“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
AGATHA
* * *
I wake with a start, frightened that I might have overslept. The clock on the microwave says 5:14. I touch Rory’s forehead. He doesn’t stir. The fever has gone. Getting stiffly to my feet, I put on my coat and warm a bottle in the microwave.
Rory’s mouth opens at the touch of the teat and he sucks automatically, taking the whole bottle. I change his nappy again and pack a few spares. The clock says 5:40. I have another fifteen minutes.
Mr. Patel’s secret place is a drawer beneath the cash register. It’s where he stores the mobile SIM cards and lottery scratch cards and the cash float for the registers. He keeps a spare key in the broom cupboard so that whoever opens up each morning has cash for the register.
Unlocking the drawer, I take a handful of SIM cards and the bundle of banknotes, leaving the coins behind. Reaching farther into the drawer, my fingers search for something heavy, wrapped in an oily cloth. The gun. The one Mr. Patel boasts about and shows to new employees, hoping to impress them. The gun he doesn’t like to use. My fingers close around the handle. I draw it out, unwrapping the cloth, weighing the pistol in my hand. I spend a few moments identifying the safety catch and how to remove the magazine. The knot inside my chest seems to loosen. I have options now. I won’t be bullied or rushed. I will decide how this ends.
Tucking the pistol into my bag, I cover it with nappies and wet wipes and two bottles of formula. The clock says 5:55—time to go.
Where?
Away from here.
Foolish. Foolish.
Shut up!
You could have ended this yesterday if you weren’t such a coward.
I have a plan.
Tahiti! Is that your plan? Foolish girl!
Slipping Rory into the sling, I adjust the knot, securing him snugly against my chest, then button my coat around him. I leave through the rear door, along the lane, passing Lucy’s school before cutting across the edge of Barnes Common to the railway station. I buy a coffee from a man with a van who wears fingerless gloves and sells homemade muffins. He banters, chirpy for the hour, but I’m not in the mood for small talk.
Bundles of free newspapers are stacked beside the station entrance. I look at the front page and find no mention of Baby Ben or of me. I look at pages two and three. Nothing. I expected my picture to be all over the papers by now—the woman who stole Baby Ben. Instead they’re still fixated on Rhea Bowden and her affair with Jack. Poor Meg. It’s bad enough being cheated on without it becoming public. I blame Hayden. He must have thought he was so clever, selling that story to the papers, but all he’s done is jeopardize a marriage.
You should hate her.
Why?
She has what you want. She’s rubbing your nose in it.
That’s not her fault.
Fuck her up! Show her how it feels.
What feels?
Losing someone you love.
Waiting on the eastbound platform I am joined by a handful of early-morning commuters, breathing in clouds and stamping their feet against the cold. The train rounds a distant bend, appearing from the mist and slowing to a halt. The doors open. I take a seat in a quiet corner before retrieving my phone and inserting a new SIM card.
Hayden will probably be asleep or under arrest or both. Whatever the case, they’ll be listening to his calls.
He answers groggily.
“It’s me,” I say.
“Aggy?”
“Yeah.”
There is a long pause. He has covered the phone as though he’s talking to someone. Another voice comes onto the line.
“Agatha, this is Brendan MacAteer of the Metropolitan Police.”
“I want to speak to Hayden.”
“You can speak to him, but first I have to ask if Baby Ben is with you and if he’s all right.”
The question irritates me. Why is he asking about Ben? It’s always been about Ben, never about Rory. I want to scream at him. How dare he ignore my child!
“Put Hayden on,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Listen to me, Agatha. I know you’re scared, but I can help you. We all want to see that nobody gets hurt.”
“Put Hayden on the phone right now or I’m going to hang up. I won’t be calling back. You have three seconds.”
“Agatha, please listen to me.”
“Two seconds.”
“I want to help you.”
“One.”
“Here’s Hayden.”
The phone is handed over.
“It’s me again,” he says. I hear someone in the background mention the word “train.” They’ll be looking for me.
My voice falters. “I guess you’ve worked it out by now.”
“A while ago.”
“I’m sorry that Rory isn’t your baby.”
“That doesn’t matter now. How is Rory? Does he still have a fever?”
“No. He’s better.”
“He could have meningitis.”
“I don’t think so. He’s hungry again.”
“That’s good.”
Someone in the background is feeding Hayden lines, trying to keep me talking while they search.
“What about you?” Hayden asks.
“I’m OK.” Tears are splintering my vision and my nose has started to run. “I didn’t mean to trick you. I thought that if you spent time with me and Rory you might fall in love with both of us.”
“You were right,” Hayden says, his voice breaking. “When you first told me you were pregnant I didn’t want to be a father. I wasn’t ready. Even when I came home for the birth, I told myself that I wouldn’t change my mind, but I was wrong. From the moment I set eyes on Rory, I knew my life would never be the same.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Uh-huh. There’s something I haven’t told you. It was going to be my Christmas present to you. I wrote to the navy last week and resigned my commission. I planned to get a job closer to home. Nearer to you and Rory.”
“I’m sorry,” I sob, feeling even more miserable.
Glancing out the window at the factories and warehouses, I picture the police trying to find me. How long will it take to trace the call? Do they have satellites trained on me now? You see that in all the spy films—satellite cameras that can zoom down and pick out a car license plate or a face in a crowd. The train is pulling into Clapham Junction. There are no police on the platform.
“Did you tell the papers about Jack and Rhea Bowden?” I ask.
“No, I swear. She must have sold the story herself,” says Hayden.
I want to believe him.
“Give yourself up, Aggy. Tell us where you are. I’ll come and get you.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Rory isn’t ours.”
“I know.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’ll give him to Meghan,” I whisper, wiping my nose on my sleeve.
Hayden doesn’t answer straightaway.
“I know the police are listening. Tell them I’ll give the baby to Meghan. Nobody else. Understand?”
“I don’t think they’ll go for that idea.”
“Remember that place you took me to on our first weekend together? You wanted me to learn things about the navy.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s the place.”
“What time?”