by Jane Holland
‘Pills?’
‘Meghan is clearly very distressed,’ she says, rummaging in her large shoulder bag for a pen and prescription pad. I watch her, too exhausted to protest. ‘And who can blame her? This must have been a very traumatic experience for her, and I doubt that Monday’s press conference will be any easier to deal with.’
My breathing is becoming easier. I keep the paper bag against my mouth though, scared that if I remove it, the mindless panic will return.
Dr Shiva bends over me with a prescription. ‘I’ve prescribed you a sedative, Meghan. One pill, three times a day at first, then dropping to two after a week if you begin to feel more able to cope. Do you understand?’
I nod.
‘Should I give it to your husband?’
At that, I remove the bag. ‘No,’ I say hoarsely, and take the prescription from her. I push it into the front pocket of my jeans. My chest and throat have started to ache badly; they feel almost scorched, like I’ve been inhaling strong chemicals. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Dr Shiva notices me rubbing at my sore chest, and smiles. ‘It will hurt for a while. But don’t worry, you haven’t done yourself any lasting damage. If you ever find it hard to breathe again, don’t let yourself panic. Just use the paper bag like I showed you. Or cup your hands against your mouth like this,’ she says, and demonstrates, her delicate gold bangles clashing together, ‘and breathe into them instead. In and out, nice and slow.’
‘Thank you,’ I say again.
She smiles, then turns to the policeman. ‘I’ll go upstairs now and check Harry’s store of medication. But after that I must go. I’m afraid I had to double-park outside. There were no spaces. But one of your officers is keeping an eye on my car.’
‘You’ve been very helpful, doctor,’ he says.
She smiles, glances down at me again, an assessing look, then leaves the room. I hear her a moment later talking to Jon in the hall. I wonder if he’s still angry with me.
My whole body is trembling. I am so tired, I just want to crash out, get some sleep. But at the same time I am totally wired, on full alert. It feels like I will never be able to sleep again. Or not until Harry is back with me.
I had to double-park outside. There were no spaces.
A memory floats back to me.
‘Detective?’
DS Dryer has been looking down at his smartphone, flicking through screens. He glances at me suddenly now, his eyes sharp and watchful. ‘Yes?’
‘There was a car parked down the road yesterday. When I got back from the supermarket. A car I didn’t recognise.’
‘What kind of car?’
‘An old-style Volvo. A dull gold colour.’
He takes out his notepad and pen. ‘Did you get the registration number?’
I shake my head.
‘Pity.’ He scribbles something down regardless. ‘And you say you didn’t recognise the car? Do you usually know all the cars parked on this street?’
‘I don’t know them, as in who they belong to,’ I tell him, suddenly tentative, feeling my way carefully. ‘But I tend to notice if there’s one that’s not normally parked here.’
‘But it could have been an innocent visitor? Someone who’d come to see a friend in this street, perhaps?’
‘Perhaps.’
Something is nagging at me, but it’s hard to think clearly when my body is suffering. My chest is sore, and my legs still feel a little rubbery from the shock of not being able to breathe.
I hear Jon showing the doctor upstairs to check the contents of the fridge. The stairs creak under their feet, their conversation deliberately quiet, like they’re talking about me.
‘I was looking out of the window from Harry’s nursery,’ I say slowly, remembering. ‘It was just after I’d changed his nappy. And this probably sounds strange, but I got the impression that, whoever it was, they were just sitting there in the car the whole time. Not getting out.’
His eyes narrow on my face, but he says nothing.
I hear feet on the stairs again. Coming back down this time.
‘It’s like they were waiting for something, or watching the street.’ I pause, only now considering what I mean. My eyes widen, my voice dropping to a whisper. ‘Watching us.’
The door opens.
It’s Dr Shiva, with Jon behind her. ‘I’ve counted how many pre-filled syringes remain unused,’ she says, her air urgent, ‘and by my calculations, there are at least six missing. Possibly one or two more.’
‘You mean they took his medication too?’
‘I would say whoever stole Harry not only knew about his condition, but how to treat it too. Either that or they made a very clever guess, perhaps based on the wall chart that Jon says was kept next to his cot.’
DS Dryer stares. ‘So there are six syringes missing.’
‘Maybe more.’
‘How many days’ supply is that, doctor?’
‘Three,’ she says firmly. ‘Though if the syringe Jon found in the garden is part of that number, they may only have five.’
‘True.’
‘Well, let’s say they have roughly six syringes in total.’ The doctor counts on her fingers. ‘Two a day, that covers Saturday, Sunday, Monday. So Harry should be safe for at least another forty-eight hours, assuming whoever took him knows how and when to administer the medication correctly.’
‘That’s a pretty large assumption.’
‘Indeed.’ Dr Shiva hesitates, shooting me a worried glance. ‘And once the medication wears off, his ANC may begin to drop quite rapidly.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Within another three days, Harry’s life could be in serious danger.’
Chapter Seventeen
Sunday is a dreamless blur, thanks to Dr Shiva’s prescription of sedatives, which Jon had insisted on getting from the supermarket pharmacy as soon as Dr Shiva left. When I wake up on Monday, the first thing I do is throw the rest of the pills in the wastepaper bin. Harry is still out there somewhere, and he needs me awake and alert, not comatose.
I know Jon won’t be happy about that, so I decide not to tell him.
Our press conference is scheduled for three in the afternoon on Monday.
Late morning, I am sitting cross-legged on the sofa, watching television, and picking at my toast and marmalade without any real appetite.
Day three without my son.
The doorbell rings.
I don’t move. Jon is in the kitchen, working on something work-related at the table. He does not seem able to shut off from his job, even when he’s not in the office.
Sure enough, I hear him get up and answer the door.
It’s Camilla from next door.
‘How is she?’ she asks in a loud-enough-to-hear whisper.
A moment later, Jon comes into the room, followed by a smiling Camilla. ‘Ah, there you are.’ He turns off the morning news show I have been watching. ‘Camilla has come to see how you’re doing.’
Camilla is in her habitual yoga pants and crop top. Her skin is glowing with well-being. ‘I can’t stay. I’m on my way to give a new class. Eastern Meditation Yoga.’
Jon’s lips twitch. ‘Sounds good.’
She holds out a Tupperware box, and he takes it. ‘I made a batch of wholewheat cookies with raisins. Too many for me and Treve. I thought perhaps . . .’
‘That’s very kind,’ I say, and force myself to smile at her.
‘If there’s anything Treve and I can do,’ she murmurs, looking from me to Jon with sympathetic eyes, ‘anything at all, we’d be only too happy to . . .’ She draws a sharp breath. ‘Anything.’
Jon nods. ‘Of course.’
There’s an awkward silence.
I put down my plate of uneaten toast. It was cold anyway.
‘Well, I’d better go.’ Camilla straightens, suddenly brisk and business-like again. ‘I’ll be late for my class otherwise.’
‘I’ll show you out.’
‘Thank you.’<
br />
Jon follows her to the door and into the front garden. I hear their voices at a distance outside, muted, indistinct. Talking about me, no doubt.
Catching my name, I wander out into the hall. The front door is ajar. I can see Jon on the garden path with his back to me, shoulders slumped, head bent, as he struggles to explain something to Camilla. Probably apologising for my offhand behaviour.
Then she hugs him.
I didn’t get a hug. But I suppose she thinks he needs comforting more than I do. Because I’m such a flake.
My phone pings.
I return to the living room, studying the screen.
It’s another text message from Emily, replying to my previous question.
I don’t know anything. But would love to talk if you need it. Do you want to meet for lunch?
I consider the question for a moment, then text back:
Can’t. Press conference at 3pm.
I close my eyes. Jon and Camilla are still talking outside. Somewhere overhead I can hear a helicopter circling the town lazily. The phone pings again almost immediately, as though she has been sitting there, waiting for my response.
Before the press conference. Noon at Wetherspoons, Lemon Quay. Bring Jon. Simon’s coming too.
I hear the sound of a car starting up. Then Jon comes back into the room. He runs a hand through his hair, looking a little flustered.
‘What’s that?’ he says, staring at the phone in my hand.
‘I just had a text from Emily. She wants to know if we’d like to meet her and Simon at Wetherspoons for a quick lunch before the press conference.’
He looks amazed. ‘Lunch? When?’
‘Noon.’ I swallow. ‘I’m going to say no, of course. Going out with friends, behaving like nothing’s happened. It doesn’t feel right.’
‘Noon?’ He checks the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘That’s just under an hour away. I don’t see why we can’t make it.’
‘Jon, our baby son is missing. Our desperately sick baby son. And you think it’s okay to be going out to lunch with one of your work colleagues?’
‘Simon’s a good friend, not just a work colleague.’ He looks offended. ‘Besides, I thought you liked him. And Emily.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘Then what is the point? It’s just lunch, for God’s sake. Not a . . . a party.’ His voice stutters over the last words. He covers his eyes with his hand. ‘Jesus Christ, I don’t fucking believe you.’
I open my mouth, then shut it again. I don’t know what to say.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, still covering his face. ‘I just want to feel normal again. Even if it’s only for an hour or two.’
Feel normal again?
My hands have tightened into fists, my whole body tense. But I know how this will play out if I do not stop it now. It will end in yet another fight. And I still have to face the press conference this afternoon.
‘No,’ I tell him with weary resignation. ‘If you want to go, then we’ll go to lunch with them, of course. I’ll text her back. Say yes.’
Jon lowers his hand, staring at me. There’s a dark flush along his cheekbones. Rage, I think, and try not to show what I’m feeling.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Definitely.’ I force a smile, adding, ‘You’re right, there’s no reason why we should stay home for lunch. And we can make our own way to the press conference. The police have both our mobile numbers if . . . if there’s any change.’
‘That’s exactly what I think,’ he agrees, seeming to relax. He glances at my pyjamas. ‘You’d better go and get ready, or we’ll be late. I have a few work calls to make.’
He leaves the room, whistling under his breath.
It takes a minute to get my composure back. Then I uncross my legs and clamber off the sofa. As soon as my bare feet hit the rug, I feel unsteady and have to deal with vertigo. I count silently in my head, like waiting for a lightning storm to pass over. One, one thousand. Two, one thousand. Three . . .
Glancing down, I wince at the sight of my hands. Each palm is marked with a half-horseshoe of tiny, red marks where my fingernails have dug into my flesh.
To avoid any hassle with parking, Jon calls a taxi to take us into central Truro. The drive into town brings back memories of my last visit there. Memories I would rather not have but cannot seem to push away. Harry in his buggy, the two of us walking through town, enjoying the sunny day. It is bright again today, just like Friday was, but with clouds threatening rain later.
The taxi driver drops us behind the department store, then we walk through on to the broad, paved pedestrian area of Lemon Quay, so popular with tourists. People are sitting on benches in the sunlight, or emerging from the stores with plastic bags, or watching their kids on the carousel. I always used to stop a moment here to let Harry admire the merry-go-round with its mirrors and bobbing horses and brightly painted signs. Today Jon and I keep walking, though my head turns and my hungry gaze scours the buggies ranged around the carousel, as though looking for one particular fair-haired baby.
Stupid, really.
From the pedestrian underpass comes the strains of a guitar-playing busker, the low moan of his voice as he performs a Bob Dylan classic. ‘It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue’, I realise, catching the ironical refrain, and wonder if the universe is mocking me.
‘Feeling better?’ Jon reaches out a hand and I mimic the movement with barely a second’s hesitation. He links his hand with mine, smiling down at me, and I nod and smile back.
What else am I supposed to do?
As we walk across the square, hand in hand, a raft of pigeons rise as one into the air and flap noisily away, probably heading for the sunlit stretches of the River Truro.
I watch them fly, then hear him whisper in my ear, ‘Hey, it’s going to be okay. The police will find him.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘DS Dryer rang while you were in the shower. He wanted to be sure we were all set for this afternoon. He said they had some leads.’
‘About Harry?’
He hesitates. ‘About whoever took him.’
I do not want to be hopeful. The possibility of being mistaken is too painful. But I hear a slight catch in my voice, and know that I cannot help myself. ‘Does he know who took him?’
‘No,’ he concedes reluctantly. ‘But apparently they spotted something on CCTV from back when one of the previous babies was taken, some kind of clue, and it’s being analysed at the moment. DS Dryer couldn’t tell me what it was, but he said it’s possible they may be able to identify the snatcher from it.’ He squeezes my hand. ‘So I don’t want you to worry yourself to death over this. The police know what they’re doing.’
‘Of course.’
I can see Jon does not believe that, any more than I do, but is trying to reassure me. It’s surprisingly sweet of him, especially given the terrible strain we’ve been under these past few days. I have to keep reminding myself that he is suffering too, that I am not the only one caught in this trap. His frayed temper is another sign of the strain he’s under. I just wish he could direct it outwards, and not always at me.
A gritty wind suddenly gusts across Lemon Quay, blowing straight off the harbour, and my eyes blur with tears.
‘Well, here we are,’ he says, and drops my hand. We have reached the pub. ‘And look, there’s Simon and Emily. They’re early.’ He waves as the couple glance towards us, and smiles. ‘Brilliant, they’ve grabbed us an outside table.’
Emily is looking pale and upset. She kisses me twice, once on each cheek, and hugs me tight. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says hoarsely. ‘You must be going through hell.’
I can’t find a reply, but nod.
‘If you want to talk,’ she adds in my ear, ‘I mean, talk properly, just you and me, then let me know. I’m not ready for full-time work again yet, still feeling a little fragile. So anytime, just give me a call or text me.’
Simon has risen from his seat to greet u
s too. He shakes Jon’s hand, then also hugs me, though it’s a quick, almost brusque embrace compared to his partner’s. ‘Meghan. How are you?’
Jon puts an arm around my shoulders before I can say anything, answering for me. ‘Bearing up. Right now, we’re focused on the press conference this afternoon, hoping it could jog someone’s memory.’
He sounds as though he’s outside the magistrates’ courts, giving a statement on some court case his firm has been handling.
‘A brutal business,’ Simon mutters, nodding, then pulls out a seat for me. ‘Please, Meghan.’
‘Thank you.’
I see Emily watching him, her eyes unhappy, shoulders hunched forward, and sense some kind of tension between the pair. I recall she said they had been trying for a baby, but unsuccessfully. Maybe that has something to do with it.
Jon hands me a menu, and I stare down at it blindly while he and Simon chat about work. I wish they had not chosen to sit outside.
The sun is too bright; it’s hurting my eyes and making them tear up again.
‘Meghan? Shall I just get you something simple?’ Jon asks after a few minutes. From his tone, I get the impression it is not the first time he has asked me. ‘How about a chicken salad?’
I nod, handing back the menu without having taken in a single item.
‘I’ll come with you, get the drinks,’ Simon offers. He raises his brows at Emily, who shakes her head. Her white wine looks untouched.
I am still considering what I want to drink when Jon suggests a fruit juice for me, and the two men go off together, apparently satisfied by this.
I haven’t been able to drink for months. First the pregnancy, then expressing milk for Harry when he was at the hospital, then breastfeeding once we got him home. Though I’m not breastfeeding now. Not anymore.
But I suppose that, if I were to order an alcoholic drink, it could be seen as having given up on getting Harry back. A symbol of defeat. A white wine instead of a white flag. That may be why Jon intervened. Because he saw me hesitate and read my mind.
Couples do that, don’t they? Read each other’s minds?