Emma's Baby (18 page)

Then she was over the top, and the grey sea, the whole of the Atlantic spread out before her.

'Oh.'

She was surrounded by whiteness. Wind swept her face and hair. A lid had been lifted off the world, and all of its contents had flown away. All that was left was the sheer pleasure of being up there and of not having to climb any more. Her legs felt like jelly. It would be OK. Everything would be OK.

'Well done,' Rafe called. He had reached the top ahead of her and was sitting a little way away, cross-legged on the sand.

Emma was too out of breath to reply. She let her knees fold, sinking her to the ground, and lay on her back, arms out, staring up at the sky. The wind cooled her forehead and neck and lifted the hem of her T-shirt.
She closed her eyes, listening to the waves and the faraway cries of seagulls, like babies. Her breath slowed. The jelly feeling faded from her legs.

A little while later, she sat up again. Rafe had been busy. A knee-high sandcastle stood in front of him, dampened into place with Evian water. The lower, squarer part of the castle was decorated with stones.
In the centre was a tower, with finger-marks down the sides. On top of the tower, the wooden stick from an ice lolly pointed into the sky.

'The fortress of Helm's Deep,' Rafe explained when he saw Emma looking. 'Impenetrable to all forces of darkness.'

A breeze came up. Helm's Deep trembled, very slightly, and collapsed into the sand. Rafe muttered something to himself.

'So,' he said to Emma, 'how are you feeling now?'

'Better,' she admitted. She began to brush sand off her T-shirt.

'Can I ask you something?'

'Sure.'

'Where is your family?'

Emma stopped brushing. Of course. He didn't know. She took a moment to push her hair behind her ears.

Briefly, briskly, she told him about her mother's death.

'I'm sorry.' Rafe looked at her. 'So soon before
Ritchie.'

'And my dad,' Emma added, 'left when I was three.
Went to Swindon to live with a woman called Jackie.
So now you know the story of my family.'

'Do you still see your dad?'

Emma shook her head. 'He died when I was nine.
I never really knew him anyway. He didn't stay in touch much after he left.'

'Must have been hard on your mum,' Rafe said.

'Well, yeah, it wasn't exactly a barrel of laughs. She was left in a lot of debt. She had to work two jobs to keep us. But she just got on with it. It's what you do, isn't it?'

Rafe paused. Emma could almost hear the inevitable next question:
And what about Ritchie's father?

She didn't feel like going into all that, not now, so she said, 'So, what about your family? Are you from
London?'

'I grew up in Lewisham,' Rafe said. 'My mum still lives there, with my stepdad. My real father moved out when I was a kid.' He made a face. 'Snap. Like yours.'

Ritchie's too, Emma thought with a pang. Was there something wrong with them all, that none of them had fathers who wanted to see them grow up?

'Do you keep in touch with him?' she asked politely.

'Now and then. He moved to Spain a few years ago. Fifty-seven, and still trying to find himself. He plays guitar with a band in Malaga, can you believe that? Got himself a twenty-three-year-old girlfriend.'

Rafe's grin faded. He picked up the wooden lollipop stick and stirred the fallen heap of sand.

'Since I left the police,' he said, 'I can see myself turning into him. Drifting about. Trying to find myself.'

'I'd say you were a good policeman,' Emma said.
She meant it.

'Yeah, well. I grew up in a pretty tough estate, gave my mum a hard time after my dad left. A few of us got into nicking cars and the cops used to come and chase us up and down the estates. Lucky we never killed anyone. Or ourselves, come to think of it – not that that would have been any kind of loss. Most of the time, no matter how fast we went, the police caught us. After a bit, I was impressed by that. I thought about how pointless I was being, just pissing about and stealing things, when I could actually try to do something useful with my life.'

'Didn't you have a problem getting into the police?'
Emma was curious. 'After you'd stolen the cars?'

'Nah. Well, I walked into our local station when I was about fourteen – they all knew me by then – and told them I wanted to join, and the bloke behind the desk thought it was the most hilarious thing he'd ever heard. But when they'd all finished having a laugh, one of them was actually quite helpful. He told me to keep out of trouble, go back to school and stay there, and who knew what might happen.' Rafe smiled, remembering.
'My mum was thrilled.'

'You liked it, didn't you?' Emma said. 'Being in the police?'

'Yeah.' For a minute, his face lit up. 'Yeah, I did.'

His eyes were narrowed against the light. The narrowing gave them a keen, watchful look, made him seem the type of person he was: active, energetic, used to the outdoors. Emma had no trouble picturing him zipping easily over fences and walls, leaping off a bridge to bring down the baddie with the gun. But to balance that, what so many of the police didn't seem to have, or had lost: the kindness and compassion he had shown the day he'd called to her flat to see if she was OK.

'I couldn't believe they were paying me to work for them,' Rafe was saying. 'I'd have done it for nothing. For a while anyway. But then . . .' He lifted a shoulder. 'You know the rest. I had this clichéd notion I could make a difference. But it's such a machine. They were all so full of shit. I didn't want to be a part of it.'

'All the more reason to stay,' Emma said. 'People who care are needed everywhere. If the good people are on the outside, nothing will change.'

She was watching a child roll, squealing, down the dune. A woman slid after him, laughing and calling.
The child had blond, wispy hair. She thought she saw
Rafe looking at her, but when she turned to him he was gazing at something over the other side of the dune.

'Let's cheer that couple on,' he said, jumping up.
'They look like they could do with some help.'

A man and woman who looked to be in their seventies were climbing the dune. The man, breathing hard and purple in the face, gallantly tried to push his well-padded partner from behind. She had given up and was lying face down in the sand, only a few feet from the top.

'Keep going,' Rafe called. 'You're almost here.'

'I keep telling her that,' the man gasped. He had an
American accent.

'Listen to you,' the woman said. She lifted her head to shoot him a look. 'Don't you pretend you're not glad of an excuse to stop.'

But she got to her knees and started to climb again.
By now, several other people were peering over the edge of the dune. A group of teenage girls who had been sitting in a circle, eating crisps and chattering in
French, jumped up and arranged themselves in a line along the top.

'Come on,' they shouted, their hands around their mouths. 'You can do eet.'

When the couple finally reached the top, the girls, all long legs and skinny, cut-off jeans, squealed and clapped, jumping up and down. Emma surprised herself by clapping too.

'Oh, my.' The woman knelt in the sand, blowing her cheeks out and fanning herself with her hand.
'How nice of you. I really thought I wasn't going to make it.'

'Of course you were,' Rafe said.

Emma noticed several of the French girls looking over at him.
He'd caught the sun today. Already he was dark enough to be French himself.
He looked like an overgrown kid, loping and messing about there on the dune
with the American couple; but there was something adult about him as well,
a toughness, like he could take care of himself if he had to. What did they
call it? Streetwise. He glanced towards her then, and she smiled. For a second,
Rafe looked surprised. Then he smiled back, straight at her. Emma's mind had
moved on. She was thinking again about the little boy, rolling down the hill
and shrieking. She hugged her arms to herself. She would bring Ritchie here.
They'd never really, properly, had fun together. It would be like this.

On the way back to Bergerac, they stopped in one of the yellow stone villages for something to eat. Inside, the restaurant had walls of rough brick, and candles in wine bottles on the tables. Waiters in waistcoats and white aprons bustled about with buckets of ice and menus.

The walls of the building were inches thick. Emma had to step outside again to get a signal on her mobile.
Further downriver, a bridge with arches caused the water to divide and ripple. Where the water was disturbed, the moon cast blue tips. Emma phoned
Brian Hodgkiss again, and waited in the shadow of walls that must have seen a hundred generations of mothers like her come and go.

'All well,' Brian Hodgkiss said when he heard her voice. 'The test has been done. I spoke to the Hunts a little while ago. They're still in the area.'

Oh, the relief of it. She still had no idea what the
Hunts were playing at, but whatever it was, at least
Ritchie was safe.

She said, 'I was wondering if there was any way I could see him tonight?'

'I don't think that would be possible.' Brian sounded apologetic.

'Even a quick meeting,' Emma pleaded, 'even with other people there? Even with
her
there, I don't care . . .'

'It wouldn't be possible,' Brian repeated. 'Not unless they agreed to it, and I really don't think they would. I'm sorry.' He did sound as if he meant it.

He added, in a kinder tone, 'Not too much longer now. The results should be back by tomorrow.'

He sounded a lot more friendly than before, as if he was finally coming around to her side.

Emma reported the conversation back to Rafe.

'I could have him soon,' she said, her voice wobbling.

Rafe was quiet. His earlier high spirits on the dune seemed to have passed. A waiter appeared at their table, a row of plates along his arm. Pyramids of ham, cheese and tomatoes; chunks of warm French bread.
Emma sampled them all, hungrier than she'd been for days, but Rafe ate very little. Tired, no doubt, after all that climbing. Plus, he'd done all the driving again that day. She was in no doubt as to how much she owed him.

The B&B was shut up and silent by the time they got back. They let themselves in the front door, careful not to jingle the keys or trip over the rug in the hall.
Emma followed Rafe up the stairs, tiptoeing on the steps, peering to see her way in the sepia light from the window.

Rafe's room had its own entrance, a little way down the hall from Emma's. He stopped outside Emma's door to say goodnight.

'Thank you for today,' Emma said, keeping her voice low so as not to wake their hostess. 'It helped a lot. Kept me from thinking too much.'

It was true. She felt easier inside now, less knotted and hopeless than before. Things were going to work out. She just had a feeling.

'I enjoyed it too,' Rafe said. 'I'm glad it helped.'

'We owe you a lot,' Emma said. 'Ritchie and I. You found the address for us. None of this would have happened without you.'

Rafe's hands were at his sides, just hanging there between them. Emma reached down and took them in hers.

'Why did you do this for us?' she asked. 'You hardly know us.'

Rafe had taken a breath, as if to say something. But then he didn't.

'Well, whatever it was,' Emma smiled at him, 'I'm glad we met you.'

She went to kiss him goodnight. But then a peck on the cheek didn't seem enough. On impulse, she released his hands and put her arms around him.

'Thank you,' she said.

Rafe's arms came around her too, holding her as tightly as she held him. His cheek, solid and a bit scratchy, pressed against hers. He smelled of sweat and the sea, and some faint, appley scent.

'I was happy to do it,' he said.

They held each other for a moment. Rafe was the first to let go. He took his arms away from her and stood back.

'We should get some sleep,' he said. 'Tomorrow could be a busy day.'

'I hope so.' Emma was fervent.

But once in her room, Emma knew she was still a long way from sleep. When she pulled her jeans off, sand drizzled out over the carpet. Her socks were stuck to her feet. A bath might be the thing to settle her; tire her out.

She went into the bathroom. Quietly, so as not to disturb Rafe, she pulled off her T-shirt and draped it over the towel rail. She reached behind her to unhook her bra. In the mirror over the sink, she saw the lines on her stomach, the folds of extra skin. There were blue veins on her legs that hadn't been there before.
Ritchie had put those veins there. She'd freaked a bit when she'd first noticed them, but she was used to them now.

She was leaning over the bath, about to turn the taps on, when the door to Rafe's room opened and in he walked, holding a toothbrush. He looked up and saw her, and jerked back, sucking a breath between his teeth.

'Shit.' Emma flailed. Towel, quick, where? She grabbed her T-shirt off the rail and held it up in front of her.

'Sorry. Sorry.' Rafe was backing out of the room.
'The door wasn't locked. I'll leave you to it.'

Emma saw herself in the mirror again and cringed.
How embarrassing. Caught here in all her wobbly glory by some bloke she still hardly knew. What was it she'd said to him the day he'd called to the flat and tried to cook her dinner? What had she accused him of trying to do? It just seemed funny now. If she'd known then the standard of girls he was used to attracting: French, teenaged, slender as willow trees.
He must have thought, In your dreams, dearie; but been nice enough not to say it.

'It's all right,' she called. No point making things awkward between them. 'Come back and brush your teeth. I'll wait next door.'

But he was gone. A china soap dish wobbled for a moment, teetering on the edge of the bath. Then it crashed to the floor, shattering to pieces on the tiles.
He must have managed to knock it as he went.

Ritchie was sitting on Emma's knee. The warm weight of him pressed on her legs, and his eyelashes lay along the curve of his cheek. Her arms were around him and she was cutting up a muffin for him.