Something to hide, p.4
Something to Hide, page 4
His mobile chimed on the bedside table. He saw it was a message from Paulie: Beer tonight, Boyk? He thought about what beer was probably a euphemism for. He replied with, Need to be here. But ta. Paulie replied with an emoji thumbs-up.
Mark stared at the mobile’s screen for too long. He realised afterwards that if he’d set the smartphone back on the table, he’d have been safe. No chain of thoughts leading his mind in the wrong direction and therefore no temptation. But he wasn’t fast enough. Both were instantly there: thought and temptation. He scrolled through his contacts to one of three that had numbers with no name given. He tapped the message thinking of u.
He waited for a reply. He wondered if it was too early. In a minute, though, the chime signalled and he looked down to see that there was a link. He tapped on this to hear their song, although he knew the entire idea of their having a “song” was completely mad. Except . . . this one’s refrain was so dead apt—“No, I don’t wanna fall in love . . . with you”—in a voice so deep and mellow the song sounded more like a meditation.
Mark understood why she’d sent it. Her heart ached as his heart ached, and their pain described the complete impossibility of their situation. He closed his eyes as he listened to the song, mobile pressed to his ear.
He was thinking about how to respond when, “Mark, is it work?” Pietra had come into the bedroom.
He swung to her and saw that she must have been up and about for quite a while as she was fully dressed: blue jeans, trainers with no socks, a white T-shirt. He called it her uniform, and it altered only in cooler weather, when the white T-shirt became a white dress shirt, usually with the cuffs rolled up. When he told her to buy something new and different for herself, she responded with the same declaration. “I don’t need anything else, love,” which was more true than false in that she rarely left the flat and when she did, it was most often with Lilybet in her heavy chair, the emergency oxygen on its stand behind her. If the subject of dinner out or taking in a film came up—just the two of them, and Greer could stay with Lilybet for a few hours, couldn’t she?—the response remained the same. I do so hate to ask her, Mark. She already does so much.
Pete said again from the doorway, “Mark? Is it work?” and he realised he hadn’t replied the first time round.
He said, “Meeting today in Westminster,” which was actually true, and with inverted air commas he added, “Someone thought I needed reminding.”
She smiled fondly. “That will be the day, eh?”
When she started to leave the room, he saw she’d got some of Lilybet’s poo on her shirt. He said her name and nodded at it. She looked down and exclaimed, “Good Lord, how disgusting!” with a laugh as she hurried to the bathroom to wash it off.
He could hear Lilybet on the baby monitor. He could tell that she was manipulating the mobile that hung above her hospital bed. In a moment the television began to blare. She cried out, startled. He called to his wife, “I’ll see to her,” and yanked his trousers up. He went to their daughter’s bedroom.
It wanted a good airing, and he opened the window onto The Mothers Square, which was actually oval-shaped, not quadrangular, and reminiscent in a very down-market way of the Royal Crescent in Bath. A car’s engine coughed among those parked between the line of pergolas in the oval’s centre, and Mrs. Neville came dashing outside, waving her husband’s lunch bag. She ran to the car, the window was lowered, she ran back inside, clutching her dressing gown at its throat.
Mark turned back to the bedroom. With the hospital bed, Lilybet’s massive wheelchair, the oxygen tanks, the chest of drawers, and his father’s old recliner, there was very little space in which to move. Much of it was taken up with extra nappies, the pail for used nappies, and all the other accoutrements of having an infant. Except, of course, Lilybet wasn’t an infant but rather a child who would only grow bigger, the single constant that defined her parents’ lives. She couldn’t speak, although she could both see and hear. She couldn’t walk, although she could move her legs. He had no clue whether she understood him when he spoke to her, so he made it enough for himself every day that she seemed to know who he was.
She cooed as he approached her bed. He bent over her and, fresh nappy in hand, wiped her face. He said, “Up?” and she gurgled. He raised the bed. He said, “So what’s planned for today, little one? Birthday party? Trip to the zoo? Madame Tussaud’s to see the wax people? Library? Shopping for a party dress? Girls your age have birthday parties. Have you been invited to any? Who do you want to come to yours? Esme? Esme would love to come.”
A coo in reply. He smoothed her wispy hair behind her ears and allowed himself a moment of what-ifs. These were so much more welcome than the what-will-bes. The what-ifs were sad, but that was all they were. The what-will-bes were terrifying.
“I’m so sorry.” Pete spoke from the doorway, where she was pressing a hand towel to her T-shirt where the poo had been.
He looked up from their daughter and caught the expression on his wife’s face, which told him she’d heard his words to Lilybet. “It’s not anyone’s fault,” he said.
“Except she’s not an it. Not to me.”
He straightened from the bed. “You know I didn’t mean Lilybet.”
She looked at their daughter, then back at him. “I do know,” she admitted. She dropped her hand and her shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry. There’re moments when I just want to say something hateful. I don’t know where that comes from.”
“This is hard. You’re owed,” he told her.
“You’re owed. I’ve lost the part of me that you loved.”
“That’s not true,” he said, although they both knew it was. “We’ve got a rough path here, Pete. That’s all this is. No one’s to blame.”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you were to blame.” She came fully into the room. She joined him at the hospital bed’s raised rail, and she curved her fingers round this as she gazed at their daughter. Lilybet seemed to be studying them, although her eyes didn’t appear to be focused properly. Mark found himself wondering what it was she saw. Pete went on with, “You’ve been saddled with both of us, haven’t you.”
He’d heard this remark so many times before. There were a hundred and one answers to give but there was only one that she wanted to hear. He said, “I couldn’t do without my two ladies right here and there’s an end to it, eh? Have you had breakfast?”
“Not yet.”
“Shall we have something, then?”
Her gaze went automatically to their daughter. He quelled his impatience and said gently, “She can do on her own for fifteen minutes, Pete. She does longer than that at night.” But not much longer, he realised. Pete was up and down all night, checking on her, terrified that her breathing would stop while her mother slept, no matter the alarm that would begin to blare and the supplemental oxygen they could easily supply if Lilybet stopped breathing.
Pete said, “Let me check on her, then. You go ahead. I’ll be there in a moment.”
He knew she would already have checked her before she’d left the room a few minutes earlier, but he said nothing. She couldn’t help herself. She had to record something—anything—on the clipboard at the end of the bed. He hadn’t looked at it when he entered the room and walked to the window, but he hadn’t needed to. It was a monument both to Pete’s sense of responsibility and to the guilt she carried for what had happened to their daughter. And this despite the fact that none of it was her fault. Pete was culpable only for being human, for wanting the best for Lilybet, the best for their marriage, and the best for him. The fact that all of this was far too much for her was merely a twist of fate.
He acceded to her wishes and went to the kitchen. He pulled three cereal boxes from the cupboard and chose one at random. He fetched the milk. He didn’t feel like eating, but he knew he had to go through the motions. If he didn’t, Pete would see it as a useful ploy to eat nothing herself. And God knew she needed to eat. She was virtually skeletal.
He ate standing, leaning against the draining board, listening to Pete explaining to Lilybet where Mummy was going and how long she would be and after that, “Mummy’s going to give you a bath, darling, a proper bath. I cleaned you up but when one poos in a certain way, more is required. You know what I mean, my love.” Which, of course, Lilybet did not and never would and what the hell were they going to do when she hit puberty because facing that was going to be like—
His mobile chimed. He looked at the message. Tough morning?
A bit, he replied.
It was a quite long moment before she sent him, I’m so sorry. U have my heart.
He wanted more than that, though. He wanted all of her and all of the life they could have if his life were not impossible. See you soon was all he could give her.
Soon was the limit of what she was willing to give to him.
“Paulie this time?” Pietra was in the doorway. Mark wondered what she’d managed to read on his face. She smiled. Was it warm or determined? He could no longer tell. “I expect he’s offering a beer after work.”
“Ah. That’s our Paulie,” he said.
“Please go. I can handle things here. Greer’s coming to have our book talk this evening anyway. I’ll ask her to bring along some Chinese.”
“I’m out enough as it is, Pete.”
“You aren’t, at all. You need to be good to yourself, Mark. You can’t be good for us if you’re not good for you.”
“And isn’t that the pot and the kettle?”
“It sounds like, but I’m truly fine.”
But she wasn’t fine. Both of them knew how long it had been since she’d been anywhere close to fine.
He said, “Well . . . an hour, p’rhaps. But only an hour.”
“Make it two at least,” she replied.
CHELSEA
SOUTH-WEST LONDON
Deborah St. James had drawn a stool to the central chopping block-cum-table in the basement kitchen, and there, she was slowly going through the first set of portraits she’d taken at Orchid House to find the best representation of each of her subjects. She jotted the occasional reference number on a legal pad as well as on a printout of the lengthy transcribing she’d done over the past several days. Behind her, her father was banging round the kitchen as he put together breakfast, while on the worktop next to the cooker a smallish television was broadcasting the morning’s news. She was giving idle thought to asking a question about why the word news when applied to television generally meant something bad was happening, when her husband joined them, accompanied by Alaska, their great grey cat. In a corner, Peach had been dozing in her basket—preparing herself for a determined round of begging for bacon—but sensing the feline presence, she lifted her head and narrowed her eyes.
“Don’t even think of it,” Simon told the dachshund even as Alaska teased the poor dog by sashaying—as only a cat can do—in front of her basket while waving his tail like a country’s flag in a parade of Olympic athletes.
Peach growled.
Deborah said, “He’s tempting her, Simon. You can see it yourself.”
“Stay where you are,” Simon told the dog. He scooped the cat from the floor and deposited him by the door to the garden. Alaska made use of the flap, after which he made use of the outdoor window sill and leapt up to it, gazing solemnly into the kitchen.
“Eggs done how, you two?” Joseph Cotter asked.
“Boiled for me,” Deborah told her father as Simon replied, “No time, I’m afraid.”
“What d’you mean ‘no time’?” Cotter demanded. “At this hour? It not gone half seven. And we’ve not yet seen to your leg.”
Deborah glanced at her father. He could cope with Simon’s irregular mealtimes but not with his missing a session that dealt with the atrophying muscles of his damaged leg.
“It can’t be helped today.”
“Where’re you heading so early, then?”
“Middle Temple. I’ve a meeting. Sorry.”
Cotter harrumphed. Simon came to Deborah’s side and gazed at the photo she was studying. “That’s a gorgeous piece,” he noted.
“You’re my husband. You’re meant to think it’s gorgeous,” she replied.
“. . . gone missing from her home in north-east London and fears are rising . . .”
They both swung round. Cotter had used the remote to turn up the sound on the news, which was showing the photograph of a pretty, young mixed-race girl—little more than a child—with gold studs in her ears and her hair in miniature twists. She wore a school uniform and an impish smile. On the bottom of the screen Boluwatife Akin—Missing—Boluwatife Akin—Missing ran across in a banner.
“What’s this, Dad?” Deborah asked.
He waved her off as the newsreader went on to “. . . did not return from the Yoruba Cultural Centre where she had attended her weaving class. She is the daughter of barrister Charles Akin and Dr. Aubrey Hamilton, an anaesthesiologist closely associated with Doctors Without Borders. Their daughter—who’s called Bolu by her friends and relations—was last seen entering Gants Hill underground station at half past seven last evening in the company of two adolescents, a boy and a girl. They were documented by CCTV inside the station and once again aboard the westbound train. They debarked prior to Ealing Broadway, and film from CCTV in all the stations prior to that is being inspected. If we can have a look at the film that we have . . . ?”
The CCTV from Gants Hill underground station appeared on the television screen. It was, as usual, grainy. Also as usual, it rendered the film’s subjects unrecognisable to anyone who did not know them personally. This was followed by another grainy film in which three individuals—who appeared to be the same as those in the previous film—sat side by side in one of the carriages of the westbound train. The child was between the adolescents. She didn’t appear to be under duress, but considering the nature of the film, it was difficult to tell.
The newsreader concluded with, “Anyone with information about Bolu Akin should contact the Metropolitan Police at the number now appearing on your screen. Once again, her parents—Mr. Charles Akin and Dr. Aubrey Hamilton—are asking for her safe return.”
The screen altered, showing a mixed-race couple on the front steps of what was apparently their home. The woman was holding a framed photo of the girl, this time wearing a red jersey and a striped summer skirt. The man had his arm around his wife. Their faces reflected both their fear and their anxiety.
Aubrey Hamilton said, “Please don’t hurt her. She’s our only child. She’s very young for her age and very innocent. We will do anything to have her back with us. Please contact the police. Anyone at all with information please, please ring the police.”
The picture then went to the two regular presenters of the programme, ensconced on their peacock-blue sofa, for their comment. Cotter muted it. He said to Deborah, “Never said, did I, but every day you went off to school . . . ? I worried something’d happen to you, jus’ like that.”
“How could anything at all have happened?” Deborah replied. “You walked me there and you walked me back at the end of the day. Someone would’ve had to hit you over the head with a polo stick to get to me.”
“Not a laughing matter, girl. And then off you went to photo school in America when you could’ve stayed right here in London, eh? And how much of a worry was that? There you are in the land of guns-for-all-and-all-for-guns. Anything could’ve happened. So I worried, which is ’bout ninety percent of what a parent does.”
Deborah didn’t ask what the other ten percent was, nor did she mention that worrying as a parent was probably not ever going to be part of her life, no matter how she would have welcomed the opportunity.
Cotter went on with, “And now we got child sex trafficking and perverts on street corners. You ask me, it’s an ugly world, it is, and it’s getting uglier.”
“On that excessively happy note,” Simon put in, “I’m off.” He kissed Deborah on the forehead and began to turn.
She grabbed his arm, saying, “Be a proper husband, please.”
He kissed her mouth, saying, “You taste of chocolate.”
“Dad’s already been to the bakery. Pain au chocolat. You know I must have it once a week. Will kill for it if necessary.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t ever come to that.”
He kissed her again and headed for the doorway to the garden steps as Cotter called out, “Turbot for dinner?” and Deborah added, “We can eat in the garden, under the tree.”
Simon said, “Peach will doubtless be wildly in favour of that.”
He left them, then, and they heard him climb the steps. He would cross the garden and go through the gate to access the garage on Lordship Place. Inside, the true love of his life sat parked: an antique MG TD, altered to accommodate his need for a hand-operated clutch.
Cotter said, “Wish he’d get rid of that motor, I do.”
“Whyever?” Deborah said, looking again at the portraits she’d taken.
“Safety features,” was Cotter’s reply. “He doesn’t need a second car crash. The first was bad enough. An’ I don’t like it when he skips his sessions on the leg.”
Deborah said, “Hmmm. Well, if that’s the biggest of your worries, I expect you’re actually quite a happy man.”
“An’ what about you, girl?”
Deborah tilted her head to consider the idea. “I expect I’m as happy as I make myself be.”
Her father put eggs, bacon, and toast in front of her. Alerted, Peach decamped from her basket and approached, tail wagging enthusiastically. Cotter said, “I know what’ll make this one happy, I do.”
