'Pippa.' David sounded alarmed. 'Pip, what are you doing?'
'Don't touch me,' Antonia roared. David had been about to do just that, but he took a hasty step back. 'I'll stab you too,' she warned him. 'Don't think I won't. I wanted to leave here days ago, but oh no, you kept saying to wait. What was wrong with you? If it wasn't for me, we wouldn't be going at all. Anyone would think you wanted them to take Xavier . . . I said: Get! Back!'
This last was for Emma, who had tried again to move to the car. Antonia swung the knife back to her. Her hair, which she'd run her hand through a couple of times, didn't look so tidy now. In fact, it looked as if a hundred bats had been nesting in it. Her eyes were bloodshot. Emma stayed where she was. No knife was going to keep her back now. Not a knife, nor a gun, nor a herd of wild elephants.
'Philippa,' she said. She almost called her Antonia. 'Philippa, please. Can't we talk about this?'
'I'm not discussing anything with you,' Antonia said. Emma had a clear view of the knife now. It was a long, wide kitchen blade, for chopping meat or vegetables. 'Stay away from my son. I'm warning you.'
'Muh,' Ritchie squealed, still furiously kicking.
'You helped me, that time.' It took all of Emma's strength to stay calm. 'On the train, remember? You saved Ritchie from getting lost. If it wasn't for you, where might he have ended up? Please don't think I'm not grateful to you for that.'
Antonia, still holding the knife out, was backing around the car towards the driver's side. That was OK, though. The further she went that way, the clearer the path to Ritchie would be. Antonia moved again, and Emma took her chance. She lunged for the car. As she passed Antonia, she felt something knock against her arm. The blow caught her above the elbow, spinning her to the side. Strangely, Antonia seemed to be holding on to Emma's arm, following it as it moved, as if her hand was stuck there. With her other hand, Emma gripped the roof of the car and used it to wrench herself away. A weird feeling shot along her arm and down into her fingers, a sizzling, pins-and-needles sensation, as if she'd touched the exposed wires of a plug. Then it was gone.
In the distance, David was calling, 'Philippa. Philippa. Stop.' Emma could only see Ritchie's door. She was about to go for it again when something made her stop.
Antonia. Still holding the knife. Leaning from the front of the car into the back. Pointing the knife straight at Ritchie.
She said, 'Do I have to hurt him as well?'
Emma recoiled. The tip of the knife, so close to Ritchie's round, defenceless little face, made her want to vomit, actually vomit.
She said frantically, 'Don't—'
'Then I won't tell you again. Stand back from the car.'
'I will. I will.' Emma backed away. 'Please. Just take the knife away from him. Take it away from him.'
Antonia eyeballed her.
'You're not taking Xavier,' she said. 'You're not taking my child. No matter what happens. That's one thing I promise you.'
She lifted the knife. Then she whirled around and swung herself into the driver's seat. The second her back was to Ritchie, Emma flew to his door to get him out. She scrabbled at the handle, but for some reason she couldn't get her fingers to work. There was the door handle, there was her hand, but the fingers were all curled over and wouldn't open, what the fuck was going on? Her hand was useless, she couldn't straighten her hand.
'Ritchie,' she screamed.
Around the driver's side of the car, David was shouting as well. Emma had time to glimpse a blur, the frightened round blob of Ritchie's face at the window, then the engine roared to life. The car jumped, then burst away, spraying dust and hot stones. Still revving, it shot off down the drive towards the road. David raced after it. Car and man disappeared around the trees.
Shit, shit, shit. Emma fumbled for her phone. It was in her jeans pocket, on the right-hand side. She tried several times to get it out. The pocket seemed to be stitched shut in some way. Then she remembered it was because her hand wasn't working. Her fingers were all red now. Blood dropped from the tips, gathering the dust on the ground into dark pellets. The sound of the car was fading on the road.
'FUCK,' Emma shouted. She reached around with her left hand, twisting her shoulder and elbow to pull the phone out of her jeans.
David returned from the trees, gasping and sweating. Then he saw Emma's arm and stopped. His lips whitened. He said, 'Oh, Christ. She did it. She actually stabbed you.'
'Help me,' Emma said. 'Help me get my phone.'
'My wife is not responsible,' David whispered. 'She's ill.'
'Yeah, well, she's got my son in the car with her.'
The phone was out at last. One-handed, Emma flipped it open.
'What's the number for the police in France?' she demanded.
'I . . . it's . . .'
The phone rang just then, making them both jump. It was Rafe's name on the screen. Emma pressed the button and jammed the phone to her ear.
'She's taken him,' she said.
'What?'
'She's got a knife. She's got Ritchie in the car with her, and she's got a knife.'
'Shit.' Rafe's voice dropped. She heard him in the background, talking to someone else. Then he was back. 'Hold on, Emma. Just hold on. The police are on their way.'
'Hurry. Please.'
When she hung up, David was staring at her in misery. She'd almost forgotten he was there. Deep lines ran from his eyes, down the sides of his mouth. The last few weeks hadn't been easy for him either.
'We should have got help,' he said. 'If we had, this would never have happened.'
'Why did you take him from me?' Emma cried. 'Did you look after him? Were you cruel to him?'
'I swear to you.' David put his hands to his chest. 'We loved him like our own child. We looked after him as best we could, we did everything for him.'
'How could you do it? How could your family lie like that? How could they not see he wasn't yours?'
'They hadn't seen him for months.' David's face was grey. 'We told them, if he looked different it was because he was better. The child he should have been.'
Emma had been waiting for so long to confront these people. She'd been over this moment a thousand times in her mind, had a million questions prepared. The questions were still there, all ready and bursting in her head. But now she was here, and David Hunt was standing right in front of her, she found she didn't want to ask them any more. She went to turn away, but David hadn't finished yet.
'He'd have wanted for nothing,' he said after her. 'Nothing! He would have been so happy.'
Emma turned to look at him again.
'She would have stabbed him,' she said. 'You know that, don't you?'
'No, she wouldn't have.'
'Yes. She would.' Emma showed him her arm.
'You didn't know her.' David was shaking his head. 'The old Philippa would never have . . . my old Pippa . . . she . . .'
Then he was collapsing, one hand to his face, the other groping to the wall for support. 'My son,' he said, 'my son,' and Emma had no way of telling which child he meant: Ritchie, or his own lost boy, far away in the ground in India.
She turned away again. Down the hill, beyond the curve of the driveway, the road divided in the fields, separating again and again into smaller and smaller lines. Which road was hers? Surely she could still see a haze of dust on one of them, marking their path as they fled? She tried to follow it, so she could point it out to the police when they came, but the haze shimmered and spread. The clouds billowed down to hide it, and her blood dropped in the dust at her feet, glistening like grapes.
Chapter Eighteen
'Lieutenant Eric Perrine,' the man in the brown corduroy jacket said, 'of the French police.'
He had his hand out to shake Emma's before realizing that she couldn't take it. She was lying on a trolley, surrounded by people, and a man in a white tunic was cutting off her sleeve with a pair of scissors.
'Have you seen them?' Emma tried to lift her head off the pillow. 'Have you found
them?'
'No, madame. But we will.'
'You know she's got a knife? Are you chasing them? Have you put up roadblocks?'
'We are doing everything we can,' Lieutenant Perrine said. He had short dark hair, grey at the sides. His voice was soft and courteous. 'Trust me, madame. We have the description of the car, we have many people looking for them. They will be found.'
A man in a blue paper hat appeared, and began to prod at Emma's arm.
'You can feel this?' he asked. 'Or this?'
She couldn't feel anything. The arm was numb. It was still joined to her shoulder, but it wasn't hers, it wasn't a part of her any more. The man in the hat said something to Lieutenant Perrine and he nodded.
'For now,' he said to Emma, 'I need to let the doctors treat you. Your arm has been very badly damaged. This surgeon here says that you must have an operation.'
'An operation?'
'Yes. As soon as possible.'
Emma was shocked. 'I can't. I can't have an operation. Not while Ritchie's still out there.'
Lieutenant Perrine listened to the surgeon again and translated. 'The blood and nerve supply to your arm have been badly damaged,' he said. 'If they don't fix them immediately, your arm could die.'
'I don't care.'
'This is very serious. You must think about your son. Please, Ms Turner.' Lieutenant Perrine's brown eyes reminded her of someone she knew. 'Things are difficult enough at this moment. Do not make them worse.'
The kindness in his voice silenced her.
He said, 'You have done your son a service today, Ms Turner. We have spoken to Mr Hunt. They were leaving for Italy this afternoon. They would have gone if not for you.'
A nurse in white was folding a dressing over her arm.
'I will go now,' Lieutenant Perrine said, 'and see what is happening. As soon as there are developments, I will contact you.'
'Will you do everything?' It came out as a sob. 'Everything you can do?'
'I will.' Lieutenant Perrine looked grave. 'You have my word of honour, madame. I will do everything I can.'
He left her, and the man in the hat and the people in white had drifted away too. Emma hardly noticed. The lights were too bright. Trembling, she turned on her side, facing herself to the wall. That woman had had a knife. She'd pointed it at Ritchie. She'd stabbed Emma, just like that; she was a psycho. And now Ritchie was somewhere in a car with her. Emma gripped a corner of the sheet in her fist. She shouldn't be here. She should be out in a police car, searching the roads for him; be there when they found him, be the first person he saw. He'd been calling her: 'Muh. Muh.' Aah! She pressed her fist to her chest. He'd known she was there. He must be wondering why she hadn't come to him, why she'd gone off again and left him.
'I didn't mean to . . .' She had to tell him. 'I didn't . . .'
She struggled to sit up again. No way was she going to just lie here. She could have the operation some other time. For now, she was going to find Lieutenant Perrine and insist that one of the police cars took her along with them. She tried to sit straighter, but her right arm hung behind her, floppy as the damaged wing of some giant bird or bat. The dressing stuck to her skin, dragging open the wound above her elbow so she could see the pink mass of muscle inside. Red lines streaked towards her wrist. Her arm was like a white and red road map. Faint, she looked away.
The nurse reappeared by her bed.
'Are you all right?' she asked.
'I'm fine.' Emma was looking around her for a towel or sheet. 'I just need something to . . .'
Then she looked at her arm again and slumped in defeat. She hadn't lost the plot so much that she couldn't see the mess she was in. She couldn't do anything, go anywhere, with her arm like this. The nurse looked at it too and frowned.
'You have decided?' she asked. 'You will have the surgery?'
Emma was thinking fast. 'If I have it, how soon can I leave here? Can I get out straight away?'
'If the surgery is successful, then yes, maybe.' The nurse wrinkled her forehead. 'But you should have it immediately, madame. The knife has done a lot of damage. Your hand has no blood supply. That is why you can't feel anything.'
'Will they be quick?' Emma asked. 'You see, I don't have time. I need to be awake . . . I . . . my son . . .'
'I understand,' the nurse said. She came to put her hand on Emma's shoulder. 'Of course I understand. We will try to be as quick as we can.'
As soon as the nurse had told everyone she was having the surgery, Emma's cubicle filled with people again. Emma searched the crowd for Lieutenant Perrine. She wanted to hear him promise the police would keep looking for Ritchie while she was in the operating room.
'Excuse me,' she kept saying. She raised her voice. 'Excuse me, I need to see that policeman again. The one who . . . Is anybody listening?'
The man in the blue hat was back, barking orders at the crowd.
'Tout de suite,' he snapped. Emma recognized the phrase. It meant 'immediately'. Within seconds a group of people had taken hold of Emma's trolley and were wheeling her along a corridor. White windows flew past. A breeze blew on her face. Then she was in another room, filled with machines. A chemical smell, strangely familiar. Nail varnish? More people in tunics, blue this time. Everyone seemed to be doing something. Opening and closing cupboards. Hanging things on poles. Flicking liquid from the tops of syringes.
A woman asked her questions, ticking them off on a clipboard: 'When did you last eat? Have you had an anaesthetic before?'
The quicker Emma cooperated, the quicker the surgery would be done. She answered all the questions. The woman's pen flew down the clipboard. A man wearing a paper hat and mask tied something around the top of Emma's good arm.
'To make the vein,' he explained. He tapped the back of her wrist. 'Move your hand, please.'
Emma didn't know what he meant. Move her hand? She twisted her wrist forward and back. The woman with the clipboard saw she didn't understand and returned to the trolley to help.
'Open and close your fist.' She demonstrated. 'Like this. Pretend you are trying to grasp something that is just out of your reach.'
Emma got it. She opened and closed her left hand. Then something sharp stung the back of it. Seconds later, the room spun. She tried to grip the side of the trolley, but her left hand was still being held and the other had no life in it at all.
'Please,' she said, not knowing what it was she was asking for. 'Please.'
Voices in the background. Antonia appeared beside her, wearing a blue hat and mask. Emma could only see her eyes. She was holding a knife up and touching her finger to the tip of it.
'Do you know Solomon?' Antonia asked. Her voice was deep and dry and cold. 'Solomon was the king who ordered the baby to be cut in half.'
Emma tried to wrench her hand away from whoever was holding it.
'Let go,' she shouted. 'I've changed my mind.'
But the shouting must have been just in her head, because the French voices with their soft 's's and 'g's murmured on in the background. Terrified, Emma twisted her hand, until she felt someone's fingers and squeezed.
'It's all right,' a different voice said. 'I'm here.'
'Sleep now,' the doctor said.
Her hand was released. It floated by her side, as if in water. Something was on her face, pressing on her eyes, making everything dark. A cool flow in her nose. The nail varnish smell grew stronger.
From a distance, a woman said, 'You do not need to grasp any more.'
Emma realized she was moving her hand again. Open. Close.
Just out of your reach.
I'm here.
Startled, she opened her eyes. Something was blocking her hand from moving. She pushed it away and grasped again, reaching out as far as she could. Then everything went dark. Her hand fell to the sheet. Her fingers curled, coming to rest, and when they closed, they closed only upon themselves.
Everything was swirling. Brightness speared her eyelids. Her stomach heaved.
'Go
od morning,' a voice said.
Emma opened her eyes. The swirling stopped. A girl in white was pushing back curtains at a window.
Emma blinked, getting used to the light. She stared around her. This wasn't the operating theatre. She was in a bed in a normal room, with a white wardrobe and locker, and a TV up near the ceiling in the corner.
Her right arm, bulky with bandages, was propped on a pillow.
'Have I had it?' She was bewildered. 'Have I had the operation?'
'Yes.'
She was amazed. The last thing she remembered was the woman with the clipboard showing her how to move her hand.
'The surgery took a long time,' the nurse was saying. 'Seven hours. We do not yet know whether—'
Seven hours?
Emma shot up in the bed.
'What time is it?' she asked.
'Almost eight o'clock in the morning.'
'Eight o'clock in the morning?' She'd been asleep the whole night! If she'd known the surgery would take this long, she'd never, never have agreed to it. 'Did they find him? Did they find Ritchie?'
'I'm sorry, madame.' The nurse looked away.
Emma was aghast. 'Why?' Sitting up had made her nausea worse. Her stomach seemed to be forcing itself into her throat. 'Why? They said they couldn't have got far. They said—'
The nurse put her hands up.
'There is a lady outside,' she said, 'from the British Embassy. She has demanded that she can speak with you when you are awake?'
'Yes. Yes, please.'
The nurse left the room. Seconds later she returned, accompanied by a blonde, short-haired woman in a knee-length skirt.
'Tamsin Wagstaff.' The woman introduced herself. 'From the Consulate.'
'What's going on?' Emma pleaded. 'Why haven't they found Ritchie?'
Tamsin Wagstaff said, 'Unfortunately it hasn't been as easy as that. St-Bourdain is in a very isolated area. No cameras, very few cars. Even with such a quick response, it was difficult to know which way they might have gone. The police are doing their best.'
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