Thorn in the Flesh (12 page)

‘How will you do it?’ Nicky asked, turning her wedding ring round and round on her finger. ‘Where will you start?’

‘I don’t know. I imagine I’ll have to go back to the agency who took charge all those years ago. I haven’t dared look into it yet. I was hoping … I was hoping I would have your help. Please, Nicky, will you help me find my son?’

Kate reached out and took Nicky’s hand in hers. Her friend seemed to shrivel.

‘I can’t,’ she said, the breath catching in her throat as she tried to speak. ‘I can’t. I’m sorry. I will do anything else in the world for you, Kate. You’re my oldest friend, but I can’t do that. Please don’t ask me.’

Kate’s stomach twisted and she sat back, although her hand remained clasping Nicky’s. She’d so much hoped for her friend’s help in the search but, after this evening, she couldn’t object to the refusal. ‘All right, I see. Is it because I’ve only just told you about him tonight? I’m sorry, really I am.’

‘No, it’s not that.’ Nicky paused and her eyes again darted from left to right across the room. Her skin felt cold under Kate’s fingers. She looked directly at Kate for the first time since the police officers had left.

‘It’s David and me,’ she said. ‘We’d been trying so hard for another child but we can’t have one. I know it’s stupid and what happened to you was a long time ago, but I so wish …’

Then she burst into tears.

Chapter Thirteen

The next day, Kate woke late. Her eyes felt sticky as if weighed down with too many memories. For a second or two, she couldn’t remember what had happened, and then everything slotted into place. The man in the garden. The police. Her confession. Nicky.

Kate stared up at the ceiling in her bedroom. The swirl of the pattern made her feel nauseous so she turned over again and hugged the pillow. After Nicky’s sudden outpouring last night, she’d taken her in her arms and held her until the crying stopped. Later, she’d listened as her friend had told her how up to the previous Christmas she’d been trying to get pregnant for months, but nothing happened and every time David and she made love it had been mechanical. Something that only happened when Nicky was at her most fertile and which was over in minutes. Since Christmas, they’d made love only a few times, but it had begun to fail and after a while they’d stopped trying.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ Nicky had said at the end of her story. ‘I can’t talk to David. Every time I raise the subject, he clams up. We haven’t tried to make love for a long time now, so there’s no chance of getting pregnant. I wanted to be expecting a child by this summer. I wanted there to be something – someone – to look forward to. And now there’s no-one.’

Kate had no idea what advice to give; she could only listen, as her friend had listened to her not so long ago. There was nothing she could say. Wanting a child had never been an emotion she’d known. At least not for its own sake.

‘Look at me,’ Nicky had said after a while, reaching for the box of tissues and blowing her nose. ‘Look at us. We’re as bad as each other. The things we don’t say.’

Kate could only agree with her. Had their friendship grown too comfortable over the years? So that there was no room for surprises or secrets to be revealed?

It was gone 1am when Kate had offered to drive Nicky home, but her offer had been gently brushed away.

‘No, I’ll be okay,’ Nicky said. ‘I’ll give you a quick ring when I’m there. You shouldn’t be driving anyway. Not after those brandies.’

‘One brandy.’

‘And a half. Don’t think I didn’t notice.’

‘The policeman certainly did.’

‘No, he wasn’t very nice, was he?’ her friend grimaced as she rummaged in her handbag for her keys. ‘Kate, I’m sorry about this evening. The intruder. And for other things too.’

‘Don’t be. I’m glad we talked. I’m only sorry I didn’t tell you my story earlier. And I hope yours will turn out all right. I’m sure it will.’

At the front door, Nicky had touched Kate lightly on the cheek and then was gone. Kate had waited until the car moved off before locking and bolting the door for the night, and setting the alarm. Still, she’d taken a long time to get to sleep. And it was only when she was at last in bed that she realised there’d been no further mention between them of her search for her son.

The next morning, once she’d taken a bath and dressed herself, Kate skipped breakfast, making do only with a cup of strong black coffee, and sat down in front of her laptop. The Internet, she thought, would be the best place to start her search. The very fact of the practical details needed for this journey would, she hoped, mean the emotional repercussions of what she was doing could be ignored. For a while.

An hour later, she realised how much information existed out there. It was impossible. So many agencies, so many people searching, so many people lost. She needed help. Someone to talk to. But who? Turning again to one of the first agencies she’d come across, she glanced down through their contact details, found the number and made the call.

Five minutes later, she had an appointment with a pleasant-sounding woman for the following week and a way forward into the long tunnel ahead. So far it had almost been easy. But what further darkness that tunnel might lead to was harder to confront.

***

The train was late into Waterloo. Kate glanced several times at her watch and congratulated herself for leaving plenty of time before her appointment at 2.30pm. At the barrier, she squeezed through with the escaping crowds, flashing her ticket at an uninterested guard, and walked out onto the concourse. The smell of stale bread flowed over her. The noise was almost overwhelming and she stood for a moment to orientate herself. As she gazed round, she could see that the noise and sense of energy was coming not from any commuters – although of course it was too early still for that – but from what seemed to be tourists or holiday-makers heading for the Eurostar entrance. No children though; school was not yet over and she swallowed, consciously straightening herself ready for the ordeal to come.

She’d walk, she thought. Her destination wasn’t far and the sky held no threat of rain. Thank goodness there was no need for the tube. She’d always hated it. Too many people pressed unwillingly together and at the mercy of whatever the authorities chose to throw at them. It made her shiver. She wandered round the various shops Waterloo provided, purchasing the latest Anne Tyler novel at Smith’s and some toning spritz at Boots. When at last only ten minutes were left before the due time, she left the station. Outside, the air was warm and she removed her jacket, folding it neatly over one arm before turning her footsteps eastwards towards Tate Modern. Perhaps, after she’d spoken to the agency, she might visit one of the exhibitions afterwards. It would be like rewarding herself for her courage.

Crossing Waterloo Road, she headed along The Cut. After passing the tube station and then turning into Union Street, she reached the agency and rang the appropriate bell exactly two minutes before she was expected.

A disembodied voice welcomed her and a few seconds later she was admitted. She found herself standing in a small foyer with an unmanned reception desk and telephone. Next to the desk was a tall pot plant of a type she didn’t recognise and on the beige walls were two modern-style prints. One of a woman in a cornfield and the other a cityscape at twilight. The air smelt of dust and lemons.

‘Good afternoon. Are you Kate Harris?’

Kate swung round and tried to steady her breath. She hadn’t been ready. Still, she was here. Easier now to go forward than back.

‘Yes,’ she said, taking the stretched-out hand of the middle-aged blonde woman in front of her and appreciating the warmth of her smile. ‘I’m Kate Harris. I have an appointment at 2.30.’

‘Indeed you do. Please, come on in.’ The woman introduced herself as Susan Lord and led Kate through a door in the corner of the reception area which she hadn’t at first noticed, up three flights of stairs and into a simply furnished but comfortable room which smelt of oranges. A bowl of them, some wrapped in silver foil, stood at the corner of the desk, near the computer. Susan gestured towards it.

‘Would you like one?’ she asked. ‘I must admit to being a complete addict.’

Kate smiled and shook her head. She accepted the offer of tea however and sat down in one of the two soft chairs. The other woman made tea in an enormous green teapot which looked as if it would happily serve ten and, after a few moments, poured the resulting brew into two matching green mugs, each with a smiley face on one side.

When done, Susan sat down in the chair opposite Kate and gathered up the pile of papers that had been strewn across the wooden coffee table.

‘So,’ she said. ‘You mentioned in our phone call that you wanted help in tracing a relative. Is that right?’

‘Yes,’ Kate said. ‘Yes. I want to trace my son.’

The words seemed to be ripped out of her, leaving her torn and empty. They also seemed to belong to another woman, one with a different kind of story. Not knowing whether she could live up to what they seemed to imply, she found she was shaking. She placed her mug of tea down onto the table untasted before it might spill, glancing up at Susan to see if she’d noticed. The blonde woman’s face gave nothing away.

‘I see,’ she said, as if what Kate had revealed might have been entirely normal. For Susan, perhaps it was. ‘Can you tell me something about him, or what might have brought you to this point today?’

Kate explained, trying to ensure her words didn’t run away from her and that she revealed nothing of what must remain a secret. She kept her story simple therefore, concentrating on the bare facts of her affair at university, the birth, the adoption and the ensuing lack of contact. She ignored the reasons why the past had begun to call to her. She said nothing about her absence of feeling.

‘And so,’ she ended, ‘I’ve been thinking more and more frequently that it’s time to discover what happened after the birth. I need to know how the story I started then, all those years ago, turned out. In the end.’

Susan nodded as if this kind of explanation was to be expected.

‘I understand,’ she said. ‘Many people do begin this journey at certain key times. Having another child, for instance. Starting a new relationship or when the adopted child reaches an important milestone. Stephen will be an adult, legally speaking, by now, won’t he?’

Kate flinched. Around her everything seemed to become larger and brighter, as if the atoms making up the world had suddenly shifted. She swallowed and when she spoke her voice was hoarse.

‘Yes,’ she said. ’Yes, in fact he’ll be nineteen.’

A gentle pause followed, which was allowed to lengthen without threat before Susan spoke again. Kate was glad of it.

‘In that case,’ Susan said at last, ‘he may well already be searching for you. It sometimes happens that way. There are, in these circumstances, several things you can do …’

Kate listened and tried to take in the explanations about how to contact the original adoption agency, what to do if they were no longer in operation, whether counselling might be beneficial, which adoption contact registers would be best and how to initiate contact, if desired. All the time, she was thinking of how her child was an adult now. Somewhere in her mind, he was still the wrinkled, crying baby she’d glimpsed before he was taken away, but of course none of that was true any more.

‘… Ms Harris?’

‘Yes?’ Kate blinked, realising that Susan had been silent for some moments, but she had not responded. ‘I’m sorry, I was … thinking.’

‘It’s allowed,’ the other woman said with a smile. ‘I was asking whether you’d like us to put you in contact with the original agency. And I believe the NORCAP contact register would also be useful to you.’

‘Yes, that would be good. Thank you.’

Half an hour later, Kate left the office, shaking hands with Susan and clutching a branded carrier bag containing a variety of leaflets. She wondered if she would read them at all.

‘If you need any further advice, Ms Harris, you have my number, and do let me know how you get on.’

‘Thank you,’ Kate said as she walked out into sunshine. ‘I will.’

But already she knew it was a lie.

At home, a message from Nicky was waiting and when she switched on her mobile the same message was repeated. She listened twice, to both versions, before deleting them. She would ring later. First she had to see what it was that she knew.

Taking the carrier bag into the living room, she sat down and removed the contents one by one, placing each leaflet onto one of three piles on the coffee table. The sunlight made the glass tabletop sparkle. Everything was quiet. The categories, she decided, would be agency details, register details and general information.

No, there was a fourth category still missing.

In the office, she found what she was looking for and returned to where she’d been sitting. The papers she was holding seemed to burn their message into her skin and she dropped the bundle onto the table with a shiver and without looking at them. They skittered across the surface and landed, still in their rubber band, on the carpet. She picked them up.

The fourth pile: her anonymous letters.

They fitted into the mystery somewhere, but exactly how she couldn’t yet comprehend.

Whoever had written them knew about the past. Her past. There’d been hints in the text that she hadn’t noticed before. Hints that she as a Linguistics lecturer should have picked up on. Flicking through the letters and at the same time trying not to look and understand too much didn’t make her task any easier, but at last she found two examples to prove her case.

Slag, I know the secrets you keep
, said one, and the other was even more direct:
Don’t you think your past will come back to haunt you, bitch? One day he will. You can’t be sure what you got rid of won’t come back, can you?

When they’d first arrived, she hadn’t paid them much attention, not in terms of what the content might mean. She’d simply hidden them away. Now, sure at least that whoever was sending them knew about Stephen, she made herself go through each bitter word again, more slowly, and see if a picture might build up in her mind. That was what she was good at, wasn’t it? Or what she’d once been good at. Her profession: taking the small clues from words and building a larger picture from them. Of a person, of a people, of a nation.

Her task took over an hour. Not because of the number of letters – there were only ten – but because she found herself having to stop and hold herself free of it all for a while before carrying on. After she’d finished, she put the letters away in the office cabinet, locked it, read the adoption information leaflets, marking with a pen the sections she considered important, and made dinner. While the chicken and vegetables were cooking, she rang Nicky.