“You’re not listening,” I say sharply.
She apologizes. I begin again, unsure where to start. Perhaps it doesn’t matter. Maybe Meg will never understand what it’s like to be me. She grew up in a loving family and went to the best schools and then to university. She got a dream job, working for a women’s magazine, where she got to flirt with Jude Law over lunch. She married a handsome, successful man, and fell pregnant at the drop of a hat. How can she ever understand my life? What it’s like to live in a cramped, claustrophobic tunnel that gets smaller and darker as each year passes. There is no light at the end—no paradise, no rest. I am stuck in this squalid, fetid hole with a creature that slithers in my guts, telling me I don’t deserve the light, that I am not a real woman because I cannot have a baby.
I don’t know if I’ve said any of this out loud but I realize that I’m still talking as the train crosses the Thames and the water below me swirls and eddies around the pylons of Chelsea Bridge, foaming and bubbling on the outgoing tide.
A clipped female voice comes over the intercom: “We are now approaching London Victoria.” The train brakes—the metal wheels squealing.
Meg will have heard it. So will the police. I feel as though I’m trapped between two worlds—the past and the present. I cannot see beyond today, because others, luckier than me, have taken my future and left me no room.
“If you want your baby—you have to come and get him. I’m not giving him to anyone else.”
MEGHAN
* * *
By the time the police reached Victoria Station, Agatha had slipped away into the maze of crowded walkways, corridors, and exits that lead to other lines or onto the street. Now they’re studying the CCTV footage from dozens of cameras, hoping to discover which way she went. Three Tube lines intersect at Victoria, as well as an overland service that brings tens of thousands of people into the West End every day.
Wipers thrash and sirens wail. From inside the police car the noise sounds strangely muted and it takes me a moment to realize that we are the source of the sound, making heads turn and cars pull aside.
Traffic is stretched back for more than half a mile along Westminster Bridge Road on the approach to the Imperial War Museum. Motorcycle outriders have joined us, ahead and behind, unblocking intersections and finding a route through the bottlenecks.
Lisa-Jayne is behind the wheel with Cyrus in the front passenger seat. Jack and I sit in the rear. He reaches out and takes my hand, lacing his fingers through mine.
I keep remembering my conversation with Agatha, replaying it in my mind, looking for some new detail that might help. She said she was sorry, which is a good sign.
“Did she sound rational?” asks Jack, as though reading my thoughts.
“I don’t think she’s crazy.”
“Of course she is—she faked a pregnancy and stole a baby.”
“And fooled everyone.”
“Clever people can be crazy.”
Cyrus doesn’t comment, but I suspect he agrees with me. In all of our dealings, he has never used words like “crazy” or “deranged” or “delusional” when referring to Ben’s kidnapper. Agatha has always been a victim in Cyrus’s mind, something Jack will never accept. He’s forever denouncing psychologists and psychiatrists for creating the “age of victimhood” where everyone finds someone else to blame for their problems rather than take any personal responsibility.
“We need to talk about what happens next,” says Cyrus, turning in his seat. “DCS MacAteer won’t put you in danger—it’s more than his job is worth—but Agatha may insist on speaking to you. If that happens, you need to have answers ready.”
“What sort of answers?”
“She may want to test you. She may change her mind. You have to be ready to convince her.”
I nod.
“First and foremost—you ask to see Ben. It’s called proof of life. You have to be sure that she has him.”
“OK.”
“Agatha is likely to be anxious and frightened. She may seem calm but have conflicting emotions, particularly at the hand-over. When she sees someone pick up the baby, she’ll likely realize that she won’t see him again. That’s when she could change her mind.”
“What do I do then?”
“Keep her calm. Engage with her. Listen when she’s talking. Show that you understand. Agatha will want to dictate the terms, but you can start to move her.”
“How?”
“By winning her trust,” says Cyrus. “It may help if you refer to the baby as Rory rather than Ben, because that’s who he is to Agatha. She has looked after him ever since he was born. Giving him up will be hard.”
“Do I ask her about the gun?”
“No.”
“What if she doesn’t want to give him up?”
“Encourage her, gently. Ask about the baby—how is he sleeping and feeding? Tell her she’s done a great job.”
I nod.
“The police will have marksmen training their weapons on Agatha. If they get a clear shot and they see her become agitated, they may decide to take her down. You cannot interfere with this.”
“I don’t want anyone getting shot.”
“Which is why you have to keep her calm.”
“What if she won’t give him to the policewoman? What if it has to be me?”
“DCS MacAteer will have to make that call. At some point, Ben has to be handed over. That’s the most crucial moment. Either Agatha’s resolve will crumble or she’ll fight back.”
“Will she hurt him?” asks Jack.
Cyrus shakes his head. “But she will die for him.”
*
The police car pulls up on Lambeth Road. A constable opens the door for me and holds an umbrella over my head. A police helicopter is hovering above us, visible between the bare branches of the trees. I hear a megaphone telling people that the museum is closed and to move away from the area.
We are taken along a path and up a short set of stairs, between two enormous guns that are pointing north towards the Thames. DCS MacAteer is waiting in the marbled foyer. I look past him into a vast room where old-fashioned warplanes are suspended from the ceiling as though frozen in midflight. I recognize the V-1 and V-2 rockets, as well as a Spitfire, which swoops overhead as though ready to strafe unwanted visitors. The interconnecting halls rise a hundred feet to a domed ceiling that is flanked by staircases that turn back and forth up to the higher levels.
I am taken into an anteroom and then an administration office, which has become the control room. Cyrus is talking to a woman with hair similar to mine who has been dressed in a skirt, blouse, and overcoat. She is about my size with the same complexion, but nobody would ever mistake us.
“She’s not going to fool anyone,” I tell MacAteer when he breaks from a huddle of plainclothes detectives.
“The officer is a trained negotiator.”
“What if you make her angry?”
“I know what I’m doing.”
MacAteer reaches into a box and produces a bulletproof vest.
“Is that necessary?”
“Everyone has to wear one.”
The vest is lighter than I expect. I pull it over my blouse and he clips the straps, pulling them tight.