I do as he says, describing the cesarean. How Jack made me laugh. “For a long while he didn’t want a third child, but he took one look at Ben and melted.”
By eleven o’clock, I told Cyrus, we were back in the shared ward. I slept for a few hours, woke, ate lunch, and slept again. Jack called my parents and Grace, telling them the good news. My parents came to see me during visiting hours. Grace was looking after Lucy and Lachlan.
“When you went for a shower, did you notice anyone in the ward?”
“No.”
“Picture the scene.”
“Jack helped me walk to the bathroom. He had his arm around me. We walked between the beds.”
“Did you hear any voices?”
“The woman in the next bed was talking to her husband.”
“Anyone else?”
“A nurse.”
“Where?”
“Beside one of the beds. I didn’t see her face. She was straightening the sheets.”
“What about her hair?”
“Dark. Long.”
“How was it styled?”
“It was tied back.”
“Look beyond her, what do you see?”
“A curtain.”
“Open or closed?”
“Partially open.”
“What else?”
“A woman. I think she’d just had a baby. Her family had come to visit, bringing flowers and balloons. They might have been Italian. Noisy.”
“Were any of them facing the nurse you saw by the empty bed?”
I concentrate, trying to think back.
“The grandmother! She was looking in my direction. She apologized about the noise.”
My eyes flash open. “She must have seen the nurse.”
“Perhaps,” says Cyrus. “It’s worth talking to her.”
“Could I remember more if you hypnotized me?” I ask.
“There might not be any more.”
In the same breath I remember Simon and suddenly change my mind. Cyrus seems to register the U-turn, but says nothing. I hate the way he uses silence like a lever and fulcrum, moving me to speak.
“Are you married?” I ask, wanting to change the subject.
“No.” He smiles ruefully.
“Why did you make that face?”
“I don’t think I’m the marrying kind.”
“Are you saying . . . ?”
“I’m not gay, if that’s what you’re asking. I live with my girlfriend. She’s a lawyer.”
“But you don’t think you’ll marry her?”
“My parents weren’t a great advertisement for marriage.”
“Are they divorced?”
“They’re dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It happened a long time ago.”
Cyrus gets up and goes to the window, staring at the sky as though something has scratched at the edge of his memory.
“Why did she take Ben?” I ask.
He runs his finger down the glass. “It could be any number of reasons. Pedophiles are very age specific and they don’t usually target babies. More likely we’re looking for a woman who cannot conceive or who has miscarried or lost a child. She may be trying to hold a marriage together or to stop a relationship falling apart. A baby is her solution—something to paper over the cracks and keep a man from leaving her.”
“A lot of women have miscarriages.”
“You’re right. And most of them learn to cope with their distress. Sometimes a person like this has a history of parental neglect. It could be a broken home or abuse. She may have been starved of love and is seeking a baby who will love her unconditionally.”
“You sound like you sympathize with her.”
“I understand her. She’s vulnerable and damaged.”
“Will she hurt Ben?”
“Not unless she’s backed into a corner.”
“So what now?”
“I draw up a profile and a media strategy.”
“What do you mean by ‘strategy’?”
“Whoever took Ben will be watching the news and reading the newspapers. She’s listening. This means we can communicate. We can send her messages. We can keep her calm.”
“How?”
“By not treating her like a criminal or demeaning her or making her frightened.”
“How does that help get Ben back?”
“We show her your pain. If she’s lost a child, she knows what you’re going through. We can use that.”
Cyrus picks up his satchel, swinging it onto his shoulder. He looks around the chair as though he might have dropped something and then seems unsure whether he should shake my hand.
“Try to stay positive,” he says, without sounding patronizing.
I want to tell him the same thing, but don’t know why. Then it dawns on me. Cyrus reminds me of the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz. He’s not so much broken as in need of oil. Something has happened in his life that weighs down his steps and makes his movements creak and groan. Maybe that’s the fate of someone who spends his life delving into other people’s minds—listening to their worst fears, unmasking their flaws, and discovering their motives. Maybe a man like that begins to rust or seize up—haunted by too many ghosts in the machine.
AGATHA
* * *
I’m learning to cook. Up until now poaching eggs and warming baked beans was the frontier of my culinary capabilities, but I want to show Hayden that I can be a good wife and look after him. Tonight we’re having chicken Kiev with green beans and honeyed carrots.
“Where are the chips?” he asks.
“The recipe doesn’t have chips.”
“I like chips.”
“Not everything has to be served with potatoes.”
He prods the chicken Kiev with his fork, but once he takes a mouthful he scarfs the lot and asks for seconds.
After I’ve cleaned up the kitchen, we cuddle on the sofa, flicking between channels on the TV. Rory is asleep, but he’ll wake before midnight.
“Shouldn’t you be expressing?” Hayden asks, stroking my hair.
“Since when did you become the breast-feeding police?” I reply, poking him in the ribs.
“Can I watch you expressing?”
“I get embarrassed.”
“Why?”
“It makes me feel like a cow on a milking machine.”
“I want to see.”
“Maybe later.”
I take the remote control, mute the sound, and straddle Hayden’s thighs, kissing him on the lips and moving my hips in tiny circles until I feel him grow hard. I lead him to the bedroom, whispering that we have to be quiet. Rory is asleep in his crib.
“What if he sees us?” asks Hayden.
“He’s a baby.” I kiss him again and slide my hand into his jeans. “I love it when you stand to attention.”
We make love for the first time since he went away to sea. He braces himself on his arms, not wanting to lower his weight on me.
“Are you sure we should be doing this?” he asks.
“It’s fine.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t hurt me.”
He’s much more gentle than when we first met. Back then he was like a rutting bull, pinning me to the mattress as though trying to punish me for the wrongs of other women—girls who wouldn’t sleep with him, or who dumped him, or who were out of his reach.
“Shouldn’t we be using a condom?” he asked.
“Shhhhhhh.”
He begins moving, showing his urgency yet trying to hold himself back, but I raise my hips to meet each thrust until I feel him surrender. He shudders and sighs, kissing my earlobe and whispering, “I love you.” My heart expands to fill every corner of my body, leaving no room for the creature or the doubts that it feeds upon.
I fall asleep with Hayden’s arms wrapped around me. Truly happy.