“Baby?”
“I had a baby boy ten days ago.” I point at the cards on the mantelpiece, some from friends and others that I posted to myself.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Nicky and I didn’t manage to have children. We tried. I think it’s why we broke up in the end—the stress and disappointment.”
“I see,” says the detective, but I don’t like the tone of his voice. I don’t know if he does see or how much he’s seen or if he believes me.
“Good-bye, Mr. Cole,” he says to Hayden, who doesn’t respond. I stand on the landing and watch them descend the stairs, bracing myself for what’s to come.
Hayden paces back and forth behind the sofa, tugging at his ear, something he does when he’s thinking. Having taken a seat, I keep turning my head to maintain eye contact.
“Why did you lie? You said he was an old friend—an uncle.”
“I thought you might be jealous.”
“Me? Why?”
“Men can get funny about that sort of thing.”
“Is that right? Who told you that—your other husbands?”
“There was only one. Please don’t be like this.”
“Why did you divorce?”
“We couldn’t have a baby. Nicky had a low sperm count. We tried everything, but it didn’t work out. That’s what we talked about over coffee.”
“Does Jules know you were married?”
“No! Yes. I might have told her.”
“So everyone knows except me?”
“No, not everyone.”
“What else aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing.”
“What about your coat? You told those coppers you gave it to charity when it’s right this minute hanging in your wardrobe.”
“That’s not the one I meant.”
“What?”
“That’s a different coat.”
“It looks the same.”
“I like the style. The old one was getting worn at the elbows and had lost two buttons.”
“When did you buy a new coat? You’ve barely left the flat.”
“I bought it online.”
Hayden wants to believe me, but I can see that he’s struggling. He hates secrets and doesn’t like being surprised. At the same time, he’s enjoyed being a father and playing happy families. I can see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice when he talks about Rory.
I put my arms around him from behind and hug him, pressing my head to his back. He turns around and we kiss. I open my eyes and discover that he’s watching me. The creature slides between my organs and coils around my heart, slowly tightening.
Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
MEGHAN
* * *
The baby isn’t Ben. According to the hospital, he was barely six hours old when abandoned. The mother, all of sixteen, gave birth in her bedroom and smuggled him outside in her schoolbag, leaving him on the steps of the hall. Mother and unwanted child have since been reunited. How touching.
My first reaction was denial. I said the mother was lying and demanded a DNA test. How ironic. In the same breath, my shoulders shook and I knew I was being irrational. It’s someone else’s child, but that doesn’t make it fair. She doesn’t want a baby. She doesn’t deserve one.
Annie broke the news to us. My strength disappeared and I took myself to bed clutching a box of tissues. Jack came in later and sat beside me. I knew he wanted to talk but I pretended to be asleep. Call me a coward, but I know how any discussion will end. I will accuse Jack of never wanting Ben in the first place, of suggesting a termination, of wishing for something like this. And he will look at me like a fur seal about to be clubbed and beg me for forgiveness, which I will give him because I know it’s not his fault, but the absolution will be phony because it doesn’t come from the heart.
The longer this goes on, the worse it becomes. At first I was swept along by the support and public goodwill, but now that’s not enough. My life has stopped. The planet does not turn for me. I keep reminding myself of Annie’s words that no news is good news, but is that true? I don’t know anymore. In the meantime, I hope for a miracle while fearing that God is punishing me for being unfaithful to Jack or for not believing in Him. When it comes to religion, I am one of those doubters who keeps demanding proof, who is awestruck and horrified by turns at the beauty and the cruelty that believers claim in the name of their God.
I try to pray but I struggle to recall the hymns and psalms from my days at Sunday school. The only prayer I can remember is from our weekly assemblies, when we stood in class groups promising to love one another, saying that “as many hands build a house, so many hearts make a school.” I close my eyes and summon my own words. Listening. Hoping for an answer.
Nothing.
God is on another call.
*
We have the media conference this afternoon. DCS MacAteer requested we arrive early to rehearse what we’re going to say. We leave the house just after two o’clock. I’m wearing makeup for the first time in ages and I’ve dressed in a pre-pregnancy skirt with the top button undone, hidden beneath a sweater.
The police station is shabbier than I expect. Apart from the computers and printers, it doesn’t look very high-tech or cutting edge or CSI. The incident room is cluttered and noisy, full of functional furniture that must have been fashionable in the nineties. Detectives in plainclothes are answering phones and tapping on keyboards. How is that going to find Ben? I want to ask. They should be knocking on doors and shaking trees.
Cyrus Haven is already seated at the table in the conference room, dressed in his familiar loose-fitting jeans and a buttoned-up shirt. Immediately I relax. I don’t know why, but he makes me feel as though I can get through this.
MacAteer takes a stick of gum from his pocket. Unwrapping the foil, he folds the strip onto his tongue and chews noisily, sucking out the flavor.
“I’ve asked Dr. Haven to run through a new strategy.”
“Why do we need a new strategy?” asks Jack, who seems to be spoiling for an argument.
MacAteer pushes back. “Because the current one hasn’t worked.”
“Circumstances have changed,” adds Cyrus, whose voice exudes calm. “When Ben was first taken we adopted a strategy of appealing directly to the woman who took him. We wanted to show her the enormity of the anguish she had caused to you—and encourage her to give him up willingly. We have moved past that now. The longer she has had Ben, the stronger the bond will be between them. If we haven’t reached her by now, one of two things must have happened. Either she’s stopped listening, or she’s decided not to respond.”
“What you’re saying is that she doesn’t care,” I say.
“I’m saying that you don’t figure in her calculations. All she cares about is Ben.”
I feel sick.