In the end, it is Ben who picks up Norah from my flat. It’s been a long time since his car last pulled up outside. It was that time I’d been arguing with David and said I needed a break. It feels like a different lifetime.
He straps Norah into the car seat in the front seat and then collapses the buggy into the boot. It’s the type of folding mechanism that looks like it’s amputated a thumb or two in its time, but Ben packs it down with the ease of a person who’s done it many times before. Even this comes easily to him.
‘I thought you were at a conference?’ I say.
He closes the boot and turns: ‘I was on the way. Jane called to say she was running late, so I ended up coming back here. I’m going to drive down to London later. I’ll miss the opening banquet but…’ He tails off and shrugs, as if to say that it doesn’t matter too much.
‘Has something gone wrong?’ I ask.
His brow creases with momentary confusion: ‘With Jane?’
‘Who else?’
‘I don’t think so. She sounded fine when she called.’ He turns to the car and stoops to check on Norah. ‘You all right, sweetheart?’ he asks.
She turns to him and replies with a clear: ‘Daddy!’
The grin that spreads onto his face couldn’t be any larger. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him smile like this. Perhaps not only him, but anyone. It’s joy in its purest form.
‘How was she?’ Ben asks, although it takes me a moment to realise he’s talking to me.
‘She liked being strapped into her buggy,’ I say, fighting away those feelings of guilt about the empty buggy.
He nods and the smile trickles its return. ‘It depends on the day of the week. Sometimes she wants to walk everywhere, other times she’ll point to her buggy and cry if we don’t put her in it. We have to wheel her into the living room to watch her shows, or read her a story.’
The smile fades sadly. It would have disappeared more quickly if I’d told him that I’d lost his daughter for ten minutes.
‘I should get off,’ Ben says. ‘Thank you for having her.’
‘See you around,’ I reply, not thinking about the words. It’s a reflex of a reply. A thank you/you’re welcome of an exchange. There was something firm and final in his tone.
He stops and stares: ‘No,’ he says pointedly. ‘You won’t.’
I don’t bother waiting to see him leave. Instead, I head inside and lock the door. It feels as if the world is imploding.
I text one of the other trainers from the studio, asking if she can take my evening classes because I have a sore throat. The reply pings back almost immediately that she will. ‘Something going around,’ she adds – which is the explanation for everything. Got a cough? Something’s going around. Flu? Headaches? Herpes? Split ends? Everything’s always going around.
There is more paperwork to do – there always is – but I can’t even look at my laptop. There’s the baby clothes that turned up out of nowhere – and then Norah’s disappearance almost seems like a dream now. It felt like hours, but I can tell from the time of Mr Patrick’s call through to the text message arriving that it was a little under ten minutes. It was nothing and yet it was an age.
You know where.
Of everything from the text message, that’s the bit that really gets me – because I do know where.
The minutes tick by slower than ever and there are moments in which it feels as if 9 p.m. will never come around. I’m a kid waiting for Christmas morning – except nothing good is going to happen when the time finally arrives.
It’s ninety minutes after Ben leaves that I text Jane:
How did the op go?
A reply comes back almost immediately:
Good.
That’s it. She doesn’t mention any specifics, or Norah. I try typing out a couple of replies, but nothing feels right. I wonder if Norah has moved up from single words to full sentences in the last hour-and-a-half and is busy singing like someone’s nephew in a Scorsese movie. I end up leaving it at that. If Jane wants to tell me anything more, then she will.
It’s a little after eight when I can wait no longer. I’m going to be early – but that will be better than late.
After a warmer, cloudier day, the night feels like the panicky moments directly before something goes horribly wrong. The hedgerows are painted a speckly white and the car windscreens are already crusted with ice. I can feel the cold in my bones as I sit, waiting for the windows of Andy’s BMW to defrost. Warm air blasts from the vents, though the conditions outside the car are apt for whatever’s about to happen.
Nobody sensible is braving the roads tonight and, as soon as I get past the boundary of Gradingham, I’m swallowed by the night. The car’s headlights barely make an imprint on the countryside’s cavernous depths of black. The once familiar lanes that lead towards Kingbridge are now like looking down and seeing someone else’s hand.
It’s such a surprise to see the sign for the rugby club that I almost swerve towards it, instead of around the bend. The hedge rushes towards me and, when I turn the steering wheel, I half expect the wheels to lock and the car to spin. In the split-second, I’m almost certain I close my eyes, but it’s hard to know for sure because, all of a sudden, everything is fine. I’m on the carriageway as I should be.
By the time I pull into the car park at Little Bush Woods, my heart is still pounding. I’ve not seen a single vehicle since leaving home.
You know where.
Where else could it be? Everything leads back to the place where I rolled David’s body into the water.
It’s almost ten minutes to nine. There are two cars parked at opposite ends of the parking area, neither of which seem to have anyone in them. I doubt anyone has come here for a late-night walk around the park and yet I can’t think of another legitimate reason why they might be here. I suppose the same is true of me.
I wait a couple of minutes to see if anyone will appear. When nobody does, I get out of the car. The cold instantly leaves me gasping, like vines snaking into my lungs. I’ve forgotten my hat and gloves – and there’s nothing for it other than to jam my hands into my coat pockets as I set off for the bridge. The spindly, bare tree branches rustle steadily around me; a fanfare heralding my arrival. There are no secrets here.
You know where.
It is 8.58 when I get to the ramp of the bridge. I almost expect to see the shadow there in the centre, forearms leaning on the rail. David back from the dead. It only now occurs to me that I’m utterly unprepared. I have no idea how he could have survived – but he’s hardly going to be happy about everything that happened. It’s not like I’m here for a cheery reunion.
The centre of the bridge is deserted, but I set off towards it anyway. The wood underfoot is clammy and sodden, though there’s a hint of frost clinging to the rail.
The time on my phone reads precisely 9.00 as I stand in the centre. I wait and then turn in a circle, expecting someone to be there. Expecting David to be there. He’s not. Nobody is. There are no animals, no people, no anything. The night is still except for the gentle bristling of the tree branches.
When 9.01 arrives, the bridge is still deserted. By 9.02, I’m starting to lose feeling in my fingers. They’re at the stage where, if it wasn’t for what I can see, it would be hard to know for certain whether they are hot or cold. The glacial air tickles my throat and I have to cover my nose and mouth with my hands in an instantly failed attempt to try to warm myself.
Time continues to move. When 9.05 arrives, I am still alone. By 9.10, I’m wondering if I was wrong. The message said I’d know where to go – but, aside from my flat, I can’t think of anywhere other than here.
At 9.15, I start to pace. There’s the now familiar sense of being watched, even though I’ve not seen a soul in hours. By 9.20, my shoes and socks are no longer effective against the chill. It’s like my toes are being squeezed in a vice as I try to wriggle some life back into them.
It’s 9.25 when I give up. My teeth are chattering and it’s so cold that even blinking has started to hurt. As I hurry back to Andy’s car, I hear every snap from the woods; every whisper from the undergrowth. I tell myself it’s the wind, but even my thoughts are frozen solid.
I fumble with the fob for the car, stumbling not only to hold it but also to press the button to unlock the doors. I can hardly get a grip on the handle and pulling on the door sends scorpion stings shooting through my fingers. I practically throw myself into the driver’s seat, before hooking the door closed and then putting the fans onto full heat and power. My skin is so numb that I can’t be sure whether the clash of temperatures is a good or bad thing. I hold my fingers in front of the vents, willing them to come back to life.
You know where.
I’m still sure this is where I was supposed to be – and yet I was here alone. Or I felt alone. The woods provide enough places for someone to hide. It’s not as if this is the only place to park, either. The trails lead out to other roads, some that are on maps, some that aren’t.
What I can’t figure out is why someone wanted me here.
The answer comes as my phone starts to ring. It’s Jane – and I can tell from the quiver as she says my name that something is wrong.
‘What is it?’ I say.
‘It’s David,’ she replies. ‘He’s here.’