The Missing One (43 page)

This is not right.

But it's a tiny town and there's only one route from here to it. So either way, we're going to bump into each other. But I need coffee and painkillers: my coccyx hurts and I still feel slightly groggy. I need to wake up properly before I get behind a wheel in the rain.

I find the tin of coffee and open the filter machine, chucking in four scoops, but filling it up with enough water for just one cup. I remember that you shouldn't drink too much coffee when you're pregnant. For a moment, I dither. But on balance caffeine is probably less risky for the baby than veering off a cliff top in heavy rain.

I flick the coffee machine on and hurry to the bedroom to pack.

I can't wait to get Finn from Susannah, to hold him close and feel his arms round my neck, kiss his downy cheeks, put him into the hire car, with his blanket and bunny and duck cup, and drive away – away from her, onto the ferry and put this oppressive place behind us, for ever. Another wave of physical need crashes through my body, as powerful as any fever or sickness. I need my little boy back. Right now.

I won't tell Alice that I lost sight of him for this short time. I won't tell anyone. Definitely not Doug. This will soon be over. I just have to go and get him.

I sweep up toiletries from the bathroom. I have ibuprofen in my sponge bag – I forgot it was there; I tip two into my hand and swallow them. My back throbs as I lean over to take gulps of water from the tap. I splash more water on my face. One of Finn's lorries is in the shower, his blue sock is under the sink; there is a packet of wipes on the radiator. I shove it all in. I scoop up his cars, and tip them into the gingham bag. Then I start gathering up the clothes that are strewn about the place – his trousers and jeans, the filthy
ketchup-smeared dungarees, the small vests and T-shirts and fleeces. I have to get him back, right now.

I find his bunny under the duvet. For a moment, I bury my nose in it, then I shove it into my messenger bag. He'll be wanting his bunny, too. Then I look around. His sleeping bag is not here.

I look for it under the duvet. Down behind the bed. Under the bed. In the bag – did I throw it in there without noticing? And his spaceman pyjamas. Where are they? I dig around in the case; I probably shoved them in there too; this pregnancy fog – it feels as if I am still not fully awake, not thinking clearly, missing something obvious. Maybe Susannah took the sleeping bag to keep him extra warm in the car. Probably a good idea in this weather. It is reassuring that she is concerned about his warmth. And yet, there's something uncomfortable about her being in here, rooting around our belongings as I slept.

I gather the rest of our things.

The nappy bag has gone. Fair enough. At least that means he has clean nappies today. She's a mother. She's raised a son – she remembers what a toddler needs. I think about his other dungarees. Where are they? And his stretchy striped trousers. The dinosaur T-shirt. I look under the bed again and scan the room in case I've missed them.

His blue fleece is gone too. But maybe it's all in the bag, it must be. I look at the bag – I could take everything out and fold his clothes and sort dirty laundry and work out what I've left behind, but I just want to get going because
I need to hold him, it's a physical need rooted deep in guts and bone marrow. I need to leave this darkening house and this remote, weather-lashed rock. I throw Finn's bunny into the bag.

I really, really need my little boy.

A single light illuminates the gallery sign, but the building itself is in darkness. Through the rain-streaked windscreen I can see the windows, shuttered downstairs, dark upstairs. A low, grey sky hunches over the gallery roof. I get out and run to the door, battering on the silver doorknob as I pull my hood up. I peer through the letterbox. ‘Susannah?' A long, low ferry horn bawls through the rain. Droplets drum on my hood and my lips are coated with salt. Silence.

And this is when the knot in my gut really tightens. I look up and down the deserted street and across it, through layers of rain, down to the ferry port: blurry lights, a couple of parked cars, a stray dog – no humans. I look up the street again and then I notice the Subaru. It is parked just up from my car. Relief rushes from my stomach to my head. It's OK. They're here. Of course they are.

I run to the Subaru. It is, of course, empty – no sign even of the dogs. The absence of the dogs must mean something – but what? There is her debris – the Vitaminwater bottles and
nut packets, some big Tupperware pots, clay-dusted sheets, old walking boots and a tartan dog blanket. And Finn's car seat. I didn't even notice that it wasn't in the back of the hire car any more. I'm glad she has it because it means that she is concerned for his safety. I'll find them in a minute. I have to try not to scream at her for taking him like this. It won't do any good to have another conflict before I go. But even if I have to sit around the ferry port for three hours, I'm leaving now. The minute I have Finn in my arms, we're saying goodbye.

I wrench open the Subaru and unclip the car seat, hauling it out. It is dotted with Cheerios and there is a little Tupperware pot of them lying on the floor. She must have given Finn Cheerios as a snack to keep him quiet on the journey. Was he crying?

I slam the door and run to the hire car. I fling the car seat in the back then bleep the locks. Then I jog up the street again to the Rock Salt Bakery, with its huge cupcake, and warm lights wavering through the rain. They have to be there. They must be.

But through the café windows I can see that there is no one inside, only Maggie, sitting behind the counter, head down, with reading glasses on the end of her nose.

‘I'm looking for Susannah.' I burst in. Maggie has a stack of papers on the counter. There is folk music, and the cloying smell of sugar and cinnamon. ‘Susannah has my son, and I don't know where they are. Have you seen them?'

She stands up, whips off her glasses. ‘Oh! Kali! You're here? I thought you were back at the house, resting.'

‘What?' I put both hands on the counter, breathing heavily. ‘Listen, Maggie. Susannah is here somewhere with Finn, but I don't know where. Her car is here, but they aren't at the gallery – I thought they'd come here, but—' I glance at the door behind her and wonder if Maggie lives above her bakery. Maybe there's an apartment upstairs, and Susannah is up there, giving Finn a sandwich and playing ambulance crashes. ‘Are they here?'

‘Oh? No, no. Hey. It's OK.' She starts to gather the papers. ‘You look worried. Don't be. She's just taken him off on a little trip, as you suggested – to give you that much-needed break.' She smiles and her eyes crinkle. ‘It seems like a good idea.'

For a moment I stare at her. She meets me with her glassy blue gaze, her slightly vacant smile.

‘She
what
?' I say.

‘She said you—'

‘Where? Where has she taken him?'

‘It's OK, Kali honey. Really. She came in earlier today to drop off the dogs. She said you wanted a break from the little guy, so she was taking him to give you space. I don't blame you – not at all. Nobody's judging you, here, believe me. I've raised three children myself – I know what it can be like.'

‘No, stop. Maggie. Please … She came here? But I didn't ask her to take Finn … I would never … where has she taken him? Where did they go? She didn't tell me a thing. She just took him.'

‘She didn't? Oh honey. I'm sure this is a misunderstanding.
She wouldn't just go. And don't worry, your little guy's just fine – goodness, he looks so cute in that little hat with the earflaps – he's just darling. Cute as a little button!'

‘Maggie!' I bark. ‘Where has she taken him?'

‘OK, honey. Now, don't worry but she just took him on the outer island ferry for a visit to her little cabin – she has a lovely little cabin tucked away in the archipelago. She likes to go there mostly in summertime. It's a bit rough, but it's not too far. Honestly, there's no need to worry.'

‘What? She's taken Finn on a
boat
? To another
island
?'

‘Oh Kali. It's OK, really. Susie's a mother too, don't forget. She won't let anything happen to the little one. She must have misunderstood you, but they'll be back again tonight. I think this is all one great big muddle.'

‘A muddle?!'

‘Look. Come and sit down, come on.' She comes out from behind the counter. She's wearing an Aran sweater, and jeans and clogs, and she is broad in the hip but with a narrow torso and that elongated neck, as if she is being dropped, slowly, through a pipette. She ushers me towards a sofa.

‘Now. She told me what a hard time you're having, with your husband, on top of everything else, you poor thing. No wonder you asked her to take the baby for a while. Anyone would find it hard to cope in your situation, being abandoned by your husband … Even Geoffrey – you know, the gentleman who runs the drugstore – he understood when I told him.'

‘What? Who? Who understood what?' I unzip the parka. I am suddenly sweaty.

‘Oh, Geoffrey mentioned that you were struggling this morning, with the little one. They can be pretty much a handful at that age, huh? And you with another one on the way … Now, honey, you just sit yourself down there. I'm going to get you a drink. You're awfully pale. A nice hot chocolate? You do look peaky, hon.'

‘No!' I remember the grey-haired man who opened up specially for me, and my phone call and bad manners – Finn pulling things down off his shelves. Could that really have only been this morning? Christ, this is completely insane. ‘Maggie.' I try to keep my voice reasonable. ‘I don't mean to be rude. But I'm coping perfectly fine. I'm not ill. I just want my son back. You can't just take someone's child!'

‘Sweetie, she wouldn't do anything to upset you. She said you were sleeping so deeply, you poor thing. Early pregnancy can be tough enough, especially – well, I know you've been under a huge strain, just huge. I'm sure Susie only wanted to help out in any way she could, since she is such a close friend of your mother.'

‘She isn't,' I snap. ‘Oh my God. She is not a friend of my mother's.'

‘But … '

‘My mother is dead, Maggie. My mother died.'

Maggie's face falls. ‘Oh my Lord,' she says. ‘Oh, honey.' Then she looks suddenly smug, as if this explains everything about me.

I perch on the sofa. My back throbs dimly. For a moment, I feel totally powerless – she has Finn. On a boat. Out there. Then I feel the anger building. I imagine Susannah telling
Maggie about my scattiness – how I let Finn break things; telling her about Doug, the pregnancy – or was that the drugstore owner, reporting back on my purchases? This place suddenly does not feel vast at all – it feels shrunken and claustrophobic and airless.

But this is not Maggie's fault. I must not be angry with Maggie. The woman plainly has no idea what Susannah is really like.

‘I can't believe she didn't say anything about your mother,' Maggie says, as if she's just realized that something is wrong here. ‘She must be so … She must be … But I guess … that's why she's helping you out like this.'

‘She isn't helping, Maggie! I never said she could take Finn. She can't just take my son off to another island without asking me. Jesus, Maggie! You can't take someone's baby without asking.'

She kneels down next to me and puts a hand on my arm. ‘Sweetie, you're overwrought. I didn't realize you lost your poor mother. So, here's what we're going to do. We're going to stay here, and wait for them to come back. I know you regret asking her to take him, you feel bad – but we women can ask for help sometimes, you know. Yes, we can. Grief can make anyone a little – off-balance. See that ferry down there –
The Sea Maiden
?' She points through the rain-streaked café window.

I shake her hand off my arm and lean to see out the window, but I can't see the port at all, just the rainy street.

‘That's the outer island ferry, right there.' She sounds as if she's soothing a child. ‘In a few minutes, that ferry will
go out to Raven Bay and then when it gets there, and drops everything off, it'll turn around and come back and that's the ferry they'll be on. So you're just going to stay here with me and wait for them to come back. You're going to curl up right there, have a hot chocolate, a nice grilled cheese, maybe read some magazines, take another nap, and before you know it they'll be stepping off the ferry and you'll wonder why you were ever so worked up. Never feel bad for asking for help.'

‘I didn't ask for help!' I struggle to stand up. ‘And I don't need rest.' It's all I can do not to scream into Maggie's face. ‘I just need my son back.'

‘And you'll get him back, real soon.'

‘That boat, that one down there – would that boat take me to them?'

‘Well, sure,' says Maggie. ‘But, honey, you'll only go out to Raven, meet them, then have to turn around and come back here – and it's a fair ride – the sea's pretty rough—'

‘Thanks.' I stand up. ‘But I'm getting on that ferry.' I pick up my bag.

‘OK. I understand. You need your baby.'

But then I stop. For once, I'm going to think things through. ‘Maggie – if she's not at the ferry port, just by any chance, where on Raven Island is her cabin?'

‘Why wouldn't she be at the ferry port?' Maggie blinks. ‘Even Susie wouldn't want to stay out in a cabin in January with a little toddler.'

‘I just want to be sure I don't miss them, OK? I just want to know where they are in case … I don't know. I just need to know where exactly her cabin is.'

‘Well, I've never actually been there myself. Susie keeps it as a refuge, you see – she never lets anyone visit. But you could always ask at Raven Bay. These are tiny communities. You think Spring Tide is small! There's a nice woman called Ana, runs the guest house up there. She's just opposite the ferry dock – Ana knows everything.'