I Spy

by Claire Kendal

  The metal cylinder of the tube train is shaking me and shaking me and shaking me some more as it hurtles along beneath London. There is a pleasure in giving myself over to its rhythms, my neck loose, my head jerking from side to side, as if I am hypnotised, for once abandoning control and not fighting, not stiffening myself against these external forces.

  The hot, burnt-smelling wind of the tunnels slaps me in the face and chases me up the escalators, though it seems to be under a spell that traps it within the station’s boundaries. It cannot pursue me when I emerge into still air and bright sunshine, blinking, my eyes watering.

  I walk along the river, dazzled, and clasp my hands to my ears like a child as plane after plane screams above me, the river their flight path. The London Eye glints a mile away, on the opposite side, its pods revolving so slowly I cannot see them move.

  At the start of the next two-minute lull between the planes, I unblock my number before putting my phone to my ear. The blood is pounding in my head while I wait for Eliza to answer. She doesn’t. It goes to voicemail.

  ‘Hello, Eliza,’ I say. ‘It’s Helen. Trudy passed on your message. I hope you and Alice are okay. I’m glad you got in touch.’ I give her my number before adding, ‘I can’t believe you don’t have it – I’m so sorry about that. I’m about to go into an appointment, so I’ll have to turn my phone off for a while, but I’ll put it on again as soon as I finish. Bye for now.’

  The building rises up like an ugly stone fortress, and I aim myself straight at it. I am startled by how unguarded it seems, with no wall to surround it, and how huge it is in reality, the size of a large block.

  The main entrance looms before me. Marble steps pass beneath a massive archway that leads to three sets of double doors. I am stumped. Do I dare walk under the archway? Which set of doors do I try? I really haven’t thought this through. The place where real spies go, and I am clueless.

  Two armed police officers glance in my direction. Meanwhile, the statues of Britannia and St George are looking at me from far above, down their noses. A carved face hangs like a portrait, front and centre of the archway’s exterior. The face seems to be watching me too, despite its blindfold, as are a multitude of deliberately visible cameras.

  To the right of the archway is another set of double doors. These are more modest than the others. They are brown. They would be brown. Of course they are brown. On both sides of the doors are duplicate plaques. Visitors Entrance, they say. I am an idiot, I think.

  Slowly, I approach. I study the doors, searching for a bell, a door knob, some way to push or pull them open. There is nothing. The doors are a blank, despite their elaborate mouldings and beautiful panelling. I raise my hand and knock three times, as firmly as I can, though I am shaky. My fist on the ornate carving results only in dull thuds.

  There is a tap on my shoulder and a voice in my ear. ‘Hello there. Can we help you?’

  I spin round, and find myself facing the two police officers. ‘Hello,’ I say.

  The young, handsome one smiles so warmly I find it difficult to believe he knows how to use the assault rifle that he is holding across his body with the casual relaxedness of an athlete carrying a tennis racket. ‘Do you have a reason for being here?’

  ‘Yes. To see somebody.’

  He nods, as if this explains everything. ‘You see, they know when you’re coming. If they expect you, the door opens.’ He and I both stare hopefully at the wood. Nothing happens. ‘It’s not looking good, is it?’

  ‘I suppose it isn’t.’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  I shake my head, slightly, as if the diminished quality of the gesture will make it less true.

  His partner, who I am already thinking of as Bad Cop because of his glower, rakes a hand across his salt-and-pepper head. The hair is so short I think he must use a mini-strimmer around his cap of baldness. ‘Would you like to move on to elsewhere?’ Bad Cop says.

  No I would not fucking like to move on to elsewhere. ‘If I can just explain to someone inside …’

  ‘I appreciate that, but you need to move away from the door.’ Bad Cop points to the other side of the road.

  Good Cop is looking at me with sad concern, the kind of eye-narrowing, head-nodding understanding people show each other at funerals. If he weren’t holding a gun he’d be thoughtfully resting his chin on his hand as he nodded.

  ‘You are committing a criminal offence,’ Bad Cop says.

  I turn to Good Cop, as if he is my only means of rescue. ‘How is that even possible?’

  ‘This has been designated a protective site under the Serious Organised Crime and Police Act.’ Good Cop must practise his gentle solemnity in front of a looking glass.

  ‘The criminal offence,’ says Bad Cop, ‘is that you crossed the outer boundary without permission. The boundary includes the pavement you’re standing on.’

  I never really thought Martin would simply invite me in and then confess all of his official secrets, though I can’t pretend I haven’t had that fantasy. But my real reason for coming here is more modest than that. To get his attention, to leave a kind of calling card so he knows I am done with being quiet and invisible, and to press them to rethink what they are willing to share with me. It is the same message I gave Maxine earlier today. And George before that. These are not people who welcome noise. And I am no longer a person who can refrain from making it.

  ‘The man I need to see goes by the name of Martin,’ I say.

  ‘And you are?’ says Bad Cop.

  I fumble for an instant, but what I say next comes out strong, because it occurs to me that whatever happens, I am reclaiming myself, reclaiming my own life. My chest loosens a little when I say my real name. ‘Holly Lawrence.’

  ‘I’m going to ask you one final time to move elsewhere,’ Bad Cop says.

  ‘Come on now.’ Good Cop gives me another bright smile. ‘We wouldn’t want to have to arrest you.’

  I look at the black lamp, high up and to the side of the door. I am in no doubt that it encases a surveillance camera. I make sure my face is in clear view. Up until this point, I have taken care to speak every word as distinctly as I can, certain that whatever I say can be listened to later, if it isn’t already being monitored in real time. It occurs to me there is one final thing to get across. ‘Martin is in Covert Financial Enquiries.’

  ‘You don’t belong here,’ says Bad Cop.

  ‘We’re going to escort you onto public space,’ says Good Cop.

  I move away with the two police officers, who keep me between them. As soon as we round the corner, Good Cop says, ‘Goodbye.’

  I halt as if a ghost has grabbed hold of me.

  ‘You go on your way then,’ Bad Cop says after a few seconds.

  But I seem to have run into an invisible wall, and my mind has emptied.

  ‘As I was saying to your good self, you need to be out of this area,’ Bad Cop says, clearly thinking that I am not at all good. ‘Now,’ he says. ‘I said to walk on.’

  My feet have stopped moving, as if they are telling me they have come so far, and cannot take another step. Somehow, though, as if I am a robot, one foot lifts, and then the other, and I do.

  Then A Misadventure

  One year and eleven months earlier

  * * *

  Cornwall, Early May 2017

  It wasn’t long before Maxine got a message to me that there were no traces of blood or bodily fluids on the items from Zac’s bag, so it was unlikely they’d been used on Jane or on anyone else. Whenever I thought about those magazines, I was overwhelmed with desolation that the things in those photographs had been done. Over a week had passed since I’d seen them, and the images had rooted in the landscape of my nightmares.

  I tried not to think about them, and to concentrate instead on good things. One very good thing was that I had reached the magic twenty-eight-weeks mark. All the books said that even if she were to be born at this stage, she had a reasonable chance of being well
and healthy, though we’d have to navigate the trauma of premature delivery and the special care baby unit. I tried not to dwell on the exceptions – the babies who were not okay, despite reaching twenty-eight weeks. I clung to the statistics that were on my side and blanked out the ones that were not.

  My next milestone was to get to thirty weeks, when we would disappear. That was two weeks away. We could get through that. Things had been calm since Zac’s return from Canada. In fact, he’d been so lovely the last six days that I fleetingly wondered if this new Zac was the real one, rather than the porn-making control freak I’d lived with for the last few months.

  But on the seventh day, he left me in no doubt about the true Zac. I was standing at the kitchen sink peeling carrots and he was trying to pull my clothes off.

  ‘I don’t feel like it.’ The baby swam and rolled, as if to tell me she was in agreement.

  ‘You never feel like it any more. I love you, Holly.’ Was he saying this because he sensed how profoundly I had withdrawn from him? I’d tried so hard to disguise it. I’d thought my performance was Oscar winning.

  I gave him my most loving, melting look. ‘Me too.’ What I secretly meant was, I love me too, but not you, and not your magazine collection or your toys and hidden cameras and micro SD cards.

  ‘I need you so much. You’re all I have. The two of you.’

  My stomach lurched as if I were in a boat being tossed by waves. He turned me around, so my spine was against the edge of the granite counter. I tried to move my lips into the right expression, tried to make my face look warm and happy.

  ‘I have a surprise,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I made an appointment at the Registry Office. Six weeks from today. It’s best for her if we’re married before she’s born.’ He pressed his lips against mine, slipped a ring onto my finger, lifted my hand so we could both look at it. ‘What do you think?’

  The diamond was square, with a small round stone on each side. ‘I think it’s perfect.’ I slid it up and down, because it felt tight, though it appeared that it was not.

  ‘Just four of us in that room. You, me, the baby, and the registrar. That’s how it should be. You agree, don’t you?’

  It wasn’t as if I intended to go through with it, but somehow I heard myself speaking as if I did. ‘Don’t we need two witnesses? So won’t that be six in the room?’

  The way his cheeks moved up and his brow moved down was so subtle that even if you knew him well you’d have to look closely to realise his face had tightened. ‘I’ll take care of the witnesses.’ I understood what this meant. He didn’t want Peggy and James and Milly at our fantasy wedding. ‘So is that a yes?’

  I would do nothing to wind him up. Peace was the one thing I wanted, for those last two weeks. ‘Yes. A very happy yes.’ I kissed my hand, then touched his head with it, surprised to find the faintest trace of a five o’clock shadow on his scalp. He normally shaved it twice a day – the omission must have been a sign that he was under pressure.

  My mobile rang. Zac picked it up from the tiled counter where I’d left it. I stepped towards him as he held it up. Milly’s name was flashing across the screen, decorated with the flower and heart emojis I’d attached to it. Calling Milly Pulsating Heart Cherry Blossom, the phone said aloud, whenever I instructed it to dial her number. ‘More like Milly Stake-Through-the-Heart Bloodflower,’ Zac once said, making me laugh even though I tried not to.

  ‘You don’t want to talk to her now,’ Zac said.

  ‘Yes I do.’ I reached for the phone. ‘I can’t ignore her. Please, Zac. She’s going through a bad time.’

  ‘It’s an intrusion.’

  ‘Give me my phone.’ His jaw stiffened. I’d blown the Do not do anything to upset him rule. ‘Please,’ I said again.

  Slowly, he extended his arm, but with a look that made it clear the subject wasn’t closed, that he certainly wasn’t going to leave the kitchen so I could talk to her alone, and that if I exited the room he would follow me.

  I pressed the green button to accept the call as I lowered myself into a chair. As soon as I did, there was the sound of uncontrollable sobbing. Zac rolled his eyes.

  I could hear Milly slapping her head with her own hand, as I begged her to stop, to tell me what was wrong, as I tried not to panic, asking if something had happened to James or Peggy. She managed to get out the word Fergus, and at first I thought Gaston must have died. But between sobs she explained that he had a new girlfriend, and though she’d only now found out, it had been going on for weeks, and he’d been sleeping with both of them, and he still wanted to sleep with Milly but to keep it a secret from the girlfriend, and Milly had finally said no more but she thought her heart was broken forever and please could I come over. That undeserving man, that Gaston, had brought my warrior, my Milly, to this.

  As soon as I said, ‘I’m on my way,’ Zac grabbed the phone and ended the call.

  ‘You can’t be serious about leaving now.’ His hands were on my shoulders. ‘We have something to celebrate. You can’t go out when you’re this tired. It’s after dark. I don’t want you driving. You’re not just putting yourself in danger, you’re putting our baby in danger.’

  I had to work hard to make my voice soft and loving, because every impulse I had was pressing me towards shrill shrieking. ‘Pregnant women drive all the time. I’ll be fine. I won’t be gone for long and we’ll celebrate when I get home. We’ll celebrate for the rest of our lives. Milly’s in crisis. You wouldn’t want me to ignore her – don’t you love me because I couldn’t do that? She’s proud, Zac. It was hard for her to ask for help.’

  ‘Think of what happened to your parents.’ He released his grip on me and grabbed my bag.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  My car keys were in his hand. ‘Taking these.’

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘It appears that I can, and I have.’

  I was struggling not to stomp to the rage that was coursing through me. Instead, I managed to say, ‘Then drive me yourself. I can’t not go to her.’

  ‘No.’ He was looming over me, making the kitchen seem darker, despite the bright ceiling lights.

  ‘Fine. I’ll call a taxi.’

  ‘You won’t be able to get out of the house. I’ve locked the doors.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘Again, it appears that I can and have.’

  ‘Unlock them. Right this fucking minute.’

  ‘You’re not leaving. If you can’t act responsibly then it’s my job to make you.’ He pounded his fist so hard against the fridge he shook his hand in pain. ‘See what you made me do? I thought we’d be cracking open the champagne by now.’

  I rushed to the front door, then the back, but both were double-locked. I had lost all ability to maintain the charade of loving compliance. I was screaming, my heart was racing, and the blood was in my ears. I ran at Zac. ‘Let me out.’ I was hitting his chest. ‘I can’t breathe in here.’

  ‘I knew I couldn’t trust you. I’ve locked us in every night since I got back from Canada.’ He was leaning against the fridge, a beer bottle in one hand, the other holding me off.

  ‘Give. Me. My. Keys.’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere.’

  ‘Give. Me. My. Phone.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No wonder Jane left you. The only way you can get a woman to stay with you is to force her.’

  He glanced at the kitchen window, which overlooked the driveway, and I saw that he had blocked my car in with his own. ‘You’re not fit to go out. You’re fucking psycho. I’ll have you certified before I let you.’

  I tore the ring from my finger, hurled it at the floor. ‘I’m leaving you. I hate you. You’re a monster – you’re actually evil. I’m going now. Tonight.’

  ‘You’re the one who’s evil. What you are doing to our baby, to our family – for you even to consider breaking us apart – that’s true evil.’

  I launched myself at
him again, trying to grab at my keys when he held them out of reach. He thrust me away and I lost my footing, stumbling forward, only partly breaking my fall with my own arms. The front of my stomach smacked so hard against the edge of the marble tabletop I felt as if I had been stabbed. My cry of despair shattered the air, and I clutched my bump.

  Zac was kneeling at my feet, his arms around my lower back, and he was crying too, and saying, ‘Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God. I swore I’d never let anything like this happen again. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Oh Jane,’ he said, not noticing he had called me by her name, ‘I am so sorry.’

  I didn’t forget about Milly. Even in my absolute stricken hysteria I didn’t do that. As Zac sped the car to hospital for me to be checked, I phoned Peggy to ask her to go to Milly, trying not to panic her too much about her daughter or about me. It was the one thing I could think to do, and though I was terrified Milly wouldn’t forgive me for sending her mother, I was even more terrified of what might happen if she were left alone.

  The doctor told me that I wasn’t injured, and it was very unlikely the baby had come to harm. She told me that my uterus was thick and strong, and designed to keep my baby safe. She told me that pregnant women bumped their bumps all the time. Those were the things that I would remember later. The things I still remember.

  There was no bleeding. There were no contractions. There was no leak of amniotic fluid. My bump was sore, but probably because I was extra-conscious of it. My perception of the severity of the blow to the abdomen was probably amplified by fear.

  Those were all good signs. But I was not reassured enough, so the doctor put me on a bed and wrapped a belt with sensors around my bump, and told me the reading was looking good, and I should take things very gently over the next few days because a spell of bed rest never did an anxious pregnant woman any harm.

  When the doctor asked how it had happened, Zac told her I fell, which was technically true. He played the loving expectant father, and tried to hold my hand but I shoved it away with so much force it hit the corner of the metal bedside table and drew blood. Still, he sat beside me and cried as we watched the needle move up and down the roll of paper, tracking her beautiful beating heart.