Little White Lies (70 page)

‘Yes, yes . . . I’ll . . . I’ll just get my drink.’ Tash bit her lip. Surely it was fine to pop indoors and make herself a drink? Maryam was nowhere near the water and Didi looked as though he’d been born a fish. Nothing would happen for the few seconds it would take her. ‘Keep an eye on your sister, won’t you?’ she called out to David and Joshua. ‘Don’t let her go near the water.’ Joshua, the more responsible of the two, nodded. David was busy setting up some complicated plastic toy in order either to destroy or float it and barely looked up.

She quickly went inside, made herself a large gin and tonic and hurried outside again. All was calm. The three boys were in the water. As a precaution, she called them over and, against their protests, fitted all three with plastic armbands. Now she could relax. Maryam was playing with one of those animal-shaped mobiles. At nearly a year old, she could crawl faster than most, Clea had told her, but she rarely went off on her own. She pulled a magazine out of her bag, took a large gulp and settled her sunglasses on her head. She would let them play amongst themselves for an hour or so, then Cliff and Dean would amble over, she would serve lunch . . . the boys would find their own amusement as they always did and she would take Maryam upstairs for her nap. She ran over the plan in her mind’s eye; the afternoon yawned away from her in a pleasing rotation of activities. It was hot; despite it only being May, the sun was almost directly overhead. She craned her neck to see Maryam – was the sunshade on? Yes, Clea had thought of everything. There were bottles of sun lotion beside the wicker tables and she quickly got up to lather more on the boys’ arms and necks, even Didi.

She lay back again, unbuttoning her own shift and letting the warm rays hit the soft bare flesh of her stomach. She finished off her drink, pulled her sunglasses down over her eyes and picked up her magazine. For the first time in a long while, she felt herself begin to relax, the tension in her neck and shoulders slowly draining away with the sound of the children’s excited laughter.

She opened her eyes on an unfamiliar bird, swaying almost within reach of her hand on spindly, jet-black legs. In the pause between the pleasurable balance of sleep and the harsh light of waking, she passed a tongue over her dry, parched lips and the magazine slipped from her stomach, startling the bird, which took off in a great flapping of wings. She sat up, dazed, looking around her. For the second time in as many days it took her a second to gather her thoughts: the children. She scrambled to her feet. There was no one in the pool. ‘Joshua? David?’ she called out, lifting a hand to shield her eyes. There was no answer. ‘Joshua?’ she called again, turning round. Maryam’s chair was empty. How could she have crawled out? A run of trembling went through her. She thrust her feet hurriedly into her flip-flops and ran towards the house. They must be inside. One of the boys must have taken her along.

The kitchen was empty; only the thrum and hum of the refrigerator broke the eerie silence. She felt the beginnings of a slow, terrible dread spread upwards through her belly and chest. She ran into the hallway. ‘David? Didier?’ Through the house, yanking the front door open, running out onto the white-pebbled driveway. Still no one. ‘Josh!’ The word was practically a scream. Back into the house, up the stairs, two at a time, she burst into their bedroom and still there was nothing. No sign of anyone. The beds were exactly as Clea had left them – neatly and perfectly made, as though they hadn’t been slept in the night before. She stood in the doorway swaying on legs that had turned to jelly. The beach. The thought of it made her insides churn over. She ran then, banging her elbow awkwardly against the bannister, feet stumbling over one another. Outside again, feet thudding, slapping against each other, down, down the narrow path to the beach, heart racing, fear a sour, metallic taste at the back of her mouth. The beach was empty; a wave of relief flowed over her – there were no bodies washed up on the shore. She felt the beginnings of tears and a sob escaped her mouth. If they weren’t at the beach, where were they? She turned in panic. Something moved just out of the corner of her eye; she whirled round and almost fell to the ground in relief. It was Cliff. He was climbing over the top of the nearest dune. ‘Cliff! Cliff! Where . . . where are the others?’

He lifted his head and pointed behind him. ‘They’re here,’ he called. ‘Right behind me.’

She could have wept. She stumbled across the long grasses, clutching her shift dress to her. In her panic, she’d forgotten to do it up. ‘Where did you go?’ she shouted as she ran towards them. ‘You know you’re not supposed to go anywhere without telling me! Cliff . . . Dean . . . you should know better!’ They all looked up at her as she bore down upon them with the half-fearful, half-confused look of children caught in the glare of an adult’s anger. Even little Didi looked scared. She forced herself to smile. ‘You gave me such a fright,’ she said, slowing to a walk. ‘I thought you’d got lost.’

‘We were just—’

‘We found—’

‘Cliff, show her . . . go on, you found them’

‘Where’s Maryam?’ Tash looked around her dazedly.

The five boys looked at her, then at each other. Joshua frowned. ‘She’s in her chair,’ he said indignantly. ‘We left her there.’

‘Where?’

‘Beside the pool. She was sleeping. We didn’t want to wake her up.’

She stared at them, a rising fear threatening to burst out of her throat. No. She had to remain calm. For their sakes, if not hers. She swallowed. All five were looking at her expectantly. She took in a deep breath and held Cliff, the oldest, by the shoulders. ‘I’m going back to the house, Cliff,’ she said, in what she prayed was a calm voice. ‘I want you to take the others straight back, d’you hear me? Straight back. I’m going to run ahead. Have you got that?’

Cliff squirmed under her fingers but nodded. ‘Yeah, sure.’ He was eight years old but to her, he seemed almost an adult.

‘Straight back. Don’t stop anywhere, you promise?’

‘Yeah.’

She took one look at the five of them and understood they’d caught something of her fear. They wouldn’t go anywhere. She turned and ran, barely stopping to draw breath.

Right up until the moment she lifted the receiver to dial 911 she thought Maryam might be found any minute now. It was fourteen minutes past one. Forty minutes since she’d woken up to find the children gone. There was a second’s pause as the numbers went through, then the calm, professional voice of the operator came down the line. ‘Emergency services. How may I direct your call?’

She opened her mouth but nothing came out. ‘I . . . I . . .’

‘How may I direct your call? Law enforcement, fire or ambulance services?’

‘P-p-police. Law enforcement. There’s a child missing,’ she gasped. There was another pause as her call was re-routed. A man’s voice came on the line and suddenly, the full weight of what was about to happen came down upon her.

REBECCA

It seemed to her as soon as she put down the phone that she’d been waiting for the call – or one like it – from the moment Maryam was born. When Tash had managed to choke out the words she’d been waiting nearly a year to hear, she put down the phone with hands that were surprisingly calm. Julian was sitting on the bed, his back to her, barking instructions into the mobile. Their suitcases were beside the door. His and hers. Black leather, Tumi badges, red trim. Details. Strange to think she had the capacity to notice.

‘Ju-Julian.’ She tried out the word on her tongue. He took no notice, still yelling into the phone, sorting out whatever it was that had to be sorted, back home. Home. Where was home? Where her children were, surely? ‘Julian.’ She said it louder this time. He half-turned towards her, impatience written in both his face and stance.

‘What is it?’ He held the mobile away from him.

‘It’s Tash.’ She wasn’t sure how she’d said it. ‘Tash,’ she repeated woodenly.

‘What? What’s the matter?’

‘She . . .’ She stopped, unable to say it out loud.

‘
What?
’

‘Maryam.’ There. She’d said her name.

He was beside her in an instant. She heard his mobile drop as if from a very great distance. She began to make a noise she’d never heard before – a half-groan, half-grunt – and saw the alarm in his face, quickly replaced by the rising terror she was sure was mirrored in hers. ‘Maryam,’ she said again, her voice quivering, breaking.

‘What’s the matter? What’s wrong with Maryam?’ He put out one hand to hold onto her and with the other, grabbed the phone she’d just replaced. ‘What is it, Rebecca?’ She covered his hand with her own, holding onto it as though for dear life. She tried again and again to speak, to tell him what Tash had just blurted out. But he was already dialling.

ANNICK

In one of those surprising moments of clarity in which the future is suddenly revealed, Annick knew that she would remember for the rest of her life the relief that flowed through her when she heard it was Maryam who was missing and not Didier. She gave out a strangled cry, causing Yves to look up from his laptop in alarm.

‘What is it?’ He threw the computer to one side and scrambled out of bed.

‘Th-thank you, yes . . . yes, we’ll be right there. Does her mother know? No, not her godmother, her
mother
. Rebecca. Rebecca Harburg, she’s—’

‘What is it?’ Yves was beside her. He took the phone from her. ‘Hello? This is Yves Pas—Ameyaw. Who is this?’ There was a few seconds’ silence as the police officer she’d just spoken to relayed the same facts to Yves. A child was missing. No, not
their
child. Mr and Mrs Lovell’s child, Maryam Lovell. Yes, a driver had been called. He’d be at the hotel in a few minutes, if they wouldn’t mind returning to Martha’s Vineyard? ‘We’ll be right there,’ Yves said, reaching out to hold Annick’s arm. ‘Thank you. What was your name again? Detective Sergeant Vargas? Varga. Thank you, Detective Varga. We’ll see you shortly.’ He put down the phone and turned to her. ‘Maryam’s missing.’ He said it slowly, as if he were dazed.

Annick swallowed. Shame welled in her throat like nausea. ‘I know . . . she . . . I thought—’

‘I know what you thought,’ Yves said quickly. He pulled her towards him roughly, pressing her head against his neck. She began to sob – great heaving, dry sobs that shuddered through her. ‘Don’t,’ Yves said quietly, stroking her hair. ‘Don’t think about it,
chérie
. Let’s just get there first.’

‘Th-they thought Tash was the mother; they got it wrong . . . I told her, Tash is her godmother, not her mother and—’ She had to stop. Her teeth were chattering.

‘We’ve got to go, Annick. Help me.’ Yves gave her a gentle shake. ‘Come on. We’ve got to pack up. The detective said they were sending a car over. Let’s go.’

She followed him numbly. She couldn’t think straight. What the hell had happened? Missing? What did
that
mean? As they emptied the suite, hurriedly gathering up their possessions, something else came to her . . . why wouldn’t Yves look at her? He was avoiding her eyes, just as she was avoiding the shame of her own relief. Something wasn’t right.

TASH

‘Ma’am?’ She looked up. It was a female police officer. She couldn’t focus properly on the woman’s badge. ‘You need to come with me.’

‘Wh-where? Wh-where are you taking me?’

The woman’s voice was surprisingly gentle. ‘Ma’am. You need to get dressed.’

Tash looked down at herself. She was still wearing the long linen shirt and the red bikini she’d been wearing that morning. Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Y-yes,’ she stammered. ‘I’ll . . . I’ll just go upstairs . . . my bedroom . . .’

‘Ma’am, I need to accompany you. Will you show me the way?’

In silence, with the woman’s hand on her arm to guide her, Tash walked unsteadily out of the room.

The woman detective – Detective Sergeant Maria Varga of Troop D-4, Field Section of the Massachusetts State Police, Middleborough HQ – was still talking to her, her calm voice barely raising a notch as Tash fumbled her way into a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. It was nearly two thirty. Maryam had been missing for two hours. The house was now full of people. Within half an hour of making the call, police and officers from the various departments and agencies trained to deal with such emergencies had descended upon them. Rebecca and Julian were on their way; Annick and Yves would follow shortly. The scared and confused children had been taken upstairs. Maria Varga was asking her something. She frowned and tried to concentrate.

‘Wh-what d’you mean?’ she stammered, her hands refusing to do the work of buttoning a cardigan.

‘Were you drinking, Miss Bryce-Brudenell?’ Detective Sergeant Varga’s voice was steady. ‘We found an almost-empty bottle of gin on the kitchen counter. How many did you have before you went outside with them?’

Tash opened her mouth to explain. ‘It’s not like that. I’m not . . . I don’t—’

‘You don’t need to explain anything to me. I just want the facts, Miss Bryce-Brudenell. How many drinks
did
you have?’

REBECCA

She remembered little of the terrifying dash from the hotel to the airport, a journey of no more than an hour; it seemed triple that. She was dimly aware of Julian’s hand holding hers tight and hard throughout. A cold, terrible dread seeped through her every pore so that she could barely breathe. Her thoughts were confused and incoherent; Maryam, Tariq, Tash, Julian, the boys, her mother . . . round and round, forwards and backwards, this way and that, each possibility more terrifying than the next, until she thought she might actually be sick. The dreaded phone call that every parent reads about but deep, deep down, prays will never be one that
they
will receive, bobbed back to the surface of her consciousness, over and over again. ‘Maryam’s gone missing, Rebecca . . . we’ve searched everywhere . . .’ Tash’s voice. What had happened next? Did she drop the phone? Say something? Explode? She couldn’t remember. Other things came back to her – Julian’s back, the fine fabric of his light-blue shirt stretched across his muscles as he leaned forwards into his telephone call; the dark plum velvet of the curtains, herringbone weave of the carpet, the colours of the satin bedspread. But not her response, not that.