Close My Eyes (18 page)

I hesitate for a few long, silent seconds. I have no idea what I’m doing, just that, for all Art’s sincerity, there’s something, some shadow that lurks in the background,
stopping me from being able to dismiss Lucy O’Donnell’s claim that Art let the doctor take Beth away.

A dustbin lid clattering to the ground outside startles me. I can’t wait any longer. I
have
to find out what I can. I enter the password and click on the email icon. I flick
through the entries – all work stuff. I turn to his texts but they’re all deleted. So are the voicemails. What about the call log? I have no idea what I’m looking for, but I
scroll through the list of callers anyway. Most of them are identified . . . Kyle several times, Tris and Dan . . . other work people . . . Art’s accountant . . . plus names I recognize as
clients. Interspersed with these are a few numbers without names attached. I scroll back further. There are calls from Morgan and Hen from last weekend, and from Hen the week before – the
week when Lucy O’Donnell first turned up. More unrecognized callers. I take out my own phone and look at both Lorcan’s and Lucy O’Donnell’s numbers. Lorcan’s is on
Art’s phone – just once, on the Sunday afternoon after the party. Well, that’s no surprise; I knew he called Art to go out for that drink. Lucy’s number is not showing on
Art’s phone. Neither, when I check, are the numbers for the Fair Angel hospital or Tapps Funeral Services. I stop for a second, registering what this means: Art has not been in touch with
anyone from the past – at least not on this phone.

A dog barks outside. I glance into the corridor, straining my ears for the sound of Art getting out of bed, but the house is silent. Sweat beads on my forehead. I keep scrolling down the list,
panic rising, swelling my throat. What am I doing? What if Art wakes up and finds me? What do I hope to find? What will it prove?

I have no answers, but I keep looking anyway. It’s no good, these numbers mean nothing. They’re all just random, single callers that—
Wait
. There’s one number
that keeps coming up. It’s a mobile number ending 865. Whoever owns that number has called Art every day for the past week. Yesterday they called twelve times.

I quickly scribble the number down. Palms sweating, I tiptoe into the bedroom and put Art’s phone back where I found it. He’s still lying exactly as I left him, breathing
steadily.

I stare at the number. Who is calling Art so obsessively? For a second I want to wake him up and demand an answer, but that would mean confessing I’d snooped.

If I ask Art he will make some excuse . . . find some way of making me look ridiculous for asking. I take a deep breath. There are three possibilities.

Option one: the caller is an annoying client/someone trying to sell him something/a nut-job. I’m sure this is what Art would claim if I forced an answer out of him, though why he
wouldn’t just block their number I don’t understand.

Option two: Art’s having an affair and the caller is a woman entirely unrelated to Beth. Apart from the fact that I can’t seriously believe Art would be unfaithful, all the calls are
from
this number. Art has never called it back. Not once.

Option three: the caller
is
connected with Beth. Perhaps he or she even knows where Beth is. No . . .
no
. . . This is total madness.

Gritting my teeth, I snatch up my own phone. I make sure the call will be anonymous, then dial the number. I have no idea what I’m going to say if someone answers but I can’t bear
not knowing any more.

My palm feels clammy on the handset as the number rings.

Oh, God, what am I doing?

A recorded message, asking the caller to leave a message. Generic, giving only the phone number as identification. I hesitate for a second then switch off the phone just before the beep.

I feel sick as I tear up the piece of paper with the number on and flush it down the toilet. I shove my own phone in my handbag and get into bed again. I lie under the covers, Art now gently
snoring beside me.

I try to take stock. Lucy O’Donnell has died under suspicious circumstances. Art paid someone fifty grand just after Beth was stillborn. Someone is calling him repeatedly and he
hasn’t told me about it. He and Hen think I’m becoming obsessed with finding Beth.

There’s nothing concrete. Nothing solid to tell me what to think, one way or the other. None of my questions and enquiries and phone calls has led anywhere. In fact, everywhere I turn is a
dead end. Which means I’m going to have to go further. Action has to be better than this, this vortex of suspicion and not-knowing.

Next morning the telephone rouses me with a start. I can’t see the time but it’s light outside and Art is long gone.

‘Mrs Loxley? This is Mr Tapps.’ The man’s voice is formal, his accent slightly affected. It’s the voice of a man not entirely comfortable in his own skin. ‘You left
a message for me yesterday.’

‘Hi, er, thanks for calling back.’ I sit up in bed, trying to focus. I explain about Beth, about the cremation eight years ago. ‘It would have been just after June the
eleventh. I just wanted to speak to whoever was involved. I mean whoever dealt with . . . our baby . . .’ As I speak, I get out of bed and wander to the window to draw back the curtains.

‘Ah.’ Mr Tapps pauses and, when he continues speaking, his voice is softer. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Loxley, but I’m afraid I can’t help. I thought it might be this
. . . sometimes, after the event, it seems to help people to speak to those involved.’

‘Do you remember . . .?’ I say. I’m still not properly awake so I push the window open and breathe the crisp morning air.

‘Of course,’ Mr Tapps says, and his voice is full of compassion. ‘I checked the records when my assistant said you were a client and . . . well, as I say, I’m terribly
sorry, but for some reason there’s no record of who laid out your daughter’s body.’

‘No record?’ I’m wide awake now. A freezing cold wind whips into the room, rattling the window. It whistles in my ears. ‘But you remember her; you have records of the
funeral?’

‘We have records of everything,’ Mr Tapps says smoothly. ‘When the body was received, when it was prepared . . . the funeral itself was carried out very quickly after that. All
the dates and times are recorded, but not which of my staff was involved.’

‘I see.’

‘I’m really very sorry, Mrs Loxley. I’ve asked everyone who worked here then. No one remembers handling this particular . . . child. It was a long time ago.’

‘I see,’ I say again. Then an idea occurs. ‘What about the payment for the funeral? Do you have a record of who covered the costs?’ I’m hoping, for some reason,
he’s going to say Dr Rodriguez, though it’s far more likely, and logical, that it was Art who handled the funeral payments.

‘We don’t charge for stillbirth funerals, Mrs Loxley,’ Mr Tapps says, a note of confusion creeping into his voice. ‘Standard practice.’

‘Oh, right, sorry.’ It’s another reminder of how disconnected from the real world I was at the time. ‘Well, thank you for your time.’

I hang up, then close the window. I go back to bed and sit cross-legged on the covers, lost in my thoughts. Tapps is another blind alley. I put my head in my hands. The doctor who handled my
C-section has vanished, the attending nurse has died and there’s no way of finding out who dealt with my supposedly stillborn baby.

Is all that really a coincidence?

I take out my phone. I can’t do this alone, but there’s no point calling Art . . . or Hen. She’s made it quite clear she doesn’t believe there’s any truth in Lucy
O’Donnell’s claims. I could try one of my other friends, but when I imagine their faces as I explain my anxieties, all I can see is puzzlement and concern that I’m letting
desperation take me over . . . that crazed hope is making me mad . . . that I’ve lost all sense of perspective. And then I think of Lorcan, that steady gaze. The way he empathized with my
feelings over Beth. The way he sensed that my troubles were in some way connected with Art. I scroll to his number and call him.

‘Gen?’ He answers on the first ring. His voice is warm.

‘What’s up?’

‘Hi.’ My voice cracks as I speak. ‘Before, you offered . . .’ I hesitate. Now I’m speaking to him, it seems too much to ask.

‘And I meant it,’ Lorcan says. ‘How can I help?’

Lorcan arrives within the hour. I lead him into the kitchen, feeling guilty that I’m going behind Art’s back. Still, I’m not planning on telling Lorcan all my
suspicions . . . and certainly not the ones about Art himself. So far, all he knows is that I need his help.

He sits down opposite me at the kitchen table and fixes me with that intense look of his. There’s stubble on his chin and a tiny scar above one eye. He’s still gazing at me. Does he
look this intently at everyone?

I hope not
. The thought is out before I can snatch it back.

‘This isn’t easy.’ I blow out my breath.

Lorcan leans forward and smiles. ‘Relax,’ he says. ‘You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.’

‘I know.’ I hesitate again. ‘This woman came to see me,’ I stammer. ‘She says my baby was born alive . . . that the doctor stole her away . . .’

‘Jesus Christ.’ Lorcan looks genuinely shocked. ‘But how could that happen? Is that even
possible
?’

‘It is, just about . . . I had a C-section and I was under general anaesthetic.’ I go on, explaining everything I’ve done and discovered in detail. The only thing I don’t
mention is Lucy O’Donnell’s claim that Art was involved.

He shakes his head, but more in wonderment than disbelief. ‘So do you really think that your baby could still be alive?’

‘Yes . . . well, I believe Lucy O’Donnell
thought
she was. But she can’t be, can she? I mean it’s ridiculous.’

‘Have you told the police?’

‘No . . . I don’t have any proof.’

‘What does Art say?’ I fall silent.

Outside a police siren screeches in the distance. Lorcan is still watching me intently.

‘Ah,’ he says. ‘Art thinks the whole thing’s mad.’

‘It probably is.’ I stare down at the raw, bitten skin around my fingernails. ‘I can’t go back to Lucy O’Donnell because she just died in a hit-and-run
accident.’

‘Christ.’

‘I know. I think it looks really suspicious but there’s no proof of that, either.’ I show him the newspaper cutting. ‘I don’t know what to believe. I don’t
know what to do. It all seems impossible. I mean, why would a doctor fake a baby’s death? Part of me wants to go to the hospital in Oxford where it all happened. I know my doctor
doesn’t work there any more, but it’s the best place to start tracking him down. Then the next minute I’m thinking it all sounds so ridiculous . . .’ I sigh.

‘Well, you’re right about that.’ Lorcan leans back in his chair. He’s still staring at me. ‘And most people would say you’re only even considering that what
you’ve been told might be true because you want it to be true – you
want
Beth to be alive.’

I nod, held by his gaze.

‘Which is hell for you, because now you’re torn between doing something and worrying you’re crazy, and doing nothing and missing an opportunity – however slight –
that your daughter might be out there somewhere.’ He pauses. ‘Right?’

‘Right,’ I say.

‘Okay.’ Lorcan gets up. ‘Then let’s go.’

‘What?’ I stand up too.

‘Let’s go to the hospital.’

‘Go to the . . .? Now? But it’s in Oxford,’ I say, shocked.

‘So?’

‘We can’t just turn up.’

‘Why not?’ Lorcan asks. ‘Whatever that office manager said, the hospital is bound to have a forwarding address for your Dr Rodriguez. It’ll be easier to get it off them
if we talk to them in person. More persuasive.’

‘But what will we say?’

‘We can work it out on the way. My car’s outside. We can be there in an hour if we get going now.’

I stare at him. My heart’s racing. ‘But . . . but I have to teach this afternoon.’

Lorcan raises his eyebrows. ‘Then cancel,’ he says. ‘Tell them you’re sick.’

I hesitate. I don’t like to do that – it’s dishonest and it leaves the Institute in the lurch, but the temptation is strong. Anyway, with my mind all over the place like it is,
I wouldn’t be much use to my students.

‘Why are you helping me like this?’

‘Why shouldn’t I?’ Lorcan shakes his head impatiently. ‘I’m not seeing Cal again until tomorrow. I’ve got no work . . . no auditions . . .’ He pauses.
‘Unless you don’t want me to come?’

I stare at him. I feel almost delirious; scarily out of control.

‘It’ll take a bit of effort,’ Lorcan goes on. ‘And we’ll need a cover story. But we can sort that out on the way too. Come on.’ He’s already halfway to
the door.

‘Wait.’

He stops and turns. There’s something so powerful about his determination, so overwhelming, I can’t think straight for a second. Then my head clears.

‘D’you think it could be true, that Beth’s alive?’ There’s a sick feeling in my stomach. ‘Isn’t this all a bit reckless?’

‘So? I’m an actor. I’m allowed to do reckless things. And, yes, of course it’s possible. You never saw her body, did you?’

‘No, but, everything is stacked against it being true. It
feels
impossible.’

‘So what? You need to know, one way or the other.’ Lorcan smiles. ‘Anyway, sometimes I believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast.’

‘Okay, Alice in Wonderland.’ I can’t help but smile too. Lorcan’s face and voice are so utterly intent.

He holds out his hands in an expansive gesture. ‘So, come on then,’ he says. ‘You and me. What do we have to lose?’

With a jolt I realize I feel alive. I can’t remember when I last felt like this.

‘Okay.’ I walk towards him. ‘Let’s go.’

When I got back to my form room after Ginger Tall and Broken Tooth happened, Miss Evans saw my trousers. I pretended I had an accident and Miss Evans was nice and gave me
trousers from the lost property box. But when I got home Mummy saw I was upset and made me tell her the truth. After, she was angry and shouting. She said that Ginger Tall and Broken Tooth were Bad
People. She said that I am better than they are. She said I must get them back. That it would be good training because of the grown-up Bad People who might tell me lies and try to hurt me.