The Stranger on the Train (9 page)

“I hope I'm not intruding,” Rafe said, peering at her in a worried way.

“Can I help you?” Emma asked. His face was beginning to blur. The dizziness was getting worse.

“I was cycling past,” Rafe said, “and I just . . .” His eyes moved down. His voice faltered. “. . . wanted to see how you were.”

Emma glanced down at herself too and caught a whiff of sweat. She hadn't got around to showering recently. Her scalp itched and her hair hung over her face in greasy, separated handfuls.

“Cops not here?” Rafe asked.

“They're not coming anymore.”

“What?”

Emma clung to the door. The light shifted, moving in strange shapes across the carpet.

Rafe said: “Do you need to sit down?”

Cautiously, still watching her, he pushed the door open further. When she didn't object, he came right in and closed it behind him. He took Emma's arm and led her to the couch.

“Sit,” he said.

Muzzily, she did. The black dots that had been creeping towards the center of her vision began to recede.

“Are you all right?” Rafe asked. He was hunched on the floor, looking up at her. His face, furrowed with worry, was close to hers, then far away. Close; far away.

In a faint voice, Emma said: “I've remembered.”

“What?” Rafe looked puzzled.

“The thing.” She tried to explain. “You were there. The thing I was trying to remember. I know now what it was.”

She knew she wasn't making her point very well. She didn't really expect him to know what she was talking about. But to her surprise, he seemed to get it straightaway.

“On the balcony,” he said. He got to his feet and sat down beside her on the couch. “I remember. What was it? What did the police say?”

“I haven't told them.”

“Oh.”

She felt him looking at her.

“Why don't you tell me, then?” he suggested. “I'll listen. I might be able to help.”

The way he said it. As if he really was interested. As if he really thought it might be important. Emma found herself describing to him exactly what Antonia had said; how the way she'd pronounced the word “Bergerac” had reminded her of her mum watching the TV. How Antonia had muttered and put her hand over her mouth as if to hide what she was saying. How flustered she'd seemed when she'd realized that Emma was right behind her.

“It might be nothing,” Emma said at the end, realizing how woolly it all sounded, even to her. “Except—”

Except, now she was going over it again, she couldn't help being convinced it was important. Why else would Antonia not have wanted her to hear?

“Bergerac.” Rafe wrinkled his brow. “Someone's name, do you think? Her husband's?”

“I don't know,” Emma said helplessly. The doubts were creeping back again. “It mightn't mean anything at all. Maybe I'm wrong, and she didn't say it at all.”

“If it's a name,” Rafe was still frowning to himself, scratching his chin, “then maybe she was talking
about
someone. Maybe the police could look up all—”

He stopped.

“Hang on a minute. Isn't there a place in France called Bergerac?”

“Is there?”

“Yeah. You're always seeing it in the travel supplements. Loads of Antonia types go there on holidays. And you said her French accent was good.” Rafe got up off the couch and began to pace around the room. “You know something, it could fit. If they kidnapped a child, it would make sense to get him out of the country as soon as possible. If they had connections in France . . . Shit.” He stopped pacing. “It's worth looking into.”

“But how?”

“I don't know. Look up passenger lists. See if anyone flew to Bergerac with a child. Course, they could have gone by train. Or ferry.” He chewed his thumb. “Or road. But Bergerac's got an airport. It's worth a try.”

Just for a second, Emma felt a wild, panicky sense of hope. Were they really onto something here? Then she said: “But Ritchie doesn't have a passport.”

“They could have got him a fake one. Or used some other kid's passport. Kids all look the same at that age, don't they?” Rafe froze. “Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.” He looked around the room. “Where's your phone? You have to tell the police about this.”

“They won't—”

“Yes they will.”

Rafe had spotted the phone on the table beside the window. He went to grab it. Lindsay's number was still on the Post-it stuck to the receiver.

“Ring her,” Rafe ordered.

His enthusiasm was infectious. Emma's fingers felt thick and squashy, like sausages. She managed to press the buttons to dial Lindsay's number. She got through to Lindsay straightaway.

“Bergerac?” Lindsay repeated. “Can you spell that? And you think she might have meant the place in France. We'll do what we can, Emma. We'll look into it immediately.”

Emma hung up. Rafe was leaning against the table with his arms folded, watching her.

“They're going to look into it,” she told him.

“Of course they are.”

“For what it's worth,” Emma said, suddenly tired. The excitement was fading again. This was ridiculous. “Bergerac” could mean anything. Anything at all. The name of Antonia's dog. A type of perfume. What were the odds that hearing one random word could make a difference? You might as well drop a coin from a cliff and expect to pick it up again on the shore. The wooziness was back, weaving the edges of the walls and furniture. She hoped Rafe would leave soon.

But he wasn't showing any signs of going anywhere.

“Have you had anything to eat today?” he asked.

Without waiting for an answer, he pushed himself off the table and headed for the kitchen.

“Excuse me.” Emma followed him. “Excuse me, what do you think you're doing?”

Rafe opened the fridge. A funny smell floated out. Yogurts and jars of baby food were clustered on the lower shelves. Two blackened bananas lay on the middle shelf beside a sliced loaf splodged with green. On the top shelf was a plastic milk container. The contents were yellow and lumpy.

“Not much here, is there?” Rafe said.

He closed the fridge.

“Tell you what,” he said. “I'm going to cycle to the shops and stock you up on some food. When I come back, I'm going to cook you something to eat.”

“You don't need to.” Emma shook her head. “I'm not hungry.”

“I don't mind,” Rafe insisted. “I like cooking. Where are your keys?”

Emma didn't answer that. She folded her arms, pulling her fleece closer around herself, and faced Rafe.

“Can I ask you a question first?” she said. “What do you want, exactly?”

“To make sure you eat something.” Rafe sounded surprised. “You look as if you haven't had a decent meal in days.”

“And why does that bother you?” Emma asked. “It's not as if you know me. A few days ago, we'd never even met. Why do you keep coming here?” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you hoping I'll have sex with you? A free shag? Is that it?”

“Excuse—”

“Let me tell you something,” Emma interrupted, “about what kind of person I am. And then we'll see whether you still want to . . .
cook me dinner
.”

The last three words came out with a sneer. She could guess what sort of dinner it was he wanted. Rafe had a shocked expression on his face. Well, good. He might as well know what she was really like. It would get rid of him. He'd be out of here as quickly as everyone else.

“A couple of weeks ago,” she said, “before Ritchie was kidnapped, I went to my GP and I told her that I hated him.”

“You what?”

“You heard me. I told my GP that I hated Ritchie.”

Rafe said nothing.

“I told her I wished he'd never been born,” Emma said angrily. Wasn't he going to make any kind of response to that? “I told her I hoped that Ritchie would
die
.”

But the word “die” came scraping out of her throat like sandpaper. Despite her defiance, she flinched. Once again, she was back in Dr. Stanford's surgery. The hiss of gas from the heater. The smell of feet. Ritchie, beside her in his buggy in his elephant fleece, crying and crying and crying.

Emma pressed her hand to her chest. She couldn't catch her breath. A big bulge was in there, trying to tear its way out.
Enough,
she thought, cringing inside.
Enough. Don't tell him any more.

“My own son,” she said instead in a hard, cold voice, when she could speak. “So that's the kind of pathetic psycho bitch I am. And you've clearly decided I'm so messed up, you can call around here and cook dinner and I'll collapse into your arms and have sex with you and no one will ever know. That's what you're here for, isn't it? Why else would you want to do all this for someone you don't even know?”

Success at last. Rafe was angry now. His chest was puffed out, his shoulders up around his ears. He raised his eyebrows, looking up and to the right, and sucked in a breath. His lips formed an O shape, the prelude to “Wh.” It was so obvious he was going to snap: “Why indeed, you pathetic psycho bitch?” and stamp out.

But he didn't say that. He let his breath out again, and paused before he spoke.

“The reason I'm here,” he said quietly, “is because I care about what happens to Ritchie. That, and no other reason. I don't know Ritchie, I've never met him, but I was there the day he was taken. I could have done something. I
should
have done something. I was a policeman, for Christ's sake. I should never have left you in the state you were in. I've thought about nothing else over the last few days and I can't forgive myself for letting it happen.”

His voice was shaking. His face was red and his arms were tightly folded.

“And about what you said to your GP,” he added. “I don't know why you said it, but I'm sure you were under a lot of pressure at the time. People say things all the time that they don't mean.”

Emma couldn't speak.

“So if I'm too much, if you want me to leave you in peace, then you just tell me and I won't come here anymore.”

The dizziness was back with a vengeance. Emma stepped back and felt her hip knock against something. There was a clatter as the table hit the wall. The phone slid to the floor, landing with a thump. Emma sank onto her knees.

“I keep thinking of him,” she said. She gripped her head between her hands. “I can't get him out of my mind. I feel like I'm going mad. Every time,
every time
, I do anything, lie down, or drink a glass of water or have a cup of coffee, I think: How can I do this, how can I be comfortable, when Ritchie might be suffering right at this very minute?”

“You can't think like that. You don't know—”

“He's being punished because of me,” Emma cried. “I didn't take proper care of him. It wasn't just an accident. It wouldn't have happened to someone else. You heard the way I talked to Dr. Stanford about him, what I said . . . you heard . . .”

She shoved her fists to her eyes, blocking it out.

There was movement beside her. Rafe, hunching down so that his face was next to hers.

“Listen to me,” he said. “You're going to find him. You're going to get him back.”

“Stop saying that,” Emma wept. “It means nothing. None of you know where he is or what's happening to him. You don't know. You don't know.”

“You told the police that Antonia seemed to know about children,” Rafe said. “You said she knew how to hold him. How to put him in his . . . pram, or whatever. It sounds to me like she took Ritchie because she wanted him for herself. Not to hurt him, but to raise him as her own.”

“You can't say that. You don't even know it was her who took him.”

“You
have
to say it. You have to think it. Ritchie is going to be okay.”

His strange, yellowish eyes met hers. Very straight, very calm. If he was lying, he was bloody good at it.

Rafe stood up. He took Emma's arm and helped her to her feet. He pointed her in the direction of the bathroom.

“I'll be back soon,” he said.

The keys were in the lock in the door. He took them and left.

Emma went into the bathroom. She undressed and stepped into the olive-green bath. She turned on the taps, and held the shower nozzle over her hair. Warm liquid streamed down her face, and she didn't know whether it was water or tears. The police
had
to say nice things about Ritchie. It was part of their job. They didn't want her getting hysterical, making things more difficult for everyone. But Rafe didn't have to say anything, did he? Why would he bother, unless it was what he really thought? She desperately wanted to believe him. In all of this, he was the first person she'd met who hadn't treated her like some kind of a criminal or liar. After what she'd told him about Dr. Stanford, she'd expected him to back off, to behave, at least, with more coldness or caution, but his eyes just now when he'd looked at her had held nothing but understanding and compassion. Emma's mouth crumpled. More tears! She put the shower nozzle to her face and waited for them to pass. Crying wasn't going to get her anywhere. The only thing that was going to help her now was to know for certain that Ritchie was all right.

When the tears had settled, she turned off the shower. She got out, and dried herself, and put on a clean pair of jeans and a top. And when she'd done all that, she found, to her surprise, that she did feel a tiny bit better.

Even hungry.

Rafe was back when she came out of the bathroom. Clattering noises filled the flat. She found him in the kitchen, chopping a stick of bread. Plastic Sainsbury's bags littered the worktops.

“A few days' supplies,” Rafe said awkwardly, following her gaze. “I hope you like pasta.”