Children get taken all the time. They wander off. They fall into swimming pools, or get into strange cars, or wander into the woods. But babies don’t disappear. Babies don’t follow kittens, or fall asleep in garden sheds, or get lost in shopping malls. Babies can’t flag down passing cars or follow signs or knock on doors or phone home or ask strangers for help. Babies can’t tell people that they’re missing or find their way home like lost dogs.
Where is Jack? He should be here. I can hear myself yelling his name.
Strong hands are holding me down. The hypodermic pricks my skin and my mind slides and falls, tumbling into a chemical void.
I fight the needle. I sleep. I dream.
AGATHA
* * *
Rory had a good night. He slept beside me in the double bed. I woke every half hour and put my hand on his chest, checking to make sure. I do not feel guilt or shame. My contrition has been overtaken by love. My sense of self has been erased. Rory is all that matters. I could lie next to him for the rest of my life, staring at his beautiful face, putting my forefinger into his little fist, brushing my lips across his forehead, listening to his fluttering heart.
I whisper to him, “You are my fifth baby. Fifth time lucky. Five is my favorite number.”
The sun is up. I’m cradling Rory in my arms, looking in the mirror, picturing myself in the eyes of others. His head is a funny shape—a little squished on one side like a very cute alien, but that’s likely to pass in a few days.
Holding up my phone with one hand, I take photographs, selfies, smiling as though my face might break from happiness. The pictures are emailed to Jules and Hayden and Mr. Patel and my landlady and all of my friends. I tell them about the days since his birth, constructing a narrative, setting the timeline in people’s minds and memories.
When I came in last night the front desk was empty. There were two teenage girls talking on the stairs, who paid little notice to a woman carrying a baby in a sling. I stepped around them and unlocked my door. Having showered and changed, I fed Rory and then turned on BBC news. There was no mention of a baby being taken. It was still too early.
This morning it’s a different story. The screen shows a reporter standing outside the hospital, talking to the camera. I turn up the volume.
“At this stage details are scant, but police have confirmed that a woman posing as a nurse abducted a newborn baby from the Churchill Hospital in Central London last night. The baby boy was only ten hours old when taken from a maternity ward by a woman in a nurse’s uniform who claimed the newborn needed a blood test. The alarm was raised by the baby’s father and the Churchill locked down, but the woman had already left the hospital.”
The footage switches to police cars parked in the street and detectives entering the doors.
“The name of the family has not been released, but police are appealing to the kidnapper to surrender the baby to police or medical services. Sources are also suggesting the newborn may need medical attention.”
“Rubbish!” I say to Rory. “You’re perfectly fine, aren’t you? They are such worrywarts.”
Letting the TV play in the background, I warm up a bottle in a sink full of hot water. Rory doesn’t seem to like the baby formula, either that or he’s not sucking strongly enough. When he latches onto my little finger he seems to get the idea, but he turns his face away from the bottle after one or two sucks. I try for almost half an hour, until he falls asleep. He’ll be hungry later, I tell myself.
I check the messages on my phone. Hayden has left most of them. I called him last night and told him I’d be home today. I apologized for being out of touch, saying that my mobile had died and I didn’t have a charger. Now I send him another message saying that I’m on the train and should be home by midday. He tries to call me straight back but I don’t answer, letting it go to voicemail.
“I can pick you up from the station,” he says. “I’m staying at your flat. Your friend Jules let me in. I hope you don’t mind. I can’t wait to see you.”
I smile to myself. Fatherhood has already transformed him. He wants to see his son. He wants to see me.
It’s cold this morning. I dress Rory warmly and make sure his head is covered with a woolen hat. He opens his eyes fully when I’m changing his nappy. His arms and legs wave in the air, as though he’s frightened of being naked.
The receptionist is back at the front desk. This time I put the baby carrier on the counter, letting her see Rory. She doesn’t seem very interested. I make a comment about the weather, saying he’ll get a shock when he goes outside.
“Who?”
“Rory.”
“Oh.”
“He’s only three days old,” I say.
“That’s young to be traveling.”
“We’re going home.”
“What about your boyfriend?”
“I’ve forgiven him.”
I ask her to call me a minicab, and I wait in the warmth until I see the car pull up outside. The driver has to help me buckle the baby carrier into the backseat. I should have practiced. My clumsiness makes me look amateurish.
“Where to, love?” he asks in an East End accent that sounds more like an affectation than something born and bred. He’s chatty and cheerful. The conversation jumps from the weather to Christmas crowds and then his own children—three of them: six, eight, and eleven. “I prefer them as babies, because they can’t talk back,” he says, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. “Your little one looks straight out of the oven.”
“Pretty much.”
“Shouldn’t you still be in hospital?”
“Not really.”
He asks why I was staying at the hotel.
“My parents own the place,” I reply.
“Good for them.”
Now he thinks I’m rich. “I mean, they manage the place—it’s owned by some Russian guy.”
“The Russians are buying everything,” he says. “The oligarchs.” He makes oligarchs sound like aardvarks.
We’re circling Hammersmith roundabout and taking Fulham Palace Road. My mobile begins ringing. Hayden again.
“Where are you?”
“Almost home. I’m in a minicab.”
“I’ll meet you downstairs.”
The driver glances in the mirror again. “Did you hear the news about that baby taken from the hospital?”
“No.”
“Yeah, last night—someone snatched a little boy right out from under their noses.”
“Do they know who?”
“Someone dressed up as a nurse.”
“How awful. That poor mother—does she have any other children?”
“Report didn’t say.” Our eyes meet in the mirror. “I didn’t mean to upset you, love.”
I realize that I’m crying. I wipe my cheeks, apologizing. “I’m sorry. It must be the hormones. I cried all the way through my pregnancy.”
“I’m a big softy as well,” he says. “Ever since I had a family I can’t read stories about kiddies being abducted or abused. Chokes me up every time. If someone hurt one of mine, I’d kill him. Forget about the police or the courts, they’d never find his body—know what I’m saying?”
I don’t agree or disagree. He’s warming to the subject. “That’s why we need the death penalty in this country. Not for everyone—for pedophiles and terrorists.”
We turn onto my street. I see Hayden waiting on the steps. I’m barely out of the car when he scoops me into his arms.
“Gently,” I say, flinching. “I’ve just had a baby.”