At King’s Cross station hundreds of people are riding the escalators and crisscrossing the concourse. I slip inside a baby-changing room, locking the door and checking it twice. Unpacking the trolley, I take Rory into my arms and rock him gently, putting my cheek against his forehead and whispering that I love him.
I lay him down on the changing table, and he watches me undress, swapping the overalls and baseball cap for my own clothes. I dispose of the disguise, dumping it beneath dirty nappies in the rubbish bin.
Taking a scarf, I drape it over my right shoulder, gathering the ends and tying them together to form a sliding knot that I can tighten or loosen as required. I push the knot back to my shoulder and slip Rory into the sling, adjusting it so that his body is snug against mine. Heart to heart.
No more wigs or disguises. We are now mother and baby. I am Agatha and this is my little boy, Rory: an Irish name—it means “red king.”
Tomorrow I will take Rory home and show him to Hayden and he will see what a perfect mother I am and what a perfect wife I can be. I have my family now.
PART TWO
* * *
MEGHAN
* * *
Becoming conscious is like rising up from the depths of a dark well, swimming towards the light, my lungs empty, screaming for air. Suddenly my body arches and my eyes fly open and I draw in a breath as though screaming in reverse.
A stranger is bent over me with a hand on my chest. Not a nurse. She’s wearing a police uniform—dark trousers and a long-sleeved blue shirt buttoned at her wrists. She says my name.
Snippets of memory flash into my mind as though I’m watching a frenetically edited music video. I picture myself having a shower, sitting on a plastic chair under a stream of hot water. Jack helps me get dressed. Together we return to the bed. I see an empty crib.
“Where is the baby?”
“A nurse took him for a blood test.”
“What blood test?”
“She said it was routine.”
Another nurse walks past us.
“Our baby was taken for a blood test,” I say. “When will he come back?”
She looks at me blankly.
“Who took him?” I ask.
The shoulders of her uniform rise and fall on either side of her head.
“Why did he need a blood test? Can you find out?”
Minutes pass. The matron arrives. She asks Jack what the nurse looked like. I grow anxious. Agitated.
“Your baby wasn’t scheduled for a blood test,” says the matron.
“But the nurse said . . .”
“Where is our baby?” I ask, my voice rising in panic.
“I’m sure there’s an explanation.” A mole dances on the matron’s top lip.
“What explanation?”
Something is wrong. I hear an alarm. People are shouting. Running. I wish I could remember more, but I can’t hold on to the half-formed images and snatches of dialogue. I think I collapsed. I must have cried. A doctor came. He had red hair and freckles on his forehead and he slid a needle into my arm. The world grew dark, closing in to a single white point, until this last star went out.
The policewoman is still next to my bed. She is young with fleshy cheeks that give the impression she’s hiding bubblegum inside them.
“Where’s Jack?”
“Your husband isn’t here.”
“I want to see Jack.”
“I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”
I try to get up. The pain takes my breath away.
“You’re not supposed to move,” she says.
“I want to go home.”
“You’ve had surgery.”
The policewoman goes to the door and talks to someone in the corridor—a nurse. They’re whispering. The constable comes back to the bed.
“What did you say to her?”
“I told her to get the doctor.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is PC Hipwell. You can call me Annie. Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“Thirsty?”
“I need to use the toilet.”
“I can help you.”
Annie pulls back the sheet and I swing my legs over the side, testing the firmness of the floor. She puts an arm around my waist, supporting me on the short walk to the en-suite bathroom. When did I get a private room? I don’t remember getting here. Where’s Jack?
Sitting on the commode, I look at the bandages on my abdomen and recall the birth. I was conscious, but didn’t feel a thing when Dr. Phillips made the incision. Jack was next to him, wearing a surgical mask and giving me commentary, pretending to call the Grand National.
“Coming to the final turn and Meg Shaughnessy is three lengths ahead of the field, making it look easy. She’s approaching the last. Up and over. Kicking for home. She’s five lengths clear—make that six. The crowd are on their feet. Listen to that roar!”
I wanted to kill him because he was making me laugh.
“And it’s a boy,” he said. “Son of Shaughnessy—a champion in the making.”
I flush the toilet and Annie helps me back to the bed. There’s another knock on the door—the same nurse as before. She and Annie are whispering again—talking about me. What are they hiding?
Annie comes back to the bed. “Are you sure you’re not hungry?”
“I want to see Jack.”
“We’re trying to find him.”
My voice grows more strident. “Where has he gone? What have you done to him?”
“You must stay calm, Mrs. Shaughnessy. Otherwise they’ll sedate you. You don’t want that, do you?”
She has an annoying, cloying voice, like a kindergarten teacher telling a child that she’s letting the class down.
“You’ll feel better after a nice cup of tea.”
“I don’t want tea. I want Jack.”
Annie holds up her hands and says she’ll ask. She leaves me alone in the room. Ignoring the pain, I get out of bed and search for my clothes, opening cupboards and drawers. I find a dressing gown and slippers. Where’s my phone?
Edging the door open, I peer left and right along the corridor, trying to get my bearings. I need to find a telephone. Jack will know what to do. I turn left and shuffle towards double doors. A nurse appears. I change direction and pass a maternity ward. I recognize this place.
From somewhere nearby comes the sound of a baby crying. My heart leaps. They’ve found him! I follow the sound and push open a curtain. A woman is holding a newborn.
“That’s my baby!” I yell.
Her eyes go wide. Terrified by the sight of me.
“Give him back! He’s mine!”
She hugs him tighter. I try to wrench him from her arms. Nurses come running. The constable is with them, her face flushed with anger or embarrassment.
“Let go, Mrs. Shaughnessy,” says a nurse. “It’s not your baby.”
I’m sobbing into her shoulder. “Not mine,” I say, repeating the words as the memories coalesce and I remember what happened.
My baby is missing. Stolen. Snatched away. Why? Who would do such a thing? What if he’s been dumped somewhere? What if he’s been left on a doorstep or in a rubbish bin? He could be buried under leaves or locked in the boot of a car. People might be walking past him and not know. They might not hear him crying.