Close My Eyes (24 page)

The film finishes. I’m dimly aware of Lorcan’s hand on my shoulder, but it’s like he can’t really reach me. Like I’m shut up in my head where the
world is imploding.

‘Play it again.’

Lorcan reaches past me and presses the keyboard. The film fizzes into life once more.

It’s in black-and-white, like the CCTV footage you’d see on
Crimewatch
. At first all it shows is an empty concrete corridor with a fire door at one end. And then a man walks
into view. Art. He turns, facing the camera, his eyes on whoever is walking towards him. Another second and she appears: a black woman in a nurse’s uniform. As soon as I see her, I remember
her. Not just from the photo Lucy showed me, but from all those years ago. It’s Mary Duncan, the nurse from my C-section. She is holding something wrapped in a blanket. Her mouth moves. She
is talking. Art is listening, nodding.

Art takes a step towards the fire door. There’s a carpark sign with the Fair Angel logo just below it, then the words ‘Parking Restrictions Apply’. Mary follows Art to the fire
door. Art is speaking now. Then he looks down, at whatever Mary is holding. And in this moment, before I see her, I know she is there.
Beth
.

Everything inside me pulls towards the screen as Mary turns and offers the bundle in her arms to Art. I’m powerless, watching, following the movement, knowing what I am about to see.

Wrapped tightly in a blanket, just her tiny, perfect face peeking out, is my baby.

Art takes her. He doesn’t look at her face but I’m staring at it . . . drinking it in . . . a tiny, scrunched-up oval with big eyes and an unmistakable look of Art about her. She
blinks, her mouth opening as if she’s about to cry, as Mary reaches for the fire door and opens it into the darkness of the Fair Angel car park.

Art gives a brisk nod, then turns away, still holding our baby. He walks through the fire door and is swallowed up by the darkness. Mary closes the door behind him carefully, then walks away,
along the corridor, out of sight.

The film fizzles out.

I stare at the screen. For a second I have this stupid feeling that Beth is trapped inside it and I have to resist the urge to pick up the laptop and hold it.

‘Are you all right?’

I’ve completely forgotten Lorcan standing beside me.

I shake my head, unable to speak. My legs are trembling. I let myself slide into the chair by the table and hug my arms around my chest.

‘Gen?’ Lorcan puts his hand on my shoulder. I bow my head.

‘Gen, please say something.’ Lorcan sounds genuinely frightened.

I squeeze my eyes tight shut. My whole being feels like it’s in freefall.

‘He did it.’ My own voice sounds strange – hoarse and forced and somehow not really a part of me. ‘Art took our baby. He did it.’

As I speak my voice breaks. A sob so painful I draw my breath in sharply.

Lorcan leans his head close to mine. He runs his hand down my arm. Half of me wants to fall into the security he offers, to give into the raw agony inside me, but the other half senses that if I
let go now, I’ll lose myself completely. I already have the sense of falling, tumbling over and over in a darkness from which there is no way out.

‘It means she might be alive, Gen.’ Lorcan’s soft whisper becomes a rope to hold onto.

I grasp it eagerly. As I open my eyes, Lorcan releases me. He stands, leaning against the wall of his living room.

Reality floods back and with it a raging fury. Of two things I am sure:

One: Art has betrayed me. He took our little girl and I will never forgive him.

Two: He must know where she is.

I jump up. Adrenalin is pumping through me. The tears, for now, are gone. The pain just a dull, distant ache. All I feel right here, right now, is the need to force the truth out of Art.

‘Would you call me a cab, please?’

Lorcan frowns. ‘Where to? D’you want me to come?’

I gaze at his concerned face and feel a wave of affection for him. I’m tempted, for a second, to say yes. Then I pull myself together. Right now my business is with my husband. For all his
concern, Lorcan isn’t a part of that. I barely even know him; I certainly can’t let myself start relying on him.

My mind feels clean and clear, like a knife.

‘I’m going to see Art,’ I say. ‘And I need to go on my own.’

‘No.’ Lorcan shakes his head for emphasis. ‘You shouldn’t confront him alone.’

It could be dangerous.

The unspoken words hover between us.

Is that true? Up until this moment I would have sworn that Art would never hurt me physically. But now I don’t know what to believe. Now, everything is in chaos.

‘I’m going to his office. I’ll be safe there.’

‘Fine, but I’m still coming. I’ll drive you . . . wait outside.’

I nod. In truth I’m relieved. Right now I feel about as vulnerable as I’ve ever felt in my life.

‘I’ll just get a jumper, then we can go.’ Lorcan disappears.

I am so tense I can’t stand still. I pace across the room, impatient. He’s taking too long. I can vaguely hear Lorcan on the phone. He’s speaking softly and I can’t make
out what he’s saying. I wonder who he is talking to. For some reason my mind skips to Hen. She called Art about Lucy O’Donnell’s claims before I had a chance to speak to him
myself. Was she warning Art then? Is Lorcan warning him now?

I force myself to sit down and take deep breaths. If I mistrust everyone, I will go mad. The image of Art holding Beth flashes in front of my mind’s eye.

How can this be happening?

A minute later Lorcan is back in a wool sweater, and we set off. I stare out of the window as we drive through Hampstead and Belsize Park, down the hill towards central London. I barely notice
the shops and houses we pass.

Art’s business headquarters are near Exmouth Market, just off a trendy street full of boutiques and cafés. It’s impossible to park on the road itself, so Lorcan turns down a
side street.

He parks and turns to me, his forehead creased with lines of concern. ‘Please be careful.’

I look into his eyes, holding his gaze for a few seconds. And then Lorcan reaches over and places his hand gently on the side of my face. His fingers are warm.

‘Promise you’ll call me if you think . . . if Art does anything that . . .’

‘I’ll be fine.’

I get out of the car and walk round the corner. As I cross the road and enter the lobby of Art’s building, I realize I have no idea what I’m going to say.

It doesn’t matter. Once we’re face to face, I will work it out.

The security guard knows me and waves me through, into the lifts. I reach the fourth floor and walk into Loxley Benson. Camilla, the receptionist on duty, beams at me.

‘Hey, Geniver,’ she says. ‘Thanks for the party. That New York shop where your sister-in-law got her shoes was wicked. Please tell her massive thanks for the tip. I’ve
ordered a pair off their website.
Gorge
-ous.’

I nod as I pass her, too intent on finding Art to reply. I head for the glass doors that will take me through to the rest of the office.

‘Er, Art’s in a meeting,’ Camilla says, suddenly sounding anxious.

I turn as I reach the doors. ‘Which room?’

‘Er, the boardroom,’ Camilla says breathlessly. ‘But let me call Siena.’

She’s looking nervous. Is my rage that obvious?

I press my hand against the pad that opens the door out of reception. Like the permanent staff here, I enjoy finger-print privileges. The glass panel slides back and I walk into the
corridor.

‘Wait, please . . .’ Camilla’s voice fades as the sliding doors shut behind me. A few people are in the open-plan area from which the boardroom and private offices lead off.
They glance over as I pass. I ignore them, head down.

I see him before he sees me. He’s standing in front of the large table in the boardroom, holding court. Three men in suits are seated, staring at him in rapt attention. Art in full flow is
a mesmerizing sight: all energy and intent. I know how those men watching him are feeling . . . how special he’s making them feel.

For a second I hesitate. I have never, in all the fourteen years I have known him, burst in on Art in a business meeting. And then the image of him at the fire door of Fair Angel, holding our
baby, erupts in my mind’s eye. Fury boils up inside me. I grit my teeth and push the door open.

Art glances round, a look of carefully concealed irritation on his face. It turns to shock as he registers that it’s me standing there. The men seated at the table are looking at me too,
but I keep my gaze on Art.

‘I need to speak to you,’ I say calmly. ‘Now.’

Art hesitates. Just a beat. I can see him weighing up his options. He clearly decides not to risk the scene that could ensue if he denies me what I want, and turns, smartly, to the waiting
men.

‘Please excuse me,’ he says with effortless charm. ‘This is clearly an emergency.’

In a single move, he’s across the room, gripping me by the elbow and steering me away from the boardroom. People are staring as Art leads me down the corridor and into his own office. He
holds onto my arm until we’re inside, then he lets me go and shuts the door firmly.

‘What the hell’s going on, Gen?’

I swallow hard, trying to put my thoughts into words. ‘I need to ask you something . . .’

‘Ask me something?’ Art blinks rapidly. ‘D’you know who those men are?’ He points in the direction of the boardroom. ‘The PM’s special advisers asking
me –
me
– for more detail about policy measures that
I
suggested at yesterday’s meeting.’

Light from the large window behind him creates a fiery effect around his head. He’s almost crackling with fury. It strikes me again that, for all our time together, I have no idea what
he’s capable of.

‘This is important, Art.’ I meet his glare head-on.

‘What’s so bloody important?’ he says. ‘What do you need to ask me?’

I take a deep breath. ‘I know our baby was born alive, Art. I know you took her and lied to me.’

‘What?’ Art stares at me. His eyes betray nothing but his anger. ‘
This
again? For God’s sake, Gen! How can you do this to me?’

He turns his back and clasps his hands behind his head. I can’t work out whether he’s buying time or simply trying to restrain his temper. Desolation swamps me. How is it possible I
can be standing here, accusing my own husband of such a terrible crime? My stagnant, predictable life has turned into a vortex of misery and suspicion and I’m only just holding on, scarcely
able to bear my own feelings.

I wander across the room. Art’s large, airy work space is just like his office at home – everything appears organized, and yet nothing is labelled. It strikes me that this is a
perfect metaphor for Art himself: all artful organization on the surface; all controlled and hidden underneath. I stare down at the bottle of water and the spearmint chewing gum pack on the
desk.

‘I have to know the truth.’

He turns to face me. His eyes are hard but his mouth trembles with emotion.

‘How dare you?’ he spits. ‘I know that bloody woman turning up on our doorstep was upsetting, but how can you
possibly
think . . .?’ He breaks off.

‘I’ve seen CCTV of you from the Fair Angel.’ My voice shakes as I speak. ‘I’ve seen the nurse from Beth’s birth handing her over to you in the
corridor.’

Art’s eyes register horror, then the repressed fury takes over again.

‘Impossible.’ His voice is hard and cold as steel. ‘Or faked.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’ But I stop.
Could
the film I saw have been falsified? I hadn’t even considered this possibility. My mind races over the ramifications . . .
how can I find out? Would an expert be able to tell? Does this mean Art may still, after all, be innocent? Part of me hopes so, even as I’m recognizing that this would also mean the end of my
dream of finding Beth. For the first time since I saw the CCTV footage, doubt enters my mind. ‘Why would anyone bother to fake film of you with our baby?’

Art holds up three fingers. His eyes bore into me.

‘One, to discredit me. Two, to drive a wedge between us. Three, to make you crazy. All of which are bloody happening.’ He pauses. ‘But that’s just off the top of my head.
I’m sure if you gave me a few minutes I could come up with another ten reasons. I can think of a million people who’d be happy to see me fail and you not trusting me is a failure for
me, for my life . . . Jesus, Gen, it’s a failure for
us
.’ He’s suddenly across the room, reaching for my hand, his whole demeanour beseeching. ‘Please don’t
give in to this . . . this craziness, Gen. If it’s not a fake film, then it must be all the pressure – you’re seeing what you
want
to see. It’s . . . it’s
just in your head.’

It’s so typical of Art to switch from logical reasoning to emotional plea like that. So typical. And so manipulative.

‘Stop it, Art. Stop trying to make me feel like it’s me . . . like I’m going mad.’

He studies me. ‘But you
know
this is mad. You know it doesn’t make any sense,’ he says slowly. ‘In your heart you
know
.’

For a moment I see him as an outsider would – totally focused, totally sure of himself.

‘Okay, so it doesn’t make sense,’ I say. ‘But that doesn’t mean it isn’t true.’

I walk over to the shelf that runs from the window to the door. A single photo nestles among the row of business awards. It’s a silver-framed picture of us on our wedding day. Art is
smiling, his haircut preppily short. I’m gazing adoringly up at him. My hair is short too – a gamine crop with a wispy fringe. It makes me look even younger than I was. It breaks my
heart how young we both look.

And how innocent.

Art walks round to the other side of the desk. He stands in front of his chair.

‘Gen?’

I lower my voice. ‘Tell me the truth.’

‘I am.’

‘What about the money for MDO? I saw Doctor Rodriguez yesterday . . . I heard him talk about the money he was paid . . . was the MDO payment his first instalment?’