“Not without a warrant. We need proof.”
My voice rises in fear. “You said she took him to a doctor. Is he sick?”
“He was running a temperature,” says Cyrus. “The GP put him on antibiotics and recommended further tests. Agatha fled before he could raise the alarm.”
“How sick? What’s wrong with him?”
“There is a small chance that he has meningitis.”
I raise my fist to my mouth and bite down hard on the knuckles, wanting to draw blood.
“We’re watching Agatha’s flat,” says MacAteer. “If she comes home, we’ll interview her.”
“What if she doesn’t go home?”
“We are watching the train stations, airports, and ferry terminals, as well as contacting friends or acquaintances who might put her up.”
“What about her mother’s house in Leeds?” Cyrus asks.
“That too,” says MacAteer.
“Ben won’t survive outside on a night like tonight,” I say.
“I’m aware of that, but if we broadcast Agatha’s name and photograph, we risk putting Ben in even greater danger. Remember our strategy. We have to keep her calm.”
Fuck the strategy! I want to yell. My baby is sick.
Cyrus has more questions for me, wanting details of how much Agatha revealed about herself. I know what he’s doing—trying to determine her state of mind. He wants to know if Agatha is the sort of person who would panic under pressure. I don’t know if I’m the best person to ask. I thought Agatha was a friend. I invited her into my house. I gave her baby clothes. We sat in my kitchen and talked about pregnancy and babies and the future.
What sort of monster steals another woman’s child?
AGATHA
* * *
They will be coming for us now. They will surround the flat and break down the front door, splintering wood and bending hinges. They will storm up the stairs and go from room to room, searching for us.
I should have known it would come to this. I should have taken Rory overseas when I had the chance. Packed my things and smuggled him out past Customs and Immigration. I could have taken him to . . . to . . . Where? I have no money or contacts or experience of being on the run.
The creature is blaming me—listing my mistakes, my stupidity. I’m useless. Pathetic. I have failed again. What did I expect? I am going to lose it all—my baby, my fiancé, my freedom . . . I have no right to happiness. Like wealth, or beauty, it is given to others, not to someone like me.
Foolish! Foolish! Stupid girl!
I glance down at Rory, asleep in my arms, and my chest heaves with suppressed sobs. These past few weeks have been the happiest of my life. I have lived my dream. It was my turn . . . my time. I have been loved. I have been whole.
I should have known it wouldn’t last, but I will not cry. Not here. Not now.
The cab ride from Brent Cross is slowed by traffic on the North Circular. I’m almost at Chiswick when I discover I only have twenty quid in my purse. The meter is gone past that already.
“Can you pull over just here?” I ask the driver.
“What about Fulham?”
“No. Here will be fine.”
I take out all my notes and coins, counting them while the driver waits impatiently.
“I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t have enough. I’m five pounds short.” I look at him, hopefully.
“Have you been crying?” he asks.
The words get stuck in my throat.
He looks at my baby. “Give me twenty. I don’t want the shrapnel. We’ll call it even.”
The cab pulls away. I risk looking at my phone. Hayden has been calling, leaving voice and text messages. Maybe I should call him back. I could tell him the truth and ask for help. He loves Rory as much as I do. Together we could come up with a plan. Escape. Start again somewhere new.
In the same instant I remember that the police can trace mobile phones. I turn mine off and take out the SIM card, throwing it into the gutter. I’m standing at the side of Chiswick Roundabout smelling exhaust fumes and watching the blur of traffic. Kew Bridge station is just down the road. I can catch a train. Where? I can’t go back to the flat. I have no credit or debit cards. I left them in Rory’s changing bag, which was hanging on the back of his pram. I didn’t think. I had no time.
I hold my hand against Rory’s forehead. His fever has broken and he has more color in his cheeks. I still have the antibiotics the doctor gave me. I can give him another dose in a few hours. How will I feed him? Change him?
At the railway station, I find a public phone box and call Hayden’s number. He answers on the first ring.
“Agatha! Where are you? I’ve been worried sick.”
“Are you at the flat?”
“Yeah.”
“Are the police there?”
“Who? No.”
“Look out of the window.”
“What’s going on? Where are you?”
More urgently. “Look out of the window.”
“OK, OK. What am I looking for?”
“Can you see anyone?”
“No.”
In the background I hear the intercom buzzing. “Hold on,” says Hayden.
“Is it them?”
He doesn’t answer, but I hear him talking to someone on the intercom. “She’s not here. Who wants to know?”
I don’t hear the answer. By then I’ve hung up.
*
I glance around me, certain that I’m being watched. Trying not to make eye contact with anyone, I walk down the station steps to the platform. A uniformed transport officer is at the bottom of the stairs, reading a free newspaper, waiting for the train. A sports bag is nestled between his feet. He looks up from the paper and notices Rory in my arms.
I keep walking to the far end of the platform and hide behind a painted concrete pillar. Opposite me, on the westbound platform, a workman is picking up rubbish with a clawed stick. He’s listening to music from earbuds that dangle from beneath his dreadlocks. He could be part of a surveillance team. I glance farther along the platform. Two Asian women are chatting. Neither of them looks my way. They wouldn’t, would they? They’d deliberately avoid me.
Rory whimpers. He’s hungry. I have nothing for him except boiled water. Why couldn’t they leave us alone? Why did they have to keep searching for Baby Ben? They portrayed him as some sort of fairy-tale infant stolen by wolves or left to perish in the wilderness. He was always safe, always loved. If they had just let him go, we would have been fine. Happy.
I have tried not to think of a moment like this. Failure has shadowed me, but I refuse to look over my shoulder. I have been here before. It feels like I’m leaning out of a burning building, fearing the fall as much as the flames, knowing I cannot survive either, yet I must choose one.
The creature whispers to me, telling me I’ve lost. He is a brutal beast, determined to undermine and demoralize, to never forgive or forget. What did I expect? I kill babies. I only have to touch them and they die. Chloe. Lizzie. Emily. Elijah. All dead because of me. Now I’ll lose Rory.