Traffic is light as she leaves Skerries but the traffic lights flash red… red … red at every junction. How could Rebecca have taken her eyes off Marcus? Amanda’s fury grows, then subsides back into dread. She waits for her sister to ring and tell her Marcus has been found but her phone remains silent. Her skirt rides up over her thighs. She smells of sex, the pungent scent of Eric still on her fingers. She switches on the air conditioning but it hangs in the ether, the heady odour of illicit pleasure. When she opens the window, the rushing wind cools her down and the noise from the traffic vibrates through the car.
Marcus must have taken a wrong turning at the corner into Rockfield Avenue and wandered into someone’s back garden. At four years of age, he’s still tempted by an open gate, always determined to explore the forbidden.
She has reached the M1 when Rebecca rings. ‘The police have arrived,’ she says. ‘Why are you taking so long? You should have been here ages ago.’
‘I’m not at the studio.’
‘But you said you were working—’
‘I was… am. I’ll explain later. The traffic’s atrocious. I’m driving as fast as I can.’
‘Hold on,’ she says. ‘A guard wants to speak to you.’
‘Mrs Richardson, I’m Garda Browne.’ His voice sounds young but authoritative. ‘Are you driving right now?’
‘Yes. But I’m on hands-free.’
‘I want your full attention. Pull in as soon as it’s safe to do so and ring back this number.’
She follows a sign for a service station and takes the turn-off leading into it.
‘Are you okay to continue driving?’ Garda Browne asks when she contacts him.
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘We can send a squad car to collect you. Where are you right now?’
‘A squad car isn’t necessary.’ Her knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. ‘I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’
‘Does Marcus have any friends who live in the vicinity of the school? Would he have had a play date in one of their houses today?’
‘No. He only started school in September.’
‘Is he inclined to stray?’
‘Sometimes he’ll run into a garden.’
‘Strangers’ gardens?’
‘Yes. It’s just curiosity—’
‘So, he is in the habit of straying away from you.’
What is he suggesting? She steadies her breathing, forces herself to remain still. ‘I wouldn’t call it straying. I’m always right behind him.’
‘How long before you arrive?’ he asks. ‘We were under the impression you were coming directly from LR1.’
‘I had to make an unexpected journey.’ She hates him already. ‘Work-related,’ she adds.
She wants to ring Lar and breathe her panic into his ear. The name of the conference or the hotel where it is being held didn’t register when he told her. All she knows is that he was due to address the conference in the morning. She tries to calculate the time in New York. He could be speaking to his audience right now, his phone on silent. There is no reason to disturb him. Marcus will be found by the time she reaches Rockfield.
She is driving on the M1 towards the port tunnel when she finally pays attention to the flashing signs by the side of the motorway. The tunnel is closed due to an electrical failure. That means driving through Drumcondra, which is always a bottleneck. A foretaste of the traffic she’ll encounter as she approaches the city centre.
Drumcondra is as busy as she expected. Roadworks add to the chaos. She resists the urge to blow the horn repeatedly as she drives slowly towards the quays. The traffic eases when she crosses the Liffey and heads southwards.
A tall ship with its magnificent riggings lies at anchor on the river, its proud flags fluttering. This is the last day the ship will spend in Dublin before heading to the high seas again. She’d planned to bring Marcus to visit it this afternoon. They’d Googled it together last night before he went to bed and, afterwards, she’d promised they’d go to McDonald’s for a Happy Meal. This morning when Eric rang her unexpectedly at work, back a day early from Spain and luring her from her office, from her promise to Marcus, she had convinced herself that her son wouldn’t mind. There was always another day, another treat.
The traffic stalls again. Her palms sweat. What explanation can she offer for being an hour and a half late? I was with my lover, falling over his clutter, tearing at buttons and zips, our bodies already fused before we collapsed on to his bed. Impossible yearnings that could never be explained. Never be understood by anyone outside their orbit.
The schoolyard is empty when she finally arrives and finds a parking space on Rockfield Road. Two squad cars are parked outside the school gates and a policeman stands at the front entrance. The SUVs and cars that normally obstruct the road during the periods when the younger and older pupils finish school have dispersed, and been replaced by three television vans. She sees the distinctive grey and red markings of the LR1 van, the satellite dish on top. A fist clenches the air from her lungs. What are the LR1 crew doing here? And the journalists waiting outside the school railings? Surely the presence of the media can have nothing to do with Marcus?
She pulls down her skirt and steps from her car. The journalists watch as she approaches. They are about to lunge towards her when they recognise her as one of their own. They slump back into waiting positions. She is familiar with this wait, the passive faces, the impatience that’s alleviated with banter, gossip and coffee. She runs from them, tottering in heels that are too high, too unstable to hold her upright, and she slides over on one ankle, wincing from the pain, but she keeps going, distancing herself from the media, hoping they will not realise she is the story that has brought them together. She senses the change in the atmosphere, can almost hear their collective intake of breath when they see that she’s not going to join them.
She’s almost at the school gates. Once she’s inside she’ll be protected from their questions. The policeman on duty at the entrance leaves his position and unlocks the gates. A red-haired camerawoman in front of the LR1 jeep presses her hand over her mouth as it dawns on her that this missing child is not just any boy. He could be Lar Richardson’s son. A photographer catches up with Amanda and lifts his camera. She recognises Shane from Capital Eye. His merciless lens has only one person in its sights. A journalist, whose name she knows but can’t remember, runs beside him.
‘Is your son missing?’ she shouts.
This clarion call rushes the others forward. Microphones with their identifiable media tags are thrust towards Amanda. They demand a comment that can become their headline story. Shane continues to mark her, clicking – clicking – and a television camera swallows her dishevelled appearance, her frantic expression, her efforts to outrun the media in her ridiculous fetish shoes that should only be worn from car to restaurant… or car to bedroom.
The guard ushers her through the gates. Sarah, the principal, stands at the entrance with Rebecca, whose skin is mottled with tears. And behind them, the voices continue calling:
‘Amanda! Is your son missing?’
‘Amanda! What took you so long to get here?’
‘Amanda! Do you think your son has been kidnapped?’
‘Amanda, Amanda, Amanda… speak to us, tell us, tell us…’
Chapter Forty-Six