“You told me that you’d been to see him earlier that day and he made some reference to me.”
Jack presses his thumb against his wrist as though taking his pulse. He lifts it and watches the white thumb-shaped outline slowly turn pink. I feel him framing another question.
“Why did you climb the back wall?”
“Because of the reporters.”
“You could have called Simon.”
“I wanted to see him face-to-face.”
Jack looks past me into the garden. Some of the technicians are on their hands and knees, scraping, sampling, and dusting—putting food wrappers and soft-drink cans into plastic bags.
“At least you’ve given them something to do,” he says.
The front doorbell chimes. I answer it. Our local priest, Father George, has come to visit. Since the kidnapping, he has dropped around every few days, sitting in the front room, drinking tea, and offering me sympathy and a shoulder to cry upon. I haven’t used the shoulder, but I appreciate the sentiments.
Jack makes an excuse and flees, leaving me to handle our spiritual well-being. Father George is in his sixties with one of those deep, sonorous voices that you normally hear on motivational tapes or late-night radio. His visits are beginning to irritate me because he treats me like I’m Lucy’s age and I’ve lost a pet rather than my baby. At the same time, I feel guilty every time I see him.
When we set our hearts on sending Lucy to St. Osmund’s Catholic Primary School, we knew it wouldn’t be easy. There were usually ninety applications for only thirty positions in the reception class. Part of the application was a declaration from the parish priest saying that Lucy had been baptized and that we attended church regularly. For six months we trooped off to mass every Sunday, making sure to say hello to Father George as he greeted people at the doors. It seemed quite exotic for a while, dabbling in the religiosity of it all, the supernatural and otherworldliness, to pray and praise and give thanks. Of course, once Father George signed the form and Lucy was accepted, our weekly visits to mass began to dwindle.
I apologized to Father George for having used him.
“You didn’t use me.” He laughed.
“We tricked you.”
“As did most of the other parents.”
“Is that frustrating?”
He smiled wryly. “They’re good people with busy lives. I’m sure that one day they’ll return to the fold—just as you will.”
Father George and the parish council have organized a candlelight vigil for tomorrow evening, which I’ve insisted be nondenominational. I haven’t agreed to attend, but I know it’s expected. As if reading my thoughts, Father George reaches across from his armchair and clasps my hands.
“We want you to know that you’re not alone. We’re all praying, you know. I daresay the whole country.”
“Not everyone,” I reply, anger flushing into my eyes. “The person who took Ben isn’t praying for his safe return.”
He smiles serenely, unshaken by my animosity, which makes me want to rage, What sort of God does this? What sort of God creates a world where there’s so much misery and injustice and pain?
I say nothing. Father George opens his Bible. “Would you like to pray with me now?”
“I’m not very good at praying.”
“I can start.”
I sit quietly as he makes the sign of the cross and conducts a one-sided conversation with God, asking Him for strength and guidance and love on my behalf.
“Help Meghan not to blame herself or those close to her,” he says. “And help her never to give up hope. You know what it’s like to lose a son. You sent Jesus down to earth and he paid the ultimate price for our sins. Please, help Meghan overcome this test with your love and guidance; help her heart to heal.”
After Father George has gone, I discover that he’s left the Bible on the coffee table. Pages have been marked with red ribbons. Opening to one of the passages, I read a few lines about God healing the brokenhearted and binding up their wounds, but I see nothing about finding missing children.
Saint Anthony is the patron saint of lost things. Does that include children? Probably. There’s a saint for most things—sailors, scholars, brides, and prostitutes. There’s even a patron saint of drug dealers—Jesús Malverde. I saw that once on an episode of Breaking Bad.
AGATHA
* * *
Rory vomited both feeds last night. I had to change his sheets twice and dress him in clean clothes. This morning I weighed him again and there’s been no change in the past week. I know bathroom scales aren’t very accurate, but I don’t need a machine to tell me that he’s sickly and struggling.
There are no gassy smiles or happy sighs, yet when he looks at me with his enormous eyes, he seems to be saying, Please, Mummy, don’t give up on me. I’ll get better.
He’s asleep now, lying next to Hayden on the bed.
Turning on the TV with muted sound, I catch a glimpse of a reporter standing beside a railway line. The camera pans to the left and zooms between trees to reveal a familiar-looking house. Then it pulls back to show men and women in white overalls searching the undergrowth and shrubbery beside the tracks.
I press the volume button.
“Forensic teams have been out since early this morning, searching the back garden and surrounds, taking away samples and measuring footprints. Police aren’t saying exactly what they’re looking for, but through those trees and over that wall is the house belonging to Jack and Meghan Shaughnessy, the parents of Baby Ben.”
I recognize my fallen tree . . . my clearing . . . my hiding place. What could I have left behind? There were some soft-drink cans and chocolate wrappers. A few times I peed when I couldn’t hold my bladder any longer. They don’t have my fingerprints on file, or my DNA.
You were seen.
Nobody saw me.
What about the neighbors?
I was careful.
They’ll trace your phone.
There are hundreds of phones passing that place every day.
I turn off the TV and tell myself to relax. I have to stay calm and look after Rory. He needs all of my focus if I’m to make him healthy and strong.
It helps to stay busy. Two bags of rubbish need to go out. Hayden should have done it last night. I carry them to the ground floor and down the front steps, turning towards the bins. Two people step from a car. One of them is a woman, squeezed into high-waisted slacks and a matching navy jacket. The man is younger, but pretending to be world-weary and experienced.
“Is your name Agatha?” the woman asks in a neutral way, neither friendly nor hostile.
I nod, aware of the door behind me.
“We’re detectives investigating the disappearance of Ben Shaughnessy.”
A voice fills my head, telling me to drop the rubbish and run, lock the doors.
“We were hoping we could have a word?”
Do they have a warrant?
“What’s this about?”
“I believe you are acquainted with Meghan Shaughnessy.”
“We’re friends.”
Ask for the warrant.
I force myself to move, carrying the bags to the bins and putting them inside. I wipe my hands on my jeans.
“Have you found Baby Ben?” I ask.