on a news website. It shows a boatload of refugees in a flimsy dinghy.
‘The traffickers make extra cash selling lifejackets to the refugees,’ Lissa says, sniffing. ‘Parents buy them for babies. But they’re fake, just foam and plastic. And the traffickers know.’ Tears rolling down her cheeks, she shakes her head in disbelief. ‘How can anyone do that? To a baby?’
Morgan says nothing. She takes her daughter’s hand, letting the seconds tick by.
‘Have you eaten?’
A sniff and a nod.
‘Eric made scrambled eggs.’
‘How’s the vomiting?’
‘Just once since this morning.’
‘Taken your vitamins?’
Lissa closes her eyes, leaning back against the pillow.
‘Fuck’s sake, Mum. People are killing babies and you’re worried about folic acid?’
Morgan has been wondering whether to tell her daughter about Stacey and her baby. The decision is made. Now is not the time.
‘Need anything?’
Lissa shakes her head.
‘Where have you been?’
‘Driving, walking, thinking,’ says Morgan, lying by omission, but all in a good cause. She takes the iPad from her daughter’s hand and places it on the bedside table. Lissa’s face crumples, a bubble of snot forming in her nostril.
‘You know the weirdest thing? Part of me actually wants him to call.’
Morgan frowns.
‘Pablo?’
A nod.
‘Does that make me crazy?’
Yes.
‘It makes you pregnant. And hormonal. And normal.’
Her daughter blows her nose and looks out of the window. Out at sea, the lights from a tanker are visible on the horizon.
‘What do you think Anjelica Fry is doing?’ she says.
‘Looking after her baby,’ says Morgan. ‘Like you need to look after yours.
She hands Lissa the vitamins.
‘Pregnancy Nazi.’
‘Get used to it.’
*
Alone after supper, Morgan sits on her bed, eating an apple while scrolling through contacts on her mobile. Her parents are dead, her friends have moved away or disappeared onto Planet Marriage, and life as a single mum was never conducive to f
or-ging new friendships – at least, that’s how it seemed.
Cameron’s name flashes by but once again the idea of calling a man she knew twenty years ago evaporates as quickly as it appears. They have only one thing in common: their daughter. If Morgan is going to open up, it needs to be to someone who understands the situation she’s in, someone who gets her.
Reaching the XYZs, she scrolls back to the Bs, her finger hovering over Ben Gaminara. She hesitates, questioning her motivation for phoning the arson investigator, then thinks fuck it. She taps his name. The phone rings once, twice, three times. On the verge of cancelling the call, she lets the phone ring one final time.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Morgan Vine. Are you in the middle of something?’
‘Does feeding the cat count?’
‘I thought you worked all hours.’
‘The cat doesn’t care.’
Couldn’t Pink Bra Lady feed him?
‘Does he have a name yet?’
‘I’m thinking of calling him Elkie.’
‘Because?’
‘He’ll only eat elk meat. Imported from Sweden.’
‘High maintenance.’
‘You have no idea.’
‘Can I pick your brains?’ says Morgan. ‘About the Karl Savage case?’
A pause.
‘Have you eaten?’
‘Yes,’ says Morgan, regretting her reply the instant it leaves her mouth. Dinner with Ben is an appealing prospect. But it’s too late.
‘Never mind.’ he says. ‘Pick away.’
‘Apart from me and Lissa, you’re the only person who has doubts over Karl being dead.’
‘Did I say that?’
‘Not in so many words. You kept mentioning the picture hooks. The gaps where Savage took down photos before his flat was torched?’
‘That’s all you’ve got?’
‘Bear with me.’
She tells him about the baby farm inside HMP Dungeness. He listens attentively, asking pertinent questions. Then he falls silent. The seconds tick by.
‘Are you still there?’ says Morgan.
‘I’m thinking.’
Another pause. When he speaks again, his words raise hairs on the back of her neck.
‘It’s not much to go on, but I called the trainee I worked with during the Karl Savage investigation. He updated me on something I didn’t know – something DI Tucker mentioned about Anjelica’s cot catching fire when she was a baby. Her dad was a chain-smoker, apparently. Anjelica nearly died.’
