A barge passes me slowly, edging forward against the tide. A schoolboy stops and asks if I have a light. A soggy cigarette clings to his lips. He leaves. I stand. Numb with cold, I walk forward and peer at the river, frothing and boiling around the pylons. The world is enormous and I am a tiny unmemorable speck within it, easily lost, quickly forgotten.
The creature uncoils inside me.
You could jump.
I’d probably fail.
You could slip beneath the surface and disappear.
My prosthetic would keep me afloat like a lifejacket. I would bob along until someone pulled me out.
You could take it off.
Confusion creeps over me. I brace my hands against the stonework and lean over and out, rising onto my toes. I stare at the swirling water, wondering how cold it would be. At that moment a Labrador puts its paws on the wall next to me, standing on its hind legs to peer at the same water. Wagging its tail and trembling with joy, it turns to me excitedly, as though asking me what I’m looking at.
“Hello,” I say. “Where did you come from?”
“I’m so sorry,” says a voice. An elderly man shuffles into view. He’s carrying a dog leash and puffing. “She got away from me. Get down, Betty, leave the nice lady alone.”
Betty licks at my hand.
“She won’t bite,” he says. “Is everything all right?”
I don’t answer him.
“You’re upset. Can I do anything?”
“No, please just go.”
He clips the leash on Betty’s collar and turns away. He doesn’t go far. I see him speaking on his phone, looking at me. Meanwhile a seagull has settled on the wall. It’s an ugly fat thing with beady eyes and webbed feet and a hooked beak.
I stare at the evil-looking bird, aware that the old man and his dog are still watching me. A police car pulls up behind them. A constable gets out, puts on his hat and approaches me.
“Good afternoon,” he says, cheerfully. I half expect him to add, “Lovely day.”
“That bird is evil,” I say, motioning to the seagull.
“Pardon?”
“It’s staring at me.”
He looks at the seagull, not understanding.
Betty barks. “I was the one who called,” says the man. “I was worried about her.”
The officer steps nearer and puts his gloved hands on mine. “What’s your name?”
“Agatha.”
“Are you cold, Agatha?”
“Yes.”
“How about we get you a cup of tea?”
“That’s all right. I have to go home.”
“Where is home?”
I point west along the river.
“Have you been crying?”
“It’s the rain.”
“When is your baby due?” asks the constable.
“In two weeks.”
The officer nods. He is younger than I first thought. A silver wedding band glints on his ring finger.
“What are you doing out here?” he asks.
“I went for a walk.”
“It’s raining.”
“I like the rain.”
I must look a mess. I must sound crazy.
“Do you have some form of identification?”
“I left my wallet in the car.”
“Where is your car?”
“Around the corner.”
“OK, let’s go to your car.”
The plot holes are apparent even as I come up with the plot. “Sorry, I made a mistake. I don’t have a car. I walked.” I glance around me. “I have to go. I’m due home.”
“Maybe you should let me take you,” he says, brushing raindrops off the shoulders of his jacket.
“No!”
He’s waiting for me to say something more, but I can’t begin to explain the misery of today. Turning his back, he talks into a shoulder radio. I hear the words “agitated” and “doctor.”
Growing anxious, I look both ways along the pavement, but there’s nowhere to run. I am such a wretched weakling, so easily thrown into turmoil, so quickly frightened and panicked. The creature laughs.
You’re in trouble now.
“Shut up!”
The constable turns. “Did you say something?”
“No.”
“I think you should come with me.”
“Where?”
“To the hospital.”
“I’m not sick.”
“I want the doctors to check out your baby.”
He leads me to the police car. “Mind your head.”
The last time I sat in a police car was when Elijah died. My mother sat next to me and we waited for the coroner to finish looking at his body.
“My name is Hobson,” he says, glancing at me in the mirror. He asks for my full name. I invent one. “Agatha Baker.” It sounds fake. I should have chosen a different one.
“Where exactly do you live, Agatha?” he asks.
“In Leeds,” I say. Another lie. “I’m visiting my sister.”
“Where does she live?”
“Richmond.”
“What were you doing beside the river?”
“Nothing.”
“Has something upset you?”
“No. I’m fine.”
The police car pulls up in an ambulance bay at Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. The A&E department is on the ground floor. The waiting room is newly refurbished with polished wooden benches and bright green splashes of color. The seats are taken by the walking wounded, the bandaged, broken-limbed, and burned.
“They look very busy,” I say. “I could come back later.”
“We’re here now,” says Constable Hobson, ushering me to the reception desk.
I fill out a form using my fake name and address. A triage nurse looks into my eyes with a pencil light.
“How many weeks?”
“Thirty-eight.”
“What’s your GP’s name?”
“Dr. Higgins . . . he’s in Leeds.”
“You seem to be carrying quite low.” The nurse reaches for my stomach and I pull away. She frowns and tells me to pop into the next cubicle and slip on a gown. A doctor will be along soon.
Constable Hobson looks relieved. “Is there someone I can call—your husband perhaps?”
“He’s away at sea. He’s in the Royal Navy.”
“How about your sister?”
“She’ll be at work. I’ll call her. You don’t have to stay.”
I disappear behind the curtain. The examination room has a trolley bed and shelves full of disposable gloves, antiseptic wipes, and bandages. I can’t stay here. I can’t let them examine me.
Before I can move, a doctor appears. He looks young and tired and clever.
“You’re not undressed,” he says.
“Sorry, I misunderstood.”
He puts on a pair of surgical gloves and glances at his notes. “Agatha?”
I nod.
“Do you know what you’re having?”
“A boy.”
“When did you last feel him moving?”
“Just now—he’s right as rain.”
“Any blood or spotting?”
I flinch. “No.”
“Contractions?”
“Twinges.”
The trick to lying is not to add superfluous details. Keep it simple. Don’t elaborate or decorate. “Are you going to touch me?”
“I’m going to check the baby’s position. Then I’ll hook you up to a fetal monitor and we’ll listen to his heartbeat.”
“Is that necessary?”
“Definitely.
“I need to use the loo.”
He sighs impatiently. “It’s down the corridor. Third door on the left.”
“Won’t be long.”
Taking my overcoat, I slip past him, along the corridor. Reaching the ladies’, I duck inside a cubicle and try to steady my breathing. I can’t go back. I can’t let him touch me or see me naked.
Easing open the door, I lean out and scan the busy corridor. Turning away from the A&E, I walk purposefully past random nurses and white-coated doctors, who don’t appear to notice me. The corridor hits a junction. I turn right and then left. I pass a cleaner and a patient being wheeled by two orderlies. Reaching a dead end, I turn back.
A nurse asks, “Are you lost?”
I jump, startled. “I’m looking for the maternity ward.”