“If you see Megs, tell her . . . tell her . . . I’m thinking of her. And if there’s anything I can do to help . . .”
I wait on the landing, watching them leave, listening to the creature. What if they look for a record of Rory’s birth? What if they call your mother? What if they look for the midwife?
Hayden is sitting on the sofa, jiggling Rory in his arms. “They weren’t very friendly.”
“They were OK.”
“I don’t like cops.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “A lot of them have mini Hitler complexes, you know. They enjoy pushing people around.”
I want to ask him why he lied for me, but I’m afraid of the answer. I’m hoping he’s still on my side. Nobody could fake a pregnancy as well as I did. The police should ask Meghan. She’ll tell them. She doesn’t doubt me.
MEGHAN
* * *
Lachlan and Lucy have been bathed and dressed in their best clothes, hair washed and brushed, shoes polished. They’re under instructions to stay clean while I get ready. I keep changing my mind about whether I want to go to the candlelight vigil, but Jack says we should thank people and acknowledge their support.
I have nothing to wear. I don’t want to dress in maternity clothes and I can’t fit into most of my pre-pregnancy dresses, apart from one clingy woolen number that makes me look lumpy.
Jack is polishing his shoes on the landing. I’ve told him not to do it there because he’ll get bootblack on the carpet, but he never listens. I turn back and forth in front of the mirror, not liking anything about myself, but also not caring. I just want to get this over with.
Downstairs, I put on my coat and call the others. Lachlan runs down the hallway. His trouser cuffs are too short. I swear I took them down only a few days ago. I want to put a brick on his head to stop him growing.
Lucy looks pretty in a tartan dress with red tights and black patent leather shoes. She has matching red gloves to wear because it’s cold outside.
“Are you ready?” asks Jack.
“I guess.”
“We can do this.”
I try to give him a smile.
The security lights trigger as we leave the house and reach the front gate. Two police officers are waiting to escort us to St. Osmund’s, which is about half a mile from here. They offered to drive us, but we’re going to walk in a kind of candlelight procession, collecting people as we pass. TV cameras and photographers are being kept behind barricades. The bright lights whiten every face and turn every breath into a pale fog.
Hooking my arm into Jack’s, we each take a child’s hand. Neighbors appear, holding lamps, torches, and candles flickering in paper cones. They nod as we pass and fall into step behind us as our procession wends its way through the narrow streets, across Barnes Green and along Church Road where it turns left into Castelnau and heads towards Hammersmith Bridge.
Soon it’s clear the church isn’t big enough. People are standing in the aisles, along the walls, and spilling outside onto the steps. Seats have been reserved for us at the front. Lucy and Lachlan sit between us, both too small for their feet to touch the floor. My parents and Grace are next to me. Jack’s brother and sister-in-law have come down from Scotland.
Around us there are mothers, friends, neighbors, workmates, babysitters, and people I’m only on nodding terms with, like the butcher and the Korean woman who does my nails. My yoga teacher has had her baby and looks impossibly thin. The headmistress from Lucy’s school is directing people into pews, making sure they make room for more. Two of my oldest friends from university have made the journey from Leicester and Newcastle.
A woman with a lovely voice leads a choir, which entreats everyone to lift their hearts to God. Most people move their mouths silently, pretending to sing. After the hymn, Father George gives a nice sermon about those times when God seems absent and how we must hold on to faith, or risk falling into fear.
He calls on Jack to say a few words. My heart lurches. I had no idea he had planned this. Jack climbs several steps to the lectern, where he pauses and adjusts the microphone, tapping it with his finger. Apologizing.
“Since Ben was taken, I have asked myself countless times: Why? Why him? Why us? There is no answer, but that doesn’t stop me searching for one. A child is reported missing every three minutes in the UK. Across Europe that number rises to one child every two minutes. In America it is close to one child every minute. I know figures like this sound shocking, but we only hear about a fraction of these cases because most of the children come home or are found quickly. We have all sorts of safeguards. Amber Alerts. Digital billboards. Child-rescue organizations. Facebook. Twitter. Stranger Danger campaigns. CCTV cameras. Yet still children disappear. Until two weeks ago, I thought I understood what it would be like to have a child go missing. I had watched other parents on TV. I had put myself in their shoes. I was mistaken. To lose a child is beyond comprehension. It defies biology. It derails common sense. It violates the natural order.
“Like a lot of people, I sometimes fail to appreciate how lucky I am to have such a wonderful wife and family, a good career, great friends, and, as this evening shows, a very close-knit community. Often I forget to give thanks and I take things for granted. Not anymore. To the woman I love, sitting in the front row: I cannot give you what you desire the most—a chance to hold your baby boy. I have seen your selfless devotion to Lucy and Lachlan and I know how deeply you feel Ben’s absence because there is no loss quite like a mother’s loss.
“On every occasion over the past fortnight when I have wondered how I can get through this—I have looked at you. Your strength of character, fortitude, and resolve are truly inspirational. I love you, Meghan Shaughnessy. I love you, Lucy and Lachlan. And Ben, wherever you are, I love you too.”
That’s when I dissolve, collapsing into sobs. The rest of the vigil passes in a blur. I find myself standing and moving through the crowd. Thanking people. Shaking hands.
I notice Agatha. That must be her fiancé, Hayden. He’s carrying their baby in a pouch against his chest.
“I didn’t know if I should bring him,” Agatha says, unsure of whether to hug me or shake my hand. I kiss her cheeks. “I thought it might be insensitive.”
“No, it’s OK.”
“This is Hayden.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say. He nods and looks uncomfortable, as though sadness might be infectious.
Stepping closer, I look at their baby, whose face is partially hidden in the folds of Hayden’s shirt.
“He’s beautiful,” I say, struggling to get the words out.
“I’m sorry about Ben,” says Hayden. “I hope they find him.”
I don’t answer. I’m being moved on.
I turn to Agatha. “Look after him.”
She doesn’t understand.
“Your baby,” I explain. “Never let him go.”
AGATHA
* * *