The Drowning Lesson (15 page)

The policemen stand as if to attention. The room shrinks and darkens around them. The younger man's face is cavernous; his skin tightly stretched over sharp bones. He drops a large case to the ground, then straddles it, hands behind his back. His colleague, a narrow-eyed bulky man, shakes my hand. He introduces himself as Detective Goodwill; his partner is Officer Kopano. I am to call them simply by their surnames.

‘Thank you for coming.' The floor tilts as I speak. I haven't eaten for a day, maybe two. ‘Please sit down.' Gesturing to the chairs, I sit quickly.

‘I regret the delay today.' Goodwill eases himself into the leather chair; he takes out a handkerchief and wipes his forehead.

Elisabeth opens the door from the kitchen and brings a tray of yellow juice, ice clinking in the jug. His eyes follow her closely as she bows and walks softly from the room.

He fills and drains a glass, then settles again with a
sigh. ‘We questioned your husband last night. He has phoned today to say he has gone to recall a servant. He will tell us more this afternoon.'

‘I'm glad you have come. I know–'

He holds up a silencing hand. ‘Do you wish to hear what is happening in the search for your son?'

This man has the power to find Sam: I have to let him order the conversation any way he wants.

‘There is surveillance operating on all main roads.' He is watching my face; am I meant to thank him? Could there be some protocol for this conversation that I am failing to follow? It is taking all my strength not to fall to my knees and beg, weeping, for help.

‘There are police officers in Kubung, calling at every house. There are men at the airport and the rail stations. Interpol and the consulate have been informed.'

‘Thank you.'

They will find him. Missing children turn up close to home. The headlines of the newspapers that I used to read in the coffee room between operations detailed kidnapped children found in the next house or down the street. The police might walk into a hut in Kubung at any minute, and Sam could be there, sleeping in a cot in the corner.

‘There has been a press release.' He has to say it twice.

‘Already? I'd thought, somehow …' That they would find him so quickly it would be pointless to
involve the press. He holds up his hand again. Beads of sweat glint along the creases of his meaty palm. ‘The media has to be involved. It's important that the public know a child is missing. It can make all the difference.'

Less than twenty-four hours ago Sam was asleep yards from where I sit. I kissed his cheek before I left; his skin had been hot. He'd belonged only to us. Now his image will be shared with the world. We should be grateful.

‘We will take any reported sightings very seriously indeed,' Goodwill adds. He sounds angry.

Will a stranger remember Sam, should they glimpse him in a pram in crowds? Would they bother to tell the police? My fingertips push against each other, as though in prayer.

‘If members of the press get in touch, I'd advise you to pass them on to us. We will talk to them as necessary. Tomorrow you can speak on television. It will help.'

What happens to those parents, once they have stumbled out of the limelight? There must be armies of broken mothers and fathers, people we pass in the street unknowing. I drink a glass of juice, then another.

‘We will need to examine the room your son was taken from, then all the house and the grounds.'

‘The entire house?'

Goodwill stares at me, expressionless. In that silence I understand; in case I or Adam have hidden him. Killed him and concealed his body. I make myself meet his gaze; he is eliminating possibilities. I don't care. I don't need him on my side, just on Sam's.

Kopano bends to his case, pulling out a camera, overalls and gloves. I lead him down the corridor and he aims his lens from the door of our bedroom, the shots exploding like gunfire. Then he puts on white overalls and steps in on tiptoe, graceful as a cat.

In the sitting room Goodwill, hemmed by his chair, leans awkwardly to the table, and presses the button on a small recorder. His presence absorbs the energy from the room. The furniture, the rugs, even the walls fade into the background. His face is the only thing I see and his narrow burning eyes. He asks me about my work. How often do I go to the clinic? Who comes to see me? He takes Esther's phone number, my certificate to practise, my doctor's bag. Does he think I have drugs? That I would drug my son? The sweat collects around my neck as he frowns over his writing. His gaze skims my body when he asks me about my pregnancy, the birth and afterwards. Postnatal depression? Crossing my arms tightly, I tell him I've been happy, that Sam was loved from the moment he was born. What difference does
it make? The complicated truth would snag his attention.

He asks if there are problems between me and Adam. As I look outside at the sun on the trees, my mind slides between us whispering in bed and shouting from the door, between love and its opposite. I turn back to Goodwill and shake my head. No problems at all. He turns off the recorder.

He wants photos. As I scroll through the images on my phone, Sam appears unmarked: his photos were always taken from the left. Goodwill uses the passport instead. I feel shame that the only complete picture of my son is an official one.

‘Very fortunate to have this little mark,' he says. ‘It will help.'

I want to kiss him for those words. I want to thank God in prayer for the mark. Goodwill pulls himself out of the chair with a grunt, and goes into the kitchen to talk to Elisabeth and Josiah, Peo and her friends. There is no message yet from Megan. I text one to her instead:
Has David replied?

The children come to wait with me. Zoë sits yawning on my lap. Alice is on the floor next to my feet. I turn the pages of Zoë's fairy tales but there is no story without death or witchcraft at its heart, so I read from the encyclopedia instead about weaver birds, hyenas, warthogs and giraffes:

‘The sparrow weavers of Africa build apartment home nests in which 100 to 300 pairs have separate flask-shaped chambers …

‘Hyenas are predominantly nocturnal animals, sometimes venturing from their lairs in the early morning …

‘The warthog derives its name from the four large protuberances found on the head, which serve as a fat reserve …'

Facts, plain as water, though my voice trembles as I recount how a mother giraffe, never straying, defends her babies to the death.

Goodwill comes back to question the girls. He pulls out a notebook but they have little to say. Zoë tells him about the concert. Alice stares and shrugs. He scribbles a few lines and they return to the kitchen.

‘What do you think has happened, Goodwill?'

He bends to stare closely at his shoes. A moment passes. He looks up. His eyes are guarded. ‘Would you prefer to wait until your husband returns?'

‘Adam will be late. I'd like to hear now.'

The leather creaks as Goodwill settles his bulk more deeply.

‘Sometimes the cause is found in the home – one parent taking the child to punish the other, for example. The child may be moved quite far.'

On the lawn four days ago Adam lifted Sam from
my arms, kissed me and kissed him. In the early evening, the garden was saturated with gold; I shake my head, unable to speak.

‘The abductor can be someone known, very close to the family, who is driven by jealousy. A relative or a close friend.'

‘We have no relations. Both sets of parents are dead.' There has never been time for many friends, apart from Megan. It's been family and work, always. When my mother died, my father was there. Later Adam and the children filled my world.

His eyes shift from mine. ‘Someone may come across the baby during the course of work. A delivery man, for example, or a gardener. A man repairing the roof.'

‘Josiah does all the repairs and the gardening. No one delivers here. Josiah can't drive so Adam takes Elisabeth to Kubung for supplies once a fortnight.'

‘Then there are women who become desperate …' His voice rumbles on calmly. He could be discussing the weather or a shopping list. ‘Childless women, who take children belonging to others.'

Years ago a baby disappeared from my hospital. A deranged woman who'd miscarried was accused. But we're too remote for a random snatch. Besides, Adam said people here share babies. There would be no need to steal ours. Goodwill's speculation isn't helping.

‘I must warn you that there are other cases, even more … challenging.' He is watching me closely and his voice has a sharper edge. ‘Finance is involved.'

‘We have savings, a house …'

‘Kidnapping for ransom is one possibility, but we must consider others. Trafficking generates large funds, ransom isn't usually demanded.'

Trafficking? My mind stalls. Fragments of his speech come to me through a roar of panic.

‘… evil trade … porous borders … sold like loaves of bread …'

Sold? Who buys babies? Why? His lips frame more words but I can't hear them. Inside my chest a space opens into which my heart seems to fall. His eyes move over my face, assessing damage.

‘We should wait for your husband. Tomorrow there will be time to answer more questions. Now we need to make a thorough search of the premises.' He stands, walks to the door, then turns back. ‘The press will phone. Keep them on your side but at a distance.' Goodwill pushes his hand away from his body to demonstrate; the wide fingers are identically scarred over four knuckles.

The room is silent after he leaves. The girls are eating in the kitchen; their pale faces swivel towards me. Peo hands me a bowl of warm sorghum but I'm unable to swallow any food. Zoë leans her head against my shoulder, yawning. Afterwards, I
express milk into the basin, watching the tiny tubes of thin white liquid hit the metal, then dribble uselessly down the drain. My breasts feel bruised but lighter.

Later the men hunch over the broken doors, scrape walls and furniture, then remove the phone with its cut flex. They fingerprint everything.

As the girls drowse in their rooms, Goodwill's warning reverberates: trafficking conjures immigrants packed into lorries, men forced to work, women held in cellars. Sam could be jammed with others into a tiny space, roughly held, semi-conscious with hunger and heat. I pace and sit, pace again, shaking my head but the images don't shift.

The cot is dismantled, the mattress wrapped and taken to the car. Sam's little elephant has disappeared. Perhaps they took it with them. My heart lifts fractionally at the thought. Later, Goodwill brushes the ground beneath the doors of our bedroom, collecting fragments of glass and soil. He doesn't reply when I point out the imprint of a toe. I sense he dislikes my hovering presence.

Zoë wakes from her nap and we watch from the window as Kopano puts on waders, entering the pond with a wide, sweeping net. She exclaims as the dog bounds in and out of the water, barking and shaking its heavy coat, the spray glittering like diamonds. If we had followed Kabo's advice we would have had
dogs like this on hand, dogs who might have barked at the men who came or, better still, attacked them.

The dog jumps from the water, a small grey rock lodged in his jaws. Kopano follows, holds out his hand and the dog drops it into his palm. Kopano puts the object into a transparent bag, then slips it into his pocket.

My mobile rings. ‘Adam?'

‘
Botswana Gazette
here. Can you tell me with whom I am speaking?' The woman's voice is nasal.

‘Mrs Jordan.' How did they find my number?

‘I'm sorry to hear that your four-month-old son disappeared from your home yesterday …'

Yesterday? Is that all? It feels as if he has always been missing, as if I've been waiting in this room all my life.

The woman continues firing words like bullets from a gun. ‘So you are doctors, working locally, I believe. How does it feel –'

‘Thank you.' Why thank her? There is nothing to be grateful for. I cut the call. They have been in touch sooner than I expected.

The mobile rings again.

‘This is the
Ngami Times
, ma'am. Am I speaking to the lady of the house?'

‘Yes.'

‘Can you confirm that while you were out your baby son was taken from his cot?'

While you were out, while you were not watching.

‘Please contact the police,' I reply.

Goodwill said to keep the press on my side but it feels as though insects are hovering in a stinging cloud, drawing blood. There is another call but I let it ring until it stops and then turn the mobile off.

Goodwill knocks to let me know they are leaving, that they will return tomorrow. They have finished with our bedroom, he says. We can use it now, though the window will need boarding. Kopano pauses to collect his case; the dog is back on the lead.

‘What did the dog find in the pond, Kopano?'