There’s not a strong enough word to convey the absolute raw terror I feel as I stare across to the empty buggy. It’s such a shock, it’s like I’ve been punched in the stomach. It feels as if the ceiling is falling; that the sky itself is collapsing. I felt like this once before – and I lost a child that day, too.
I rush to the buggy and check the straps, almost to make sure it’s not some sort of illusion. The straps hang unfastened and limp, with no sign that they were ever being used to secure a child. There’s only one stall with the door closed, although I know there’s no way a sixteen-month-old could release themselves from the straps and open it. I look anyway. The hinges are wonky and noisy, and, when I shove it open, there is no little girl inside. The toilet block is far too small for someone to hide.
‘Norah?’
I’d love to hear her confident voice calling ‘tree’ or ‘duck’, but there’s silence. I don’t know what else to do, so wheel the buggy outside. I half expect someone to be there with Norah – ha ha, look who I found trying to run away – but there’s not much of anything. The sky is grey; the grass is tinted with white – and, aside from the boys playing football at the furthest end of the park, I can’t see anyone.
There is a separate disabled toilet, the door already partly open. The nappy-changing table is down and the bin is overflowing, though there’s no sign of a person.
I move to the other side of the block and the men’s toilets. There is a similar zigzag entrance as there is for the women’s and I edge along slowly.
‘Hello? Anyone in there?’
There’s no answer, so I move quicker. It’s darker and smellier than the women’s toilet. The floor is wet – but it still doesn’t take me long to figure that there’s no one here.
Back outside and the empty space in the buggy is gaping. There’s a rushing sensation in my stomach as if I’m going to be sick – but it’s not a physical thing. I thought that what happened with David was the worst thing I’d ever do – but this is worse.
‘Norah…?’
My voice barely carries, as if the atmosphere is so shamed by what I’ve done that it can’t be bothered to transfer my voice. I keep turning to the buggy as if expecting Norah to materialise with a dramatic ‘ta-da!’ She doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t.
I wheel the buggy around the entire toilet block with increasing speed. There’s nobody here. I was only on the phone for a minute or two. Where could she have gone? There is a moment of clarity as I stop in front of the ladies’ and look around the grass for footprint trails. I’m so convinced that this will work that it’s a shock when I find myself back at a crossroads where the path meets another stretch of tarmac. There are no trails on the grass.
Other than the path and the grass, the closest thing to the toilet block is a large, wiry tuft of hedges. In the summer, it will be an enormous green dome, though it is more a collection of weedy sticks at this time of year. I try to peer towards the centre, though there are bits of crisp packets and plastic bags stuck to the branches. The twigs are tightly packed and tougher than I thought – and I can’t believe there are many adults, let alone children, who could batter their way into a hiding place.
The soil is mushy as I edge my way around the bush, though there are no obvious footprints. On the other side, there’s a steady slope towards the pond.
I know what’s happened. I can feel it, almost as if I actually watched it happening. Norah’s drowned. I did the unforgiveable and took my eyes off her and she staggered away to the water. She’ll be face-down and that will be that. How could I ever explain this to anyone, let alone my supposed best friend?
Except the pond is empty, too. The ducks and crows have disappeared to the other side of the bank, close to the bench. There’s barely a ripple to the water; hardly a breath of wind. The world feels still.
I turn in a full circle, unsure where to go and what to do. I end up heading back up the bank and around the copse until I’m at the empty buggy. I look to the furthest side of the park, but even the boys have given up their football game and gone home. I feel alone.
I take out my phone, unsure who to call first. The police or Jane?
It’s the same feeling I had when David’s body was in the back of my car and was driving him to the lake at Little Bush Woods. That sense of knowing that life can never quite be the same again. Even if she’s found, this is the end of my friendship with Jane. Things can never recover from this. Everyone in the village will know me as the woman who lost someone else’s child.
I open the phone app and have already dialled two nines when I hear a soft, babble of a sob. It’s such a shock that I almost drop the phone. I start to shake as I spin, trying to figure out if the sound is actually there, or if it’s in my imagination.
The second cry almost sets me off. It’s a steady wail now and I follow the noise into the disabled toilet. I checked here a few minutes ago – but that was then and this is now. The nappy-changing table is still down, but, this time, Norah is straddled across it, wrapped in a blanket. Her blue eyes are stained by tears and they stare accusingly at me as she quietens to breathy sobs.
I pick her up and, though she fights against me, I hold her close. I have to tell myself not to grasp her too tightly because I can barely believe she’s actually real.
‘I’m here,’ I say. ‘I’m so sorry.’
I carry Norah out and place her into her buggy. As soon as I put the straps across her, she’s instantly silenced. I kneel, pressing my knee into the hard concrete and lower myself until we’re eye to eye.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask.
Norah doesn’t reply, though I gently press my fingers to her face, looking for any incriminating marks. She’s still wearing the same outfit; with the only addition being one of the blankets that were underneath the buggy.
It’s as I’m standing that my phone buzzes. I’m expecting Jane – but it’s a text from the unknown 07 number that messaged me before.
Tonight. 9 p.m. Just You. You know where.