Muzzily, she did. The black dots that had been creeping towards the centre of her vision began to recede.
'Are you all right?' Rafe asked. He was hunched on the floor, looking up at her. His face, furrowed with worry, was close to hers, then far away. Close; far away.
In a faint voice, Emma said, 'I've remembered.'
'What?' Rafe looked puzzled.
'The thing.' She tried to explain. 'You were there. The thing I was trying to remember. I know now what it was.'
She knew she wasn't making her point very well. She didn't really expect him to know what she was talking about. But to her surprise, he seemed to get it straight away.
'On the balcony,' he said. He got to his feet and sat down beside her on the couch. 'I remember. What was it? What did the police say?'
'I haven't told them.'
'Oh.'
She felt him looking at her.
'Why don't you tell me, then?' he said. 'I'll listen. I might be able to help.'
The way he said it. As if he really was interested. As if he really thought it might be important. Emma found herself describing to him exactly what Antonia had said; how the way she'd pronounced the word 'Bergerac' had reminded her of her mum watching the TV. How Antonia had muttered and put her hand over her mouth as if to hide what she was saying. How flustered she'd seemed when she'd realized that Emma was right behind her.
'It might be nothing,' Emma said at the end, aware of how woolly it all sounded, even to her. 'Except—'
Except, now she was going over it again, she couldn't help being convinced it was important. Why else would Antonia not have wanted her to hear?
'Bergerac.' Rafe wrinkled his brow. 'Someone's name, do you think? Her husband's?'
'I don't know,' Emma said helplessly. The doubts were creeping back again. 'It mightn't mean anything at all. Maybe I'm wrong, and she didn't say it at all.'
'If it's a name,' Rafe was still frowning to himself, scratching his chin, 'then maybe she was talking about someone. Maybe the police could look up all—'
He stopped.
'Hang on a minute. Isn't there a place in France called Bergerac?'
'Is there?'
'Yeah. You're always seeing it in the travel supplements. Loads of Antonia types go there on holidays. And you said her French accent was good.' Rafe got up off the couch and began to pace around the room. 'You know something, it could fit. If they kidnapped a child, it would make sense to get him out of the country as soon as possible. If they had connections in France . . . Shit.' He stopped pacing. 'It's worth looking into.'
'But how?'
'I don't know. Look up passenger lists? See if anyone flew to Bergerac with a child. Course, they could have gone by train. Or ferry.' He chewed his thumb. 'Or road. But Bergerac's got an airport. It's worth a try.'
Just for a second, Emma felt a wild, panicky sense of hope. Were they really on to something here? Then she said, 'But Ritchie doesn't have a passport.'
'They could have got him a fake one. Or used some other kid's passport. Kids all look the same at that age, don't they?' Rafe froze. 'Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.' He looked around the room. 'Where's your phone? You have to tell the police about this.'
'They won't—'
'Yes, they will.'
Rafe had spotted the phone on the table beside the window. He went to grab it. Lindsay's number was still on the Post-it stuck to the receiver.
'Ring her,' Rafe ordered.
His enthusiasm was infectious. Emma's fingers felt thick and squashy, like sausages. She managed to press the buttons to dial Lindsay's number. She got through to Lindsay straight away.
'Bergerac?' Lindsay repeated. 'Can you spell that? And you think she might have meant the place in France. We'll do what we can, Emma. We'll look into it immediately.'
Emma hung up. Rafe was leaning against the table with his arms folded, watching her.
'They're going to look into it,' she told him.
'Of course they are.'
'For what it's worth,' Emma said, suddenly tired. The excitement was fading again. This was ridiculous. 'Bergerac' could mean anything. Anything at all. The name of Antonia's dog. A type of perfume. What were the odds that hearing one random word could make a difference? You might as well drop a coin from a cliff and expect to pick it up again on the shore. The wooziness was back, weaving the edges of the walls and furniture. She hoped Rafe would leave soon.
But he wasn't showing any signs of going anywhere.
'Have you had anything to eat today?' he asked.
Without waiting for an answer, he pushed himself off the table and headed for the kitchen.
'Excuse me.' Emma followed him. 'Excuse me, what do you think you're doing?'
Rafe opened the fridge. A funny smell floated out. Yoghurts and jars of baby food were clustered on the lower shelves. Two blackened bananas lay on the middle shelf, beside a load of bread splodged with green. On the top shelf was a plastic milk container. The contents were yellow and lumpy.
'Not much here, is there?' Rafe said.
He closed the fridge.
'Tell you what,' he said. 'I'm going to cycle to the shops and stock you up on some food. When I come back, I'm going to cook you something to eat.'
'You don't need to.' Emma shook her head. 'I'm not hungry.'
'I don't mind,' Rafe insisted. 'I like cooking. Where are your keys?'
Emma didn't answer. She folded her arms, pulling her fleece closer around herself, and faced Rafe.
'Can I ask you a question first?' she said. 'What do you want, exactly?'
'To make sure you eat something.' Rafe sounded surprised. 'You look as if you haven't had a decent meal in days.'
'And why does that bother you?' Emma asked. 'It's not as if you know me. A few days ago, we'd never even met. Why do you keep coming here?' She narrowed her eyes. 'Are you hoping I'll have sex with you? A free shag? Is that it?'
'Excuse—'
'Let me tell you something,' Emma interrupted, 'about what kind of person I am. And then we'll see whether you still want to . . . cook me dinner.'
The last three words came out with a sneer. She could guess what sort of dinner it was he wanted. Rafe had a shocked expression on his face. Well, good. He might as well know what she was really like. It would get rid of him. He'd be out of here as quickly as everyone else.
'A couple of weeks ago,' she said, 'before Ritchie was kidnapped, I went to my GP and I told her that I hated him.'
'You what?'
'You heard me. I told my GP that I hated Ritchie.'
Rafe said nothing.
'I told her I wished he'd never been born,' Emma said angrily. Wasn't he going to make any kind of response to that? 'I told her I hoped that Ritchie would die.'
But the word 'die' came scraping out of her throat like sandpaper. Despite her defiance, she flinched. Once again, she was back in Dr Stanford's surgery. The hiss of gas from the heater. The smell of feet. Ritchie, beside her in his buggy in his elephant fleece, crying and crying and crying.
Emma pressed her hand to her chest. She couldn't catch her breath. A big bulge was in there, trying to tear its way out. Enough, she thought, cringing inside. Enough. Don't tell him any more.
'My own son,' she said instead in a hard, cold voice, when she could speak. 'So that's the kind of pathetic psycho bitch I am. And you've clearly decided I'm so messed up, you can call around here and cook dinner and I'll collapse into your arms and have sex with you and no one will ever know. That's what you're here for, isn't it? Why else would you want to do all this for someone you don't even know?'
Success at last. Rafe was angry now. His chest was puffed out, his shoulders up around his ears. He raised his eyebrows, looking up and to the right, and sucked in a breath. His lips formed an O shape, the prelude to 'Wh'. It was so obvious he was going to snap, 'Why indeed, you pathetic psycho bitch?' and stamp out.
But he didn't say that. He let his breath out again, and paused before he spo
ke.
'The reason I'm here,' he said quietly, 'is because I care about what happens to Ritchie. That, and no other reason. I don't know Ritchie, I've never met him, but I was there the day he was taken. I could have done something. I should have done something. I was a policeman, for Christ's sake. I should never have left you in the state you were in. I've thought about nothing else over the last few days and I can't forgive myself for letting it happen.'
His voice was shaking. His face was red and his arms were tightly folded.
'And about what you said to your GP,' he added. 'I don't know why you said it, but I'm sure you were under a lot of pressure at the time. People say things all the time that they don't mean.'
Emma couldn't speak.
'So if I'm too much, if you want me to leave you in peace, then you just tell me and I won't come here any more.'
The dizziness was back with a vengeance. Emma stepped back and felt her hip knock against something. There was a clatter as the table hit the wall. The phone slid to the floor, landing with a thump. Emma sank on to her knees.
'I keep thinking of him,' she said. She gripped her head between her hands. 'I can't get him out of my mind. I feel like I'm going mad. Every time, every time, I do anything, lie down, or drink a glass of water or have a cup of coffee, I think, How can I do this? How can I be comfortable when Ritchie might be suffering right at this very minute?'
'You can't think like that. You don't know—' 'He's being punished because of me,' Emma cried. 'I didn't take proper care of him. It wasn't just an accident. It wouldn't have happened to someone else. You heard the way I talked to Dr Stanford about him, what I said . . . you heard . . .'
She shoved her fists to her eyes, blocking it out.
There was movement beside her. Rafe, hunching down so that his face was next to hers.
'Listen to me,' he said. 'You're going to find him. You're going to get him back.'
'Stop saying that,' Emma wept. 'It means nothing. None of you know where he is or what's happening to him. You don't know. You don't know.'
'You told the police that Antonia seemed to know about children,' Rafe said. 'You said she knew how to hold him, how to put him in his . . . pram, or whatever. It sounds to me like she took Ritchie because she wanted him for herself. Not to hurt him, but to raise him as her own.'
'You can't say that. You don't even know it was her who took him.'
'You have to say it. You have to think it. Ritchie is going to be OK.'
His strange, yellowish eyes met hers. Very straight, very calm. If he was lying, he was bloody good at it.
Rafe stood up. He took Emma's arm and helped her to her feet. He pointed her in the direction of the bathroom.
'I'll be back soon,' he said.
The keys were in the lock in the door. He took them and left.
Emma went into the bathroom. She undressed and stepped into the olive-green bath. She turned on the taps, and held the shower nozzle over her hair. Warm liquid streamed down her face, and she didn't know whether it was water or tears. The police had to say nice things about Ritchie. It was part of their job. They didn't want her getting hysterical, making things more difficult for everyone. But Rafe didn't have to say anything, did he? Why would he bother, unless it was what he really thought? She desperately wanted to believe him. In all of this, he was the first person she'd met who hadn't treated her like some kind of a criminal or liar. After what she'd told him about Dr Stanford, she'd expected him to back off, to behave, at least, with more coldness or caution, but his eyes just now when he'd looked at her had held nothing but understanding and compassion. Emma's mouth crumpled. More tears! She put the shower nozzle to her face and waited for them to pass. Crying wasn't going to get her anywhere. The only thing that was going to help her now was to know for certain that Ritchie was all right.
When the tears had settled, she turned off the shower. She got out, and dried herself, and put on a clean pair of jeans and a top. And when she'd done all that, she found, to her surprise, that she did feel a tiny bit better.
Even hungry.
Rafe was back when she came out of the bathroom. Clattering noises filled the flat. She found him in the kitchen, slicing a stick of bread. Plastic Sainsbury's bags littered the worktops.
'A few days' supplies,' Rafe said awkwardly, following her gaze. 'I hope you like pasta?'
'Yes, I do.'
'Good stuff.' Rafe put down the knife and used a tea towel to lift a steaming pot from the hob. A waft of basil and tomato curled into Emma's nose. To her amazement, her stomach gurgled in response. Pass some of that down here.
They ate at the round table beside the door to the balcony. The block of flats opposite glowed in the last of the sun. The tinfoil windows gleamed, turning the missing teeth into bright gold fillings. Emma ate cautiously, taking small mouthfuls. Her stomach felt shrunken and tight. She didn't know how it would cope with the food.
'Is that Ritchie's?' Rafe asked with his mouth full, gesturing at the red plastic truck. It was pushed in behind the couch. Emma hadn't wanted to be able to see it.
'Yes,' she said shortly.
'It's a good one.' He nodded. 'I had one like that as a kid. Wait and see, he'll remember it when he's older. You don't forget your first truck.'
Emma put down her fork. The way Rafe had spoken about Ritchie. As if he really was certain he'd be back with her soon. As if Ritchie was just away on a holiday somewhere.
'He looks so funny when he drives it,' she said shakily. 'Concentrating, all busy, as if he's on some vital mission. He gives me this worried look, as if to say he'll be with me in a minute but he has this job to finish first.'
She bent her head again to the pasta, trying to swallow away the lump in her throat. Rafe didn't ask any more questions. He let her eat in peace. The food was simple and appetizing, easy to swallow. Before Emma knew it, she'd managed to finish more than half of what was on her plate. She began to feel much less dizzy, more clear headed.
She'd been meaning to ask Rafe something.
'You mentioned you'd left the police,' she said. 'Why was that?'
Rafe pursed up his lips and shook his head.
'It's not an interesting story,' he said. 'I've got a big mouth. It's got me into trouble before.'
'But I am interested,' Emma said. It wasn't any of her business, what he'd done. Whether he'd got kicked out. It was just, if she was telling him stuff about Ritchie, then maybe she should know.
Rafe shrugged.
'OK. It's not a secret. Man!' He shook his head again. 'Those guys. I'm not trying to turn you against them or anything, but the attitudes you come across, I'll tell you. The reason I left was, they crushed this animal rights protest outside a chicken farm in the Midlands. Poor little guys.' He picked up his fork and stabbed at a strand of spaghetti. 'Those morons were cramming them into crates, ten at a time, legs, wings getting broken, still forcing them in. The protesters wanted the place shut down. They got up a big crowd, made plenty of noise to attract attention. Out went the PCs, a load of self-important types. Made themselves so obnoxious they provoked a protester into punching one of them in the face. And then, of course, every cop in the country turned up to arrest everyone they could get their hands on.'
His voice had got louder. He seemed to hear it and put his fork back down.
'Anyway,' he said. 'I heard all the comments in the station afterwards. They were calling the protesters criminals, and scum, and loonies. For trying to help a few little chickens. Well, I had a problem with that, but they told me I was Mr Nobody and I could either shut up or leave.'
'So you left,' Emma said.
'No,' he said facetiously. 'I stayed and got promoted to head of Chicken Torture.'
Emma said, smiling faintly: 'And now you're a gardener.'
'Yeah, well, I like gardening, you know, but it's just a temporary thing. I'm trying to put some cash together. I'm finishing up my current job soon, and then I'm travelling to South America for a few months.' He cleare
d his throat. 'Actually, my flight's already booked. I'm leaving the week after next.'
'Oh.' Emma was taken aback. 'Well. Good luck. I hope you enjoy it.'
'Yeah.' Rafe looked at the remains of his pasta and tomato. 'Yeah. I'm looking forward to it.'
He stood up after a minute, and began to clear the plates. 'Shall I make some coffee?'
The gold fillings faded from the tower block opposite. The balconies darkened, then flared, one by one, into a patchwork of lights, all shades of cream and yellow and orange. Emma sat on at the table, calmed by watching the ritual of coffee-making. It was soothing just to have another person there, pottering about, rattling spoons, pouring milk. Rafe was easy to be with. Mainly because he didn't seem to expect Emma to say anything. He just talked on, though not in a pushy way, and not about himself. Just about things in general. The ridiculousness of the queues in Sainsbury's. The habit London cycling lanes had of apparently leading a person into the middle of a three-lane motorway and then vanishing. He was a funny mix. One minute thoughtful and serious, leaning back in the shadows. The next, excited by something or other, hunching forward and coming over all street, using his hands and chin for emphasis, stabbing at the table and saying things like 'Man' and 'It kills me', as if he'd spent his childhood hanging out with street gangs. His face was dark and expressive, his movements graceful. She could see him in a band, playing drums. Or being a rapper.
At ten o'clock, he stood up and said, 'I'd better get going. I live in Stockwell and I'm on my bike.'
'That's a long way from here.' Emma was dismayed. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to keep you so late.'
'I'm used to it,' Rafe assured her. 'I do gardening jobs all over London. Cycle twenty miles a day sometimes. Quicker than the bus in rush hour.'
Emma could believe the distance was nothing to him. He had a fit, healthy look to him, like an athlete. He pulled on his sweatshirt and hauled his rucksack up from the floor. Then he patted his pockets until he heard the jingle of keys.
'Well.' He gestured towards the hall. 'I'll be off.'
But he stayed where he was, bumping the rucksack off his knees.
'If you don't mind,' he said, 'I'll stay in touch? I'd like to hear what happens about that Bergerac thing.'
Emma's Baby Page 9