The Missing One (49 page)

She sipped her beer and looked down at her baby's beautiful sleeping face, a perfect oval, completely symmetrical. It occurred to her that this need she had, to find Bella's mother, might not be purely scientific. It was somehow related to the darker part of herself, the frightened eight-year-old whose mother wasn't coming back. But there was no use thinking about all that. She'd boxed it all up and it should stay that way. She never could see the point in introspection or looking back.

‘We just need to get back out there,' she whispered. ‘Don't we?'

Her research wasn't something she ‘did' any more. It was who she was – as much a part of her as this beautiful baby. She remembered something Dean said about his wife, who stopped travelling among Native Canadian communities to stay home with their son. He said she didn't do anything ‘by halves'. At the time Elena had taken this to mean that she'd made a positive choice to be an at-home mother. But in fact, maybe Dean's wife didn't have a choice: some things can't be watered down, portioned off or rationed out.

It occurred to Elena that without the floathouse she would be in exactly the same position as Dean's wife. If
she couldn't make it work up here she would have to stop completely. A life studying killer whales in the wild was full immersion or nothing. Without this place, she would have to become a different person. There was an awful lot invested in these cedar planks.

She closed her eyes and swallowed the mouthful of beer and for a moment she was overcome with gratitude for her shabby floating house and the rocky corner of land that had allowed her to stay and be herself.

At first I can't see a thing. A powerful smell of mildew hits my throat, and beneath it something rotten and organic. A faint light glows through the doorway up ahead and as my eyes adjust I see that I'm in a galley kitchen. I stumble towards the light.

And there he is, on her hip, sturdy and round and bundled up in his navy-blue fleece. She is facing me, but he's looking out the window still – maybe looking for me; the back of his hair is all knotted up. I throw myself across the room. ‘Finn!' He turns his head. His eyes are huge and frightened.

‘Oh love, oh sweetheart! I'm here. I'm here. I've got you!' He opens his mouth and lets out a strangled wail, part surprise, part desperation. He throws out his arms for me, tipping his body after them like a diver launching off the high board, trusting he'll be caught – and I catch him. I feel his weight in my arms and the sobs swell in my chest and throat. I hang on to him, feeling him mould himself to my body again, and cling there, like part of my flesh.

I screw my eyes shut and just for a moment my whole being is wrapped around Finn, breathing him, absorbing him; a sphere again. This is over. It's over. There is no red line after all. I have my baby back. He's safe.

My legs are shaking so I slide to my knees and hold him tight, rocking gently to soothe him. His arms are tight around my neck. I know I have to rein myself back in. I have to not frighten him with the force of this relief.

‘I was worried about you, love, but it's OK. I've got you. Everything's OK now. Mummy's here. I'm going to stay with you now, OK? I've been looking for you all day.'

This is not a crisis any more. I have to get a grip and be calm for my already frightened child. I kiss his wet cheeks. ‘What an adventure you've had,' I say. ‘My poor little love.' He looks up into my eyes and then he lets go of my neck and holds onto my jaw with both hands, as if checking that it is really me.

‘I was looking for you, love. I was looking so hard and I didn't know where you were, but I found you, didn't I?'

Slowly I become aware that Susannah is standing above us. And she is not moving.

But I can't take my eyes off Finn. She has put him in his spaceman pyjamas and his warmest fleece. His eyes are startled and red-rimmed – he is so tired – and I can see he's been crying for a long time. But he's not hurt. Not physically at least. I run my hand over his arms and legs. They feel solid and warm beneath the clothes. She has even pulled socks over his footsie pyjamas. As least she is attempting to keep him warm – and it's freezing in here. The dampness feels
like a poultice. I kiss his face all over, breathing in his sweet smell.

‘I'm here. I've got you. It's all going to be OK now.'

Finally, I look up.

I'm expecting an apologetic face, guilt, even fear or tears in her eyes. I'm expecting her to run her hands through her hair and say, ‘Shit, Kali, I'm so sorry! We missed the ferry and I had no way to reach you … '

Her face is a frozen mask.

She stares at us. In the dim light, her eyes look albino. I clasp Finn tighter and stand up to face her. And that's when I lose it.

‘What the … what do think you're doing?' I have to force myself not to scream and swear because of Finn and my voice comes out strangled. ‘What in God's name are you playing at, Susannah? Who do you think you are, taking my child like this? Jesus Christ, I should call the police! I don't care what you thought you were doing, who you thought you were helping. This is unbelievable. It's unbelievable! You can't just take someone's baby!'

She doesn't take her eyes off my face. She doesn't flinch. She doesn't even blink.

‘Well?' I hiss.

Finn whimpers and puts both arms around my neck again. I kiss him. ‘It's OK, love, I'm a bit cross with Susannah, but it's OK. Everything's OK.' I glare at her over his head. My limbs are trembling. ‘Say something.' I grit my teeth. ‘Explain to me. What the hell did you think you were playing at, bringing him here to this place?'

And then she smiles. She actually smiles. It's just the corners of her mouth, not the eyes: the smile of an aristocrat observing a peasant. One eyebrow rises fractionally. She lifts her chin. Her pallid eyes are settled deep in her skull.

Rain drums on the roof. The house creaks and shifts and sways. The house, I realize, is unsteady beneath my feet. In fact, it doesn't feel like a house at all – it feels like a boat: unstable, perpetually shifting. Then I realize that the room is so dim because the only light is coming from candles. They are everywhere, on every shelf and flat surface – thick, church-type candles, melting and oozing wax. Garlands sway above her, pale in the flickering candlelight, like the ones in her meditation room at Isabella Point. But this is nothing like Isabella Point. This place stinks and it's so cold. Susannah is still staring at me.

I glare back. ‘Aren't you even going to
speak
?'

The half-smile vanishes. ‘Oh, I knew you'd be difficult about this.'

I give my head a little shake. ‘What? No. I'm sorry. What?'

‘Oh come on.' Her voice is flat and somehow off-kilter. It's a voice I've never heard before and it chills me more than the freezing air or the draught rattling the floathouse windows. ‘You shouldn't have come, Kali,' she continues. ‘This has nothing to do with you.'

‘What?'

‘She sent him to me. She didn't want you here too.'

‘What on earth are you talking about? Who sent who to you?'

‘She wanted me to know that he's back, that's all. Because
she wants me to be free of all this – everything! I mean, my God, just look at him.' She gestures at Finn like a proud grandmother. ‘He's back, isn't he? He's alive.'

I cover Finn's head with one hand. ‘You're not making any sense, Susannah.'

‘Oh, you shouldn't even be here.' She sounds impatient. ‘Fretting, fretting. I'm going to take care of him, don't worry. I'm not going to let anything happen to him, not this time. Oh no. And to be honest, he's more at risk with you, isn't he? I mean, my God, you can't look after him – you don't want him. You let the child pick up shards of glass, you ignore his cries, you leave him in the dark in thunderstorms, you lock him in bedrooms … ' She looks at me and frowns. ‘This time I'm going to save him. And I'm not going to let you, or anything else, get in the way of that. You should have gone back to England where you belong.'

I stare at her, and a chilly feeling spreads in the pit of my stomach. ‘I don't know what you're talking about, Susannah. None of this is even slightly—'

‘I have to show him to Jonas,' she snaps. ‘When Jonas sees that his son is back he'll release me. That much must be obvious, surely, even to you?'

‘What? Who? Who is Jonas? Release you from what? This is nonsense … you're talking nonsense. Are you ill?'

‘Oh just stop! Stop – stop!' She puts her hands over her ears and glares at me. ‘Stop it.'

‘Susannah, this is … you're not making any sense—'

She drops her hands and speaks slowly, leaning down towards me as if I'm an idiot child. ‘She. Sent. Him. To. Me.'

‘My mother?'

‘Of course.'

‘But my mother is dead, Susannah!'

‘She knows that his father needs to see him.'

‘Finn's father is in Oxford, Susannah. He's in England.'

‘Oh no. His father,' she fixes her colourless eyes on my face, ‘is right here.'

‘Oh my God.' I look up at her. My arms tighten around Finn's tense little body. ‘You're completely insane.'

Through the window behind her, I can just make out the flickering yellow light of Sven's boat as it vanishes around the headland.

Susannah drops her hands and strides across to a wood stove.

‘So,' she says in that deadened voice. ‘What on earth am I going to do with you now? You weren't supposed to follow us here. How the hell did you find your way here?'

The glow of the logs through the window of the wood stove casts a reddish light on her skin. She bends down and wrenches the iron handle; the metal shrieks. Her mouth is grim and set. Sparks fly out as she tosses a log in, and smoke billows into the room. She slams the stove door shut again. The wasp clasp at the base of her neck glints as she turns to face me again.

‘Susannah, listen. I think you're confused. I think this is—'

‘Jonas needs to see him.' She cuts me off. ‘Why can't you get that? He'll forgive me when he sees that his son is safe. She understands that. Only now you're here messing it all up – you weren't supposed to come here.'

‘You honestly believe that my mother – my
dead
mother – sent Finn to you?'

‘Of course she did! It's an act of love, don't you see? To release me from Jonas. That's what's so amazing about her. She understands everything.' She glances at the ceiling as if my mother is there, presiding benevolently over this mad mess.

‘Who is Jonas, Susannah?'

She stares at me. ‘You,' she says, firmly, ‘are not supposed to be here.' The crease between her brows intensifies.

‘No. Actually, I am definitely supposed to be here because you took my child. You took my baby.'

She is silent, for a moment, staring at me as if I am a puzzle to be solved. Finn grips my neck and I pat his back in circles. ‘Shh.' I look up at her. Instinct tells me that I have to lose the outrage. ‘Honestly, Susannah, you're really not making any sense,' I say, in a slightly headgirlish voice that I don't quite recognize. ‘I think you've—'

‘Stop!' she barks. ‘Stop talking. You're making everything so … so … complicated.'

‘It's not complicated at all, really. It's very simple. He's my son – and you took him.'

She raises a hand and points a finger at my heart. I close my mouth. But she doesn't move or speak. For the first time I notice that the dogs aren't here. I'm used to them being next to her, or nearby. Where are the dogs? I glance around. But of course she couldn't bring them here, on two boats, to the furthest edge of nowhere. Then I remember Maggie mentioning that Susannah dropped the dogs off at the bakery.

She seems to have gone into a trance. She has dropped her hand to her side and is just standing, eyes shut, swaying gently as the stove roars behind her. My jeans are wet from the wave, and it is so cold here. Rain lashes the window and the wind moans outside; I can feel the draught on the back of my head and neck. But Finn seems warm at least. I can feel, just by the hand I'm holding under him, that his nappy has been changed recently too. She obviously hasn't harmed him.

I just have to get us away from her – from this place. But where could we possibly go? Sven is long gone. Maybe there are other people somewhere on this island, but unless they are right next door I am not going to find them in the dark with a storm blowing in.

There is a low sofa next to Susannah, covered in some kind of brownish blanket. Above it on the wood-panelled wall is a gallery of framed photos. I remember that this is my mother's house. Surely nothing bad could happen to us here?

I edge away from the window. Susannah doesn't move. I can see the doorway that leads back into the kitchen. Maybe I could get in there and grab a knife or something. If she is dangerous I might need to physically protect Finn. The thought makes a shiver run through my body. I feel sick again. There is no way I could possibly fend her off – she's not only taller and heavier but far stronger than me.

Her eyes snap open, as if she's listening to my thoughts.

‘Where are you going?'

I stop. ‘Nowhere.'

‘You stay where you are.'

I pat Finn's back, and sway with him. ‘He needs some milk. Has he eaten? Did you feed him?'

‘Of course I did! What do you think I am? He just had milk.'

‘Are you hungry, love?' I say to Finn. He looks up at me with big eyes and shakes his head.

‘There,' she says, archly. ‘See?'

A floorboard beneath my foot creaks, and then I feel it give – I whisk my foot off it but for a split second I picture the sucking sea and sharp rocks beneath the floating house. If Finn and I went through this floor we'd plunge into freezing water with our backs against the seabed, and the belly of the house pressed on our faces.