Embarrassing.
Down below, through the kitchen window, the garage came into focus, and she wondered whether she should tell James what had happened, what she’d seen. With his good sense and logic, she was sure James could explain it.
Explain it away?
It would not be hard to do. Anna could be easily persuaded out of it. Because – as Sandra had also said – it was like magic, and everybody knew that magic was just a clever distraction, a misdirection. Sleight of hand and smoke and mirrors, and a willingness in the observer to be deceived, baffled and bamboozled.
But what if it wasn’t?
What if there was even the tiniest sliver of reality to be found in the layers of lies and self-deception? Wasn’t that why crowds still flocked to watch the girl sawn in half or the confetti turned into doves? Wasn’t it because people wanted to believe that somewhere, somehow, there really was such a thing as magic? That their lives might one day also be transformed into something wonderful?
Or, at least, bearable.
That was why magic flourished down the centuries, just as religion did – because they both brought hope.
Anna had lost everything the day Daniel disappeared. The meagre possibility of his return was all that kept her alive – and then only just. She had felt the joy of hope in her heart that first night at the church, and the desolation of losing it on her second visit. But here it was again, a resilient little shoot poking upwards from the black earth. Insistent, despite its vulnerability.
The last thing she needed was James stepping on it, pointing out that there would soon be a frost.
Anna picked Sandra’s photo off the window-sill. She looked at it with new eyes. The pride and happiness in Sandra’s face – the content expression of the apricot poodle. Mitzi had the look of a dog who was used to being tucked under an arm and doted upon.
Anna took her phone from her pocket, then hesitated. Was false hope better than none? Or far, far worse?
Then she thought of how Richard Latham’s refusal to even try to help had emptied her, hollowed her out and replaced her heart with a cold stone of misery.
Anna Buck wasn’t stupid; she knew that magic wasn’t real.
But sometimes it felt real.
And sometimes that was enough.
17
THE PHONE RANG and rang and rang before Sandra finally picked up.
‘Hello? Sandra?’
‘Yes?’
‘Hi. This is Anna. I met you at the church a couple of weeks ago?’
There was a long confused hesitation.
‘I had the baby in the buggy?’
‘Oh yes!’
Anna was glad she had called. Sandra seemed like a nice person and she hoped she could help her. She took a deep breath and decided to cut straight to the chase before she lost her nerve. ‘Sandra, twice now when I’ve looked at that photo you gave me, I’ve had this weird sort of vision, and I wondered whether, if I described it to you, maybe it would make sense, and maybe it would help you to find your dog.’
There was a short silence and then whispering at the other end – Sandra turning away to tell somebody something. A friend? A husband?
Anna hurried on: ‘I mean, these pictures in my head don’t mean anything to me, but maybe they would to you. I mean, I’m not a psychic or anything like that, and I know it does sound pretty stupid, but I thought, if there’s even a small hope of it being any help to you, you know?’
Anna stopped talking, partly because the more she talked about a vision, the nuttier it sounded. And partly because she was getting nothing back from Sandra. There were no encouraging murmurs or excited interjections.
Just silence.
‘This is Detective Chief Inspector John Marvel. Who’s this?’
Anna blinked. ‘Anna,’ she said.
‘Anna who?’
She hung up.
Breathing shallowly, she stood very still, as if she were hiding. As if Detective Chief Inspector John Marvel might see her if she moved or made a sound. She didn’t know why; she hadn’t done anything wrong. She’d never done anything wrong! It was just so unexpected …
Why would a policeman be interested in her phoning Sandra about her lost dog? Why would he want to know who she was? Did he have her confused with somebody else? What was going on?
She flinched as the phone rang. She stared at it until it stopped, and then continued to stare at it until it beeped to let her know there was a message waiting for her.
She picked the phone up and listened warily, as if she might hang up – even on the message.
This is DCI Marvel of Lewisham police. We’re investigating a possible theft and if you call this number again, you may be charged with obstruction of justice.
Anna immediately deleted the message. She’d never been in trouble with the police – not even as a teenager – and it felt somehow shameful to be suspected of something, even when she’d done nothing wrong.
She sat down slowly and tried to think logically about what was happening. Logic was possible; it had to be – even when it came to visions. Maybe she’d hallucinated because she hadn’t eaten enough, and she’d got thirsty because she wasn’t drinking enough. That was all there was to it. She wasn’t psychic.
Was anybody?
If Richard Latham were psychic then surely he would have helped her find Daniel. Why wouldn’t he? How couldn’t he? If you really had such a gift and you could help someone in desperate need, surely you had to do it.
You had to help.
She had to help!
She had to help. That was all there was to it. The feeling wasn’t rational but, like the thirst, it was not a want, it was a need.
It was raining outside and the baby was asleep, but Anna didn’t care about either. She picked him up, wrapped him up warmly, put him in his buggy and put up the hood, then pulled on the big blue anorak, took a deep breath and left the house.
This time she didn’t turn back – not even once.
18