Stranded (36 page)

‘Yeah. You’ve been out of it for ages. Here, I got you a coffee, on the off chance that you might wake up. It’s in the car.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I know you say you don’t like coffee. But you knocked back that last one and I think you could do with it.’

I get into the car and take a sip from the paper cup that is in the cup-holder next to my seat.

‘I like it again.’

‘Good girl.’

I look at him. ‘Good girl?’

We both smile, sad little forty-something smiles.

‘Want me to drive?’ I ask.

‘Er,’ he says. ‘No. Thanks. Really, not. That would be a terrible idea.’ He starts the engine again. ‘There was a text,’ he says. ‘From that woman, I’m guessing.’

‘From Martha?’ That wakes me up a bit.

‘Yes, but it was signed “Sarah”.’

‘She said she’d do that. She didn’t need to sign it anything.’

‘According to her, we need to go to St Ives.’

I look at him. ‘St Ives? Daisy’s in St Ives?’

‘Have a look.’ He nods to the phone, and I pick it up and find the text for myself.

‘Hello c,’ it says. ‘You need to find a place called Saint Ives. That is all I know. I wish you luck, from sarah.’

I text back at once, just saying ‘Thank you a million times sarah xx.’ I imagine the phone beeping inside her bra.

‘Martha’s life is screwed,’ I remark.

We head out of the services and back on to the dual carriageway.

‘Where are we, anyway?’ I ask. ‘Not on the M5 any more?’

‘A30,’ Chris says. ‘We’re still absolutely miles from St Ives. Do you remember?’

I know exactly what he is talking about.

‘As it was our honeymoon, I haven’t managed to block it out entirely.’

‘Me neither.’

We both smile, thinking of the first four days of our marriage. I was heavily pregnant, and Chris was putting a brave face on our future, enthusing about our little family with unconvincing zeal, betrayed by his panic-stricken eyes. We carefully did all the things we were supposed to do, looking at art and walking on beaches, eathing fish and chips and ice cream, admiring the lifeboat.

‘Do you remember,’ I say, ‘sitting in that café on the main street, watching crowds and crowds of people walking past outside? We said that if you sat there long enough, you’d end up seeing everyone you’d ever met.’

‘Were you secretly wondering how come, out of all those people in the world, we’d managed to end up sitting there with each other?’

I laugh. ‘Probably. We should have been admiring the artistic Cornish light and looking into one another’s eyes in optimistic bliss. Not scoping out the exits.’

‘At least we know our way around a bit.’

‘I hope it’s not as busy now as it was then.’

Hours later, I stare out of the window. We are on a narrow road now, following brown signs for day visitors to St Ives. The light is starting to fade. The road twists and turns.

I start staring at everyone we drive past, just in case.

It is nearly night-time. This has been the longest, strangest day of my life, and it is nearly over.

‘We have to go and sit in one of those places where everyone walks past the window,’ I say urgently, as we skitter down the steep hill from the car park into the town. ‘Even in the dark, we’d see her.’

‘I know,’ he agrees. ‘Hey, this is going to be weird, but we’ll need to book into a place to stay tonight too.’

‘Yes, sure. Whatever. I’ve got some cash. No cards, though. Lost them in the adventure.’

‘It’s fine. Overdrawn, but I’m sure I can stretch to a B and B.’

‘Separate rooms.’

‘Fuck, yes.’

We hardly say a word as we make our way into the town. St Ives is a funny little place: insanely pretty, hilly, with an odd quality to the air and the light that you really do not find in other places. I try to tell myself that Daisy, too, is breathing this strange fresh air from the Atlantic. This is a small town, and my baby is in it.

‘Why do we believe what Martha says?’ I ask suddenly, as we come to the end of a street of terraced houses and find ourselves beside the library, and the people.

Chris looks at me.

‘Are you serious?’

‘I know we have no choice. Nothing else to go on. But she’s Philip’s wife and she does as she’s told. What if he’s told her to send us down here, to one of the most remote places in the country, to get us out of the way?’

‘Esther. Shut up. There’s no point.’

‘I’m going to call her. On that number she texted from, the phone she keeps in her bra just so she can have a secret from that twat of a husband. See if she answers.’

‘Why? That’s not going to do you any good at all, is it?’ His voice is hard, the way it used to be. ‘Just don’t think it. There’s fuck-all else we can do. We’ll find the cheapest, scuzziest bed and breakfast we can here, and then we’ll go and sit in a café in one of those busy places and get some food and a drink. God knows, we need a drink. And watch the people walking by.’

We end up checking into a nicer hotel than Chris threatened, simply because it has a ‘Vacancies’ sign up and is close to the town centre.

The carpet is blue and patterned, and the air inside feels rarified and stifling. We look at one another complicity, and Chris hits the bell on the small reception desk with a pedantic hand movement that makes me giggle inappropriately.

‘We need two single rooms, please,’ he says clearly.

‘Yes, that’s fine.’ The woman is years younger than we are, with white-blonde hair and black roots. I see her looking at us, trying to assess our relationship. She pushes two forms across the desk. ‘If you could each fill one of these in. I’ll need to authorise a credit card. Will you be paying separately?’

‘No,’ I say at once. ‘Together.’ I turn to Chris. ‘Sorry. I’ll pay you back when I get my cards replaced.’

‘It’s fine.’ He hands his card to the woman. ‘This one’s on me. Call it alimony, if you like.’

She looks from me to him and then turns to the card machine. When we hand back the forms, she studies them.

‘I would have said brother and sister,’ she says, ‘if you hadn’t just mentioned alimony. Alimony’s something to do with being married, isn’t it?’

‘Something to do with it,’ I agree.

‘We used to be married,’ Chris tells her.

‘But now we’re friends,’ I add.

She raises her eyebrows. ‘Is it not possible to be both at once?’

‘Some people manage it,’ Chris says. ‘Apparently.’

We go to our rooms, which are next door to one another. It is very odd having nothing but a phone to my name, and I realise I will need to buy a toothbrush and other items that I should consider essential but that I managed to live without for twenty-nine days in the very recent past.

Chris bangs on the wall. I knock back.

‘Have a shower,’ he shouts. ‘Then we’ll go out, and get looking.’

It is properly dark by the time we sit down, at a window table in a restaurant in what we judge to be the busiest part of St Ives. We are beside the harbour, but the lights reflected in the still black sea do nothing for me. There are not enough people walking past. I stare at all of them.

‘You need to eat,’ Chris says, pushing a menu into my hands. ‘Come on. Order a pizza.’

‘It’s good that there aren’t as many people walking by as there were last time we were here,’ I say. ‘Isn’t it? I was thinking it was bad because if there were more people there’d be more chance of Daisy being one of them. But that’s not true, is it?’

‘No. It’s not true. Now, choose a pizza or I’ll choose for you.’

It is a strange feeling, being hungry and nauseous with dread at the same time. I order a vegetable pizza, garlic bread and a salad, and as soon as it is put in front of me, I flash on to a scene from the island, in which Mark is saying: ‘Pepperoni pizza with extra jalapenos, garlic bread, and salad with ranch dressing.’

I hear my own voice countering: ‘Vegetable pizza with an enormous side salad and garlic bread, and a large glass of white wine.’

I have no idea if we ever had that conversation, or if I have made it up. Either way, I make a token effort to appreciate my extraordinary luck in having my dream meal in front of me, tell myself to be optimistic, and start gently with a piece of lettuce.

Chris is drinking his wine before eating anything. I am too nervous to sip mine: it has been many weeks since I had an alcoholic drink, and I do not want to mess up the clarity of my mind even further. When I try to remember the last drink I had, I settle on the beer that I drank as I swapped stories with Katy in Paradise Bay, a few days before my birthday. That seems like an innocent and long-ago era.

I was on an island, stuck in a place where no one ever lives, thinking I was out of the human race for ever. Now I am in a crowded seaside town eating pizza, watching waves of humanity drifting past the door, looking for my lost child. The two scenarios are equally unreal.

Girls pass the window. They are sometimes her age, sometimes around the right height. Many of them have her light brown hair. I strain around, looking obsessively at every person. None of these girls is Daisy. I know that Cassandra would be much easier to spot, and she does not pass either. Any of the passers-by could, of course, be the famous ‘new leader’. I also imagine Moses to be around somewhere. Any one of the elderly men who is passing this window, and there are several, could be him. I focus on a man standing opposite the window, his head turned away from me, wearing a fisherman’s jumper and chatting to a woman. He has short grey hair and is the right height. Before I can get a look at his face, he is gone.

People struggle by, walking sideways to the wind, their hair blown all over the place, their clothes flapping about. It is absolutely dark, and the clouds are low, but there is so much electric light around that I hardly notice.

‘Where is she?’ I say. The pizza is giving me energy. ‘Where is Daisy? Where the hell is my baby?’

Chris puts down his fork. ‘We need to call the police now, Esther. You know we do. I should have done it back in Hampshire.’

‘Yes. Because they’ve abducted her.’

‘Of course they have, and like you say, they might not even be in this town. They could be anywhere in the country. Or the world. When you were at your house, did you check for her passport?’

I feel sick. ‘No.’

The very idea makes me take a reflexive sip of wine. It is sour and wonderful on my tongue, so I take another.

‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘They have still got me feeling guilty, like it’s all my fault. But it’s not, is it? It’s theirs. Daisy belongs with us, and the police can help with that.’

I pour the story out to a sympathetic, if baffled, police officer. He writes it all down and asks us to come back in the morning when more people are on duty, or to call them if we see Daisy or if anything else happens.

‘See?’ says Chris, as we walk back to the hotel. ‘He’ll help us. Straight after breakfast we’ll go and talk to his boss.’

I am surprised at how relieved I am. ‘Good call,’ I say. ‘Doing that.’

Chris squeezes my arm. ‘Hey. Occasionally I can get it right.’

I wake to the sound of seagulls shrieking impossibly loudly very close to my head. This time I know exactly where I am. I check my phone, and discover that it is eight o’clock.

I bang on the wall.

‘Chris! It’s morning!’

There is a muffled acknowledgement.

I stand under the hot shower, appreciating every drop of it. I shampoo my hair, and use a whole miniature bottle of conditioner once again. I wash myself carefully, recoiling at the condition of my skin, and feel ready for the day, though it would be nice to have some clean, crisp clothes to put on, rather than the bizarre HR manager’s outfit I picked out yesterday in my hallucinatory shock.

‘Today I will see my daughter,’ I say confidently. I need to believe it.

We are sitting in the hotel’s quiet dining room, drinking coffee and waiting for our substantial breakfasts to arrive, when my phone rings.

I grab it.

‘Martha,’ I say, looking at the display. ‘Hello?’ I say into it.

‘Catherine.’

My heart sinks. ‘Philip.’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m at home,’ I say. ‘Waiting for my girl. Chris is coming up to collect her this morning. That was the arrangement, wasn’t it? She’ll be back there, with Cassandra, won’t she?’

I am perfectly in control of myself, because everything is at stake. If he guesses we are in St Ives, I will lose her.

‘What did you say to Martha, when you were here?’

‘That is none of your business and you know it.’

‘You’ve agitated her.’

‘Yes, she’s not allowed to have feelings, is she?’

‘Catherine.’

‘Sorry. Look, just give Daisy to Chris when he gets there. You will, won’t you?’

I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘Of course. Why is your number on this phone?’

‘Why shouldn’t it be? Martha said she’d contact me when Daisy got back.’

‘Hmm. That’s what she says too. We’ll wait to hear from you.’

I throw the phone on to the table. ‘Tosser. He was checking up on us, but he can’t prove anything. I hate him.’

‘Your ex-fiancé.’

‘Lucky escape, in many senses.’

‘Let’s get back to the police.’

It is raining this morning, and we hurry towards the little police station. We are about halfway there, crossing a road on a treacherous corner, when the phone rings once more.

‘It’s him again,’ I say, looking at the display. I press the button. ‘What?’

‘Cathy?’

‘Martha? Are you OK?’

‘Did he just call you?’ She sounds scared. ‘What did he say? I was very careful about deleting the text messages.’

‘Yes, you did well. He didn’t know anything. He was just sniffing around.’

Her voice drops. I have to stop and put my finger in my ear to hear her. The wind is wailing around me, and I turn in to the wall for shelter.

‘He was talking to them, Cathy. They’re in St Ives, but they’re worried because you haven’t been hanging around here. They don’t like it that they don’t know where you are. As far as I can tell, they’re at a café on the beach in the rain, because they’re waiting for a taxi that’s going to collect them there. Then they’re going somewhere else. I couldn’t work out where.’