Keep walking until the waves reach my neck.
Walk farther.
Close my eyes.
Don’t turn back.
Peace.
I take a step forward and wait for the cold water to trickle into my boots. But the water runs away from me. I take another step. Nothing. The tide is going out. The water is pulling away. Even the sea doesn’t want me to do this. I jump back, and my feet squelch against the soggy sand. I scurry backwards, almost stumbling over my own clumsy speed. The wet sand swallows my footprints almost instantly and wipes away any evidence that I was ever close to the shore. If I run, I’ll make the next train. So when I find myself eyeing up a large rock waiting among some overgrown grass where the sand meets land, I resign myself to understanding I’m not ready to go home just yet. But I’m smiling because I know I will go home. Soon. And it will be better. It will all be better. I know how to fix everything. I just need a little help.
The rock is surprisingly comfortable as I sit and take my phone out of my bag. I’m not surprised to discover I have an email from Sun Lee. My only surprise is that it had taken them this long to think of email as a way of reaching me when I deactivated my social media.
The subject line is aggressive capitals with lots of exclamation marks, and it tells me I know what you did. My fingers shake as I tap on my phone screen. I shake because I’m cold. I’m not nervous, or worried, or even concerned that anyone is watching. I’m past all that. The body of the email is blank except for a YouTube link, which I calculatedly follow. Soft classical music plays as the video begins, and I quickly turn the sound off. A lump forms in my throat as I recognise the sterile environment onscreen; it’s obvious from the outset that the video is a short clip of a medical procedure. I avert my eyes as the horror onscreen gradually becomes apparent. I know this procedure. But I don’t look away for long. I force myself to watch. The clean, crisp whites of the clinic onscreen are a stark contrast to the bloodied body of a tiny foetus as it’s dragged from its mother’s uterus unready for life. The thirty-second clip fades to black, and large, gothic red font appears on screen. Abortion is Murder.
I hit replay, and I watch the clip over and over. My stomach feeling queasy as the baby, not developed enough to live but formed enough to tell it’s a boy, is discarded in a silver, kidney-shaped bowl to one side. The same way a surgeon might remove a tumour or an appendix.
Heavily, I finally close the email and move it into my important folder. I want to be able to find it easily when I go home. I need to show David. And I need to tell him what I’ve done. I need to tell him what I should have said fourteen years ago.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
David
I stare at my watch. It’s only been ten minutes since I last checked the time. Time is ticking by painfully slow as I sit on the couch inside the sitting room window and wait for Emma to come home. I wasn’t surprised when she wasn’t here when I got in from work. I had a feeling something was on her mind this morning. I didn’t ask her about it because I didn’t want to upset her, but now, I wish I’d taken that chance.
I try calling her, but it goes straight to voicemail without even ringing. I leave yet another message. I called the school earlier, but I only got their out-of-hours automated response. I don’t even know if she turned up to work at all today.
I glance at my watch again. It’s coming up on six p.m. It’s dark and miserable outside. Emma’s car is in the drive, so wherever she’s gone, she will be walking at least some of the way home. The forecast is for snow. I’ve checked the coat rack in the hall and the wardrobe in our room, and her coat is missing, so I cross my fingers that she has it with her and is keeping warm. I decide I’ll give it another ten minutes, but if I don’t hear from her, I’ll call Andy and let him know I’m worried. My instinct is telling me it’s time to report her as missing, but if I’m wrong, the drama could tip her over the edge. I resolve not to wait and fish my phone out of my trouser pocket. An email notification flashes onscreen, and I groan inwardly when I realise it’s from Amber. She’s sent it to my personal account, so I know she’s determined to get my attention, and I doubt she wants to discuss anything work related.
From: Amber Hunter
To: David Lyons
Date: 15 December 17.37
Subject: I have some news.
Hi David,
I’m sorry to do this in an email, but I just don’t know if I could bring myself to say the words face to face. And I don’t want to upset you or myself, so I think an email is best.
I’m pregnant. It’s yours. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but I just don’t know any other way to say it.
I’m not asking you for anything. I don’t need money or anything like that. But I am having this baby, and I thought you deserved to know as soon as possible. I understand this must be a big shock (it was for me too) and you’ll need time to get your head around it. I would be really happy if you’d like to be a part of this baby’s life, but I understand if that’s not something you want, and I won’t be putting any pressure on you. That decision has to be yours. I’ve taken some sick leave from work. I’m throwing up like crazy, but I also just need some head space. I know you and the team can handle things without me for a while.
Anyway, please take some time. Think everything through. Talk to Emma. I know this won’t be easy for her, and I hope she will be okay. You know where to find me when you’re ready to talk.
Love,
Amber
xx
__________
I drop my phone, and it collides with the carpet without a sound. I clasp my hands on top of my head and press down hard until I can’t take any more pressure. I love kids. I’ve always wanted to be a father at some point. But not like this. Once that baby is born, there is no going back. Even if Amber doesn’t come after me for financial support, I will still be forever connected to her. We’ll have a child together. A human life that we created together. There’s no escaping that union. I’m about to become a father whether I like it or not. Amber has all the control. The baby is growing inside her, and I can’t do anything about it. My future essentially lies in her hands. I know for sure this baby will cost me my marriage. And if it costs Emma her life, I will never forgive myself.
I need to find my wife. I have to hold her, and I have to try to make this better if I possibly can.
I scoop my phone up off the floor and grab my car keys from on top of the fireplace. I know Andy can’t professionally do anything unless I file an official report, and even at that, they’ll probably tell me they can’t do anything because Emma hasn’t been missing for twenty-four hours. The best thing to do is look for her myself. I’ll try the graveyard first.
As soon as I open the front door, a blast of angry wind snatches the handle from my grasp and forces the door back until it collides against the wall in the hall, smashing into one of Emma’s favourite pictures. The frame cracks and the photo of Emma and me at her college graduation slides down the wall and lands face up. I crouch on my hunkers and use the back of my hand to dust the shattered glass off the picture. I shake it out, stand up, and slide the photo into my back pocket. I roll my eyes at the mess created by the broken frame and the shards of glass. The wind hisses and groans, and I toss my head over my shoulder and notice it’s starting to snow lightly. I need to find Emma now. I’ll clean up later. I pull the front door closed behind me.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
EMMA
I get caught in the rush-hour commute coming home. Sticky, tired bodies cram into every available space of the carriage. I’m lucky enough to have a seat, but someone still manages to stand on my toe, and someone else elbows me in the shoulder as they attempt to wade through the sea of people between them and the open doors at their stop.
Staring out the open doors, I notice it begins to snow. The lack of space in the crammed carriage amplifies the various moans of disapproval. It’s nothing more than a light smatt
ering, and I cross my fingers I’ll be home before it gets any heavier. I try calling David to let him know I’m on the way, but the coverage is terrible, and the call drops before it connects.
The blast of cold air every time the carriage door opens is shocking. There’s a huge exodus at the last stop before mine, and the carriage takes on a new, almost sedate vibe as the remaining handful of passengers breathe a sigh of relief. I’m so looking forward to the comfort of home. I can’t wait to kiss my husband. A nervous excitement bubbles in my tummy as I think about unloading the weight of a secret that’s been crushing me for fourteen years.
Minutes away from my station, the train slows, jerks, and comes to a complete stop.
‘Sorry about this, folks,’ the driver’s voice carries over the speaker above my head. ‘There’s an obstruction on the tracks. We’ll get moving again as soon as possible.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ the man next to me mumbles into his open newspaper. ‘Something on the tracks. It’s a bloody train. Can’t we just drive over whatever it is?’
I know he’s not actually talking to me, more just voicing his frustration, but I can’t resist replying anyway. ‘It might be an injured animal or something.’
Danny once told me that animals on the tracks cost the rail line a fortune each year. Between delayed trains and staff having to remove injured or dead animals, it’s a real problem for them.
‘Or a body.’ The man snorts, uncrossing his legs and folding his paper across his knees.
I don’t reply. I stare out the window and wonder about the day when Danny’s body was on the tracks. Did the people on that train moan about the delay causing them to be late for their dinner? Danny’s suicide was nothing more than an inconvenience in their day. A blip in the timetable of their evening. I bet most of the people on the train that day don’t even remember what day of the week it was or even what month. I wasn’t on that train. But the second of November is a date that will remain forever etched into my brain.
‘Christ. Are we going to be here all night?’ The man beside me huffs. ‘And that snow is getting heavier too. A recipe for disaster, this is. Absolute disaster.’
A younger man further down the carriage stands up on one of the empty seats under the window. He slides the narrow glass panel at the top of the window back and tries to stick his head out without severing his nose.
‘Oh, my God,’ he says, sitting back down, suddenly very pale. ‘There’s a pram on the tracks. The wheels are mangled, and I think … oh, sweet God …’ His lips grow whiter, and I suspect he’s about to faint. ‘I think there’s a baby on the ground. I could see little legs.’
‘Oh, no. How awful,’ an elderly lady says. ‘Not a little baby. How on earth could something like that happen?’
The arrogant man beside me doesn’t say a word, but I can see the sadness that sweeps across his eyes.
The delay drags on. It’s hard to tell how long we’ve been at a standstill, but it’s easily an hour, probably more, and with no further announcements, frustration slowly replaces the commuters’ compassion and concern.
‘Are they going to tell us anything?’ the man beside me says.
‘Maybe there’s nothing to tell,’ I pacify.
‘A baby might be dead,’ the elderly lady barks. ‘God, I don’t know what is wrong with your generation if a dead baby means nothing.’
‘That’s not what I said.’ I blush.
‘Well, I’m praying for that little child. I don’t care if we have to sit here all night once that baby is all right.’ She’s snorts, her eyes narrow as she glares at me.
‘Praying for a baby that might not exist. Well, I’ve heard it all now.’ The man beside me shakes his head. ‘I don’t think any of us want to see any harm come to a child, but unless the driver is a feckin’ paramedic, he could get up off his arse and tell us how long of a wait we’re in for. That snow isn’t getting any lighter, and it’ll get pretty cold, pretty fast if we’re sitting here without the engine running.’
The young man climbs onto the seat again. The snow is falling thick and fast now, and even though he slides his head through the same gap in the window as before, I doubt he can see much.
‘Well?’ the elderly man says.
He hops down and scrunches his nose. ‘Can’t see anything. It’s pitch black out there.’
‘Pitch black,’ I echo. ‘So no blue lights? No ambulance?’
‘Don’t think so,’ he says.
‘We’re in a valley,’ the man beside me explains, tilting his hand towards each other to form a V-shape. ‘Any help would have to come down from the road on foot. You need to look up to see an ambulance. Up at the road, not down the tracks.’
‘But we didn’t hear any sirens,’ I add. ‘Even if we couldn’t see the lights because of the valley, we’d still hear the ambulance coming, right?’
‘Yeah. I guess so,’ the young man says, backing his agreeance up with a single confident nod.
‘Or maybe the baby is already dead. Sure, what good is an ambulance then?’ the elderly lady wails. ‘Oh, it’s terrible. So terrible.’
‘Oh, fucking hell,’ the man beside me ushers under his breath, clearly losing patience with the woman’s flair for drama. ‘An ambulance would still have to come, you know, to pronounce a death. Obviously, this is nothing serious. It’s probably a bloody plastic bag or a fallen tree or something. And your man here just needs glasses.’ He tilts his head toward the young man.
‘Sorry,’ the young man apologises. ‘I swear I saw a pram, but it was getting dark, you know. Kind of hard to tell what’s what, really.’
‘Good evening, folks,’ the driver’s voice finally carries over the speakers, and the entire carriage falls silent. ‘Very sorry about the delay this evening. There was a disturbance on the tracks. A baby’s pram was tied to the tracks.’
A communal gasp fills the carriage, and everyone turns to look at the young man, who’s lost all colour from his face again.
‘The pram has now been removed. Thankfully, it was empty, and the only casualty was a doll. Clearly, someone’s idea of a joke. On behalf of Irish Rail, I would like to apologise for the inconvenience this evening and thank you for your patience. We hope to be moving shortly.’’
‘Someone’s idea of a joke,’ a female voice carries from somewhere, but there’s no face to be found behind it. ‘A bit of a sick joke, if you ask me.’
I stretch, and try to see over the tops of seats towards the back. Too many heads block my view, and I know that unless I stand up and physically search each seat, I won’t find her. I also know I don’t need to actually find her to believe that voice belongs to Amber.
A pram. A doll. It’s symbolic. I don’t miss Amber’s efforts. A baby condemned to die. Abortion is murder. Amber wants me to remember. She’s attempting to mess with my head. I drop my head back until my crown touches the window behind me. Dragging my teeth over my bottom lip, I snort and smile. Amber is on this train. In this carriage. Of that, I’m certain. I’m also certain that her vendetta against me goes way deeper than a drunken fumble with my husband. Amber knows me. I mean really, really knows me. The woman has done her research. She has looked into the darkest aspects of my soul. I have no idea how she’s found out so much about my past, but I consider it a challenge to find out. Amber is determined to destroy me, and she obviously thinks dragging up my sordid past will do it. The irony is, the more she tries to break me, the stronger she actually forces me to become.
Chapter Thirty
Fourteen Years Ago
EMMA
The lock on the door is broken, but the cubicle is small enough that I can reach the toilet and still manage to keep one foot pressed against the door to prevent anyone from barging in. I never thought the first time I ever took a pregnancy test would be in the public toilets of Stephen’s Green Shopping Centre. I also never thought I’d only be seventeen and still in school or that I would only be going out with my boyfriend for three months. And Kim t
old me last week that she heard one of the popular girls from the swim team fancies the pants off David. Pregnant and fat doesn’t compete with popular and sporty.
I drag the white paper bag from the pharmacy out of my schoolbag, and my fingers tremble as I open it and stare at the bright blue and white rectangular box inside. Results in one minute, it says. In sixty seconds, I’ll know if my life is pretty much over or not.
I hoist up my skirt and begin to tremble as I pull down my knickers. It’s more difficult than usual to hover over the toilet bowl as I try to pee on the stick, making sure to keep it pointing downward according to the instructions. I wince as I get some warm urine on my hand. I place the stick flat on the back of the loo with the window pointing upwards and tidy myself up. It doesn’t even take the full minute before two bright blue, vertical lines appear. Two. Two bloody lines. A positive. I’m pregnant. I’m a teenager, and I’m about to be a mother. My eyes sting as fat, salty tears trickle down my cheeks, washing away my heavy makeup with every blink. I stuff the test into the side pocket of my schoolbag, wipe my eyes, and flush the loo.
Kim is waiting by the sinks. She’s layering on mascara over already heavily laden eyes. She turns around as soon as she catches my reflection behind her in the mirror.
‘Oh shit,’ she says, taking one look at me.
I begin to sob loudly. Luckily, it’s just after lunch on a Monday, and there aren’t many other women in the bathroom. No one except my best friend to notice as I fall apart.
‘Oh, Kim, what will I do?’
‘Are you sure it’s positive?’ Kim whispers.
I nod.
‘Oh, shit.’
‘Kim, seriously. What will I do?’
‘I don’t know. Do you think you should tell your mom?’
‘My mom,’ I squeak. ‘Eh, no. She’ll freak. She’ll probably kick me out or something.’
See Me Not: A gripping psychological thriller with a heartbreaking twist. Page 19