No Escape

by Hilary Norman

  ‘It’s probably at home – she’s always forgetting it.’ Tony tucked his phone under his chin and rubbed Swarfega into his hands. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before, Sandra?’

  ‘I didn’t like to worry you.’

  ‘I’m not worried.’

  ‘Do you think your neighbour, Nicki, might know where she is?’

  ‘The Georgious are in Cyprus.’ Tony went to the sink, turned on the tap. ‘She’s probably out shopping or something. If I were you, I’d be pissed off with her for leaving Irina with you all day.’

  ‘I don’t mind that at all,’ Sandra said quickly. ‘I love having her here.’

  Tony rinsed off the worst of the grease and squeezed washing up liquid onto his palms. ‘It’s still taking advantage, isn’t it? Of you and me, come to that – it was me who told Jo to go out with her friend in the first place.’

  ‘What friend?’ Sandra asked.

  ‘Don’t know.’ Tony’s thoughts turned to his need for a drink. ‘D’you mind keeping Irina for now?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Sandra said. ‘But can you please remember to phone me as soon as you hear from Joanne?’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ Tony said. ‘Though you’ll probably hear first, won’t you.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Sandra said.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Absorbed as he ought to have been by other matters on a Monday afternoon in Bedford Row, Allbeury had found himself unexpectedly preoccupied for a great deal of the time with Lizzie Piper and her husband.

  He had expected, he reflected now, pouring himself a modest-sized Scotch from a decanter in his comfortable office, to step into an interesting household, an arena rife, perhaps, with a degree of healthy conflict; with two such high-achievers – one in perhaps the most arrogant profession of all and a high-profile philanthropist to boot – it could hardly be otherwise.

  Allbeury had learned over many years to set very little store by outward appearance, knew better than many how bruised, even bloody, decent-seeming marriages sometimes were on the inside, how tarnished even the most glittering twosomes could become. And from the outset of yesterday evening, for all the welcoming warmth and courtesy of Lizzie’s hospitality and Wade’s geniality, he’d had a sense of something being very wrong.

  Not just the children.

  The call from Marlow, he remembered, had come after the first micro-clash. That thing about the opera. No more than an instant or two, but Lizzie, lovely, warm woman that she seemed, had exuded a real chill in that moment, and his curiosity had been awakened. Then of course she’d heard about the kids’ colds – and he hadn’t known at the time about the son with muscular dystrophy, poor boy, and that had to be an ever-present source of grief and fear for them all, especially when there were viruses floating around the family.

  Poor Lizzie.

  But it was the hug at the end of the evening that had really spiked his curiosity and concern – not that he had any business being concerned. Christopher had put his arm around Lizzie, and she had let him, had not pushed him away, had stood there beside him on the doorstep, smiling as he and Susan left.

  Body language interpretation was, in his opinion, usually overrated, but there were occasions when it was almost impossible to overlook, and that moment between the Wades had been one of those times. Lizzie might not have actually rejected her husband, but Allbeury was damned sure she hadn’t wanted his arm around her either, and what he couldn’t seem to help wondering was why not? Especially as everything he’d ever read about the Piper-Wade union had all but yelled ‘golden couple’.

  Busy as he had been at the office, busy as he would continue to be after he got home, dealing with Joanne Patston’s predicament, Robin Allbeury just could not get Lizzie Piper out of his mind.

  And it troubled him.

  Because if Mrs Wade did have the kind of significant problems he suspected she might, then he knew, already, that he might feel tempted to help her.

  He had never before decided to help a woman to whom he was drawn.

  Seriously drawn.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Christopher returned to the Beauchamp Clinic shortly before six-thirty after three hours’ of intricate surgery at St Clare’s on a car accident victim, to learn from Jane Meredith, his PA, that Lizzie had called to say that Jack was now showing symptoms of the viral cold that Edward and Sophie had.

  He went swiftly into his office and phoned the house. ‘How is he?’

  ‘Not bad,’ Lizzie told him. ‘Temperature just a little up.’

  ‘Has Hilda been?’

  ‘An hour ago. She was very reassuring.’

  ‘Good.’ Christopher paused. ‘Shall I come?’

  ‘If you can, I’d appreciate it,’ Lizzie admitted.

  ‘Ten to fifteen catching up with Jane,’ Christopher said, ‘and I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘Drive carefully,’ Lizzie said. ‘He really is all right.’

  She felt better already, just knowing that he’d be home by around eight. The other two were already shaking off the worst of their own colds with the ease of healthy youngsters, and it was more than likely that, treated and monitored carefully, Jack would follow suit, but Lizzie and Christopher both knew that in a boy with DMD, where there was, ultimately, every probability of heart and lung involvement, any kind of respiratory infection had some potential for risk. Lizzie had every faith in Hilda Kapur, but Gilly was off now, and even if she had been here for moral support, it was at times like these when, still, after all this time, Lizzie most valued Christopher’s presence.

  ‘Did you speak to Dad?’ Jack asked as soon as she went back into his room.

  ‘I did.’ Lizzie laid a palm on his forehead, which felt too warm. ‘He’s finishing up at the clinic and then he’s coming home.’

  ‘I don’t want him to come specially, Mum.’ Jack hated what he called ‘the whole rigmarole’ that happened whenever he sneezed a few times or ran even the lowest of fevers. ‘Call him back and tell him I’m fine.’

  ‘He was coming anyway,’ Lizzie lied.

  ‘Bet he wasn’t.’

  Jack coughed, and Lizzie tensed.

  ‘Overreacting, Mum,’ he said, seeing her expression. ‘It’s just a tickle.’

  ‘I know,’ she said.

  He coughed again.

  ‘All right?’ she asked.

  Jack nodded, but went on coughing.

  ‘How about some soup?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Tea?’

  He nodded. ‘Please.’

  ‘Anything to get rid of me, right?’ Lizzie said.

  ‘Yup.’ He lay back against his pillows.

  As she left the room, he was coughing again.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Tony was drunk when he got home, but not so much as not to notice that his house was still empty and pitch dark, and definitely not too drunk not to be bloody narked by the fact.

  He turned on the lights, shut the front door behind him, swayed into the living room, picked up the cordless phone, tried and failed to remember his mother-in-law’s number, then remembered that Joanne had it on a memory button, keyed it and sank down onto the sofa.

  ‘Hello?’ Sandra sounded agitated.

  ‘She’s not here,’ Tony said. ‘Is she with you?’

  ‘Tony, where have you been?’

  She sounded more than agitated. She sounded accusing, and obviously that was because he hadn’t got in touch with her or, more likely, because he was slurring his words a bit, but with no wife or kid or dinner at home, why shouldn’t he have a few drinks?

  ‘Is she there?’ he asked, more belligerently than he meant to.

  ‘No, and I haven’t heard a word, and obviously you haven’t, and I’m getting really scared now, Tony. I think you should phone the police.’

  ‘That’s a bit over the top, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Sandra said.

  He shifted on the sofa and tried to think of something helpful
to say, because his mother-in-law really did sound frightened, and now he came to think of it, he couldn’t remember a single time in the whole of their marriage when Joanne had gone off and not phoned or left a message.

  ‘I’ll have a scout round – make sure she hasn’t put a note in some daft place.’

  ‘Okay,’ Sandra said. ‘Thank you, Tony.’

  He stood up with an effort, wandered around the room, then went back into the hall, into the kitchen, turning on more lights as he went.

  ‘There’s nothing,’ he told his mother-in-law.

  ‘Call the police,’ she said.

  He aimed himself back into the living room. ‘Hang on a minute, Sandra. Tell me what Jo said when she dropped Irina off this morning.’ He sat down again with relief. ‘She okay, by the way?’

  ‘Fine. No problems. She’s having a nap in my bed.’

  ‘Lovely,’ he said. ‘So didn’t Jo tell you who she was meeting?’

  ‘She was in a rush. I told you, she just said she’d be back around lunchtime.’ Sandra paused. ‘Tony, you said something about a friend.’

  ‘Just this woman who phoned at breakfast time,’ Tony said.

  ‘Didn’t she tell you her name?’

  ‘No.’ He thought back, as well as he could in his beer and whisky fog. ‘No, she didn’t.’ He paused again. ‘She was a bit funny about going, I remember that, said she had ironing to do. I told her it would do her good to get out. This is what I get for trying to help her lighten up.’

  ‘She must have said something about the woman,’ Sandra persisted.

  He searched his memory again, anything to put an end to this so he could get some bloody sleep. ‘The library,’ he said. ‘That’s what she said. Some woman she’d met at the library – she’s always taking Irina to the library.’

  ‘But no name,’ Sandra said.

  ‘For crying out loud,’ Tony said, losing patience. ‘How many more times? If I’d known then she was planning to dump our daughter and piss off for the whole day and half the night—’

  ‘Tony, something might have happened to her.’ Sandra was angry.

  ‘Like what? If she’d had an accident, we’d have heard.’

  ‘You haven’t been home,’ Sandra pointed out. ‘At least call the hospital.’

  ‘Which one?’ He grew kinder again. ‘Sandra, love, I’ve been at work and you’ve been home, so if anything bad had happened, someone would have got hold of one of us.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ She paused. ‘What about Irina?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Tony said. ‘I don’t think we should disturb her, do you?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘And will you be okay to keep her tomorrow? Only I’ve got a backlog at work.’

  ‘What about the police?’ Sandra asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ Tony said, decisively. ‘Honestly, love, she’ll probably turn up any minute, and we’ll both yell at her and then have a good laugh about it.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ She sounded as if she wanted to be convinced.

  ‘Yeah, of course.’ He was definite.

  ‘It’s getting so late,’ Sandra said.

  ‘And we’re both on the phone,’ Tony said. ‘And we haven’t got Call Waiting, so we’d better stop in case she’s trying.’

  ‘Call me if you hear anything. Anything, any time.’ She paused. ‘And first thing, if she isn’t back, will you call the police?’

  ‘She’ll be back, Sandra. I know she will.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  In her house in Edmonton, Sandra Finch put down the phone and went immediately upstairs to check on her granddaughter.

  Irina stirred as she came into the room.

  ‘It’s all right, darling.’ Sandra went to the bed, sat down carefully on the edge, stroked the little girl’s warm, soft cheek. ‘Go back to sleep.’

  ‘Is my Mummy here yet?’ The voice was snuffly and dreamy.

  ‘Not yet, darling, but soon. Go back to sleep.’

  Irina opened her black cherry eyes more fully, and looked up into her grandmother’s face. ‘Is Daddy coming?’

  ‘No, darling. Daddy’s not coming tonight, but he sent you a big kiss and said you should stay here with me, if that’s all right with you. Is it all right, sweetheart?’

  The child didn’t answer, was already drifting back off into sleep, but before the eyes were quite shut, they and her whole face had lit up into a beautiful smile.

  Sandra had seen Irina smile like that all too seldom. She was not at all sure, suddenly, that she wanted to know the reason for that, but it was lovely, more than lovely, to have the little girl here with her.

  If only she knew where Joanne was, knew that she was safe, she could have simply lain down beside Irina, stroked her soft, dark hair, and taken purest pleasure from this night.

  But she did not know where her daughter was.

  Call the hospitals, she told herself, and you’ll feel better.

  More than forty-five minutes later, having established that no one of Joanne’s name or description had been brought into A&E at either Whipps Cross or Waltham General, Sandra sat in an armchair with a cup of strong, sweet tea and waited to feel better.

  All she felt was sick.

  Sick and old and afraid.

  More than afraid.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Jack’s temperature was up to a hundred and two.

  ‘Feeling wretched, aren’t you?’ Christopher said, holding his son’s hand lightly. ‘Fevers are buggers, even if they are protection mechanisms.’

  Jack knew that people shivered to raise heat and perspired to create heat loss, had learned about things like that because his dad believed anxiety often came from the unknown, and fretting about feeling lousy only made you feel worse.

  He really did feel lousy.

  ‘I’m okay,’ he said.

  ‘Good boy,’ Christopher said.

  ‘Glad you’re here,’ Jack said softly.

  ‘I’ll always be here when you need me,’ Christopher said. ‘If I can.’

  ‘I know,’ Jack said. ‘Mum gets in a tizz when I’m ill.’

  ‘Does she?’

  ‘She tries to hide it, but I see it in her eyes.’ Jack took a slightly wheezy breath, swallowed and grimaced a bit because his throat was sore. ‘She’s better when you’re here too.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ Christopher said.

  Jack looked at him for a moment. ‘You okay, Dad?’

  ‘Me? I’m fine, Jack.’

  ‘This is just a bad cold, you know. Dr Kapur told me when Mum was out of the room, and she’s always straight with me. Lots of fluids – the usual – and I’ll be fine.’

  ‘He’s getting a bit chesty,’ Christopher said to Lizzie in the kitchen, where she was making him a sandwich. ‘If he’s no better in the morning, I might have a word with the Centre.’

  There were only three specialist centres in the country funded by the Muscular Dystrophy Campaign, staffed by experts in neuromuscular conditions, and the Wades were fortunate enough to be in easy reach of two of them, one based at the Radcliffe Infirmary in Oxford, the other at Hammersmith Hospital.

  ‘Do you think we should ask Hilda to get him admitted?’

  Christopher saw the fear in her eyes. ‘No need for that at present.’ He looked down at the thick-cut granary bread on which she’d laid several slices of rare roast beef, with his favourite gherkins inserted between them. ‘That looks wonderful.’

  ‘Mustard?’ Lizzie shook her head. ‘Of course mustard.’

  Christopher watched her add hot English mustard, lay the covering slice on top, flatten slightly, cut the sandwich into two and set it on a plate. ‘Thank you, Lizzie.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Edward wandered in, wearing one of the baggy T-shirts and shorts sets he preferred to pyjamas. ‘Is Jack okay?’

  ‘Not so famous right now,’ Christopher told him.

  ‘Why aren’t you asleep?’ Lizzie asked. ‘
And where are your slippers? You’ve still got a cold too, darling.’

  ‘I’m heaps better, Mum.’ Edward sat on one of the chairs around the table. ‘Sophie’s awake too. She wanted to go in and sit with him, but I told her no.’

  ‘Probably wise,’ his father said, ‘though she’s not likely to catch it back.’

  ‘Is Sophie all right?’ Lizzie asked.

  ‘Worrying about Jack,’ Edward said, nasally.

  ‘No need for her to worry,’ Lizzie said. ‘Either of you.’

  ‘I suppose you and Dad are cool about it then?’ He was wry.

  ‘We’re vigilant,’ Christopher said. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘Just commonsense,’ Lizzie added.

  ‘Okay,’ Edward said. ‘I think Sophie’s upset because she started the cold.’

  ‘I hope you told her that’s nonsense,’ Christopher said.

  ‘I told her she didn’t start it,’ Edward said. ‘I told her the same cold just goes round and round the country, and it’s just bad luck which person gets it next.’

  ‘Not strictly true, I don’t think,’ his father said.

  ‘I don’t think that’s what matters, is it?’ Lizzie came and sat between them. ‘You both know very well that we all feel a bit like Sophie when we catch any bug and bring it home. We’re always scared Jack will catch what we’ve got, and that it might make him worse, and that’s what’s nonsense, because it just can’t be helped.’

  ‘Doesn’t stop us feeling that way though, does it?’ Edward said.

  Christopher put out his hand and ruffled his son’s dark hair. ‘Want some of my sandwich?’

  ‘No, thanks, Dad.’

  Lizzie got up. ‘Think I’ll have a quick chat with Sophie, and look in on Jack.’

  ‘He’s probably sleeping,’ Christopher said.

  ‘I won’t wake him,’ she said.

  ‘I know you won’t.’ He looked at her in the doorway. ‘If Sophie can’t get off, tell her to come down for a bit.’

  Sophie, apparently sufficiently consoled by Edward, at least for the present, had fallen asleep, snoring a little, rather sweetly, from the remains of her own cold. Lizzie stroked her hair, smiling at Edward’s image of the nation’s single cold doing circuits of the country, picking up victims the way the Circle Line did passengers.