Lullaby (11 page)

I felt my chest contract again as I stared at him, searching for the words. I knew he needed comfort, but I didn’t know where to find it.

‘I mean missing. Gone. Someone—someone’s taken him. Don’t you remember
anything?
’

He shook his head slowly, and the tear that had been pooling in the corner of his dark, swollen eye finally escaped. I watched with horrified fascination as it tracked down his cheek and hit the scar below, seeped through the neat stitches that puckered there. Then it was lost.

‘Louis has been missing for almost—for two days now. He was with you when he disappeared.’

He looked back up at me blankly.

‘You had him.’ My voice was climbing. ‘I lost you both, don’t you remember that at least?’ I was sweating now.

There was an unearthly pause.

‘I think I remember a train,’ he said then, almost hopefully, brow knitted with anxiety; the effort it took tangible.

‘Yeah, well, we went to the Tate. To see the Hopper exhibition. I lost you both in the gallery. The next time I saw you, you were here, and Louis—’ I couldn’t bear to say the words again ‘—Louis was missing. I haven’t—no one’s seen him since. Apart from five hundred nutters, apparently.’

‘Five hundred nutters?’

‘Yeah, five hundred bloody nutters. The nutters phoning the police since the appeal.’ He still looked blank. ‘I can’t believe you can’t remember.’

‘The appeal?’

‘I’ve been depending on you, Mickey. On you remembering what happened.’

‘For pity’s sake, Jessica. I—’

One of Mickey’s machines began to beep loudly, fighting his words for supremacy. Sister Kwame padded to his side and fiddled with it for a while. Then she took Mickey’s pale hand in her own dark one, circled his wrist.

‘And you?’ he whispered, but his eyes couldn’t quite connect with mine. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Oh yes, I’m grand,’ I said numbly, ‘to coin your phrase.’

The nurse spoke softly. ‘His blood pressure’s rocketing. I think he needs some calm, my dear.’

Calm? If only there was some to give.

‘Mickey, I’ve got—I’d better go. You sleep. I’ll see you later.’ I stood up. ‘But please,’ I implored, ‘please, while you’re lying here, you must try to remember. We’ve got to find him quickly. The police are outside. They’re waiting to talk to you. You’ve got to think-don’t you remember anything at all?’

Slowly he shook his head, and I fought to contain a growing rage—and yet I supposed I was being unfair. It wasn’t his fault—was it? At the door I looked back. He looked so pathetic, so broken and so utterly unlike my Mickey, so mournful lying there, that suddenly all
the anger dissipated; love and pity took its place.

‘I’ll come back tonight, okay?’ I said. But he was staring away now, lying very still. Only his fingers moved, plucking at the sheet over and again. I went back to the bed and kissed him gently on the forehead.

‘Get some rest, darling,’ I crooned, and I wondered if this was how it’d be. Mickey could be my baby, now Louis was gone. Then I walked resolutely from the room before I went quite mad.

Deb was waiting in the corridor. ‘Are you feeling a bit better? How’s your husband? Good to talk to him at last, I’ll bet!’ she said cheerily.

‘There’s something wrong. That’s not my husband,’ I said, moving off towards daylight as fast as I could. I heard her footsteps quicken as she followed me, tried to catch my arm.

‘What do you mean, not your husband? I don’t understand. Has there been some-’

‘No, sorry. It
is
Mickey,’ I stopped her. ‘But it’s not—oh, I can’t explain. Not the Mickey I know.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s like he’s gone all—all sort of odd. Retreated. And he can’t remember anything.’

‘Oh, I see. Well, come on now, Jessica. Give him a chance. I mean, he’s had a huge blow to the head, hasn’t he, and a terrible ordeal I’m sure—’

‘A terrible ordeal,’ I repeated, parrot-like. ‘Yes, I suppose he has.’ I pushed open the door to the corridor before my thoughts turned any darker.

*

Shirl was sitting in the canteen with DI Silver. They looked a little too cosy for my liking, her afro glittering invitingly above a green bandana as her head tilted towards him. Was she telling him my secrets—the ones he wanted to know? Sometimes I wanted to plunge my hands into her sparkly hair like Louis did; today I just stood at the table-head and gazed at her. My stomach really hurt now.

‘Blimey, babe, you look terrible. Sit down. I got you a coffee,’ she pushed it towards me, ‘but I think it’s probably cold by now.’

‘Glad to see you’ve recovered. How’re you feeling, kiddo?’ Silver asked lazily, and I nodded, all wobbly, to indicate that I was fine, horribly aware that last time I’d seen him I’d been retching in the gutter. He stood up and stretched, and I plonked myself down in his seat. I thought how wan and insignificant I must look beside Shirl. Washed out like over-skimmed milk.

‘And how’s your old man?’ He straightened his tie using his reflection in the window. I took a tentative sip of the coffee. It was stone-cold and foul.

‘All right, I think’, I muttered, ‘but his memory’s gone all weird.’ I put spoon after spoon of sugar in my cup. ‘He didn’t even know that Louis was missing.’

‘Ah well,’ said Silver, ‘give it time. He’s had an almighty knock on the head, poor lad. I’m going to see him now, if that scary nurse’ll let me in.’

His words singed me. ‘We haven’t
got
time, though, have we?’ My voice came out too loud.

‘Sorry—what do you mean?’ His smile didn’t falter.

‘Time. You said give it time. But we haven’t got time. I haven’t got time anyway. I mean, what’s happening? Surely there’s been some kind of development?’

‘You mean, what’s been going on since you’ve been out cold?’ Finally his smile was fading.

‘It was a mistake,’ I mumbled, abashed.

‘Yeah. Easy one to make.’

‘Please,’ I looked him directly in the eye, ‘it really was. I’m sorry if I—you know, if I scared you.’

He held my gaze. ‘You did. Anyway, forget it. We’ve got a couple of good leads, but I need to interview your husband first. I’ll be in touch.’ He picked his mobile and his gum up from the table. ‘Just be more careful next time, okay? You gave me a nasty fright.’

‘You can say that again,’ Shirl chimed in treacherously. Silver melted into the motley canteen crowd. ‘Still, no harm done, hopefully,’ Shirl went on. ‘What do you want to do now, sweetie?’

My skimpy summer dress rippled in the fierce air-conditioning and I shivered. ‘I guess I should go home.’

‘Okay Let’s get out of here,’ she said. ‘I hate bloody hospitals anyway, they give me the creeps.’ She pushed me gently forward as she squeezed round the Formica table, towards a waving Deb. ‘I’m sure that nice police-man’ll come and tell you what to do soon.’

‘Great,’ I muttered and stomped off towards the car park. ‘I can’t wait.’

As it happened, I didn’t see Silver again that day. Deb drove Shirl and me home, and I trembled in the back
and tried not to vent my frustrations. Deb kept assuring me that the amount of calls the appeal had prompted was entirely positive, and teams were working through them to rifle out the hoaxes from the genuine.

As I opened the car door outside the house, I heard voices calling my name. They were getting louder. I flung myself onto the pavement, tripping over my own feet.

‘Louis!’ I cried, righting myself–turned straight into a pack of photographers, TV cameras. The press.

‘Jessica, how are you feeling?’

‘Is there any news yet?’

‘What’s happened to Mr Finnegan?’

Deb put an arm around me; Shirl appeared at the other side.

‘Gentlemen, ladies, please. Mrs Finnegan needs peace and quiet right now. There’ll be another press call at Lewisham in the morning.’

Deb propelled me through the throng into my house and slammed the door. The voices kept up their clamouring for a while. Deb looked concerned.

‘Okay?’

Leaning against the closed front door, I nodded.

‘I’m sorry, Jess. They have no respect for privacy, that mob. Let’s move out of the front of the house for now.’

‘They’re doing their job, I guess.’ But I could hardly bear to think of that moment when I’d thought it meant my son was back; of the pure sheer joy I’d felt so fleetingly I buried my face in my hands.

‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

‘I’m fine, honestly.’

Shirl said she’d run a bath for me while I went upstairs to change. As I opened my bedroom cupboard to retrieve my dressing-gown, a sheaf of papers fell out of the folder I kept tucked in the side of the shoe-rack; the folder of things I didn’t want to lose—my passport, my wedding certificate, my hard-earned exam results. Sketches of Louis; a few of a sleeping Mickey I’d done on holiday in Mauritius—our only holiday together before the baby—that weren’t good enough to show him. A rare photo of my dad, a smiling youth on horseback, from the days he’d hoped to race professionally, spiralled slowly to the carpet now.

Fear crawled up my back and sat heavy on my shoulder, pricked across my skin in tiny little barbs. No one ever went in this cupboard except me, not even saintly Jean, but it was quite obvious now that someone had moved things round. The bedroom door banged behind me and I started.

‘Sorry, sweetie,’ Shirl said, ‘I didn’t mean to scare you. I just brought you some juice.’

‘Someone’s been in here, Shirl.’ Frowning, I scooped the photo up.

‘Who’s that? Roger? Lord, isn’t he young and handsome? Look at him on that horse, very la-di-da.’

‘Hardly’, I said distractedly, ‘he was just the groom. Before he got too tall to race.’ I turned the photo over and over in my hands. ‘Shirl, this is serious. I’m sure someone’s been in here. I always leave that folder right—’

‘Listen, babe,’ she took my hands and made me look
at her. ‘You’re in the middle of the world’s worst nightmare. You’re bound to be all jumpy, your imagination’s bound to be playing tricks, you know? You’ve got to try and chill a bit. Come, I’ve run you a nice bath.’

I stuffed the folder into the back of the wardrobe and followed her to the bathroom, listening to her waffle as she tried to buoy me up. Jean had probably hung some of my clothes up, hadn’t she, dislodged things accidentally? Reluctantly, I agreed. But despite the day’s relentless heat, despite the bath, I couldn’t get warm.

As we’d left St Thomas’ Hospital earlier, Deb had tried to steer me past the papers in the hospital shop, but too late—I’d spotted myself on the front of nearly every one; wide-eyed in a grab from the news conference, looking a little like a lamb who’d lost its flock. Beside me was invariably a rare picture of Louis, Mickey and me, all smiling and carefree.

And despite Shirl’s cheerful chatter now, all the photos of lost children I’d ever seen grinning on the news kept flitting through my mind. I ducked beneath the water time and time again, but their faces followed me. The innocence behind their toothy smiles, the ignorance of what came next; that their tragic destiny meant they’d never age past that photo—frozen forever in that time. Louis hadn’t even got as far as having a toothy smile.

And just when I was battling not to succumb again to the utter desperation that drilled my very bones, the doorbell rang—only this time I didn’t leap up in hope. I dragged myself from the bath and down the stairs,
praying it might be good news. By the time I reached the kitchen, there he was, safely ensconced, like he’d been there for years, beer in hand, ash-laden fag in the other. It wasn’t news about Louis at all. It was Robbie.

When we were little, my brother Robbie was like my baby. I protected him from the world as best I could, but in the end my best no longer worked. By the time I’d got away from home, left it as far behind as I dared, he was being sucked under by a side of us that I’d attempted to stamp out.

We were so similar, Robbie and I, inheriting a streak of something from my dad that lucky Leigh had dodged. Blonde, blue-eyed Leigh resembled our mum; Robbie and I, dark tousled little devils, were freckled clones of our beloved dad. We rough-and-tumbled, fought and laughed; learnt to ride our bikes together, round and round the estate, ran riot in the local playgrounds, nicked Pacers and lollipops from the corner shops—needed no one but each other. We taunted poor Leigh mercilessly when she started dating. ‘Ooh ah, lost your bra, left it in Gazza’s car,’ we’d chant when she slipped into the bedroom after another night of snogging Gary in the Coronet’s back row, collapsing into giggles at our own daring when Leigh slammed
the bathroom door shut to get some privacy. Robbie and me. Where one led, the other faithfully followed. Inseparable kids—distracted by our wayward dad.

In our teens Robbie began to move with the wrong crowd—a very bad crowd. He was my mother’s favourite, and my dad was gone for good now; no man to haul my brother up. Mum never stopped Robbie from doing anything; never reprimanded him, never punished his increasingly destructive pranks, until eventually he lost all sense of control. I tried to reach him, but, despite my best efforts, by the time I was twenty and putting myself through night-school to get the exams I’d failed before, we’d lost touch for the most part—every number he gave me disconnected when I rang, every former mate disenchanted.

Dreams of being a drummer led to nothing but the dole. Occasionally he worked Soho club-doors, until one day I went to see him at his latest haunt and he’d just gone, packed up and left, no forwarding address. No forwarding address! He was on the bloody run; he didn’t intend being found.

I was broken-hearted but unsurprised, exhausted by constantly bailing him out, excusing him to Mum. He was bad for my bank balance and my brain, but he was still my little brother, and I loved him with a passion I’d felt for no one else. Not even for my dad. A few years ago I got a larky postcard from Goa, and it made me laugh out loud to imagine him bearded and beaded, dancing on the beach like some old hippy fool. And I felt a stab of envy that he’d got so far: to places I’d always dreamed of but had never actually seen. But,
most importantly, at least he was alive. Then nothing—until now.