Some feeling emerges now, one of those emotions that can only surface in the sea-blue night air, because it brings truth with it. The kind of thing you are not ready to admit in the light of the day, things the sunlight shines too harshly on.
Are they doing the right thing? Simone pushes the question down.
She goes into the kitchen, the tiles cool underneath her feet. The dishwasher showsFINISHEDon its digital display, and Simone opens the door and lets the steam swirl around her bare legs. Her eyes close. She could be back there, in the kitchen, just after closing. Pots washed, stainless-steel sides wiped down. The hum of the fridges. Leftovers packaged in a white cardboard box to be taken and eaten at home – or more often sitting at traffic lights, unable to resist. This is her life. Thiswasher life.
She checks the phone, and sees with shock that Moody sent a text just after midnight. Fear and something else plunge through her, optimism and anxiety entwined. She opens it:
A cop friend has told me this: the British man on the bus has already been interviewed as a witness. He is a man named Max Pearson. He was an inspector at the camp – has been one for twenty years – then when he visited, he says one of Lucy’s camp mates recommended the trip to him to stargaze at Nueva Rosita. The night of the kidnapping he was inspecting another camp, with multiple alibis. He is, I’m afraid to say, squeaky clean. British thing a coincidence.
Simone grips the table. Her insides are plunging downwards. It isn’t him.
It isn’t him.
But this man – is he the same man who told the police SimoneandLucy were on the coach? She frantically types that back to Moody, who, awake, tells her they aren’t sure who it is who said that.
But who is the kidnapper, then? They have chased him down, this red herring, and for nothing.
Simone thinks she’s going to be sick.
Only a few moments later, Lucy appears, looking sleep straggled. Is it Simone’s imagination, or does she seem much too thin? Taken from her bed, bound and gagged, whole life displaced, subsisting on next to nothing while on the run. It wouldn’t be surprising, but Simone doesn’t like to see it. Lucy waves a hand in acknowledgement and makes a tea. She looks like meat. Rack of ribs. Butterfly-wing shoulder blades.
‘Something woke me.’
‘It was probably me, checking on you,’ Simone tells her. She takes a breath. ‘Look, Moody has messaged.’
‘And?’
‘The kidnapper isn’t the British man,’ Simone says gently. She relays the rest of Moody’s information to Lucy.
‘What? No?’ Lucy says, her face stricken. ‘Please say no?’
‘I’m really sorry. He might still try to look for him. For the kidnapper.’
Lucy says nothing, turning away from Simone. They stand together in silence, then after the longest time, Lucy speaks into the dim air. ‘I feel like a fool. We went haring after that lead.’
‘I know.’
Another long, bloated pause. A sad pause. ‘We’ve got to go, haven’t we?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘If we ever get to the Bahamas, what are we going to do?’
It’s a resigned and disappointed question that cracks Simone’s heart open. They’re going. Their future sealed.
The room seems to change with the knowledge.
Her daughter is accepting this is the next step. Moody, once a bright optimistic star on the horizon, is slowly dying. He has only the tools available to him. He can’t change the facts. He can’t make a random person a criminal, even though that is precisely what happened to Simone herself.
‘I don’t know. Let things die down. Begin to live more normally …’
‘Do you think I’ll still be able to act?’
Simone regards her daughter across the table. The kitchen has begun, over the last few days, to smell like home – that is to say, like nothing. They have stopped noticing it. It’s the longest place they have stayed since the kidnap.
The answer, Simone knows, isno. And she’s pretty sure Lucy knows it, too. She tries dark humour. ‘Well, it’s a stepping stone, isn’t it? Not much difference between notoriety and fame.’
Luckily, the joke lands. ‘Ha,’ Lucy says. ‘Well.’
