Lowering the gun to my side, I walk slowly across the gallery until I’m standing in front of my favorite painting, Tahiti Revisited, looking at the palm trees and the warm river and the rocky peaks. I remember asking Hayden if one day he might take me there, but that won’t happen now.
Staring into the painting, I imagine myself dissolving into the canvas, appearing on the other side. Three Polynesian women are bathing in the river. Friends or sisters. One is swimming in the water, staring at the sky, while the others dry themselves on the shore, draping towels over a stone carving. The nearest woman has her back to me; her buttocks are heavy, her breasts hidden, her skin tattooed. Slowly, gradually, I imagine my way into her body. I feel the water drying on my skin and the warmth of the sunshine on my shoulders. I glance at the thatched hut in the middle distance and raise my eyes to the rocky peak bathed in light.
A little way off, just out of view, my babies are playing in the crushed coral sand, collecting shells and floating sticks on the tide. All of them are here: Lizzie, Emily, Chloe, and Rory—living in paradise, growing up and growing old, never being cold or hungry or lonely or scared. What is love if not a trick of the light?
Behind me I hear heavy boots on the stairs, but I will not leave my island. I want to smell the tropical flowers, taste the fruit, and feel the sand between my toes. I wade into the warm water, feeling it creep above my knees and thighs . . .
“DROP YOUR WEAPON!” says an amplified voice.
. . . above my chest, up to my shoulders, caressing my skin . . .
“DROP YOUR WEAPON!”
“You mean this old thing?” I say, raising the gun to my temple. “I would never—”
MEGHAN
* * *
We went to mass on Christmas morning, walking across Barnes Green to St. Osmund’s. It’s not that we’ve suddenly become religious or undergone any sort of spiritual conversion, but I wanted to thank Father George and the community for all their prayers and good wishes.
Maybe that’s what Agatha has done for me—she’s given me a reason to believe. I once dismissed faith because I viewed it from an intellectual standpoint, but faith has nothing to do with intellect. Equally, none of the kneeling and muttering of creeds provides any guarantee of contact with God. We can’t register our prayers like a parcel and get a signature on delivery.
After the Christmas service, we walk home, following the same path that we took on the evening of the candlelight vigil, along Church Road to Barnes Green. Jack pushes the pram with Ben while Lachlan and Lucy run ahead.
We’re having Christmas at our place and the house is already full of laughter and torn wrapping paper. My parents are here, along with Grace and her new boyfriend. Simon and Gina have also arrived, laden with presents for the kids.
I’m cooking turkey with all the trimmings: cranberry sauce, roasted chestnuts, brussels sprouts, orange-glazed carrots, pigs in blankets, and roasted potatoes. Brushing a damp hair from my forehead, I smile at Ben, who is sitting in a bassinet on the workbench, watching me make the bread sauce.
They’re playing charades in the sitting room. It’s Lucy’s turn and I know she’s doing Frozen because she does it every time, and Lachlan guesses it first go. He comes running into the kitchen. “Mummy, Mummy, I guessed it, I guessed it!”
“Good for you.” I wipe my hands on my apron. “Come here, sweetie. I want you to open your mouth really wide.”
“Why?”
“I’m just going to rub this cotton swab around your cheek. It won’t hurt.”
He shows me all his teeth and I run the small cotton stick twice across the inside of his cheek before popping it into a plastic tube and screwing on the lid.
“What’s that for?” he asks.
“Good luck,” I say, ruffling his hair. “Do you want some crisps?” I hand him a bowl. “Make sure you share them.”
Later, Simon comes in to see me. I know what he wants to ask. He leans over the bassinet, holding out a finger, which Ben reaches up and clasps tightly.
“That’s some grip,” he says, staring at the baby, trying to see some semblance of self or evidence of paternity.
I take another cotton swab and place it against Ben’s rosebud lips. He opens his mouth automatically and I rub the stick around his cheek. Turning my back on Simon, I palm the swab and hand him the sample I collected earlier from Lachlan.
“Here it is,” I say. “Remember our deal. If he’s yours, I tell Jack the truth. If he’s not yours, you leave us alone. So think carefully before you go ahead and risk my marriage and your friendship.”
“I have thought about it,” says Simon, holding the sample up to the light, as though amazed that something so small and ordinary could wield such power.
“What have you decided to do?” I ask.
“I’m going to try to get Gina pregnant, but I might hold on to this.”
“Well, I don’t know how long that sample is good for, but this is a one-off opportunity.”
Simon looks at me with a sparkle in his eyes, which could be the champagne. “Do you know?”
“I’ve always known.”
“So he’s not mine?”
“No.”
Simon slips the test tube into his pocket as Jack arrives wearing a Santa hat that is too small for his head. He puts his hand against the small of my back. In the old days, he would have hugged me, but now he is feeling his way back into my affections, always asking permission before crossing any threshold. “What are you two whispering about?” he asks.
“Babies,” I say, leaning my head back to kiss his cheek.
“We’re not having any more,” he says in mock horror.
“Not us,” I say, nodding towards Simon.
“Really? Is Gina . . . ?”
“No,” says Simon.
“But you’re . . . ?”
“Having fun trying.”
“Good for you,” says Jack. “What took you so long?”
“I’ve been waiting for the right woman to come along,” says Simon, giving me a sad, sweet smile.
Shooing them both out of the kitchen, I check the turkey and turn the potatoes. Ben makes a cooing sound and gives me a beautiful smile, his first, lighting up his eyes. He is a precious gift, an oops baby who stumbled into the world and captivated a nation, which shone a spotlight onto our small, humdrum lives for a brief period. I don’t know what they discovered, but certainly not a perfect marriage. That would be boring. We need the darkness to appreciate the light, and the bumps along the road to stop us falling asleep at the wheel.
Will Jack and I last? I have no idea. We’re together and we’re still in love and we have three beautiful children, so I’m putting my money on silver if not gold. Anniversaries, I mean.
Whatever happens, we will always have Lucy and Lachlan and Ben. Children are like time capsules that we shoot into the future, hoping there will still be a world for them to inherit. I don’t know if they are chips off the same block, or if one apple has fallen farther from the tree, but what does it matter?
They are loved. Longed for. Ours.
AGATHA
* * *
The morning after I killed myself, I opened my eyes and saw the light angling through the blinds and felt the sheets against my skin and the cool air being drawn through my nostrils.