The wall of articles is still there and I wonder why they haven’t taken them down, knowing I’d be coming over to feed the cat. I walk further into the room to take more photos. I pat the pocket of my dress, looking for my phone. But only the two keys are there – my door key and the Morgans’. I check my other pocket but my phone isn’t there either. Damn it, I must have left it behind as I rushed out. I’ll go home in a minute and get it. I walk further into the room and examine the clippings, taking my time to read them properly. There’s one here about a new birthing unit that opened in March 1999 at St Calvert’s: I remember how it was surrounded in scaffolding while I was doing my placement, but I left before it was finished. Another about St Calvert’s being involved in an organ-harvesting scandal, shortly before the place closed down in 2005. I lift it to read the one underneath, which is about Hugh Warrington’s trial. The article above it is about his suicide last July. I scan another, and then another, lifting them carefully from where they overlap, the details jumping out at me, my unease growing as I read each one.
Every single one has some link to St Calvert’s.
The click of a door makes me jump and I spin around.
I freeze.
Marielle is standing there, leaning back against the closed door, blocking my way. The warm smile of earlier has vanished and her eyes are cold.
‘Marielle?’
‘I’m sorry, Lena.’ Her voice is calm. ‘I know you overheard us talking that day. Henry saw you.’
‘I …’ Confusion makes my brain woolly and it takes me a moment or two to register what she’s saying. ‘I … I didn’t hear anything.’
‘I know that’s not true.’
‘Look, whatever you’re up to, it’s none of my business.’
She folds her arms across her chest and clicks her tongue between her teeth. ‘It is your business, Lena.’
My heart twists painfully, realizing, too late, that I’ve walked into a trap. They were never going away for the weekend. This was all a ruse to get me here.
‘What’s … what’s going on?’ I manage.
‘You weren’t supposed to overhear us, Lena. Especially as we were talking about you.’
My legs buckle beneath me. ‘I don’t understand …’
Her next words chill me to my core. She approaches me slowly. And then, in the hand that hangs by her side, I notice a syringe. ‘You, Lena. You were the plan. Why do you think we moved in next door?’
Part Three
54
HENRY
August 1998 London
They were enjoying dinner at one of Henry’s favourite restaurants on the King’s Road when Marielle upended his world.
They were halfway through the starter. He still remembers what he was eating. Lobster. It turned to rubber in his mouth after she had spoken, making it impossible to swallow. He’d just stared at her, chewing, while she gabbled away.
She was pregnant, she said. Seven weeks. Baby was due mid-February.
He’d had to spit out the mouthful of lobster discreetly into a napkin before he could find his voice.
‘It’s a miracle, Henry. It’s marvellous.’
‘But you’re forty. That’s … that can be dangerous.’
‘Don’t be so silly, darling.’ She laughed. ‘Women are having children much later, these days. It’s not like when our parents were young.’
He had to put his cutlery down. He’d lost his appetite. He had to pretend to be pleased, of course. He’d never considered, for one moment, that she might conceive naturally. Not when they were told there was such a tiny chance and she was getting older.
She reached across the table and clasped his hand. ‘I’m so happy, Henry. I’ve never been so happy.’
He wondered if he might be sick. His mind raced with all the possibilities. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Perhaps they could get a live-in nanny. Marielle was bound to lose interest once the baby was born. She took her hand away and resumed eating.
