Everything and Nothing (28 page)

An earnest young woman in plain clothes explained to them what might be wrong with Aggie and the possible outcomes. WPC Samuels made tea and faded into the background as they held onto each other and wept.

Eventually, after what seemed like years of waiting, WPC Samuels said, ‘We’ve traced her parents. They haven’t seen or heard from her for seven years, but not because of an estrangement.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Christian. ‘Where are they?’

‘A village called Tamworth, just outside Birmingham. A local sergeant is on her way there now. We’ll know more in about fifteen minutes.’

Christian stood up, leaving Ruth behind on the sofa. Every movement seemed too large to contain himself and anyone else. ‘Can I go? We could be there in what, three hours?’

‘There’s no point,’ said WPC Samuels. ‘If she’s there, we’ll have her in fifteen minutes. If they have any information, we’ll be straight onto it. But, Mr Donaldson, she hasn’t even spoken to them for seven years, it seems unlikely she’ll be making her way there. At the moment, it’s just a lead.’

‘But I can’t go on sitting here,’ shouted Christian. He felt Ruth’s hand pulling him down. He didn’t want to sit, so redundant and useless.

WPC Samuels came towards him and he realised she wasn’t going to let him leave. ‘This is where you’re needed, Mr Donaldson. Leave it to the police to get your son back.’

Ruth was crying again now, if she had ever stopped. ‘Please, Christian,’ she was saying, ‘please, just do as they say. Don’t get in their way.’

‘We’ll know more in a few minutes,’ said the WPC again. ‘They’ll let me know as soon as there are any developments.’

At Birmingham station the connection to Stoke usually came every twenty or so minutes. She’d taken the route often enough, the platform was imprinted on her brain. There were definitely more police than usual but Agatha knew how to handle it. She pushed the buggy confidently forward, holding her head high and using her legs to make her glide. She scanned the board boldly, pushing her large dark glasses into her hair so everyone could see her eyes. When Hal moaned she told Rupert not to be silly, he would see his granny soon. She felt the police looking at her and their eyes bored into her but they failed to see beyond her surface. They looked but then they glanced away and had their attention taken up by someone else. Because there was always another mother and child. There would always be more of those.

They stood on the platform and waited for the train and it was only then that Agatha admitted to herself where they were going. She was not taking Hal to give him to Harry. In fact Harry was not going to touch a hair on either of their heads. But she was taking Hal to show Harry. It was odd that until now she hadn’t realised they had the same name, even though Hal’s real name was not Henry or Harry, it was just Hal. But still it was nearly the same. And she had had them both inside her. Harry in the wrong way and Hal in the right way. She was going to show this to Harry. She was going to show him that, even though he had tried his best, he had not destroyed her. Far from it, she had gone on to give birth to the most wonderful boy who had ever lived. She had become the one thing that would protect her from Harry for the rest of her life. She had become a mother.

Hal sat on her lap on the train. They watched the countryside whipping past like a painting where the colours have all run together. Mostly Agatha let her eyes relax and blur, but occasionally she would latch on to something that became a memory before she was sure what she was seeing. They would be close to her parents, maybe Louise still lived nearby. But she wouldn’t be going to see them. At first she’d thought that she was going back to see them, but it had soon become obvious that this wasn’t the reason at all. That there was nothing to say to them any more. She could do without them.

Ruth watched WPC Samuels take the call and she tried to work out from the way her face pinched itself together what she might be hearing. But it was as useless as holding a letter up to the light to see who it might be from. She looked towards Christian but he had fallen in on himself. She thought they both might die if anything happened to Hal, but then she remembered Betty and realised they wouldn’t even be allowed to do that.

The policewoman finished her call and came to sit opposite them. Christian started to cry, which unnerved Ruth.

‘We haven’t found them,’ she began, ‘but her parents have shed some light on the situation. Agatha ran away from home on her sixteenth birthday, seven years ago and they haven’t heard from her since then. Apparently she stole some money and she’d been in trouble at school. The police were involved, her parents went on missing persons programmes, they even came to London and put up posters of her, but nothing. Then on her seventeenth birthday the father’s best friend killed himself. He left a note saying he couldn’t live without Agatha. It turned out that he’d been abusing her since she was nine. The police suspected that this Harry Collins had murdered Agatha, but they never found any evidence to support their theory. She hasn’t been in touch with them today.’

‘Oh my God.’ Ruth was dumbfounded, she couldn’t find words to describe how she felt.

‘He lived very nearby. Just the next village. The police are on their way to his old house now.’

‘Do you think she’s gone there?’

‘It’s a possibility. By taking Hal she’s done something with direct consequences. She’s going to want some reassurance.’

‘Can I speak to her mother?’ asked Ruth.

‘Why the hell would you want to do that?’ shouted Christian.

‘I don’t know,’ said Ruth. ‘I just do.’

WPC Samuels didn’t seem surprised, she’d seen it all before. Even in their most dreadful moment they failed to be unique. ‘I’d have to make a call,’ she said. She left the room and there was nothing to do but wait. Ruth thought she had spent her whole life waiting for the next thing, expecting things to be better in some indefinable way, but now she saw all the waiting for what it was. She was a queue dweller without vision.

‘The mother has agreed to speak to you,’ said WPC Samuels as she came back in. ‘I can put you through if you’re sure you want to speak to her.’

‘Please,’ said Ruth, holding out her hand. The ringing phone was given to her, all she had to do was place it to her ear. She felt the last remaining energy drain out of her body, as if she’d been shot and the blood was pooling round her feet. Christian put his arms around her and she let him hold her. He felt strong against her weakness.

‘Hello,’ said the woman on the other end.

‘Hello,’ said Ruth.

The woman started to cry. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. And Ruth realised she wasn’t going to learn anything from this. She was simply talking to another mother and it made her feel as empty as an arid lake.

‘It’s okay.’

‘We thought she was dead. I can’t believe . . . Agatha was working as your nanny?’

‘Yes.’

‘How was she? I mean, before . . . ’

Ruth wanted to be kind, but there was a madness to this which was circling Ruth, threatening to overtake her. ‘She was great. The kids loved her. You haven’t seen her for seven years?’

‘No. She left on her sixteenth birthday. I suppose the police have filled you in.’

‘Yes.’

‘We knew she had problems. She was a very strange child, very introverted. She was always lying or saying terrible things. But we didn’t realise why, we thought she was naughty.’ The woman’s voice caught and again Ruth wondered where this could lead. ‘Then when Harry died. God, the letter he wrote. He said that he and Agatha had become lovers when she was nine. He used that word. Lovers. Like she’d agreed to it.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘So am I. I’m sorry I let her down and I’m sorry Harry killed himself because I wish I could have had the pleasure of killing him.’

‘Do you think she might have gone there?’

‘I don’t know. She doesn’t know he’s dead. But why would she want to do that? I don’t understand any of this.’ There was a pause and then she said, ‘I don’t think she’ll hurt your boy. I think she’s got confused, the way she did when she was little. We saw a doctor once who said she was a fantasist. Do you know what that means?’

‘No.’

‘She makes up stories and then she can’t remember what’s real and what isn’t. That’s why we didn’t take her seriously when she lied.’ Agatha’s mother started to cry. ‘I’m so sorry. Do you know how sorry I am? I let her down. We let her down.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ said Ruth, suddenly feeling calm. ‘I hope she doesn’t hurt my son.’ She could not end up like this woman, but this was not something she could control. The future loomed over them like a monster, either to be endured or to be changed.

Agatha risked taking a taxi from the station to the village. Really though, it didn’t feel like a risk. She was starting to believe that a divine power was watching over them and she was going to be allowed to do whatever she needed. The driver talked about the heat and asked how her son was coping, which Agatha took as another celestial sign that everything was going to be fine.

‘How old is he?’ asked the taxi driver. ‘Just three,’ said Agatha. ‘We had his party yesterday. He loved it.’

‘And is today his grandparents’ turn then?’

‘My uncle’s, actually. I’ve always been very close to my uncle.’

A hole had opened in Agatha’s head. It was bright and white and tasted of pine needles and sounded like a scream.

The house looked the same. As a child Agatha had found it imposing, but now she saw it was small. She couldn’t help looking first upwards, at the bedroom window in which the curtains had always been drawn, remembering the blackness which lay within. Her legs felt heavy and her mind was too confused to work out the straps to Hal’s buggy. She left it instead at the bottom of the path and picked him up in her arms as a barrier for when she rang the bell. Her hands were shaking but she hadn’t expected anything else and her body was pulsating with heat. But she couldn’t not do it now, so she pressed the utilitarian white buzzer next to the door.

A woman who looked not unlike Ruth opened the door. It seemed disingenuous that she should have found her way here. The possibility of collusion flicked into Agatha’s mind. Was the whole of her life a set-up? But then a little girl who was not Betty ran between the woman’s legs and it jolted Agatha into the present.

‘Can I help you?’ asked the woman. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Agatha. ‘I’m looking for someone. Do you live here?’

The woman laughed. ‘Yes, I do. Who are you looking for?’

‘Harry. Harry Collins.’

The woman looked puzzled. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t recognise the name. Are you sure you’re in the right place?’

It didn’t seem possible that Harry could have got away from her. ‘How long have you lived here?’

‘Two years, just over. But we didn’t buy it from a Harry Collins. I think their name was Anderson.’

Agatha stepped backwards and lost her footing. The house that lay within was white and bright, nothing like the one she’d known. Everything had changed. Even Harry hadn’t waited for her. She heard a sob from somewhere. The woman stretched out her hand. ‘Are you okay? Do you want to come in for a minute?’

‘No, no,’ said Agatha, and then realised it was she who was crying.

‘But your son, he’s upset.’

Agatha looked at Hal and saw his scared eyes. This had all gone too far. ‘No,’ she said again. ‘We’re fine. Everything’s going to be fine.’ The words tasted as bitter as if she was eating wood.

Agatha turned and saw the field opposite Harry’s house. She knew that beyond the field would still be the wood and the river. They, at least, would not have moved. As she started to walk, she felt the woman watching her from the door, she might have even called out to her. It didn’t matter any more. All that mattered was that Harry had got away. He would never know what she had been through to get back to him. He would always have the last word.

As she walked across the rutted ground which peaked and troughed beneath her feet like a dried-up sea, Agatha knew finally that this was why she had come. It hadn’t been about Harry. It had always only been about this moment. It was in fact possible that her whole life had been about nothing more than this moment. She turned just before the darkness of the wood swallowed her up and saw the woman still standing at her door, still looking at her, but now with a phone to her ear. There wasn’t much time, but she needed only a few more minutes.

The wood was as damp as it had been on her sixteenth birthday before she’d taken the train. She had stood outside Harry’s house with her mother’s kitchen knife, looking upwards, just like she’d done today. But that day she’d lost her nerve and had fallen into the wood, looking for the river and an easier way out. But again she had lost her nerve. Today though things had been different. She’d rung the bell and she’d been ready to hurt Harry. She had spent seven years gathering her courage and now it all came down to this.

You heard the river before you saw it. It was violent and deadly, Harry always said, which seemed fitting. If you fall in there, you’re a goner, girly, he’d said. Your head would be crushed by all the rocks, your lungs would fill with water, your heart would stop with fear. None of this sounded that bad to Agatha; she already knew all those feelings.

Agatha stood by the side of the river and knew how easy the step would be. The only impediment was Hal. She had almost forgotten she was carrying him and she wished now she’d left him with the woman at the door. That would have been the right thing to do and it pained her that she should have got this wrong. But there was nothing to be done now. She held him tighter, he would be a comfort at least. The hole in her head was much larger now, it felt larger even than her head. Soon she wouldn’t be able to make her body move and it all had to be done before then. Hal squirmed in her arms and she looked at him. It wasn’t about him. Hal was nothing more than a red herring, which was what Harry always said her age was. Either way though, it didn’t seem fair or right on the little boy. Agatha put Hal down on a rock by the edge. He was crying and she felt sorry for him but not overly so. He was not her child, he had never been, she couldn’t even be sure she loved him now.