Close My Eyes (26 page)

‘I’ll tell them what I know, that I’ve seen film showing Art with Beth . . . that she didn’t die.’

‘But that film doesn’t prove or explain anything. You don’t even have it any more.’

He’s right. There is nothing whatsoever to back up my story.

‘Maybe I can get the police to investigate,’ I say, feeling defeated. ‘At the very least I could get them to properly investigate Lucy O’Donnell’s death. I mean,
what else can I do?’

‘Okay, then,’ Lorcan agrees, reluctantly.

I find the address of the nearest police station on Lorcan’s phone and we drive on. As we near our destination fear circles me like a vulture.

What if Art really did all this . . .? Took Beth. Paid Rodriguez. Killed Lucy O’Donnell. Got someone to threaten me.

My guts twist into knots. I can’t bear to believe it. ‘Art didn’t know I had the memory stick before I went into his office,’ I say out loud. ‘He couldn’t
possibly have organized that guy to take it so fast.’

‘Unless someone rang ahead to warn him. Anyway, it doesn’t prove anything.’ Lorcan pulls the car over and stops. We’re right beside the police station. I stare at the
dark blue sign. ‘That’s my point. Nothing you know proves anything.’

I open the door.

‘Shall I come with you?’ he asks

‘No,’ I look him in the eyes. ‘I’ll be fine by myself.’

Detective Sergeant Gloria Manning gazes at me. She’s about thirty-five, with a lined face and lank hair that curls limply onto her shoulders.

‘So you don’t have this memory stick any more?’ she asks gently.

‘No, I told you.’ My voice rises and I place my hands flat on the table in front of me. I press the palms against the cold steel, trying to stay calm. In the clinical atmosphere of
the interview room, with its bare walls and scrubbed floor, my story sounds hysterical. ‘I was mugged.’

Manning shoots a swift glance at my handbag, hanging on the back of my chair.

‘The memory stick was in my pocket . . .’ I explain. ‘The man
knew
. . .’

‘Okay,’ Manning says slowly. ‘And you think that the doctor who was present at your daughter’s stillbirth may have got this man to steal it.
And
organized the
death of the woman in the road traffic accident last week who, you claim, came to you last week and told you your baby was alive?’

I nod, suddenly exhausted. I can see in Manning’s pitying eyes that she doesn’t believe me. Lorcan was right – without any proof, my whole story sounds ludicrously far-fetched,
like some sort of melodramatic soap opera.

DS Manning clears her throat. ‘But until a week ago, you believed your baby was stillborn . . .?’

‘Yes.’ I look down at the table.

DS Manning leans back in her chair. It gives a weary creak that matches the look on her face.

‘Look, I know there’s no real proof of what I’m saying, but that’s why I’ve come here, so you can find the proof,’ I insist. ‘And find my little
girl?’

DS Manning studies me carefully. ‘Have you told me everything? I mean, if you think this Doctor Rodriguez really pretended your baby was dead, why would he give you this film showing she
was alive.’

I bite my lip. ‘He didn’t exactly give it to me.’

DS Manning raises her eyebrows. ‘What does that mean?’

‘We . . . I broke into his house and took it.’ DS Manning sighs. ‘Mrs Loxley—’

‘I found a newspaper cutting as well.’ This, I remember, I still have in my bag. Eagerly I take it out and offer it to the sergeant. ‘This is the anaesthetist at my C-section.
The one who assisted Doctor Rodriguez.’

DS Manning takes it and holds it gingerly between her finger and thumb. She glances at the headline. ‘Killed by a hit-and-run driver,’ she says. ‘So?’

‘Well, don’t you think that’s suspicious?’

Manning stares at me. ‘You’re saying you think
this
man’s death was a fake too?’

‘No.’ Frustration wells inside me. ‘No, I’m saying that maybe Rodriguez killed him because he was threatening to expose the fact that my baby was born alive. Why would
Rodriguez keep the cutting otherwise?’

‘Because they were colleagues?’ DS Manning offers. ‘Because they worked together?’

There is a long silence. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs Loxley,’ she says. She leans forward and pats my arm. ‘I had a miscarriage too. Ten weeks. I know it’s
hard to accept.’

I shake my head. I can’t speak, I’m too angry. How dare this woman compare my losing Beth with her own experience? How dare she imply I’ve been unhinged by my grief?

DS Manning clearly takes my silence for some kind of acquiescence. She pats my arm again and leaves the room.

Ten long minutes later she’s back.

‘There’s no record of a break-in at the house belonging to Doctor Rodriguez in Mendelbury.’ There’s a flat finality to DS Manning’s voice.

I nod, letting this news sink in. Rodriguez hasn’t reported the break-in. Of course he hasn’t. Why would he want to draw attention to the memory stick I stole? Especially now that he
has clearly managed to get it back.

‘We’ll circulate the description of the man who mugged you and I have the number here of a victim-support unit.’ DS Manning pauses. ‘As I say, I’m very sorry, Mrs
Loxley. Now, is there someone we can call for you? Someone who could take you home?’

The truth sinks into my head like a stone falling through water: the police aren’t going to believe me. ‘It’s fine,’ I say. I am numb with shock. ‘My friend’s
outside.’ I stand up. My hands are still trembling. If the police don’t believe me, I have nowhere to hide.

Nowhere I will be safe.

Tears blur my vision as I walk to the door. Somehow I make it back out to the waiting area, down the steps and onto the pavement. I reach Lorcan’s car and get inside.

‘Gen?’ he says.

‘They didn’t believe me.’

‘Oh, Gen.’ There’s compassion in his voice. He puts his hand on my shoulder and I lean against him. All the tension of the past few days leaks out of me along with my tears. I
rest my head against Lorcan’s chest, letting him wrap me in his arms, and a memory hits me from nowhere.

I’m racing out of primary school, a painting of my dad, created
for
my dad, in my hand. And he’s
there
, my dad. One of the rare occasions he picked me up after
school, and he’s
there
, watching for me. And the unexpected and amazing coincidence of this overwhelms me and I hurtle towards him. And he sees me too and he smiles and he opens his
arm and I’m almost flying through the air to reach him faster, faster; and then something trips me and the playground rushes up to meet me and I’m smashing onto the tarmac and
there’s pain in my knee and then his strong arms pick me up and my dad holds me and he’s saying: ‘Hey, Queenie, don’t cry,’ and his breath is sweet and comforting and
I cling to him like the universe is disappearing all around us. And then he sets me down and I’m still sobbing but they’re little jerky sobs now and he takes my hand to lead me away and
I remember the painting and I look round and it’s on the ground behind me, mud-spattered and trodden into a puddle by the other children. And no one has noticed, and I stare at it over my
shoulder, the tears rising again and my dad is walking along, talking to one of the other mums and he is tugging me after him and I want to make him stop so we can go back and fetch the painting
but he pulls me after him: ‘Come on now, Geniver,’ and I stare at the painting and my knee stings but I stop crying because there is no point and in that moment I know the hopelessness
of love.

I lift my face, knowing it is tear-stained and that my nose must be red and my make-up must be smudged under my eyes. Lorcan says nothing but I see the tenderness in his eyes as I pull away from
our hug.

As he drives off, he glances over.

‘Where do you want to go now?’ he says.

I look at him. ‘I don’t know.’ I want to say that I just want to be somewhere quiet, where I don’t have to answer to anyone or even think about Art lying to me or that
Beth may be alive. But the words in my head are trapped there. Too hard to express.

Lorcan reaches out his hand and gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze.

‘You can come and stay with me, if you like,’ he says.

I shake my head. Lorcan has been brilliant, but sleeping over at his flat feels like too great an intimacy. I run through the options in my head. Hen is the obvious choice – the person I
always turn to – and yet I don’t want to confide in her. Not after all her conversations with Art, and knowing how unstable she already thinks I am. On the other hand, it doesn’t
really matter where I go. I don’t have to talk. I just don’t want to be at home.

‘I’ll go to Hen’s,’ I say. ‘Would you drop me off?’

‘Sure.’

I call to check this is okay with Hen, ignoring the five missed calls from Art that flash up on my phone as soon as I switch it on.

‘I won’t get in the way,’ I say to her. ‘I just want to sit and chill.’

‘You could never be in the way, Gen.’ Hen is speaking with characteristic warmth, but I can also hear the concern in her voice. I feel sure she has already heard about my latest
outburst from Art. ‘We can talk properly when Nat goes to bed.’

‘Okay.’ I’m still not sure how much to say to Hen. Part of me can’t bear the prospect of opening up, knowing how she and Art have been talking about me. Part of me is
desperate to convince her that I’m not imagining that Beth was born alive – that the man who attacked and threatened me is, like the CCTV footage, proof of a terrible crime. As soon as
I’ve finished the call I turn my phone onto silent. On the way to Hen’s house, I explain to Lorcan exactly what the police said. The anger and the despair of my encounter with DS
Manning are gone now. I’m strangely calm, in fact. So the police aren’t going to help me. At least I know where I stand. I’m on my own . . . wholly responsible for what comes
next.

Hen’s house is in uproar when I arrive. It sounds like she’s set up a crèche in her living room, though, in fact, the noise is emanating from just two kids: Nat and his
friend, Josh, who have created a camp with sofas and blankets for tents. The room is one of those knock-through jobs with two fireplaces. Hen has decorated with chunky modern couches, two of which
are currently covered with blankets. I’m still not used to her living somewhere so grand. Most of the time I’ve known her she’s survived in a succession of bedsits, getting by on
a combination of luck, charm and indulgent landlords.

I glance over at the bookshelves, where Hen’s English-degree novels sit side by side with Rob’s extensive collection of classic-car magazines. They only moved here last year and the
house is still settling around them, their possessions not yet properly merged. Or maybe all Hen’s stuff just stands out to me because I’ve known her for so long.

Right now, she’s flushed and harassed. I follow her into the kitchen and listen to her complaints about Josh’s manners for five minutes, while she takes two cartons of organic juice
out of the fridge and forgets to make the cup of tea she offered me at the front door.

At last she quietens down and puts the kettle on. The kitchen we’re sitting in is Hen’s dream room, from the mottled granite work surface to the pale green kitchen cupboards. The
dying light outside glows off the aquamarine mosaic splash-back, casting shadows across Nat’s latest paintings that adorn the walls.

When I close my eyes I can still feel the mugger’s grip around my neck. And yet, in Hen’s cosy kitchen, it feels like the attack happened years ago.

‘I’m sorry about the chaos, Gen,’ Hen says with a sigh, sinking into the chair opposite me. Shrieks of laughter drift towards us from the living room. Hen leans forward, her
forehead creased with a frown. ‘I feel so awkward,’ she says. ‘Art keeps calling me. He was on the phone just before you rang earlier.’ She stops, catching the irritation
that must have flickered across my face. ‘Gen,
please
don’t think we’re talking behind your back. He’s only calling me because he loves you so much and he’s
worried about you. He says you’re convinced now that he stole Beth away from you just after she was born. Is that really true, Gen? Do you seriously think he’s capable of doing
that?’

I don’t know
. I gaze into her eyes and my irritation dissolves. This is just Hen and me and she’s my oldest friend. Of course Art has turned to her – he knows that
I
turn to her. And if I can’t trust Hen, who can I trust?

I open my mouth to tell her about the CCTV footage and how I was just mugged outside Art’s office, when Nat appears in the doorway asking for his and Josh’s drinks. Hen shoots me an
apologetic look, then crosses the room to retrieve the juice cartons. Nat hovers in the doorway, watching me in that slightly detached way he has. He’s a miniature version of Hen in terms of
both his pale colouring and the shock of wild, frizzy hair that frames his heart-shaped face. I still can’t look at Nat without remembering the darkness of the time surrounding his birth. And
yet, the older he gets, the more I have learned to love him. He seems to carry all Hen’s best qualities – openness, charm and affection – but with an undertow of kindness and a
genuinely sweet nature.

Hen hands over the juice cartons and Nat trots away. If Beth hadn’t been taken away from me, then it might have been her and Nat playing camps in the living room. I wonder what Hen would
have made of my daughter . . . whether Beth would have been as like me as Nat is like her . . .

Then it strikes me . . . if Beth is still alive, then maybe she already
is
like me.

Hen sits back down in her chair. ‘Go on,’ she says.

‘I found a film,’ I say slowly. ‘A film that shows Art with our baby.’

Hen frowns. ‘How is that possible?’

I explain about the CCTV footage from the Fair Angel hospital.

‘Art claims it was faked but—’

‘It
must
be,’ Hen interrupts. ‘There’s no other explanation.’

‘No, the film shows the nurse at the birth – Mary Duncan – actually handing Beth to Art. He—’

‘But you said you couldn’t remember what she looked like,’ Hen interrupts again. ‘When her sister came to see you, you said you couldn’t be sure the picture she
showed you was the actual nurse from the hospital. I remember you
saying
that.’