Emma's Baby (27 page)

'FUCK,' Emma shouted. She reached around with her left hand, twisting her shoulder and elbow to pull the phone out of her jeans.

David returned from the trees, gasping and sweating.
Then he saw Emma's arm and stopped. His lips whitened. He said, 'Oh, Christ. She did it. She actually stabbed you.'

'Help me,' Emma said. 'Help me get my phone.'

'My wife is not responsible,' David whispered.
'She's ill.'

'Yeah, well, she's got my son in the car with her.'

The phone was out at last. One-handed, Emma flipped it open.

'What's the number for the police in France?' she demanded.

'I . . . it's . . .'

The phone rang just then, making them both jump.
It was Rafe's name on the screen. Emma pressed the button and jammed the phone to her ear.

'She's taken him,' she said.

'What?'

'She's got a knife. She's got Ritchie in the car with her, and she's got a knife.'

'Shit.' Rafe's voice dropped. She heard him in the background, talking to someone else. Then he was back. 'Hold on, Emma. Just hold on. The police are on their way.'

'Hurry. Please.'

When she hung up, David was staring at her in misery. She'd almost forgotten he was there. Deep lines ran from his eyes, down the sides of his mouth.
The last few weeks hadn't been easy for him either.

'We should have got help,' he said. 'If we had, this would never have happened.'

'Why did you take him from me?' Emma cried. 'Did you look after him? Were you cruel to him?'

'I swear to you.' David put his hands to his chest.
'We loved him like our own child. We looked after him as best we could, we did everything for him.'

'How could you do it? How could your family lie like that? How could they not see he wasn't yours?'

'They hadn't seen him for months.' David's face was grey. 'We told them, if he looked different it was because he was better. The child he should have been.'

Emma had been waiting for so long to confront these people. She'd been over this moment a thousand times in her mind, had a million questions prepared.
The questions were still there, all ready and bursting in her head. But now she was here, and David Hunt was standing right in front of her, she found she didn't want to ask them any more. She went to turn away, but David hadn't finished yet.

'He'd have wanted for nothing,' he said after her.
'Nothing! He would have been so happy.'

Emma turned to look at him again.

'She would have stabbed him,' she said. 'You know that, don't you?'

'No, she wouldn't have.'

'Yes. She would.' Emma showed him her arm.

'You didn't know her.' David was shaking his head.
'The old Philippa would never have . . . my old Pippa
. . . she . . .'

Then he was collapsing, one hand to his face, the other groping to the wall for support. 'My son,' he said, 'my son,' and Emma had no way of telling which child he meant: Ritchie, or his own lost boy, far away in the ground in India.

She turned away again. Down the hill, beyond the curve of the driveway, the road divided in the fields, separating again and again into smaller and smaller lines. Which road was hers? Surely she could still see a haze of dust on one of them, marking their path as they fled? She tried to follow it, so she could point it out to the police when they came, but the haze shimmered and spread. The clouds billowed down to hide it, and her blood dropped in the dust at her feet, glistening like grapes.

'Lieutenant Eric Perrine,' the man in the brown corduroy jacket said, 'of the French police.'

He had his hand out to shake Emma's before realizing that she couldn't take it. She was lying on a trolley, surrounded by people, and a man in a white tunic was cutting off her sleeve with a pair of scissors.

'Have you seen them?' Emma tried to lift her head off the pillow. 'Have you found them?'

'No,
madame
. But we will.'

'You know she's got a knife? Are you chasing them?
Have you put up roadblocks?'

'We are doing everything we can,' Lieutenant Perrine said. He had short dark hair, grey at the sides. His voice was soft and courteous. 'Trust me,
madame
. We have the description of the car, we have many people looking for them. They will be found.'

A man in a blue paper hat appeared, and began to prod at Emma's arm.

'You can feel this?' he asked. 'Or this?'

She couldn't feel anything. The arm was numb. It was still joined to her shoulder, but it wasn't hers, it wasn't a part of her any more. The man in the hat said something to Lieutenant Perrine and he nodded.

'For now,' he said to Emma, 'I need to let the doctors treat you. Your arm has been very badly damaged. This surgeon here says that you must have an operation.'

'An operation?'

'Yes. As soon as possible.'

Emma was shocked. 'I can't. I can't have an operation.
Not while Ritchie's still out there.'

Lieutenant Perrine listened to the surgeon again and translated. 'The blood and nerve supply to your arm have been badly damaged,' he said. 'If they don't fix them immediately, your arm could die.'

'I don't care.'

'This is very serious. You must think about your son. Please, Ms Turner.' Lieutenant Perrine's brown eyes reminded her of someone she knew. 'Things are difficult enough at this moment. Do not make them worse.'

The kindness in his voice silenced her.

He said, 'You have done your son a service today,
Ms Turner. We have spoken to Mr Hunt. They were leaving for Italy this afternoon. They would have gone if not for you.'

A nurse in white was folding a dressing over her arm.

'I will go now,' Lieutenant Perrine said, 'and see what is happening. As soon as there are developments,
I will contact you.'

'Will you do everything?' It came out as a sob.
'Everything you can do?'

'I will.' Lieutenant Perrine looked grave. 'You have my word of honour,
madame
. I will do everything I can.'

He left her, and the man in the hat and the people in white had drifted away too. Emma hardly noticed. The lights were too bright. Trembling, she turned on her side, facing herself to the wall. That woman had had a knife. She'd pointed it at Ritchie. She'd stabbed Emma, just like that; she was a psycho. And now Ritchie was somewhere in a car with her. Emma gripped a corner of the sheet in her fist. She shouldn't be here. She should be out in a police car, searching the roads for him; be there when they found him, be the first person he saw.
He'd been calling her: 'Muh. Muh.' Aah! She pressed her fist to her chest. He'd known she was there. He must be wondering why she hadn't come to him, why she'd gone off again and left him.

'I didn't mean to . . .' She had to tell him. 'I didn't . . .'

She struggled to sit up again. No way was she going to just lie here. She could have the operation some other time. For now, she was going to find
Lieutenant Perrine and insist that one of the police cars took her along with them. She tried to sit straighter, but her right arm hung behind her, floppy as the damaged wing of some giant bird or bat. The dressing stuck to her skin, dragging open the wound above her elbow so she could see the pink mass of muscle inside. Red lines streaked towards her wrist.
Her arm was like a white and red road map. Faint, she looked away.

The nurse reappeared by her bed.

'Are you all right?' she asked.

'I'm fine.' Emma was looking around her for a towel or sheet. 'I just need something to . . .'

Then she looked at her arm again and slumped in defeat. She hadn't lost the plot so much that she couldn't see the mess she was in. She couldn't do anything, go anywhere, with her arm like this. The nurse looked at it too and frowned.

'You have decided?' she asked. 'You will have the surgery?'

Emma was thinking fast. 'If I have it, how soon can
I leave here? Can I get out straight away?'

'If the surgery is successful, then yes, maybe.' The nurse wrinkled her forehead. 'But you should have it immediately,
madame
. The knife has done a lot of damage. Your hand has no blood supply. That is why you can't feel anything.'

'Will they be quick?' Emma asked. 'You see, I don't have time. I need to be awake . . . I . . . my son . . .'

'I understand,' the nurse said. She came to put her hand on
Emma's shoulder. 'Of course I understand. We will try to be as quick as we
can.'

As soon as the nurse had told everyone she was having the surgery, Emma's cubicle filled with people again.
Emma searched the crowd for Lieutenant Perrine. She wanted to hear him promise the police would keep looking for Ritchie while she was in the operating room.

'Excuse me,' she kept saying. She raised her voice.
'Excuse me, I need to see that policeman again. The one who . . . Is anybody listening?'

The man in the blue hat was back, barking orders at the crowd.

'
Tout de suite
,' he snapped. Emma recognized the phrase. It meant 'immediately'. Within seconds a group of people had taken hold of Emma's trolley and were wheeling her along a corridor. White windows flew past. A breeze blew on her face. Then she was in another room, filled with machines. A chemical smell, strangely familiar. Nail varnish? More people in tunics, blue this time. Everyone seemed to be doing something.
Opening and closing cupboards. Hanging things on poles. Flicking liquid from the tops of syringes.

A woman asked her questions, ticking them off on a clipboard: 'When did you last eat? Have you had an anaesthetic before?'

The quicker Emma cooperated, the quicker the surgery would be done. She answered all the questions.
The woman's pen flew down the clipboard. A man wearing a paper hat and mask tied something around the top of Emma's good arm.

'To make the vein,' he explained. He tapped the back of her wrist. 'Move your hand, please.'

Emma didn't know what he meant. Move her hand?
She twisted her wrist forward and back. The woman with the clipboard saw she didn't understand and returned to the trolley to help.

'Open and close your fist.' She demonstrated. 'Like this. Pretend you are trying to grasp something that is just out of your reach.'

Emma got it. She opened and closed her left hand.
Then something sharp stung the back of it. Seconds later, the room spun. She tried to grip the side of the trolley, but her left hand was still being held and the other had no life in it at all.

'Please,' she said, not knowing what it was she was asking for. 'Please.'

Voices in the background. Antonia appeared beside her, wearing a blue hat and mask. Emma could only see her eyes. She was holding a knife up and touching her finger to the tip of it.

'Do you know Solomon?' Antonia asked. Her voice was deep and dry and cold. 'Solomon was the king who ordered the baby to be cut in half.'

Emma tried to wrench her hand away from whoever was holding it.

'Let go,' she shouted. 'I've changed my mind.'

But the shouting must have been just in her head, because the French voices with their soft 's's and 'g's murmured on in the background. Terrified, Emma twisted her hand, until she felt someone's fingers and squeezed.

'It's all right,' a different voice said. 'I'm here.'

'Sleep now,' the doctor said.

Her hand was released. It floated by her side, as if in water. Something was on her face, pressing on her eyes, making everything dark. A cool flow in her nose. The nail varnish smell grew stronger.

From a distance, a woman said, 'You do not need to grasp any more.'

Emma realized she was moving her hand again.
Open. Close.

Just out of your reach.

I'm here.

Startled, she opened her eyes. Something was blocking her hand from moving. She pushed it away and grasped again, reaching out as far as she could. Then everything went dark. Her hand fell to the sheet. Her fingers curled, coming to rest, and when they closed, they closed only upon themselves.

Everything was swirling. Brightness speared her eyelids.
Her stomach heaved.

'Good morning,' a voice said.

Emma opened her eyes. The swirling stopped. A girl in white was pushing back curtains at a window.

Emma blinked, getting used to the light. She stared around her. This wasn't the operating theatre. She was in a bed in a normal room, with a white wardrobe and locker, and a TV up near the ceiling in the corner.

Her right arm, bulky with bandages, was propped on a pillow.

'Have I had it?' She was bewildered. 'Have I had the operation?'

'Yes.'

She was amazed. The last thing she remembered was the woman with the clipboard showing her how to move her hand.

'The surgery took a long time,' the nurse was saying.
'Seven hours. We do not yet know whether—'

Seven
hours
?

Emma shot up in the bed.

'What time is it?' she asked.

'Almost eight o'clock in the morning.'

'Eight o'clock in the
morning
?' She'd been asleep the whole night! If she'd known the surgery would take this long, she'd never, never have agreed to it.
'Did they find him? Did they find Ritchie?'

'I'm sorry,
madame
.' The nurse looked away.

Emma was aghast. 'Why?' Sitting up had made her nausea worse. Her stomach seemed to be forcing itself into her throat. 'Why? They said they couldn't have got far. They said—'

The nurse put her hands up.

'There is a lady outside,' she said, 'from the British
Embassy. She has demanded that she can speak with you when you are awake?'

'Yes. Yes, please.'

The nurse left the room. Seconds later she returned, accompanied by a blonde, short-haired woman in a knee-length skirt.

'Tamsin Wagstaff.' The woman introduced herself.
'From the Consulate.'

'What's going on?' Emma pleaded. 'Why haven't they found Ritchie?'

Tamsin Wagstaff said, 'Unfortunately it hasn't been as easy as that. St-Bourdain is in a very isolated area. No cameras, very few cars. Even with such a quick response, it was difficult to know which way they might have gone. The police are doing their best.'

'What's going to happen now? What will they do?'

'They've put out a country-wide alert,' Tamsin said.
'Borders as well. Everyone's looking for them now.
Philippa Hunt's husband says that as far as he knows, she has very little money with her. So if she needs to buy anything, she'll have to use her cards and that'll show us where she is.'

'What if she doesn't buy anything?'

'She'll have to, sooner or later,' Tamsin said. 'Petrol, for a start.'

Petrol! How much petrol could a tank hold? How long could it last, if it was full? Hours? Days? What if
Antonia just decided to steal another car?

'The police are very hopeful,' Tamsin was saying.
'They will find them. I'm sure they will. In the meantime, if there's anything I can do to help, please, just ask.'

Once she had left, the nurse tried to persuade Emma to have some breakfast.

'You need it after the anaesthetic,' she coaxed.
'Your body fluid is low.'

Obediently, Emma picked up a rectangle of butter in gold foil. The butter squished under her fingers.
The room was much too warm. The sun steamed through the window. Heat rolled in waves from the radiator. The smell of melting butter made her gag. A wasp rattled gaspily on the window ledge.

All night, and Ritchie still not found. What was happening to him? Where in God's name were they?

That knife to his face.

Emma threw the butter down.

You're not getting him back
.

Rafe phoned from London.

'The DNA from the walnut came back,' he said.
'He's yours all right. He's Ritchie.'

Emma couldn't see anything. The sun spangled through a knot in the glass, straight on to her face.

'I know,' she said.

The sun was still in her eyes. She turned her head.

Rafe said, 'I kept ringing you yesterday, and when you didn't answer your phone, I knew something must have happened. Mike called everyone he knew, they put massive pressure on the lab to rush the result. I'm just sorry we couldn't have got there in time.'

'She was so mad,' Emma wept. 'So completely mad.
And she had a knife. She held it to him. She held it to his face.'

'Shh. Shh.'

'What if she's hurt him, what if—'

'I'm coming over there,' Rafe said. 'I'm booking a flight right now.'

Emma sniffled. Then she gave a deep sigh. She pressed the phone to her cheek. It would be so great to have Rafe there. He would know exactly what to do. His warm eyes, his strength. Always with him the sense that she could lean on him, and he would make everything all right.

She said, 'No.'

'It's not a problem. I'm happy to come.'

'You'll miss your trip again,' she said.

'That doesn't matter.'

'Why do you keep doing this?' Emma asked.
'Putting your life on hold like this? It's crazy. Why do you keep on and on wanting to be involved?'

It came out so vehemently that he was silenced.

She answered for him, more gently, 'Because you feel guilty, that's why. That you didn't save him. But you don't need to. You did everything you could at the time. And you've done everything since. People are listening now, and it's all thanks to you.'

'Emma, you don't need to do this all on your own.
Believe it or not, there are people who care about you.'

'Because they're paid to. It's their job.'

Rafe said, 'It's not
my
job.'