I think through the list of people who were at the birth. Apart from Art, there’s Rodriguez and Mary Duncan and the anaesthetist. I think back to the conversation I had with Mary’s sister, Lucy O’Donnell. She definitely referred to “Beth”, but then she also said that she’d “found out” my baby’s name when she looked me and Art up online. Maybe Mary never specified whether I’d had a boy or girl. She was dying when she confessed, after all. What was it she’d said exactly? I wrack my memory.
‘Her baby was born alive . . . I feel . . . so bad for that poor lady because they took her baby away and told her the little thing was dead.’
‘Why lie about the sex of a baby you were telling everyone was dead anyway?’ I rub my head. It still feels sore.
‘To cover their tracks.’ Lorcan says. ‘It’s an extra layer of protection . . . an extra barrier to stop people ever finding the baby. And the child Art has been seen with is the same age as Beth would be now . . .’
I stare at him, a mix of confusion and hope mingling in my head. I can hardly bear to face the idea that the daughter I lost, the Beth I’ve been dreaming of, is a fiction. It’s too much. For the past eight years I’ve imagined her: my little girl. I’ve pictured her, I’ve mourned her, I’ve even dreamed her. She was so real to me. And now I’m being told the very fact of her is an illusion.
‘We have to go Woodholme School,’ I say. ‘I need to see this boy . . . I need to see for myself.’
Half an hour later we’re parked outside a high brick wall, softened on either side by banks of oak trees and bearing a brass plaque with the words: Woodholme School for Boys: Lower and Upper Preparatory.
From where we’re sitting we have a great side-view of a sweeping driveway that leads up to a massive sandstone building. The sound of small children shrieking echoes in the distance. There are two playgrounds separated by a wire fence. One contains a climbing frame, a scattering of animal statues in painted metal and a horse-chestnut tree in the corner. The other playground is bigger and clearly for older kids – just a tarmac square, though the branches of the horse-chestnut tree hang over it.
‘We can’t wait around here for very long, Gen, if that’s what you’re thinking.’ Lorcan frowns as he looks at me. ‘It’s too risky. Some nosey do-gooder will call the police and say we’re lurking out here.’
‘I don’t think we’ll have to wait too much longer.’
‘And what makes you so sure of that?’
‘Bobs back at the shop definitely knows Art, yes?’ I say.
‘I’d bet my life on it.’
‘So he’ll warn him and Art will send someone to pick up . . . this child.’ I want to say my child but I still can’t get my head around the fact that the baby I’ve been dreaming of for nearly eight years might be a boy, not a girl. It all feels unreal. I force myself to be logical. ‘If Art knows we’re on to him, he’ll act. He’ll know he won’t be able to get to the school before we do, but he’ll want to get the child out of here. That’s if the child goes to this school.’ I glance at the sign on the wall. ‘If he’s eight he could be in the lower or upper prep.’
Lorcan nods slowly. ‘You think he might send the woman he’s with to take him out of school?’
Fury builds inside me. ‘If they’re in this together I imagine she’ll want to come as soon as she can.’
We sit in silence for what feels like a long time. Several women pass us on the pavement. Others pull up in cars. Then a bell rings – loud and sharp – from inside the school. Seconds later scores of children swarm onto the playground. As their voices fill the air, all the women who haven’t already left their cars get out and walk through the school gates. More appear from around the corner, strolling along in pairs and groups, many holding smartly dressed toddlers by the hand.
‘The invasion of the yummy mummies,’ Lorcan says drily.
‘It must be going-home time,’ I say, my throat dry.
It couldn’t be worse. I’d expected to see a single child being taken out of school early. Now I’m going to have to pick one out of a crowd.
More women pass us, chattering away. They’re mostly my age or a bit younger; lots are pushing buggies or prams.
We get out of the car and wander through the school gates. Mothers and nannies and their charges are trickling past. I scan the scene feeling desperate. If my child is here, how will I know? I look for a woman in a hurry . . . someone scared and furtive . . . but everyone around us seems happy and relaxed.
It’s hopeless. A new terror fills me. If Art knows I’m here, and this boy is our baby, then Art will move him away from this place, from this school, and I will have to start tracking him down all over again. I think about the mugger and his threat: Stop looking. I have gone against his order. I have kept on searching.
My life – and possibly Lorcan’s – is in danger. But I need to find this child. I need to know if he’s mine. I need something concrete that I can take to the police.
I gaze around. More children are emerging from the younger kids’ playground. Most are chattering away, several clutching paper hats with streamers that flutter in the breeze. The sun comes out and some of the women shield their eyes from the glare. I stare from woman to woman. From boy to boy. Each one wears a pale blue Woodholme sweatshirt over long navy shorts. They’re a homogenous bunch: almost entirely white, with fresh round faces and high-pitched squeals.
More groups flood out through the school gates now. I can’t keep track of them all. I fixate on the hair. Most of these children are blond . . . or blondish . . . but Art and I have always had dark hair. Would our son be dark too? I start walking through them, turning as I stalk the gate area, trying to see every face . . . scanning all the women, all the dark-haired kids.
And then I see him. And everything I’ve ever known shifts and reframes.
He’s racing another little boy across the playground, a look of intense determination on his face. His dark hair is cut short round the back and sides, but hangs in a floppy silky fringe low over his forehead. I stare at his face – at the dark, serious eyes and at the way his bottom lip is thinner than the top – and it’s like I’m looking at the photo of my dad as a little boy come to life.
This is, without a doubt, my son.
I stare at him. Lorcan follows my gaze to the little boy. I remember showing him the picture of my dad as a child and wonder if he’s noticed the likeness too.
‘D’you see it?’ I ask, breathless.
‘He has Art’s colouring,’ Lorcan says ‘but there’s something else too. He looks like you around the mouth, I think.’
‘He looks just like my dad.’ As I speak the words, the enormity of the moment presses down on me. This is as basic as it gets – it’s genes, it’s blood, it’s family.
A young woman goes over to the boy. My boy. She’s plumply pretty, with a short, spiky haircut that would suit someone skinny and petite but sits strangely above her round face and rosy, milkmaid cheeks. She’s wearing a bright pink tracksuit that is stretched tight over her bum. Is this the woman Art took our baby for?
My mind does the maths in my head. Even if she’s a bit older than she looks, this girl couldn’t have been more than sixteen when the boy was born. Surely there’s no way Art could have been having an affair with someone that young?
I start walking towards the boy. The plump girl is gesticulating wildly at him, clearly trying to draw him away from his game. As I get nearer I can hear her sharp, nasal whine.
‘Come on, Daddy said we have to hurry.’
The little boy growls in annoyance, dodging the girl’s hand as she lunges to grab him. He sprints away to the point where the playground meets the drive. I keep my eyes on his face. He’s grinning now, one eye on the girl as he chats with the little boy next to him. They are pointing to the horse-chestnut tree on the far side of the playground, gearing up for another race.
The grin falls away and the child’s mouth sets in a determined line again. As they start running, Lorcan whisp
ers in my ear.
‘I’m going to get that girl talking,’ he says. ‘You speak to the little boy. Find out what you can.’
I nod and head for the racing boys. My son – how strange those words sound – is putting everything he has into the sprint. Despite the other boy’s longer legs, for a few moments he is going faster . . . he’s going to win. I will him to. And then he trips and slams into the ground.
The other boy reaches the horse-chestnut tree first and punches the air with a whoop.
‘I beat you, Ed, you sucker!’
Ed.
I rush over as he picks himself up off the ground. His knee is grazed – red raw.
‘Are you all right?’ I gasp.
Ed ignores me. His lips are pressed tightly together, like he’s trying not to cry. The grim determination on his face has collapsed. For a second, all I can see in his eyes is defeat. And shame. I’ve seen that look before. A shiver snakes through my entire body as the memory overwhelms me – a man pressing his palms against a rough pillar. These stones heal the sick.
It’s more than just the set of the features. It’s like the ghost of my father has just drifted across the boy’s face.
My father. My son.
I glance over my shoulder. Lorcan is talking to the girl who was calling Ed. It doesn’t look like she’s noticed him fall over.
The other boy runs off and Ed looks up at me.
‘Hi.’ I squat down so I’m at his eye level, with the horse-chestnut tree behind me. ‘You’re Ed, aren’t you? You’re brave not to cry about hurting your knee.’
The boy looks at me with huge, serious, brown eyes. He glances over at the girl who was calling him. She’s busy pointing out of the school gates, explaining something to Lorcan.
‘I thought you ran very well,’ I say. ‘You’re fast.’
‘I’m the fastest in my class.’ The way he says it sounds like a fact, not a brag. The same knack of delivery that Art has. My heart beats faster.
‘Are you all right?’ I say.
The boy sticks his lip out. He’s obviously deciding whether it’s okay to talk to me. Then he looks around, taking in the other mums and kids and the sunshine. His gaze fixes for a moment on a curling tear in the wire fence that separates the playground we are in from the one next door. I hold my breath, hoping the environment is sufficiently secure for him not to start screaming for help.
Clearly he decides it is. ‘I’d have won if I hadn’t fallen over,’ he says.
‘I could see that.’ I gulp, desperate for more information. ‘So what’s your name – Ed what?’
The boy stares at me, instantly on his guard. ‘I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.’
‘Of course.’ Out of the corner of my eye I can see that the girl has clocked me. Lorcan’s still talking to her, but she’s edging towards us. I can hear them both now – Lorcan is talking in an English accent, pretending his kid has just started at the school.
‘Is that your mummy?’ I ask, my palms sweating.
Ed wrinkles his nose. ‘No way, that’s just Kelly. She looks after me.’
Well, that’s something. At least Art’s mystery woman isn’t a child herself. My mind skips again through the options. There’s Sandrine, of course. And Hen, though I can’t see how. Charlotte West is older than I would have expected. Or maybe someone Art knows through work, like Siena, his secretary, or Camilla on reception. Or another client’s wife.
Ed gazes up at me.
‘Where do you live?’ I ask.
‘A bit away,’ he says solemnly.
‘Just one more thing?’ Lorcan’s voice sounds close now.
Kelly is almost here. I don’t have much time.
Ed is gazing up at me. I can’t stop staring at him, soaking up his innocent little face and round dark eyes, while my heart surges with emotion. I know I should move away. That I have his name and I know where he goes to school . . . that I’ll only frighten the child if I try to say much more . . . that Lorcan can’t hold his nanny off for much longer . . . but I can’t stop looking. I take out my phone, praying none of the adults notice what I’m doing.
‘Say “cheese”!’ I say.
Ed frowns. I take the picture fast.
‘Thanks.’
Ed just stares at me. This is my child. My baby. It’s like a switch has been flicked on in my heart and I realize just how empty and abstract my previous imaginings were. This child who stands before me is real – a flesh-and-blood mix of my body and Art’s. Love grabs me like a fist. It holds me prisoner, as real as the child in front of me.
It’s a love I would die for.
‘We have to go, Ed.’ Kelly sails past me, grabbing the little boy by the wrist. She stares at me as she drags him away, her eyes widening in horror. So, like Bobs, she’s seen my picture. She knows who I am. She’s been warned against me. ‘Come on, Ed.’
My insides twist with panic. Knowing Ed’s name and school isn’t enough. Art could take him away from here this afternoon. They could vanish, never to be seen again.
The little boy grumbles, but lets himself be led away. Kelly is practically running now.
I start after them, a brisk, urgent walk. ‘We have to follow them,’ I say.
The area by the school gate is crowded and I lose sight of them several times, but Lorcan forges a path through the people and we reach the car a few seconds later.
Kelly and Ed are visible, several metres along the road. Ed is clearly making a fuss at being dragged along. After a moment, Kelly opens the door of a large 4x4 car and Ed disappears into the back seat.
I look down at the photo on my phone. The expression is Art’s but there’s something about the set of the mouth and the curve of the nose that reminds me of my dad again.
This is my son. The words seep through my mind, becoming real as I think them. This is my son.
Now I have found him, I can’t lose him again.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Lorcan starts the engine and manoeuvres away from the kerb. We stay behind the 4x4 for a couple of streets. My whole body is tense, desperate not to lose sight of the car.
‘What did the nanny say?’ I ask.
‘Nothing,’ Lorcan says. ‘She just kept looking over at you. I pretended I had a kid who’d just started at the school, but she wasn’t really listening.’
The big car drives on. I’m leaning forward in my seat, trying to catch a glimpse of Ed. After a few minutes, the car stops outside a large, gated house.
I peer through the windscreen, watching as the iron gates to the house open. The 4x4 drives through. As the gates shut behind it, Lorcan drives slowly by.
‘Okay, well, we have an address now.’ He looks at me. ‘Are you all right?’
I nod. I’m trying to convince myself, as much as Lorcan. I could so easily fall to pieces right now, but I mustn’t. I have to stay strong for Ed. I gaze up at the house where he lives with the woman he thinks of as his mother . . . with Art visiting when he can. Clearly they have plenty of money. And Ed seemed well-nourished and content. A happy child. That’s a consolation, at least.
For the first time it strikes me that this isn’t a child desperate to be rescued, but an ordinary boy settled into a normal, comfortable life. The house is three storeys, detached, brick. There’s a lawn at the front. There are rose bushes. There are oak trees. And there is the locked, high gate.
I look down at my nail-bitten hands. All my life I’ve been on the outside. As a child, hiding my dad’s long absences; as a teenager, not wanting to admit to his death, which made me different from other kids. And on and on. Always on the outside. And here, now, I’m on the outside of Ed’s life. I don’t have a part to play. I am not needed.
Maybe, though it hurts like hell to even think it, I will cause him more harm than good by coming into his life.
‘Gen?’ I realize Lorcan is speaking to me. I turn to him, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in my stomach.
‘I think we have enough to go to the police n
ow. All it’s going to take to confirm what we already know is some DNA, which they’ll have to organize once they hear our story. That will just take a few days, then—’
‘We can’t wait a few days,’ I interrupt. ‘Art could take Ed out of the country by then.’
Lorcan puts his hand on my arm. ‘Easy,’ he says. ‘The police will be able to stop them leaving the country. We just need to explain what we’ve found out.’
I glance over at the house again. ‘I don’t want to leave him.’
‘Okay.’ Lorcan frowns. ‘How about this . . . we’ll call you a cab. You go to the police. Explain everything. I’ll wait here. If someone takes the boy, I’ll follow them.’
I think it over. It makes sense. The only alternative is for me to stay and for Lorcan to speak to the police, but this is my story. It should come from me.
‘Trust me, Gen,’ Lorcan says. ‘I know it’s hard, but it’s your best option right now.’
‘Okay.’ My phone rings. I look at the screen expecting the call to be from Art, but instead I see Hen’s name. I hesitate, then take the call.
‘Hello?’
‘Oh, Gen.’ Her voice is at breaking point, teary and strained. ‘I’ve been so worried about you. Art’s been on the phone every five minutes. He’s frantic. Why have you run away? I keep thinking about your face when I talked about Art and I’ve been so upset all day that you could even think that we . . . that me and Art . . .’ She pauses for breath and I can hear her sniffing. ‘Oh, Gen, please tell me you believe me, please.’
I stare out of the car window, feeling numb. Part of me wants to tell Hen what I know just to hear her reaction . . . that Ed exists . . . that Art has a double life with some other woman . . . that people have been killed to keep this information hidden . . . But it’s hard to say the words.
‘Gen?’ Hen is clearly on the verge of tears. ‘Please talk to me.’
My mind flashes back to her conviction that Art’s ‘MDO’ payment stood for Manage Debt Online. Hen knows more than she’s told me. I’m sure of it.
‘What do you know, Hen?’ I ask. ‘If you want me to trust you, you have to be honest. I know there’s something you haven’t told me, so please don’t lie. It was about that money, wasn’t it? Something about Art being in debt?’