Everything She Forgot (21 page)

“Apology accepted,” said Peter, with the same bared-teeth smile he had used earlier. “Now, I want you to drink this. All of it.”

Tam looked up at Peter. He considered asking him for mercy.

“Peter, I-I . . .”

“Do you remember when you were wee, Tam?”

Tam looked at him, unblinking.

“Do you?” Peter raised his voice, just slightly, and the sudden inflection echoed in the large metal space.

“Aye.”

“So do I. Do you remember what the punishment was for lying?”

Tam swallowed, the urine cold on his leg, and now he felt that he was shivering all over, his muscles shaking with fear.

“In our house it was washing your mouth out with soap, wasn't it, Rich?”

“Lying or profanity . . .”

“Lying or profanity . . . wash your mouth out with soap. Well, Tam, here we are. This is the next best thing. Go on—drink it.”

Tam had accidentally drunk sips of gasoline in the past—once a large gulp—while siphoning fuel. He had sucked on a rubber tube and it had come too fast and he had gulped it down. He had been fine. His wife had called the doctor, who had told him to drink a glass of milk.

“Drink it,” said Peter, again his voice unusually loud and echoing as if his pernicious authority had grown larger.

Tam took hold of the plastic canister with two hands. It trembled a little in his grasp. It was only about one quarter full. Tam felt his chin drop, and he nodded. He raised the canister to his lips, his eyes and nose stinging with the smell. He screwed his eyes tight shut, took a mouthful, and swallowed, gasping and coughing at the burn in his throat.

When the spasms of coughing subsided, Tam opened his eyes and looked up at Peter, pleading for it to end.

“Go on.”

“It . . . Peter, it's too much, please, I . . .”

“You've only had one sip. You'll drink at least half. Imagine it was that dram you had when Georgie Boy spilled his beans . . .” Peter showed his lower teeth. “Now drink it.”

Resigned, Tam gulped and gulped again. The fumes made his eyes stream and his throat burned with it and his stomach
tightened and lurched, so that twice he retched dry before he was able to continue. He took one more gulp and then Peter swiped it from his lips, spilling some gas on his cheek and his trousers. He handed the canister to Richard, who slowly and carefully screwed the cap back on.

“There now,” said Peter, brushing imaginary dust from the sleeves of his jacket and buttoning up. “All over. That wasn't so hard, was it?”

Tam shook his head. His teeth were chattering and he could hear the rattle in his skull.

“Now you remembered your manners, but have you remembered anything else?” said Peter.

Tam could barely speak, but he managed: “P-Penzance.”

“Penzance?”

Tam tried to swallow. His nose and his mouth were filled with the oily burn of the gas. “That's where he told me he was headed.”

“Penzance? Why there? Whereabouts?”

“A cottage . . . it was in the family or something,” Tam gasped.

“I don't know of any cottage.”

“He said . . .” Tam screwed his eyes tight shut as he tried to remember George's words in the bar. “Between Sennen and Porthcurno . . . It's all I know, I swear,
I swear
.”

“Very well,” said Peter. “You relax now.”

Tam felt ill and weak. He sat back in the chair, watching the brothers.

“You did well,” said Peter.

Richard returned the canister to the side of the room, turned, and walked toward the door. Peter buttoned up his jacket, and put a hand in his pocket.

“You take care now, Tam,” he said, turning.

When he saw each of their backs walking toward the door, Tam buckled over and cupped his face in his hands, feeling hot new tears of relief against his palm.

From inside his fingers, he was aware of the smallest sound:
scrape, scrape, scrape
. . . like a blade sharpening against stone.

He opened his eyes just in time to see Peter frowning into his fingertips, as if trying without success to click his fingers. The flame of his lighter finally took and he tossed it down on to the floor.

CHAPTER 20

I
T WAS VISITING TIME ON THE
S
ATURDAY BEFORE
C
HRISTMAS,
and Margaret had returned to Ward 19 at the Royal London Hospital. The children were both at friends' houses, Ben was working on an article, and Margaret found herself at the hospital once again.

It had been twelve days since she had seen Maxwell: nearly a fortnight, yet she had called almost daily to ask about his progress. Walking to the ward, she wondered if he would be awake when she arrived—if the doctors had brought him out of his coma. The thought of talking to him—meeting him properly—filled her with excited trepidation.

Maxwell Brown was still unconscious, in a private room, and, according to the nurses, he had had no visitors apart from Margaret since he had been admitted.

She sat down at his bedside. Christmas was only a few days away, yet already she felt deadly tired. The kids were both excited, but Margaret's temper had been shorter than usual. She had snapped at the children once or twice since they had been off school—filling the house with mess and noise. She had also been distant and withdrawn from Ben. It was as if she couldn't
contain what was happening inside her and now the ones she loved were starting to suffer for it.

Margaret leaned over the bed and took Maxwell's hand. It was surprisingly smooth. She had been sitting staring at him for some time, wondering who he was and if his family was missing him. He wore no jewelry; he had no watch nor a ring on his finger, unless the medical staff had removed it.

A nurse Margaret was unfamiliar with came in to change Maxwell's urine bag and she stood aside as the nurse drew the curtain and slipped behind it. The nurse talked to Margaret from behind the curtain as she worked.

“Nice to see he has a visitor. I know he'll appreciate it. Are you family?”

“Em . . . just a friend,” said Margaret. She found that she could no longer talk about the crash to others.

“Well, you may not think it, but I'm sure he's grateful.” The nurse's voice sounded as if she were bending and then stretching. Margaret could see the shape of her body move along the inside of the curtain.

“He's technically in a coma?”

“That's right.” The nurse dragged the curtain back on its rail, and smiled at Margaret. “He was put in a medically induced coma. He seems to be stabilizing now though, so the doctors will likely bring him back in a week or so . . .”

“Really?” said Margaret.

“I think that's the plan.”

“Can he hear me?”

“Well, we don't really know, but I'm sure on some level he can. You could read to him or something. I'm sure he'll be happy to hear your voice.”

“Thank you,” said Margaret. “I will. I read to my kids all
the time. I have a book in my bag.” She took the novel she was reading from her handbag and placed it on the bed.

The nurse left and closed the door. Once again, Margaret took Maxwell's hand. The room was warm, and he was stripped to the waist as he had been the last time she visited. She could see his ribs underneath his scarred skin as his chest rose and fell. He looked thinner, his head turned away from her and his chin down, making him seem vulnerable and alone. Looking at him now, it was difficult to believe that
this
was the powerful man who had saved her.

Margaret cleared her throat and spoke in a low voice. “I just popped in to see you before Christmas. It's good to hear that you'll be waking up soon. I'd love to meet you properly. I'm so, so grateful to you. I think you're an angel.” Margaret smiled and let go of his fingers. She felt silly, talking to an unconscious man as if he could hear her.

There was no blind on the window that looked out on to the nurses' station, but when Margaret peered through it, she could see that the nurse was seated at her desk with her back to Maxwell's room, doing paperwork.

She bit her lip. She was desperate to know more about who Maxwell was. No one had come forward to claim him. He had to have a history, and a life that was waiting for him.

There was a long cupboard beside the bed and Margaret opened it. It was a wardrobe with shelves at the bottom. On the bottom shelf were the brown boots that Maxwell had been wearing in the crash—dirty and unpolished. Above were the clothes he had been wearing, neatly folded: brown corduroy trousers, a T-shirt, and a checked shirt; and—hanging—a heavy brown jacket.

Margaret peered through the window at the nurse again, but
she was still bent over her desk. Instinctively, she reached into the pocket of the jacket. She was not sure what she was looking for, but the pocket was empty. She slid her hand into the other pocket. She felt a coin and then a piece of paper, which might have been a receipt.

She glanced over her shoulder and saw that the nurse was now on her feet, talking to one of the doctors.

Margaret took the piece of paper out of the pocket. Before she was able to inspect it, she saw the doctor and nurse walking together toward Maxwell's room. She crushed the paper in her palm and closed the cupboard door. She knew nothing about Maxwell other than his name and his date of birth. She was desperate to learn anything she could about him. The flap of the cupboard sounded loudly as it closed, and the room door opened. Margaret swallowed, feeling embarrassed and guilty, but the doctor, a tall Asian woman with dark-rimmed glasses, only smiled at her.

“I'm sorry to disturb you,” the doctor said. “We're going to send Mr. Brown up for another MRI. Visiting hour's nearly over anyway, but I'm sorry to rush you off.”

“Not at all,” said Margaret, picking up her coat and her bag. “I was just leaving. You're thinking that you might bring him out of the coma soon?”

“We'll know more after the MRI.”

“He had bleeding in his brain?” Margaret frowned, trying to understand the extent of Maxwell's injuries. She wondered if he might have sustained brain damage.

“That's right, an extradural hematoma.”

“It sounds so serious, but I was with him on the motorway. I knew he had hurt his head, but he had so much strength. He saved my life.”

The doctor adjusted her glasses on her nose. “That's right. With EDH, patients can be lucid for periods of time—sometimes days—before they lose consciousness. He did the right thing to come in.”

“He broke his hand saving me. He smashed the window of my car.”

“Yes, we heard Mr. Brown is a hero. But that broken hand maybe saved his life.”

Margaret touched Maxwell's arm before she left the room, then watched through the window as the doctor checked his chart and the nurse began to lower his bed in preparation for moving him to the MRI scanner.

Margaret put on her coat and walked down the corridor. The hospital was too warm and she was looking forward to being outside.

There were few visitors in this critical ward and Margaret was alone in the corridor as she moved toward the lift. As she walked, she slowly unfolded the note she had clutched in her palm. It was not a receipt but a telephone number handwritten in thick, bold felt pen.

Margaret stopped still in the corridor as she realized that it was the main office telephone number for her school: Byron Academy.

CHAPTER 21

L
EAVING
N
EWCASTLE,
G
EORGE CHOSE NOT TO
FOLLOW THE
A1 south but cut west, onto the smaller roads, passing through Consett, Crook, and Bishop Auckland. Moll sat looking out of the window at the passing fields, villages, houses. He kept the radio on and drummed his fingers on the wheel to the beat of the tunes that were played, but turned it off when the news came on.

They had stopped their game half an hour or so ago. George had said he needed to concentrate on driving.

When the radio was turned off, the car seemed too quiet—all of the sound lost to Moll's sad eyes. The day was waning and the sun cast sharp shadows on the harvested fields. Cylindrical haystacks were spaced around the corn stubble, random yet deliberate, like pagan standing stones. The horizon was pink and bloodied by the sinking sun, and George flipped the visor down to shield his eyes from the glare.

He took one hand off the wheel and reached inside his right pocket, taking out a coin. “Penny for your thoughts,” he said, offering it to her and winking at her when she turned.

She took the coin from him, smiling thinly and clasping it
in two hands, as if holding something alive, a beetle or a butterfly. The smile stayed on her lips and yet she didn't share her thoughts with him.

He knew he had it in him to win her.

He wished he had thought to buy sweets for the journey and decided that he would get some when they stopped. Was he possibly the only man to kidnap a child and forget them? George had smoked cigarettes since he was eleven years old and could now barely taste sweet food, but he remembered being Moll's age and loving it—elbowing his way to the front of the queue when the ice cream van came.

“Right,” he said, rolling down the window and lighting a cigarette. “Don't you know any car songs?” The friction of the air against his window was awakening. The smell of his cigarette blended with the smell of manure off the fields.

“I know ‘Row the Boat,'” she said, eyebrows raised.

“So do I.”

They sang “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” overlapping verses, each trying to sing louder than the other.

G
eorge had no idea where he was going, but he ended up in York at six thirty at night. The wean was starving again and tired and they both needed a bath. He wanted a big hotel, where people wouldn't ask too many questions, and so settled on the Queen's Hotel, which looked onto the banks of the River Ouse. He was apprehensive about taking her inside after the incident in Newcastle, but they needed real food and a bath and a bed and he believed that he had begun to win her over.

George turned off the engine, then turned to look at her. He could see that she was weary.

“This is a hotel. I'll get us a room here and we can have something nice to eat.”

She turned to him, nodding.

He took a deep breath. “The truth is, people are looking for you. They're looking for a little girl. I know you don't like your hair short or those clothes I bought you, but you can grow your hair again. It's kind of a disguise, like I said . . . like dressing up.”

She watched his face.

“It's just like pretending. Do you ever pretend when you're playing?”

She nodded vigorously.

“Well, that's what this is like. I need you to help me out. You just
pretend
that you're a little boy. It's a game we can play, and only you and me know we're playing it. You can even choose a boy's name. What name do you think you'd like?”

The thought brightened her. She put a finger to her lips, considering, her body suddenly tense with the thrill of it.

“Come on,” said George, getting out of the car and taking their bags from the boot. He looked down at her and smiled. She was convincing with her Batman trainers and her jeans. He touched the brim of her cap. “Well, Batman, did you come up with a name?”

“Batman?”

“Your shoes, I was meaning. What name do you choose for yourself? Your pretend boy name.”

“Batman.”

“You can't be Batman, that's a bit weird, but you could be Robin. That OK?”

“OK, are you Batman, then?”

George grinned at her. “No, I'm George Harrison, like in The Beatles.”

Moll smiled and George felt grateful.

“Come on then . . . Robin.” She giggled.

The receptionist was a young woman who wore bright red lipstick. George put a hand on Moll's shoulder and smiled at the young woman, making sure that he made eye contact.

“I wondered if you had a twin room free?”

“Certainly,” she said, blushing as she checked the register, so that George knew that she liked him. “We have a twin available for sixty pounds, and the suite for one hundred.”

George paused to consider. He had the money for three suites, but experience had taught him only to throw money around when you wanted to be noticed. Where he came from, the only people with money were doctors, lawyers, and gangsters, and it would be obvious which one George was.

“I think the smaller room will be fine,” he said.

“Very well, I just need you to fill this in, and then it will be sixty for the room and a ten-pound deposit.”

George stared at the form, feeling a desolate sickness that he remembered feeling every day at school. He opened his wallet and counted out sixty pounds and placed the money on the counter. “Here you go.” He took another five-pound note out of his pocket and placed it near the woman's long pale hand. “And this is for you, for that beautiful smile.”

“I can't really,” she said, blushing deeply, and passing the note back to him.

“What do you mean? I could give it to the guy who'll carry our bag, but I can guarantee that he won't have a smile that beautiful.”

“Hardly.”

“What do you mean?” said George, warming to her already. “Don't underestimate your beauty.”

The woman laughed, and gently pushed the form toward him.

“If you could just fill this in.”

“I tell you what,” he said, winking, “you'll not believe it, but I sprained my right hand only last week. Even driving's difficult. If you need it completed
desperately
, could you do it for me and I'll sign it?”

The receptionist frowned in confusion but then agreed.

“Your name?”

“George Harrison.”

The woman glanced up, smiling.

“I know. That guy from The Beatles is mistaken for me all the time.”

The receptionist printed his name. “And your son is . . .”

“Batman,” said George, winking at Moll, who grinned and corrected him.

“Robin!”

“Address?”

George gave the address that he had had printed on his fake driving license, which he had arranged before he left. It was an address in Edinburgh.

“You're just in York for the weekend?” the woman asked.

“Just passing through. We're on our way back up north.”

“Well, enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you.”

The woman took their key from the slot and then smiled down at Moll, before passing the key to her. “He has your eyes,” said the receptionist, and George winked at her.

“Lucky him.”

T
heir room was large, with its own bathroom, and there was a view of the river and the parking lot, which George
thought was useful, although he was trying not to get too paranoid. As soon as they were inside, he gave Moll the room service menu and asked her what she wanted to eat, then began to run the bathwater.

“Do you like bubbles in your bath, Robin?” George said, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Yes,” Moll said, reading with her forefinger pressed against each word. “I want steak pie.”

“That sounds great. I'll get one for me too.”

While the bath filled and the bubbles frothed, George made the call and asked for two steak pies, a pint of lager, an orange juice, and a chocolate ice cream sundae.

“There you go,” he said, hanging up. “You get your ice cream after all. I told you I always keep my promises.”

Moll smiled at him, but it was a wary smile and he wondered what she was thinking.

“Come on,” he said, kneeling on the bathroom floor to test the water. “I think this is cool enough for you. You get in there, wash your hair, mind, and then we'll eat our tea and watch the telly.” He left the bathroom door ajar and fetched her fresh clothes. When he returned she was deep in bubbles and trying to open a small bottle of shampoo.

“Will you be all right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you'll shout if you have any trouble.”

He turned on the television, then saw the minibar and poured himself a whiskey. He drank it straight as he changed the channel. It was the six o'clock news and Moll's school picture flashed onto the screen.

“And now to our top story
,
”
said the suited male reporter. “
Police continue their search for young Molly Henderson, who
was abducted from her home in Thurso in the Scottish Highlands yesterday. The seven-year-old, who was last seen wearing the school uniform pictured, was witnessed getting into a dark-colored car with a tall dark man, wearing a suit. Highlands police are coordinating with the national force but have asked for the public to report any suspected sightings.”

George turned the volume down a little and stepped closer to the television to hear the report. When Moll had been asleep, he had listened to the news about her on the radio. One of the radio stations had suggested that the abduction could be linked to other child murders, and this had pleased George. He wanted the police to waste time comparing Moll's disappearance with other crimes by other criminals.

            
“Yesterday evening, Molly's mother, Kathleen, gave the following address . . .”

The camera cut to a recording of a press conference, where Kathleen was sitting with her husband at her side. They were both gray with grief, and Kathleen's lip trembled, her eyes searching with confusion, not sure where to look. She had prepared something to say and now looked down at the piece of paper that shook in her hands.

“Molly's very little and I know she'll be frightened.”
Kathleen's voice trembled and broke, but then she regained composure.
“If anyone has any information, I urge them to come forward so that I can have her back. Please. Please. We . . . miss her very much.”

George cleaved at the sight of Kathleen in such pain. He took a large sip of his whiskey, wincing.

Just then, Moll screamed in the bathroom.

“Shit,” he said, assuming that she had heard and spilling some of his drink as he rushed to change the channel.

He went to her, cringing at the bathroom door before he entered.

She had soap in her eyes. Her hair was covered in white foam and she was screaming with her knuckles pressed into her eyes.

George rinsed a facecloth and wiped her face, then got a fresh towel and dried it off.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded, blinking. Wet, her eyelashes seemed impossibly long.

“You've got too much soap in your hair, you daftie. Do you want me to help you rinse it?”

She nodded silently, so he took down the shower hose and ran the water until it was the right temperature.

“Lean your head back.”

She did as he asked and he washed all the soap out of her hair, noticing some areas where he had almost shaved it to the scalp. When her hair was clean, he picked up one of the big towels and lifted her out of the bath, wrapping her in it. He rubbed her a little, and then told her to get dressed.

Their dinner came, on a trolley and hidden under silver serving dishes. George paid and tipped the waiter and then set the table up for her, and changed the TV channel to cartoons. They ate in silence, watching Bugs Bunny.

She ate almost all of her dinner and he let her sit on the bed with the ice cream to watch the television better, while he took a shower.

The water was hot and the jet was strong, and he felt relief as he washed. He hadn't bathed since he left Glasgow and he
felt the dirt and stress of the journey rinsing off his skin. He thought about Kathleen and the brave way she had fought back tears at the press conference and he thought about Moll and her strange shorn head that made her seem like an urchin.

He had started this, and he didn't know what was next, but he hoped to find someplace where they could be at peace, and then he would try to persuade Moll to stay with him. There was no going back now, he thought, as he rinsed his hair and turned off the shower.

George roughly toweled himself dry, put on one of the hotel robes, wiped a clear spot on the steamy mirror, and shaved. When he opened the bathroom door, he found her asleep on the bed with an empty dish of ice cream beside her. He looked at the clock: it was nearly eight.

He put the ice cream dish on the trolley, then folded her limp sleeping body under the covers. He was exhausted himself, so he lay on the bed opposite, drinking his lager and watching a war film with the sound turned down low. He was about to light a cigarette when he became aware that she was whimpering. Her eyes were rolling under her eyelids and her hands were clutching the bedcovers.

“Wheeesht,” he whispered in an attempt to soothe her.

She became more restless and just as he was about to go to her, she sat up in bed and burst into tears.

“Hey, what's the matter?” he asked, leaning over.

She didn't seem to hear him, and so he sat on the edge of her bed and put his arm around her.

“Hey, Moll, what's the matter? Why are you crying?”

She looked into his face, her lashes wet and her eyes full of confusion.

“Were you dreaming?”