“He’s been talking to the police.”
The temperature has fallen and it’s too cold for the reporters and photographers to be standing outside. Most are sitting in cars, occasionally running the engine to stay warm. Moving quickly, I have the kids buckled up in their seats before the assembled media can react.
“Is there any news?” one of them shouts as I reach the driver’s door.
“No news.”
“Do you think Baby Ben is still alive?”
I flinch and turn. “That’s a horrible thing to say.”
He’s waiting for an answer. I slide into the driver’s seat and shut the door, fumbling for my keys. More reporters are shouting questions. Ignoring them, I pull out and almost hit a TV cameraman, who leaps out of the way.
“Why did he ask if Ben was alive?” asks Lucy.
“He didn’t say that.”
“Could Ben be dead?”
“No.”
“Who’s dead?” asks Lachlan.
“Nobody.”
I put on a storybook recording and open the window a crack, wanting the cold air to help me stay alert. I’m not supposed to be driving so soon after having a cesarean. Bloody Jack!
*
The station sergeant is lanky and slope-shouldered with scrubbing-brush hair. He lets us wait in his office, away from prying eyes, while Jack is brought up from the holding cells.
The police have managed to piece together his movements. He started off at the Kings Arms on Fulham Road drinking pints and whiskey chasers. From there he went to Duke on the Green and the White Horse. At some point he finished up at the Trafalgar on King’s Road, where the publican refused to serve him after he abused a barman. Less than a block away, Jack confronted a woman who was walking her dog and pushing a baby in a pram. She screamed for help. Two men came to her aid. Jack threw a punch, but they wrestled him to the ground. After calling the police, the bystanders told the woman she couldn’t leave until she verified her story, which made her even more upset.
“Where is she now?” I ask the sergeant.
“We sent her home.”
“I want to apologize to her.”
“Maybe it’s best if you leave her alone.”
Jack shuffles past the door, escorted by two constables. He has buttons missing from his shirt and a graze on his forehead that is weeping blood. I don’t know what the stain is on his trousers. I hope it’s not urine. He doesn’t acknowledge us as he signs for his wallet and mobile phone.
Lucy and Lachlan are quiet as we walk to the car. Neither of them takes Jack’s hand, as though sensing that he’s wounded. I want to say something. I want to berate him for his miserable self-absorption and his self-pitying macho bullshit. At the same time, I picture him walking the streets, lost in his own madness.
We drive home in silence. Jack tucks in his shirt and combs his hair before we face the firing squad of cameras outside the house. Once inside, he goes upstairs and I hear the shower running. Meanwhile I put the children to bed and make myself a hot chocolate. I take it to the front room, curling my legs beneath me on the sofa, nursing the mug.
I hear the stairs creaking. Jack looks for me in the kitchen and the laundry room and eventually finds me sitting in the dark.
“What are you doing?”
“Thinking.”
He sits on the floor and leans his head against my thigh. My hand hovers above his head but I cannot bring myself to stroke his hair.
“You have to forgive me, Megs,” he whispers.
“There’s nothing to forgive you for.”
He sits up. “Stop. Stop. Please. You’re breaking my heart. Look at me.”
I can’t.
“I know you blame me.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“Yes you do.” He lets out a muffled sob. “You think I didn’t want another baby. And you think this was my fault, but it’s not fair.”
“I know.”
“I miss him too.”
“Yes.”
I reach out and push back his fringe, running my fingers through his wet hair. His body shudders.
“I know it’s not fair, but I don’t know who else to blame,” I say.
“I can’t live like this, Megs. You can’t keep pushing me away.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I want us to go back to the way we were.”
“So do I.”
His eyes are shining. “I keep wondering what we did to deserve this.”
“Nobody deserves this.”
“It’s me,” he says. “I have a bad smell about me. Even Simon isn’t talking to me.”
Every muscle tightens. “When did you see Simon?”
“I went round to his place today. He accused me of wallowing in self-pity. I told him he had no idea what it was like to be a father and to have a child go missing.”
“What did he say?”
“He said I was talking out of my arse and he knew exactly how it felt. He said if I took better care of things at home, this might not have happened. I asked him what he meant and he said, ‘Ask Megs.’?”
“Me?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know what he’s talking about.”
“Did something happen? I mean, you and Simon used to get on, but now you don’t want him in the house. Did he say something or do something? Did he touch you?”
“We’ve been through this.”
“Because if he did—”
“He didn’t touch me.”
Jack sighs and presses his fingertips to the cut on his forehead. “I’m sorry about today.”
“You should go to bed.”
“I can’t sleep.”
“Take one of my pills.”
He kisses me on the cheek and I hear him climb the stairs. Twenty minutes later, I follow him and find him snoring gently in our bed. I check that Lucy and Lachlan are also asleep before pulling on a warm jumper and lacing my sneakers.
Bundled up against the cold, I open the French doors and cross the back garden by torchlight. Dew glistens on the grass ahead of me. Reaching the shed, I use the trellis to pull myself up onto the wall and swing my legs over the side, dropping down into a pile of dead leaves and lawn clippings.
I’m not supposed to be climbing or lifting anything heavy until my stitches have healed. The torch throws shadows on a fallen tree and I notice a small clearing with signs of previous occupation. There are empty cans of soft drink and chocolate wrappers. Maybe this is a teenage love nest, uncomfortable but well hidden.
I glance back at the darkened house. Anyone sitting on the log could look across our garden to the kitchen and dining areas and see shadows against the curtains upstairs.
Turning away, I negotiate an overgrown path through blackberry bushes until I reach the railway tracks and turn east towards Barnes station. At the nearest level crossing, I follow the footpath, hearing the rattle of distant trains.
On the South Circular I hail a passing cab and give the driver Simon’s address. Twice on the journey, I almost ask him to turn back. I’m angry, which is not a good start.
We’re here. The lights are on. I ring the doorbell and listen for the footsteps. Gina answers—Simon’s girlfriend—I didn’t expect . . .
“Megs! What are you doing here?”
“I need to speak to Simon.”
“Of course. Come in. Your hands are freezing.”