“You can always change it later—come up with a new one.”
I understand his reasoning, but it doesn’t seem right to name a child that I cannot hold.
“We were thinking of calling him Benjamin. Ben for short.”
“That’s nice,” says Lisa-Jayne, who has been sitting in the corner.
“So it’s Baby Ben,” says MacAteer. “The media will like that. What about photographs?”
“Jack took some.”
“With your permission, I’d like to release one photograph immediately and hold the others back.”
I scroll through images on my phone and we choose one of Ben swaddled in a cotton blanket, his face scrunched up and his eyes half-open, struggling against the unexpected brightness. I’m also in the photograph. The C-section took the hard work out of labor and I had energy left to smile.
“We’re also going to need a comment from you.”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” I say.
“I understand. I’ll have a press officer draft something for you.”
MacAteer gets to his feet.
“Is that all?” I ask.
He smiles, trying to reassure me. “Cases like this are normally solved quite quickly. A new baby doesn’t go unnoticed. Somebody will contact us—a friend, family member, or neighbor—I’m confident of that.”
“I don’t want to stay in hospital.”
“The doctors insist you should.”
“I’m not taking any more sedatives.”
“It will help you rest.”
“It will affect my breast milk. I want to be able to feed Ben when you find him.”
“Talk to your doctor. It’s a medical decision.”
AGATHA
* * *
Rory wakes at five in the spectral light, snuffling and gurgling. Rain streaks the window, throwing patterns on his face and across the white sheets. Leaving Hayden to sleep, I warm a bottle and sit with Rory on the sofa, stroking his cheek and looking into his eyes. I like this time of day, when I have Rory to myself.
I have everything I ever wanted, here and now under this roof, yet I alternate between anguish and euphoria, as though I’m living two different lives at once, each within earshot of the other.
So far Hayden hasn’t questioned my reasons for not breast-feeding Rory in front of him. I explained about cracked nipples and mastitis and said I couldn’t provide Rory with enough breast milk so a midwife suggested I supplement his feeds with formula. “I’m still expressing,” I said to Hayden, showing him the breast pump. “Don’t tell your mother about me having problems.”
“Why not?” he asks.
“I feel guilty.”
“She won’t mind.”
“Other mothers get quite funny about that sort of thing. Judgmental.”
He looks at me sheepishly. “I might have mentioned it already. She asked how things were going.”
“And you told her?”
“I said you were giving him bottles.”
“Now she’ll think I’m a terrible mother.”
“No, she won’t.”
Hayden is besotted with Rory. It’s amazing how men happily turn into clowns around babies, blowing raspberries into tummies, pulling faces, and making up new words, desperate to get some reaction.
More confident now, he knows how to hold Rory properly, and I’ve taught him how to make up bottles and test the temperature of the milk by shaking droplets onto his inner wrist. On top of all this he’s been extra attentive towards me, making me cups of tea and running errands.
“You haven’t changed a nappy yet,” I said yesterday.
“I’ll do the next one,” he replied.
Later I called out, “Hey, you’re up, sailor boy.”
“I meant the next baby,” he said with a laugh, and I felt my chest swell.
We’re taking loads of photographs: Rory with Hayden, Rory with me, Rory with Mr. and Mrs. Cole, Hayden and me and Rory. I’ll get the best ones framed and put on the mantelpiece.
Rory takes almost a whole bottle and I burp him on my shoulder. Hayden emerges from the bedroom, scratching his navel. I like that he’s shaved off his beard. He’s nicer to kiss and I can see the strong line of his jaw.
His eyes light up when he sees Rory. “Hey, watch this,” he says, leaning close to Rory and poking out his tongue. A beat passes and Rory’s tongue comes out, mimicking him.
“I taught him that,” he says. “The kid is a genius.”
He turns on the TV. The story of missing “Baby Ben” is leading every bulletin. TV reporters are crossing live from outside Churchill Hospital, interviewing patients and passersby and members of staff who say they’re not allowed to comment.
“Those poor people, they must be worried sick,” says Hayden, who is standing behind me, massaging my shoulders.
I murmur in agreement.
On the screen a detective is issuing an appeal for assistance. “On Thursday the seventh of December at about seven fifty p.m., a woman entered the Singleton Ward of Churchill Hospital, Central London. Posing as a nurse, she took away Ben Shaughnessy, who was born earlier that day. The woman is described as being between thirty and forty-five years old, five foot eight to five foot ten inches tall, with a medium build, brown eyes, fair complexion, and dark hair, which may have been a wig.”
The scene changes and I see blurry footage of myself walking down a corridor, keeping my head down. A second clip shows me waiting at the lift. It has been enhanced, but the quality is so poor that my face looks almost pixelated.
“Do you know her?” asks the detective. “Could she be a friend or a neighbor? Do you know anyone who has unexpectedly returned home with a baby? If you can help, please contact Crimestoppers. All information will be treated in strict confidence.”
The detective pauses and picks up a sheet of paper.
“Mr. and Mrs. Shaughnessy have asked me to thank the public for the many messages of support. They provided this comment: ‘Ben was just ten hours old when he was taken. We held him only briefly, but his loss has torn out our hearts. Please give him back. Take him to a church, or a school, or leave him at a police station. Give him to someone in authority. Please, please, give him back to us.’?”
A photograph appears on-screen, showing Meg propped up on pillows, holding a baby on her chest. It must have been taken immediately after the birth.
“I know her,” I whisper.
Hayden hesitates. “What?”
“The mother—she goes to my yoga class. I went to her house a few weeks ago. She gave me some spare baby clothes.”
Hayden walks around the sofa and sits down. “What’s she like?”
“She has two other children—Lucy and Lachlan. I used to see her all the time when I worked at the supermarket.”
“Why didn’t you say before?”
“They didn’t release her name straightaway.” I pick up my mobile phone and scroll through the email messages until I find one from Meg. “There you are. I sent her a photograph of Rory and she replied.”
“When was that?”
“Before she went into hospital.”
“You should send her another message,” Hayden says.
“And say what?”
“I don’t know. Say you’re praying for her.”
“Isn’t that being cruel? It will just remind her that my baby is safe and well and her baby is missing.”