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‘Has he ever left the house with it?’
‘I assume so.’
‘Okay then …’ the officer says, upending the pen. ‘All right. Looks like we need to speak to your son.’
‘Today?’ Jen asks.
The policeman finishes writing and looks at her. He glances at the clock on the wall.
‘We’ll make enquiries with Todd.’
She shivers, there in the warm police interviewing room. What if there is some unintended consequence of this action she’s just taken? Maybe Joseph Jones should die, if he’s got something to do with something terrible, and she only needs to help Todd get away with it. How is she supposed to know which it is?
‘Okay – well, I can go and get Todd for you,’ she says, wondering quite how she’s coming across. How strange it must sound. Even now, in this chaos, Jen still worries about being judged as a parent.
‘Just your address is enough,’ the officer says. He stands up and extends the flat of his palm towards the door. An instant dismissal. Just arrest him, please arrest him, so he can’t do anything more, Jen thinks.
‘Nothing you can do today?’ she probes again. She needs him taken in tonight, before she sleeps, if she has even a chance of stopping the crime. Tomorrow doesn’t exist, not to her, anyway.
The policeman pauses, looking at his feet, that palm still extended. ‘I’ll try my best. You know – usually, young men carry knives because of gangs.’
‘I know,’ Jen whispers.
‘We’ll talk to your son, but in order to get kids out of this you have to work out the why.’
‘I’m trying,’ Jen says. She stops just there, on the threshold of the meeting room, then decides to just ask. ‘Have any babies gone missing in the area? Recently?’
‘Sorry?’ the officer says. ‘Missing babies?’
‘Yes. Recently.’
‘I can’t discuss other cases,’ he says, giving nothing away.
She leaves then, and as she exits through the glass doors etched with a finely threaded grid and steps outside, she smells it. Not what she was expecting: petrichor. Rain on pavements. Summer’s coming back. That smell, that intangible smell – lawns being mowed, cow parsley, hot, packed earth – always reminds her of the house they had in the valley, the little white bungalow. How happy they were there, away from the city. Before.
On the way home, she thinks about Ryan Hiles, and about the missing baby. She can still see the poster. There is something she recognizes about that baby. An instinctive familiarity, as though they may be a distant relative, someone she now knows as an adult … someone she has perhaps met, but she can’t think. Jen has never been good with babies.
She got pregnant with Todd accidentally, only eight months after she met Kelly. It was a shock, but he used to joke they’d had a decade’s worth of sex in that year, which is true. The little camper van and their clothes strewn across the floor are her only memories of that time. His hips against hers, how he’d said to her wryly one night that everybody would be able to see their van rocking. How she didn’t care.
They’d been in their early twenties. She’d been on the pill, and most of the time they used condoms. Something about the impossibility of the pregnancy was what made her keep the baby. That, and a single sentence Kelly had said: ‘I hope the baby has your eyes.’ Right away, as with millions of women before her, she had thought, But I hope he has yours. Sperm had met egg, and each of their thoughts had met the other’s, and she felt immediately ready. Like she’d grown up in the space of a two-minute pregnancy test, looking to a future generation instead of to herself.
But she hadn’t been ready, not at all.
Nobody had warned her of the car crash that was labour. At one point she had been sure she was going to die, and that conviction never really left her, even after she was fine. She couldn’t believe women went through that. That they chose to do it again and again. She couldn’t believe pain like that actually existed.
She had begun her motherhood journey with pain, but also in fear: of the judgement of health visitors, of GPs, and of other mothers.
Todd hadn’t been what anybody would call a difficult baby. He’d always slept well. But an easy baby is still difficult, and Jen – a fan of self-recrimination anyway – was thrust into something that would in other circumstances have been described as torture. And yet to describe it as such was taboo. She’d looked down at him one night, and thought, How do I know if I love you?
Jen can see that she was susceptible to wanting it all. A woman working in a job that took as much as you were able to give. Having a repressed father. Vulnerable to people’s judgement, to reading huge amounts into the small things people say. That vein of inadequacy running through her that led her to say yes to banal networking events and taking on more cases than she could realistically run led – in parenthood – to misery.
She’d wanted to sleep in the same room as Todd, for him to hear her breathing, she’d wanted to breastfeed, she’d wanted, wanted, wanted to do it perfectly, and maybe that was compensation for what she should have felt but didn’t.
She’d tried to tell a health visitor about all this, but they had only looked uncomfortable and asked if she wanted to kill herself.
‘No,’ Jen had said dully. She hadn’t wanted to kill herself. She had wanted to take it back. She’d driven to work to see her father, walked around the office like a zombie. In the foyer, her father had hugged her extra tightly, but hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t been able to say anything: that she was doing a good job, did she need help? A typical man of his generation, but it had still hurt.
Like all disasters, it ebbed away, and the love bloomed, big and beautiful, when Todd started to do things: to sit up, to talk, to smear Bourbon biscuits over his entire head. And, until recently, when his friends had descended into teenage sullenness, he hadn’t. Still full of puns, of laughs, of facts, just for her. At the beginning, the love she had felt for him had been eclipsed by how hard it had been in the early days, and it wasn’t any longer. That was all. An explanation as big and as small as that.
