Reaching my mother’s house, I retrieve the spare key from beneath a loose brick at the side of the steps. Letting myself inside, I throw open the windows and pull drop cloths from the furniture. The beds have been stripped of bedding and the wardrobes are full of my mother’s clothes. I have never lived in this house and visited only once before, but my mother seems to inhabit every room. She has no photographs of my childhood displayed on the mantelpiece or hanging on the walls, nothing to show that I played a part.
I look at my watch. The courier company told me four o’clock. It’s after that now. I get changed into my work clothes and begin cleaning the house, dusting, polishing, and mopping the floors.
The truck pulls up just after five, when the sky is winter dark. The bearded driver is on his last delivery. He carries in a large box containing the birthing pool, inflation pump, pool liner, hose, tap adapters, floor sheet, submersible water pump, and thermometer.
Am I having a baby or cutting up a body?
The water-birthing kit is rented because I didn’t see the point of shelling out for a new one. I wonder how many babies have been delivered in the pool and how they disinfect it afterwards.
The driver has gone back to his van. This time he brings my super-absorbent bed pads, sanitary towels, lip balm, lavender oil, flannels, and raspberry-leaf tea.
“Do you need a hand putting up the pool?” he asks.
“No, I’ll be fine.”
He’s looking around for signs of my husband.
“My mother will be home soon,” I explain. “She’s at work.”
He taps his forehead in a casual salute and jogs to his truck. I sort through the paperwork that came with the delivery. There is a maternity certificate that must be signed by a registered midwife or GP, with a space for the patient’s name and details of the birth.
This is one of the gaps in my plan. I can forge a signature and registration number, but it won’t survive a check of the records or a phone call. Two thousand babies are born in Britain every day—that’s one every forty seconds—popping out, drawing breath, bawling. Surely records must occasionally get lost or misplaced. Parents forget. Infants die. Their births are never recorded. My baby will be overlooked. Time will hide him.
Going to the back garden, I light the incinerator, piling on progressively bigger logs until the heat forces me back. I burn my prosthetic pregnancy, watching as the silicone bubbles and melts, sending up plumes of thick black smoke that make the night seem darker.
Research is the key to good planning. I have gathered intelligence and studied my options until I’m confident that I can cover most contingencies apart from the unforeseen or the unforeseeable. I may not succeed, but I will limit the risk. Whatever happens, I don’t want to hurt Meg, but I reserve the right to use whatever means . . .
I go to my mother’s bedroom and open my suitcase. Inside I have a set of men’s overalls, work boots, and a baseball cap, along with several wigs that I’ve purchased over the past few months from eBay and a uniform shop. I pack these into a upright trolley, covered in a tartan fabric, with twin wheels and a U-shaped handle to pull it along.
Having checked everything twice, I go over the timetable, committing it to memory. Finally, I stand under the shower, washing away the soot and sweat and anxiety before stretching out on a bare mattress, wrapped in a blanket, waiting for sleep to steal my thoughts away.
MEGHAN
* * *
I recognize the woman on the doorstep, but it takes me a moment to place her. She’s the estate agent who sold us the house. I’ve seen her since, driving around Barnes in a BMW convertible, wearing her big sunglasses and silk scarves.
Handing me her business card, she gives me a practiced smile, all teeth no gums, calling me Mrs. Shaughnessy. Perfume seems to be lifting off her skin—the smell of overripe apricots and lime.
I look at the card. Rhea Bowden.
“I’m sorry to trouble you,” she says. “I was in the neighborhood and I thought I’d drop by.”
Her hair is tousled in an expensive, undeniably sexy way and brings to mind a former beauty queen ten years past her prime. Is that cruel? Probably.
“I’m checking to make sure you’re completely happy with the house.”
“Is this some sort of after-sales service?”
She smiles again. “That’s right. I normally contact people on the anniversary they moved in. It helps keep the channels open.”
“The channels?”
“It makes good business sense. Property prices have been rising. You’re probably not considering selling, but if you did want a valuation, I could give you one.”
“We’re not planning on selling.”
“Good. So you’re happy?”
“Yes.”
“How is Jack? Your husband, I mean. I tried to call him earlier to say I’d be dropping by.”
“He’s at work.”
“And is he also happy with the house?”
“We’re both happy.”
“Excellent.” She hesitates and looks past me along the hallway as though wanting to be invited inside. “Well, if you ever do contemplate selling, I hope you consider listing the property with me.”
“OK.”
“Right, then. Very good.”
I watch her saunter down the path and wrestle with the stiff latch on the gate. Cursing, she looks at her fingernail and sucks her finger. I wonder what that was about. Maybe nothing, but Rhea Bowden is the sort of woman who makes my protective senses hum. In the same breath I dismiss the notion because I have no right to be suspicious of Jack—not after what I’ve done.
Crumpling up the business card, I toss it in the rubbish and go back to packing my suitcase for the hospital. I have done it three times already because I keep changing my mind.
AGATHA
* * *
I wake up shivering, cocooned in a single blanket. The central heating hasn’t triggered and I can see my breath when I exhale. Dressing quickly, putting on layers, I go downstairs to the kitchen and hold my hands above the spout of the kettle as it boils.
There is nothing to eat in the cupboards so I make myself a black tea with extra sugar and wrap my hands around the mug, soaking up the warmth. My body feels lighter now that I’m not wearing a prosthetic, but I miss how secure and worthwhile it made me feel . . . as though I had a purpose.
Leaving the house, I raise the hood of my coat and walk to the nearest bus stop. Two old women with wrinkled faces are waiting, complaining about the cold. The traffic gasps and stops at the roundabout, never confident. Across the road I see a little boy holding his mother’s hand and begin to ache inside.
Having caught the No. 49 towards Bramley, I get off at Kirkstall Bridge Inn and walk across the River Aire and the railway line. A quarter mile farther on, I take the steps down to the towpath alongside the Leeds to the Bradford canal.
The creature has woken fully now, humming faintly, sensing where I’m going, telling me where to leave the path and when to stay hidden. Reaching a three-tier lock, I cross to the opposite side of the canal through open fields with bright green grass. I pass a man throwing a stick for his two dogs. The bigger dog always wins the race, but the smaller dog doesn’t seem to mind. A farmer on a red tractor is pulling a plow, turning the earth in neat rows.