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They stare back, a look of mild concern. Kids wander off all the time, he reads. She’ll turn up.
‘We’re on Riverside Drive if you see anything. Number eighty-eight. Her name’s Abi.’
They nod, their expressions still little more than worry.
‘Hope you find her,’ one of them calls out as he rides on.
At the mouth of the bridge, brown ducks reach their beaks to the water, dip their heads beneath the surface. Abi loves to feed those ducks. The water is high, but still, still it’s quite shallow. The river’s calm, surely she couldn’t have…
No. No.
Through a steady oncoming parade of pedestrians, he wheels his bike over the footbridge, over the bottle-green water. Yes, the river is high, very high. Abi would have no chance, she…
No.
The buzz of an engine. There, on the river, an RNLI boat speeds towards the lock.
His vision blackens. He bends and retches but nothing comes up. He spits on the ground, grips the railings while his head clears.
‘Excuse me.’ One of the women has crossed the bridge and is waving at him. ‘Excuse me! Did you say a cream bobble hat?’
‘Yes,’ he says, wheeling his bike around. ‘Yes, cream. Woolly hat, yes. Did you see her?’
‘I think there was one on the wall.’ She gestures towards Thameside Lane and together they return to where he left them. ‘It was on the wall either of the Thames View or the Fisherman’s Arms, or failing that…’
He doesn’t hear the rest. He has clipped his feet in, is already pedalling, calling his thanks over his shoulder.
The rain is lighter now – a gently insistent mist. There is nothing on either of the pub walls. He cycles slowly, eyes on stalks, breathing shallow, past the flickering tape at the end of his road, down, down towards the school. If she did tag along with another family, she would, could possibly, have wandered down this way. But when he reaches Kingston Bridge, he turns back. This is ridiculous; she would not, could not have come this far. It wouldn’t occur to her. The hat is not on any wall, not on this side, not on the other.
But itwasthere.
That means Abi left the street. It means she got at least that far. A hat doesn’t fall onto a wall. That means someone found her hat on the ground and put it in a safe place, where it could be found. People round here do that; they take care of one another. No one would steal a little girl’s hat. If it has gone, that means one of the searchers must have found it. If Abi has gone, it means that someone has found her. If someone has found her, lost and upset, they will have done the right thing, of course they will: taken her to a safe place. This is a neighbourhood where people put lost hats and gloves on walls. This is a neighbourhood where people return lost children. Even if Abi can’t remember her address, whoever finds her will simply call the police. He has made her rehearse where she lives, is pretty sure she can give at least the road. But it will take the police a while to coordinate, budget cuts being what they are. Yes, whoever found that hat will be part of the search. No one round here would take a hat. No one round here would leave a lone toddler on her own. No one round here would take a child.
Ninety-nine per cent of people are good.
Six
Matt
Matt lifts Fred and lowers him, lifts and lowers, enjoying the daft gurgling noises he makes, the way his hands clasp at his chest, his wise old man expression.
‘Soon have you out on the footy field,’ he says. ‘Or rugby if your Uncle Neil has anything to do with it.’
He hands the baby back to Ava before stretching out his hamstrings. Last time he didn’t warm up was the last time he didn’t warm up – a torn hamstring hurts like hell and it actually made the skin go black on the back of his thigh.
‘See you in a bit.’ He kisses Ava on the head, tries not to notice the stale, oily smell of her hair, to wonder if she has changed back into her pyjamas or if she never got dressed in the first place.
Neil is already outside his house, one hand pressed against his van. When he sees Matt, he straightens up and gives a brisk wave.
Matt jogs to a standstill and waits while Neil ties his laces, one stocky, slightly porcine leg propped on the white stone slab that tops the dwarf wall in front of his house, his thick torso bent over. Now into his thirties, he’s getting love handles. No time for rugby anymore, not with the hours he works, and maybe a few too many pints of a weekend, not to mention the Friday-night takeaways.
He stands, claps and chafes his hands together.
‘You OK?’ Matt asks.
‘Knackered,’ Neil says, matter-of-fact, and spits on the pavement. ‘Work’s been mad.’ His eyes are red – yes, he looks overworked.
‘We’ll take it slow to start then.’
