The Stranger on the Train (27 page)

The car was very warm now. The backs of Emma's legs itched and stuck to her jeans. She rolled the window the rest of the way down. The smell of grass floated through the window. A dove or wood pigeon cooed in the fields.

Here came the man again. Emma stiffened. Heading for the car on the drive. With a suitcase this time.

And then a woman. Carrying a child.

Emma took a sharp breath in. It
was
a child! Ritchie! It had to be! Oh, thank God. Thank God he was still here. What were they doing now? Christ, she really needed a pair of binoculars. She leaned forward again. The man hoisted the suitcase into the boot, and the woman went to the side of the car. She opened the door and leaned in, still with the child in her arms. She fiddled about for a minute or two, then stood back. Her arms were empty.

Ritchie was in that car now. Definitely.

The car with all those boxes loaded into it.

Oh, she had a bad feeling about this. Stones crunched on the road behind her. A car was slowing down. Emma twisted to see. A black jeep drove around her, flashing its indicator, then sped up again, whizzing over the hill. Oh, bloody hell. Even if the DNA came through right now, the police would still take forever to get here. There'd have to be phone calls between England and France, everyone talking to each other in broken language. It could take hours. And would the police take it seriously enough to send a proper number of people and cars to the house? Or would it be the local junior constable, ambling along to ask a couple of questions when he'd finished his morning croissant?

Another car. Not the police.

Ritchie was there. He was there right now. And if she didn't do something soon, he wasn't going to be there anymore.

Emma opened the door of the car. She climbed out, into the grass-smelling morning. Refreshing, after the rubbery heat. The air cleared her mind. She closed the door, but didn't latch it. Then she stole across the road to the gate. She began to walk up the drive, quietly at first, avoiding obvious patches of crackly stones. And then, all of a sudden, she no longer cared. So what if they heard her? Time to put an end to this.

In her pocket, her phone began to ring. She pressed the “Stop” button and walked on.

At the top of the drive, Antonia was leaning into the car again, rearranging something on the seat. Her back was to Emma, her fawn-clad bottom moving from side to side. More boxes were stacked around the car. Her husband was nowhere to be seen. A bird chattered somewhere,
ack-ack-ack
, and the sun filtered through the trees. Branch shadows rippled and dappled the golden walls of the house. Ritchie was in the car, up high in a seat. He was facing away from her. Emma could see the top of his head.

“Hello,” Emma said.

Antonia tried to spin and jump backwards at the same time. Her head knocked off the top of the car. When she saw who it was who had spoken, her mouth opened. She staggered back, the color flying from her face.

“I'd like my child back now,” Emma said.

Antonia was chalk-white.

“David,” she called in a high-pitched voice. “David.”

She said to Emma: “What are you doing here again? This has gone far enough. We'll get the police back here.”

“You do that,” Emma said. She was staring beyond Antonia, trying to see Ritchie in the car. Footsteps crunched on the stones. Emma spun around. A tall man in long shorts, coming around the side of the house. She recognized him at once. The man who had said sorry to her, and closed the door in her face.

“Pip?” the tall man said. “Pip, are you all—”

Then he saw Emma and slowed.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh.”

His face gave nothing away. He came to a stop a few feet from the car.

Emma turned back to Antonia.

“I'm going to take him now,” she said.

She stepped forward. Antonia moved quickly. She slammed the door of the car and placed herself directly in front of it.

“Hold on,” she said. “Hold on just a minute. You leave my son alone.”

“He's not your son,” Emma said. She kept her eyes on the car. The child in the back sat facing away from them. The windows were tinted. All she could see was his hair. She longed to call him, longed for him to twist around and beam his wide melon grin when he saw her. But she didn't want to frighten him before she could reach him.

She was going to have to get past Antonia first.

She made herself focus properly on Antonia for the first time. You had to hand it to the bitch, her grooming was as immaculate as ever. The hair freshly washed and smooth, all strands moving together as one. The shirt and trousers, ironed and matching. Cream, of course. The lipstick, frosted pink, perfectly applied.

“I can understand.” Emma forced herself to speak as calmly as possible. “I can understand why you want him. I'm not trying to take him away from you. You can still see him. We can work something out.”

“You're insane,” Antonia sputtered. “You need help. Why have you attached yourself to our family like this? I know your son has disappeared, but why don't you just go and look for him? Why do you have to fixate on
our
child?”

“How can you lie like that?” Emma was amazed. “You know perfectly well that this isn't your child. You took him from me at the tube station.”

“I haven't been in a tube station for years.” Antonia sounded exasperated. “The only thing David or I did wrong was to take a simple flight home through London after a holiday. And now we find ourselves caught up in all of this. For God's sake.” Her voice shook. “We've had every sympathy for you. We even had that DNA test done, at great inconvenience, I might add, but we did it to help you. To help
you
!
But enough, now, please. Enough. Just go away, and leave us alone.”

Emma was astonished. What was going on here? Antonia was behaving as if there was a microphone nearby recording everything she said. What was the point of this ridiculous denial? Surely she must see that Emma knew what she'd done. Lying to Emma like this was like lying to herself.

She looked again. She wasn't imagining things. This
was
Antonia. Wasn't it? This was the woman who'd been in Mr. Bap's that evening and disappeared with Ritchie. Her hair had been blonder then, but everything else was the same. If you were really pushing it, perhaps, there was a difference under her eyes. If you looked closely, the skin below them seemed older than she remembered. Baggy and shadowed. The areas around her nose and mouth were yellowish in color.

Rafe's voice:
I've seen these DNA tests done. No one can tamper with them.

This was crazy. This was crazy. That was Ritchie, right there in the car. All right, so she couldn't see him so well right this minute, but she'd seen him in the tape from the airport, she'd seen him here the last time, right here on the driveway. The car windows were dark, and he was facing away. That was his hair, though. Browner as well, but Antonia had
dyed
it. Those were his ears. She
knew
him. All she had to do was push past Antonia and go to him and she'd—

Footsteps again behind her. Emma swung to face David Hunt. But it wasn't her he was looking at.

“Pippa,” he said. “Pip.”

“Call the police,” Antonia snapped at him.

“Pip,” David said again. He was holding out his hand. “Let it go, Pip,” he said.

“What are you talking about?” Antonia snarled.

“It was never going to work. My mother's been asking a hundred questions since we brought him here, and she's not the only—”

“Shut up!” Antonia screamed at him. “Shut up, you fool. Do you want them to take Xavier?”

David's eyebrows lowered. His face shrank on itself, a paper bag, crumpling in a fist.

“Xavier's dead,” he said.

“What are you saying?” Antonia's voice broke in a squeak.

“He's dead!” David shouted. All of a sudden, his teeth were clenched. The muscles in his neck stood out. “Do you hear me? He's dead, and he's not coming back.”

“Shut up. Shut up.” Antonia backed away, her hands to her face. Emma's phone was ringing but she hardly heard it. From the car floated a child's fretful wail.

“Our son . . .” David looked at Emma. He could hardly say it. “Our son died. In India, four months ago.”

“No he didn't!” Antonia yelled at him. “No he didn't!”

“Yes he
did
.”

Ritchie's hot, despondent wail tugged at Emma like a wire, pulling her towards him. She took another step, but Antonia was still between her and the car.

“She wouldn't let me tell anyone,” David whispered, twisting the ring on his wedding finger. “She said if we didn't say it, then it hadn't happened. I went along with it. She was so . . . I couldn't get her to come home. She wouldn't leave him in India on his own. Then, when I finally persuaded her to come to London, she met you and said you couldn't look after your child properly and begged me to take him away with us and I . . . God help me, I . . .”

Antonia hissed at Emma: “You
weren't
fit to look after him. For God's sake, you let him get trapped on a train. When I met you at that tube station you were a mess. Filthy clothes, hardly able to speak. You looked like you should be in a hospital. I had to get him away from you.”

“That's
not
your decision to make!” Emma shouted. She'd forgotten to keep quiet so as not to upset Ritchie. The crying from the car stopped, as abruptly as if a switch had been pressed. Then Ritchie gave a shrill scream.

“Muh!” he shrieked. “Muh!”

Emma couldn't hold herself back anymore.

“Ritchie. Oh, Ritchie, sweetheart, I'm here.”

She rushed towards the car. Ritchie was twisting and wriggling, struggling to free himself from his seat.

“Get back!” Antonia cried.

Emma didn't quite catch what happened next. Antonia was reaching somewhere—into the car, a box, wherever—but the next thing she was up again, holding her arm out, and something long and pointed gleamed in her hand.

“Get. Back,” she said.

Emma's reflexes had jerked her back against her will, even before she knew what the gleam was. Then she realized, and felt an eerie horror. A knife! Antonia had a knife, and she was pointing it straight at her.

“Pippa.” David sounded alarmed. “Pip, what are you doing?”

“Don't touch me!” Antonia roared. David had been about to do just that, but he took a hasty step back. “I'll stab you too,” she warned him. “Don't think I won't. I wanted to leave here days ago, but oh no,
you
kept saying to wait. What was
wrong
with you? If it wasn't for me, we wouldn't be going at all. Anyone would think you
wanted
them to take Xavier . . . I
said
:
Get! Back!
”

This last was for Emma, who had tried again to move to the car. Antonia swung the knife back to her. Her hair, which she'd run her hand through a couple of times, didn't look so tidy now. In fact, it looked as if a hundred bats had been nesting in it. Her eyes were bloodshot. Emma stayed where she was. No knife was going to keep her back now. Not a knife, nor a gun, nor a herd of wild elephants.

“Philippa,” she said. She almost called her Antonia. “Philippa, please. Can't we talk about this?”

“I'm not discussing anything with you.” Antonia said. Emma had a clear view of the knife now. It was a long, wide kitchen blade, for chopping meat or vegetables. “Stay away from my son. I'm warning you.”

“Muh!” Ritchie squealed, still furiously kicking.

“You helped me, that time.” It took all of Emma's strength to stay calm. “On the train, remember? You saved Ritchie from getting lost. If it wasn't for you, where might he have ended up? Please don't think I'm not grateful to you for that.”

Antonia, still holding the knife out, was backing around the car towards the driver's side. That was okay, though. The further she went that way, the clearer the path to Ritchie would be. Antonia moved again, and Emma took her chance. She lunged for the car. As she passed Antonia, she felt something knock against her arm. The blow caught her above the elbow, spinning her to the side. Strangely, Antonia seemed to be holding on to Emma's arm, following it as it moved, as if her hand was stuck there. With her other hand, Emma gripped the roof of the car and used it to wrench herself away. A weird feeling shot along her arm and down into her fingers, a sizzling, pins-and-needles sensation, as if she'd touched the exposed wires of a plug. Then it was gone.

In the distance, David was calling: “Philippa. Philippa. Stop.” Emma could only see Ritchie's door. She was about to go for it again when something made her stop.

Antonia. Still holding the knife. Leaning from the front of the car into the back. Pointing the knife straight at Ritchie.

She said: “Do I have to hurt him as well?”

Emma recoiled. The tip of the knife, so close to Ritchie's round, defenseless little face, made her want to vomit, actually vomit.

She said frantically: “Don't—”

“Then I won't tell you again. Stand back from the car.”

“I will. I will.” Emma backed away. “Please. Just take the knife off him. Take it off him.”

Antonia eyeballed her.

“You're not taking Xavier,” she said. “You're not taking my child. No matter what happens. That's one thing I promise you.”

She lifted the knife. Then she whirled around and swung herself into the driver's seat. The second her back was to Ritchie, Emma flew to his door to get him out. She scrabbled at the handle, but for some reason she couldn't get her fingers to work. There was the door handle, there was her hand, but the fingers were all curled over and wouldn't open, what the
fuck
was going on, her hand was useless, she couldn't straighten her hand.