The woman stirred. They say no news is good news.
Sally opened her eyes again. Has there been no news? Truly?
If there had been news, any news at all, theyd have told you and your husband straightaway. I promise. Im D C Yvonne Saunders, by the way. I took over from Judith. The woman hesitated. You remember Judith? Last night?
Sallys head twitched on the pillow. More memories flooded back. A plain-clothes policewoman, Judith, holding her arm while a doctor with ginger curls pushed a hypodermic into the skin. Herself saying shouting that she wasnt going to stay with friends or go to hospital: she was going to stay here, at home in Hercules Road because that was where Lucy would expect to find her; she and Michael had made Lucy memorize both the address and the phone number.
Theyll find her, Sally. Were pulling out all the stops. Again a hesitation, a hint of calculation. Doctor left some medicine. Something to help you not to worry. Shall I give you some?
No. The refusal was instinctive, but the reasons rushed after it: if they tranquillized her she would be no use to Lucy when if they found her; if they turned her into a zombie, she wouldnt be able to find out what was happening, they wouldnt tell her anything; she needed to be as clear-headed as possible, for Lucys sake. Sally leant back against her pillows. Wheres Michael? My husband?
The eyes wavered. Hes out. Hell be back soon, I should think. I expect youd like to freshen up, wouldnt you? Shall I make some tea?
Sally nodded, largely in order to get the woman out of her bedroom. Michael she needed to think about him but she couldnt concentrate.
Yvonne stood up, her face creasing into an unconvincing smile. Ill leave you to it, then. She added slowly, as if talking to a person of low intelligence, I shall be in the kitchen, if you need me. All right, love?
No, Sally wanted to say, its not all right; it may never be all right again; and Im not your love, either. Instead, she returned the smile and said thank you.
When she was alone, she pushed the duvet away from her and got out of bed. The sweat cooled rapidly on her skin and she began to shiver. They had given her clean pyjamas, she realized, clinging to the security of domestic details. She was ashamed to see that the pyjamas were an old pair: the material was faded, a button was missing from the jacket, and there were undesirable stains on the trousers. The shivering worsened and once more the impact of what had happened hit her. Her knees gave way. She sat down suddenly on the bed. My baby. Where are you? The tears streamed down her cheeks.
She dared not make a noise in case Yvonne came back. This is all my fault. I should have kept her with me. She fell sideways and curled up on the bed. Her body shook with silent sobs.
Water rustled through the pipes. Sally, familiar with the vocabulary of the plumbing, knew that Yvonne was filling the kettle. The thought galvanized her into changing her position. At any moment the policewoman might return. With her hand over her mouth, trying to prevent the terror from spurting out like vomit, Sally scrambled off the bed and pulled open the wardrobe. She avoided looking at the accusing faces in the photographs on the chest of drawers. She selected clothes at random and, with a bundle in her arms, sneaked into the bathroom and bolted the door.
Boats, ducks and teddies had colonized the side of the bath. One of Lucys socks was lying under the basin. Automatically Sally picked it up, intending to drop it in the basket for dirty clothes. Instead she sat on the lavatory. She held the sock to her face, breathing its essence, hoping to smell Lucy, to recreate her by sheer force of will. Did Lucy at least have Jimmy, her little cloth doll? Or was she entirely without comfort?
Tears spilled down Sallys cheeks. When the fit of crying passed, she sat motionless, her fingers clenched round the sock, and sank into depths she had not known existed.
There was a tap on the door. How are you doing, love? Teas ready.
Im fine. Ill be out in a moment. I might have a shower.
Sally brushed her teeth, trying to scour the taste of that long, drugged sleep from her mouth. She dropped the pyjamas on the floor, stepped into the bath and stood under the shower. Making no move to wash herself, she let the water stream down her body for several minutes. Last night, she remembered dimly, she had given way. She remembered shouting and crying in Carlas house and later at the flat. She remembered Michaels face, white and accusing, and police officers whom she did not know, their expressions concerned but somehow detached from what was happening to her and to Lucy. The ginger-haired doctor had been tiny, so small that he came to below her shoulder. She must not let them give her drugs again.
She turned off the shower and began to dry herself. There was another tap on the door.
How about a nice slice of toast, love?
Seeing if Im still alive. Yes, please. Theres a loaf in the fridge.
The thought of food disgusted her but she would be no use to anyone if she starved herself. She dressed quickly in jeans, T-shirt and jersey. In her haste, she had provided herself with two odd socks, one with a hole in the heel. She ran a comb through her hair. As an afterthought she pushed Lucys sock into the pocket of the jeans. The routine of showering and dressing had had a calming effect. But as she unbolted the door the fact of Lucys disappearance hit her like a flail, making her gasp for air.
She could not face Yvonne. She staggered back to the bedroom. Directly opposite the doorway was the crucifix on the wall above the mantelpiece. She looked at the little brass figure on the cross and realized as if for the first time how terribly pain had contorted the miniature face and twisted the muscles of the legs, the arms and the stomach. How could you forgive God for inflicting such suffering? But God hadnt forgiven God. He had crucified him. And if he had done that to his own child, what would he do to Lucy?
The unmade bed distracted her. She pulled up the duvet and plumped the pillows. After making the bed, she reminded herself, she normally tidied the room. But it looked tidy already. Usually there would have been Michaels dirty clothes flung over the chair, a magazine or a book on the floor by his side of the bed, a glass of water and his personal stereo on the table: he was a man who left a trail of domestic chaos behind him.
A pile of books on the chest of drawers caught her eye. They were small, shabby and unfamiliar. She picked up the first of them, a prayer book, and as she did so she remembered where they had come from. She turned to the flyleaf. To Audrey, on the occasion of her First Communion, 20th March 1937, with love from Mother.
Audrey Oliphants suicide seemed no more real than a story read long ago and half-forgotten. Sally could hardly believe that she had seen the woman dead on a hospital bed less than twenty-four hours earlier. She remembered the cheerless bedsitter, a shrine to lost beliefs. Most of all she remembered the woman standing up in St Georges as Sally began to preach her first sermon.
She-devil. Blasphemer against Christ. Apostate. Impious bitch. Whore of Babylon. Daughter of Satan. May God damn you and yours.
She dropped the Prayer Book as if it were contaminated. May God damn you and yours. She almost ran from the room, shutting the door behind her. Yvonne was no longer someone to be avoided but a potential refuge.
This feeling vanished as soon as Sally reached the living room. Yvonne had laid the table in the window; usually Sally and Michael ate breakfast in the kitchen, often on the move. She had managed to find the wrong plates, the wrong mugs and the wrong teapot. There were paper napkins, a choice of both jam and marmalade, and a tablecloth which the Appleyards had last used on Christmas Day. Sally thought of little girls playing house and tried to suppress her exasperation. She also wished that she had remembered to wash the cloth.
This feeling vanished as soon as Sally reached the living room. Yvonne had laid the table in the window; usually Sally and Michael ate breakfast in the kitchen, often on the move. She had managed to find the wrong plates, the wrong mugs and the wrong teapot. There were paper napkins, a choice of both jam and marmalade, and a tablecloth which the Appleyards had last used on Christmas Day. Sally thought of little girls playing house and tried to suppress her exasperation. She also wished that she had remembered to wash the cloth.
Perhaps you prefer honey? Yvonne was poised to dash into the kitchen. And is there any butter? I can only find margarine. Thats what I have, but perhaps
Thats fine, Sally lied. Margarines fine. Everythings fine.
She drank a glass of fruit juice and then sipped a mug of sweetened tea. The first mouthful of toast almost made her gag. She allowed Yvonne to pour her a second mug of tea and used it to moisten her throat between mouthfuls. Yvonne made her feel a guest in her own home, confronted by an overanxious hostess.
Parish reflexes came to Sallys rescue: automatically she asked questions. Yvonne told her that she worked at Paddington, that her boyfriend, also a policeman, was a sergeant in traffic control, and that they had a small flat in Wembley, but were hoping to move to somewhere larger soon. The illusion of intimacy lasted until Yvonne used the phrase living in sin to describe what she and her boyfriend did.
Sorry. A blush crept up underneath her make-up. Perhaps I shouldnt be talking like this. What with you being a vicar and all.
Before I decided to become ordained, I lived with two men. Sally inserted a practised pause and then slipped in her usual punchline: Not at the same time, of course.
Yvonne tittered, and the mask slipped, revealing the youth and vulnerability behind. Usually, Sally thought, she would not have talked so readily to a stranger. But Michael was a police officer, which made Sally an honorary insider, at least on a temporary basis. And Yvonne was nervous perhaps she had not done this job before. The flail of memory slapped her again: baby-sitting, they might call it, or child minding. For the next few seconds Sally fought the urge to bring up her breakfast over Great Aunt Marys linen tablecloth.
The telephone rang.
Ill get it. Yvonne was already on her feet. She picked up the phone. She listened, then said, Im a police officer, sir Yes, Mrs Appleyard is awake Ill ask her. She covered the mouthpiece of the handset. Someone called Derek Cutter. Says hes your boss. Do you want to talk to him? Or he says hed be pleased to come over.
Sally opened her mouth to say that she didnt want to see Derek, or talk to him; and if she never did either again, she for one would not waste any tears. Instantly she restrained herself. This wasnt Dereks fault. She had a duty both to him and to the parish. And, more selfishly, it was important to create the illusion that she was in control; otherwise they might starve her of information.