The Stranger on the Train (10 page)

“Yes, I do.”

“Good stuff.”

Rafe put the knife down and used a towel to lift a steaming pot from the hob.

A waft of basil and tomato curled into Emma's nose. To her amazement, her stomach gurgled in response:
Pass some of that down here.

They ate at the round table beside the door to the balcony. The block of flats opposite glowed in the last of the sun. The tinfoil windows gleamed, turning the missing teeth into bright gold fillings. Emma ate cautiously, taking small mouthfuls. Her stomach felt shrunken and tight. She didn't know how it would cope with the food.

“Is that Ritchie's?” Rafe asked with his mouth full, gesturing at the red plastic truck. It was pushed in behind the couch. Emma hadn't wanted to be able to see it.

“Yes,” she said shortly.

“It's a good one.” He nodded. “I had one like that as a kid. Wait and see, he'll remember it when he's older. You don't forget your first truck.”

Emma put down her fork. The way Rafe had spoken about Ritchie. As if he really was certain he'd be back to her soon. As if Ritchie was just away on a holiday somewhere.

“He looks so funny when he drives it,” she said shakily. “Concentrating, all busy, as if he's on some vital mission. He gives me this worried look, as if to say he'll be with me in a minute but he has this job to finish first.”

She bent her head again to the pasta, trying to swallow away the lump in her throat. Rafe didn't ask any more questions. He let her eat in peace. The food was simple and appetizing, easy to swallow. Before Emma knew it, she'd managed to finish more than half of what was on her plate. She began to feel much less dizzy, more clearheaded.

She'd been meaning to ask Rafe something.

“You mentioned you'd left the police,” she said. “Why was that?”

Rafe pursed up his lips and shook his head.

“It's not an interesting story,” he said. “I've got a big mouth. It's got me into trouble before.”

“But I am interested,” Emma said. It wasn't any of her business, what he'd done. Whether he'd got kicked out. It was just, if she was telling him stuff about Ritchie, then maybe she should know.

Rafe shrugged.

“Okay. It's not a secret. Man!” He shook his head again. “Those guys. I'm not trying to turn you against them or anything, but the attitudes you come across, I'll tell you. The reason I left was, they crushed this animal rights protest outside a chicken farm in the Midlands. Poor little guys.” He picked his fork up and stabbed at a strand of spaghetti. “Those morons were cramming them into crates, ten at a time, legs, wings getting broken, still forcing them in. The protesters wanted the place shut down. They got up a big crowd, made plenty of noise to attract attention. Out went the bobbies, a lot of self-important types. Made themselves so obnoxious they provoked a protester into punching one of them in the face. And then, of course, every cop in the country turned up to arrest everyone they could get their hands on.”

His voice had got louder. He seemed to hear it and put his fork back down.

“Anyway,” he said. “I heard all the comments in the station afterwards. They were calling the protesters criminals, and scum, and loonies. For trying to help a few little chickens. Well, I had a problem with that, but they told me I was Mr. Nobody and I could either shut up or leave.”

“So you left,” Emma said.

“No,” he said facetiously. “I stayed and got promoted to head of Chicken Torture.”

Emma said, smiling faintly: “And now you're a gardener.”

“Yeah, well, I like gardening, you know, but it's just a temporary thing. I'm trying to put some cash together. I'm finishing up my current job soon, and then I'm traveling to South America for a few months.” He cleared his throat. “Actually, my flight's already booked. I'm leaving the week after next.”

“Oh.” Emma was taken aback. “Well. Good luck. I hope you enjoy it.”

“Yeah.” Rafe looked at the remains of his pasta and tomato. “Yeah. I'm looking forward to it.”

He stood up after a minute, and began to clear the plates. “Shall I make some coffee?”

• • •

The gold fillings faded from the tower block opposite. The balconies darkened, then flared, one by one, into a patchwork of lights, all shades of cream and yellow and orange. Emma sat on at the table, calmed by watching the ritual of coffee making. It was soothing just to have another person there, pottering about, rattling spoons, pouring milk. Rafe was easy to be with. Mainly because he didn't seem to expect Emma to say anything. He just talked on, though not in a pushy way, and not about himself. Just about things in general. The ridiculousness of the queues in Sainsbury's. The habit London cycling lanes had of apparently leading a person into the middle of a three-lane motorway and then vanishing. He was a funny mix. One minute thoughtful and serious, leaning back in the shadows. The next, excited by something or other, hunching forward and coming over all street, using his hands and chin for emphasis, stabbing at the table and saying things like “Man” and “It kills me” as if he'd spent his childhood hanging out with street gangs. His face was dark and expressive, his movements graceful. She could see him in a band, playing drums. Or being a rapper.

At ten o clock, he stood up and said: “I'd better get going. I live in Stockwell and I'm on my bike.”

“That's a long way from here.” Emma was dismayed. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to keep you so late.”

“I'm used to it,” Rafe assured her. “I do gardening jobs all over London. Cycle twenty miles a day sometimes. Quicker than the bus in rush hour.”

Emma could believe the distance was nothing to him. He had a fit, healthy look to him, like an athlete. He pulled on his sweatshirt and hauled his rucksack up from the floor. Then he patted his pockets until he heard the jingle of keys.

“Well.” He gestured towards the hall. “I'll be off.”

But he stayed where he was, bumping the rucksack off his knees.

“If you don't mind,” he said, “I'll stay in touch? I'd like to hear what happens about that Bergerac thing.”

“I don't mind,” Emma told him.

She held the front door open for him. As he was passing through, she said suddenly: “I'm glad you came.”

“I'm glad too,” Rafe said.

“No, I mean . . .”

What did she mean? Rafe had spent the evening here with her, not because he was paid to do it, or because he wanted something in return, but because he wanted to help. Because he cared about what happened to Ritchie. The only person in the world apart from her who did. Emma blinked in the glare from the hall.

“I mean,” she said, “I'm really glad.”

“I am too,” Rafe repeated. He smiled at her. “Take care of yourself, Emma. Hang in there. Don't go under.”

She cried again a little when he had gone, standing in the hallway with her face in her hands. Then she went to the bathroom to blow her nose. She felt weary, very tired. Properly tired this time, as if she might actually sleep, not the futile, acidic fatigue of the past few days. She went to the kitchen to wash the dinner things, trying to put off going to bed for a little while longer.

She was in the middle of drying a saucepan when the phone rang.

It was Lindsay.

“Hello, Emma.” She sounded excited. “Can you talk for a minute?”

The tea towel fluttered to the floor. The Bergerac thing! Dear God, they'd actually found something.

“I can talk,” Emma managed.

Lindsay said: “There's been something. It might not lead anywhere, but I'm just telling you. On Monday afternoon, the day after Ritchie was kidnapped, a couple flew from London to Bergerac with a sixteen-month-old boy.”

Emma's heart turned upside down in her chest. She groped for the couch and lowered herself onto it.

“Ritchie?” she whispered.

“We don't know yet,” Lindsay said. “But there is one slightly odd thing. As it happens, shortly before you phoned us this evening, we received a call from a woman who works at the check-in desk at Stansted Airport. She saw the story about Ritchie in the papers and remembered checking this family in on Monday. One thing about them struck her as unusual. The parents had booked seats for themselves in advance, but at the last minute they arrived with this child with no booking who they wanted to bring as well. The child had a passport, so he was able to fly.”

“What was the woman's name?” Emma interrupted. “Was it Antonia?”

“No,” Lindsay said. “No, it wasn't.”

Emma twisted the cord of the phone.

Lindsay said: “I don't want to get your hopes up too much, Emma. The child's passport was in the same name as the couple's. Chances are high they're just a normal family. But we're going to check anyway.”

She hesitated.

“I wanted to tell you. So you'd know we were following everything up. Doing everything we can. As soon as I hear anything, I'll let you know.”

• • •

Emma lay in bed, very still. She held hope in her head like an eggshell. It would be hours again before she slept.

She spent the time coming up with a new way of sending a message to Ritchie. Holding him was no good, because neither of them could cope with that. Instead, after a while, she dreamed she was standing by a gate. It was a wooden gate, with slim gaps between the bars. Inside the gate was a little hill. On top of the hill was a thin brown tree. And under the tree sat Ritchie, by himself, playing with something in the grass.

Emma watched him through the gate.

“I'm here,” she whispered to him. “I'm here.”

Ritchie didn't look up. But his smile told Emma that he knew she was there. That whole night, she stayed by the gate, and she guarded him for as long as she could.

Chapter Eight

For the first few months, Emma hardly knew she was pregnant. She had no morning sickness. All her clothes still fitted her perfectly. She began to tell herself that she must have been mistaken. After all, she hadn't seen a doctor yet, or even done a pregnancy test. Since when had she got her obstetrics degree?

One evening she happened to be watching a documentary on TV, about the conflict in Darfur. The camera panned over ragged tents in rows, crying women, bloodstained streets. Then it zoomed in on a tiny child on his own, stick-thin and starving. The sight of the child's gaunt, haunted face pierced Emma with a sudden sharp grief that shocked and unsettled her. That night, lying in bed, her body felt strange, as if she was falling, or rising, and couldn't find anything to hold on to. A couple of mornings later, she suddenly went off the guava and lime-flavored shampoo she'd been using for months, and she knew for certain that her body, whether it was visible or not, was not the same anymore. She couldn't pretend to herself any longer.

Joanne didn't seem to have noticed anything, and Emma didn't tell her. She couldn't talk to anyone about the pregnancy because she hadn't decided yet what she was going to do about it. The only thing on her mind was Oliver, and she couldn't make any decisions until she had discussed them with him. And she couldn't discuss anything with him until she knew whether he was going to come back to her.

“I owe it to Sharmila to give things a chance between us,” Oliver had explained on the phone.

“But you owe it to me too,” Emma said, fighting to keep the tears from her voice. Now wasn't the time to become hysterical. “Can't we still see each other at least?”

“It's not that I don't want to, Emma, honestly. But I've known Sharmila for three years. She needs it to be just the two of us, just for a while.”

When he stopped taking her calls, she wrote him a letter telling him how much she loved him and hand-delivered it through his letterbox. Part of her was shocked at herself. She'd never behaved this creepily with a bloke before. But she couldn't help it. What did Oliver whisper to Sharmila when he was with her? What was the expression on his face when he looked at her? Tender? Protective? Or was it
her
who loved
him
more? Emma didn't know which was worse. Oliver being so wanted by someone else made him seem even more precious and further from her reach. She ached to touch him, to push back his hair. To see him staring at her mouth with that intent expression that made her insides disappear. She spent so much time picturing him, longing to be with him, that days went by without her thinking about the pregnancy at all.

And then, quite suddenly, Emma came to her senses and realized what she had to do. One thing was certain: Sharmila and Oliver would not last. Hadn't Oliver said how caring and giving Emma was? How cold and self-centered Sharmila was, how obsessed with her career? In Emma's experience, once a man went off a woman, that was it. The candle rarely reignited. Even if Sharmila had managed to get Oliver back temporarily, it wouldn't be long before he realized how much more special things had been between him and Emma. In the meantime, she had to back off; give him some space. Oliver was not a person to be pressurized. Now was certainly not the time to tell him about any baby.

So she stopped phoning, stopped trying to contact him. When he was ready, he would come back.

It was hard though. These days she seemed to be spending a lot of time on her own. Joanne was always with Barry. When they weren't out partying, they were snuggled up together on the couch in front of the TV, Barry massaging Joanne's feet through her tights as he watched the football. Every so often he muttered something in Joanne's ear that made her shriek and giggle and roll her eyes at Emma as if to say:
Men, eh? What can you do?

Sometimes, out of sheer boredom and desperation, Emma went out and caught the number 56 bus, which took the route along Oliver's street. She sat on the upper deck and felt her heart speed up as they approached his flat. She averted her head as they passed, just sliding her eyes sideways to look out, in case Oliver was at home and saw her. Just to see where he lived gave her a high, like a smoker drawing on a cigarette. She tried to guess from whether the lights were on or off what he might be doing. Sometimes he went to the gym after work. At least if he was out, she comforted herself, he wasn't alone with Sharmila. Lights on was worse. Lights on meant they were having a quiet evening at home.

“They're not
officially
back together,” Joanne reported one morning after a night out with Barry. “Oliver's not sure whether now is a good time for him to be in a relationship. I get the impression our Sharms is kind of hard to brush off. I think Oliver feels under pressure. He was asking for you, Ems. I reckon he still likes you. Just play it cool.”

So Emma waited, but as the weeks went by and she didn't hear from him, she rode the number 56 bus more and more.

One evening in April, she was passing Oliver's flat and noticed that the windows were dark, the curtains all open. It was after nine o' clock.

Emma thought about this. It was Thursday, not Oliver's usual gym night. He sometimes went out with his work friends on the Strand for drinks on a Thursday evening. If he wasn't home by now, that's where he must have gone. It would be hours before he came back. On an impulse, she pressed the red “Stop” button beside her seat. Around the next corner, the bus drew into the curb.

“Good night, Madam,” the driver called as she stepped off.

“Good night,” Emma said, surprised. A friendly bus driver! It was as if she'd been accepted by Oliver's community. His bus driver liked her. It was a good omen.

Feeling happier, she walked back to Charmian Avenue. There was little risk of bumping into Oliver if he was miles away in town, but even so, she'd have to be careful. It would be one thing to meet him on Lavender Hill or the main road; she could just say she was visiting someone or going for a walk. She didn't live so far away that it was strange for her to be in the area. But to be actually caught on his street! Emma held her breath as she reached the turn, peering cautiously around the corner. No one. The street was empty. Just trees, and cars parked, nose to bumper, on either side.

She walked along the footpath. Charmian Avenue was a nice road. Like everything associated with Oliver. Special. Different. More affluent than the streets around it. There were more trees, with more and thicker leaves. The houses were better kept and posher looking. The street started as a terrace, but halfway down, near Oliver's part, the houses became larger and semidetached. Emma was across the street now from Oliver's flat. The house was gray brick, painted white around the windows and door. A huge tree almost hid a large, three-sided sash bay window with its own roof. That was Oliver's window. His flat was on the ground floor.

So there it was. Emma walked up and down the street, repeatedly passing the flat, as if to absorb some of its specialness. The road was damp from earlier rain, and very quiet. Just the sound of Emma's footsteps, scraping occasionally on a pebble. Some of the windows in the other houses were lit. In one room, a woman stood with a baby, surrounded by people. Seeing her, Emma all at once felt sad. What was she doing here, walking up and down a strange street, looking in strangers' windows? This wasn't like her. This wasn't the way a normal person behaved. She had a lonely, odd sensation of being on the outside, of peering into other people's lives like a stalker. That was what she was doing, she realized with a shock. She was stalking Oliver. What if someone spotted her here, loitering around? They'd think she was up to no good. Might call the police even. That stopped her. She'd had enough of this. She'd go back down now and get the bus. She wouldn't come here again.

And that would have been it, if one final thought hadn't struck her. What if she took one quick peek through the window at the back of Oliver's house, just to see what the living room looked like now? Whether he'd done anything with it in the four months since she'd seen him. Whether
Sharmila
had done anything with it. She'd come this far; she might not get this chance again. She had to know.

The flat above Oliver's was dark. The couple who lived there were plainly out. Nobody would see Emma in the back garden. Just one quick look, then she'd be out of there. Checking to make sure no one was around, Emma slipped down the side path to the rear of the house. The back garden was small, paved over, with big, stone pots filled with plants. Emma and Oliver had drunk Pimm's there one evening, listening to Rufus Wainwright float from the speakers in the living room.

Emma went to the window and cupped her hands around her face. She stared in. From what she could see of it, the room still looked the same. Giant bloke-TV in the corner, woven rug on the dark wood floor, white-painted shelves stuffed untidily with books and the twisty metal sculptures Oliver liked.

She was peering at one of the shelves, trying to make out the faces in a photograph, when, to her utter horror, the room was suddenly flooded with light. Appalled, Emma jerked her head back. She caught a glimpse of a figure—man? woman?—approaching the window before she threw herself to the side, out of view.

Bloody hell! Emma stood, shaking, at the corner of the house. Why hadn't she been paying attention? She'd never heard the front door open. Thank God it was dark out. Whoever was in the room wouldn't have been able to see her. She hoped. She held her breath and listened for footsteps, voices, shouts from the front. Nothing. They hadn't seen her. She'd give it a couple of minutes, then she'd sneak back out to the street and leave. God. She blew her hair off her forehead. She would never do anything like this again.
Ever!

She counted under her breath:
one
thousand,
two
thousand,
three
thousand.
At twenty-five, she reckoned she was safe. She began to creep through the side lane, watching where she put her feet. The last thing she needed was to stand on a cat or knock over a bin. And then, just as she was almost through, the light from the street was blocked by a tall, dark shape.

“Hey!” a voice shouted. “You! What are you doing looking in my window?”

Oliver! Emma nearly died of fright. Should she turn back, run for it, try to climb over the back wall? She went to spin around, but footsteps crunched over the gravel and someone grabbed at her arm.

“What the hell . . . ?” Oliver began. Then he sucked in a breath, dropping Emma's arm as if she had leprosy. He leaped backwards and said in a stunned-sounding voice: “Emma?”

God, he looked just the same. His hair a bit shorter, maybe. He had on a white shirt, open at the neck. A dark jacket slung over his arm. He was staring at her in amazement. Emma stared back, literally struck dumb. She could not think of one single thing to say.

A slim silhouette appeared at the entrance to the lane.

“Ol?” A silvery, feminine voice. “Are you okay?”

Oliver jerked his head.

“Yeah. Thanks, Sharm. Just give me a minute.”

He looked at Emma again.

“What are you
doing
here?” he asked.

Emma opened her mouth.

“I need to speak to you,” she said.

Oliver looked bewildered.

“Sure,” he said. “Here?” Then, before she could answer, he shook his head. “No. Chilly out here. Let's go inside.”

He gestured with his arm, the one with the jacket over it, for Emma to walk ahead of him. Sharmila led the trio to the front of the house, her high heels clicking on the path. She was wearing something black, glittery and short. Her heavy hair was twisted high on her head.

Oliver's hall smelled exactly the same. Aftershave, or washing powder, or whatever floor polish it was he used. The familiar scent squeezed at Emma's chest. Oliver closed the front door. Streetlight filtered through the stained glass, casting a ghostly red and green glow over the hall. Before anyone could say anything, Sharmila murmured: “I'll give you some privacy.” Barely glancing at Emma, she gave Oliver's arm a little squeeze, then slipped past them both into the living room and closed the white-painted door.

Emma was left feeling even worse than before. Okay, so she hadn't wanted Sharmila hanging around. But she'd hoped it would be Oliver who'd tell her to leave. The other girl's impeccable manners—or else utter lack of curiosity—made Emma feel clumsy, crude, unbelievably intrusive.

“Let's go into the kitchen,” Oliver said.

He switched on the light. Feminine things glittered everywhere. A gold cardigan was draped over the back of a chair. A shiny handbag perched on the table. New photos littered the front of the fridge—mostly of a dark-haired girl with sparkly teeth and big sparkly earrings, laughing into the camera. New plants lined the window sill, dark leaves tumbling over the edge. Oliver had never owned house plants. He'd said he wouldn't remember to water them.

“Can I get you something?” Oliver asked. “A drink?”

“No, thanks,” Emma said. Seeing him there in the light . . . it brought it back to her, ten, twenty times over, how much she loved him and always would. Everything about him hurt her. His sultry, sleepy eyes. His sunny hair. His smell.

“I'm pregnant,” she blurted.

And held her breath.

Naturally
—
she wasn't stupid—she didn't expect Oliver to start prancing around the kitchen with delight at her news. He'd be shocked, who wouldn't be? Angry, even. How could she blame him? In all her own reunion fantasies, it was just the two of them, she and Oliver, slim bodied and free, lying together on Oliver's white-sheeted bed. Not a baby or a swollen stomach in sight.

So she was prepared for the gasp, the backwards step, the slackened jaw. So far, so expected. But then there was a quick glance towards the living room, where Sharmila was. Emma hadn't expected
that
, and her heart sank. And then the third thing, so quick and subtle that if she hadn't been watching him so carefully she might have missed it.