A television van was driven up the avenue. The phone rang shortly afterwards.
‘No comment.’ Orla replaced the receiver with a clang. ‘I’m sorry, Carla. The media have got wind of the story. Don’t worry. We’ll deal with them.’
‘If I talk to them now, it’ll be on tonight’s news.’ For the first time since she awoke and saw the empty cot, Carla’s mind focused. She understood optics, publicity, the projection of an image. ‘I want to appeal directly to this woman.’
‘Leave the media to us,’ advised Orla. ‘We have procedures in place for dealing with such incidents.’
‘Incidents!’ Carla bent forward and clutched at her stomach. Her flesh felt flabby, empty. ‘How dare you call my baby’s kidnapping an incident!’
She brushed aside the policewoman’s attempts to apologise but Robert agreed with Orla. It was too early for interviews. The media already had Isobel’s photograph. If she was not found soon – he winced and closed his eyes – then a press conference would be organised. Suddenly, the strength left his legs. He collapsed on the bed and lay back, his hands over his eyes. Carla lay beside him. He gathered her close and she, hearing his laboured breathing, his desperate attempts at self-control, became the comforter. She repeated Orla’s assurances, soothing him with false words until he felt strong enough to rise again.
It seemed impossible to imagine time moving, yet the hands on the clock turned past midnight and another round of waiting began. Sleep, Amanda assured her, was necessary if she was to cope. When Carla did manage to close her eyes, it was a drug-induced slumber and she sank into a dreamless void until it was time to awaken again into the nightmare.
Susanne
Three days later
Go to her, they whispered when I saw her in the papers. Isobel Gardner – a baby with no distinguishing features to set her apart from other newborns who slide into the world a fortnight before their time. I resisted at first. I deadened my ears to the whispering and went to bed instead, pulled the pillows over my face.
The pain awakened me in the small hours. Clockwork precision each month, the bleed so heavy that I’m always nervous going anywhere for the first two days. It was still dark outside. Another hour before dawn lifted over the Burren. The pain was intense, thin and razor-sharp, slicing through my coccyx, through the sacrum, reaching a pitch where I believed I could no longer endure without screaming. Then it eased, ebbed, and I rested in the shallows until it began again.
I knew then that I must leave before the light broke. Before Phyllis Lyons arose to lift her mother upright and plump the pillows behind her head. Before Mitch Moran opened his garage and Stella Nolan switched on her bakery oven. I checked the nursery. All was in order. I prepared your first feed and placed the formula back in the kitchen press. I filled a flask and removed your bottle from the sterilising unit. The pain built again and with it came the bleeding. I had a four-hour journey ahead of me. Eight hours on the road. Heavy rain was expected to fall.
When I reached the Valley View Maternity Clinic, I parked in the most secluded area of the car park. An embankment of pampas grass sheltered me. A wall of cotoneaster caught against my coat as I stepped from my car. I pulled free and the berries fell like drops of blood on the ground.
I gazed through the glass doors into a spacious foyer. The clinic used to be a Georgian family home and the building still smacks of carriages and candelabras. A fire was blazing in the reception area, turf and logs piled in the cavernous fireplace. Armchairs had been placed around it and magazines were stacked neatly on small tables. But no expectant fathers waited in the wings today. The only person I saw was the receptionist, her head bent over her desk. I moved out of sight before she noticed me and walked back down the steps.
At the back of the clinic, signposts directed me to different wards, outpatients’ department, the laboratory and the private rooms of gynaecologists. At the outpatients’ department, building work was underway. A notice apologised for any inconvenience. The workmen paid no attention to me. I paused outside automatic glass doors. This was the instant when sanity demanded to be heard. Once inside, I was stepping into a zone where rules no longer applied. But it was too late…far too late for second thoughts.
The glass doors opened and closed behind me. The noise fell away. Such a calm atmosphere, an empty waiting room, a notice advising me to knock at Reception then take a seat. Through the opaque glass of Reception I saw someone moving across the office. The top half of another person was visible at a desk. I walked past, expecting at any moment to hear the authoritative command that would pull me back from the brink. It never came.
My hands began to sweat. My knees trembled so badly I had to stop and lean against the wall. I forced myself to move on until I reached a long corridor with doors on either side. The smell of food lingered, not heavy and fishy (a smell I have always associated with hospitals) but herby and fragrant. The smell of health and vitality, the aroma of coffee, bread freshly baking, a hint of garlic. I reached a staircase; the banisters formed an elegant swerve. My shoes sank into soft, thick pile. At the top of the stairs, two arrows pointed in opposite directions, leading to rooms 18 to 25 or 26 to 33. On the way to the clinic I’d stopped at a public phone. The receptionist had told me that a bouquet for Mrs Gardner could be sent to Room 27.
I turned left and walked along the corridor until I reached her room. The pain had moved from the base of my spine to my stomach, the cramps doubling me over. I stumbled towards a bathroom. I had tablets for pain control in my handbag. They usually offered some relief but pain was necessary for rebirth. It was important not to interfere with my natural cycle.
Inside a cubicle, I sat on the toilet seat and adjusted my clothes. The harness holding the cushion had loosened. I fumbled, my hands shaking so much they became entangled in the bindings. The door to the ladies’ opened and a woman entered the cubicle next door. I remained motionless until she had washed her hands and left. Then I tied the strings securely over my hips and emerged. The white tiled walls cast a hard reflection on my face. My eyes were red-rimmed, shadowed, filled with anticipation.
I splashed water over my face until my skin was raw and flushed. No more…no more…the whisperers drove me forward. I could have stopped at that point. I wanted someone to enter and order me from the premises. A hard-faced matron or an enquiring nurse who would accept my excuse about being lost in this labyrinth of corridors. Then I heard you for the first time. You, my daughter, your voice calling out to me. I pushed the door open, hoping I would find Carla Kelly awake, protective and alert. But she was sleeping, one arm resting on the counterpane.
You made no sound when I lifted you. Light as thistledown, you moulded yourself against my breasts. Swiftly, swiftly, we moved as one, mother, daughter, into the ladies’, into the canvas holdall, into the future. Hush little baby, don’t say a word…walking fast down the stairs with its muffled carpet, past Reception where figures moved behind yellow glass, past the builders who did not stare or wolf whistle at a pregnant woman, to the car park where I held my bag away from the spiky cotoneaster, safe inside the car, driving away, my stomach cramps beginning to subside, and deep in the depths of the canvas holdall, you moved, jutted an elbow, kicked a foot, struggled to be free from the dark confines. Then you settled back to sleep again.
Rain wrapped the city in a grey shroud as I drove through the traffic and out into the countryside, my foot hard on the accelerator, heading for home.
When you cried I pulled into a lane. The rain dripped like tears from black branches and a cow poked a damp, inquisitive face over a gate. I opened a flask and filled a bottle with your first feed. My hand trembled so much the formula spilled over my trousers. You whimpered,