The Secrets She Keeps, page 18
The theater is bright and white and filled with technology. A whiteboard identifies each member of the surgical team. The anesthesiologist asks me if I’d like him to put on some music. Jack suggests the “Hokey Pokey” and begins singing. “You put your right arm in, you put your right arm out, you put your right arm in and you shake it all about . . .”
“He’s joking,” I say.
The anesthesiologist laughs hesitantly and begins administering the drugs.
“You don’t have to stay,” I say to Jack.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“But you hate the sight of blood.”
“I have seen all my children born and I’m not missing this one.”
AGATHA
* * *
Wearing a dark wig and a shapeless overcoat, I cross the hospital foyer pulling my tartan trolley. Ahead of me, a large family carrying helium-filled balloons and flowers has summoned a lift. The doors open. I slip inside. A pink balloon bounces against my face. IT’S A GIRL! says the message.
The maternity ward is on the fourth floor. I choose the fifth: Administration. The family get off and I ascend alone, knowing that most of the management staff will have finished for the day.
The doors open and I step out, not looking for CCTV cameras. Lights flicker above my head, triggered by sensors. A phone rings in an empty office. Turning left along the corridor, I find the ladies’ toilet. Unzipping a pocket on the trolley, I pull out a yellow OUT OF ORDER sign, propping it on the carpeted floor.
After checking that the cubicles are empty, I lock the door and begin to change. Maternity support workers wear dark blue trousers and navy shirts with white piping on the sleeves and collar. My trousers are extra long to hide two-inch platform heels that will make me look taller and thinner. Leaning closer to the mirror, I pull open my upper eyelid and insert contact lenses that change the color of my irises from blue to brown. Next I adjust my wig, letting the long fringe fall across my right eye, breaking up the symmetry of my face, which will make it harder for my features to be matched by facial-recognition software.
Unzipping a small makeup bag, I use black eyeliner pencil to thicken my brows and lip liner to slenderize my lips, while adding a beauty mark low on my left cheek. Finally, I put on a pair of dark, wide-rimmed glasses, which cause me to squint slightly. Straightening up, I study myself in the mirror, amazed at how different I look. The old Agatha is gone.
The creature is unimpressed.
This isn’t going to work.
Yes, it will.
You should have stolen an identity card.
How?
You could have followed a nurse home and lifted her handbag.
I’m not a pickpocket.
The front compartment of the trolley contains a six-inch knife in a leather scabbard. I debated leaving it behind, but I’m scared of what might happen if I run out of options. Strapping the knife to my ankle, I pull down the trouser cuffs, making sure it doesn’t show.
I am ready. I have done all I can to prepare, but I need some luck now. Fortune favors the brave, they say. What about the desperate?
Leaving the women’s room, I follow the corridor to the stairwell and descend the echoing concrete steps. Emerging into a corridor opposite the maternity ward, I glance at my watch. Visiting hours are from six to eight. People are starting to leave, queuing for the lifts, making it easier for me to go unnoticed.
A glass wall separates me from the maternity ward. The door must be unlocked from the reception desk inside. A lift arrives. A pregnant woman emerges. She’s in a wheelchair, being pushed by her husband.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“I phoned ahead,” the woman says, arching her back in pain. “They told me to come straight in.”
“Right. Good. What’s your name?”
“Sophie Bruen.”
Her husband speaks. “My car is double-parked.”
“You sort that out. I’ll look after Sophie.”
He disappears into the lift. I buzz reception. The nurse on duty is busy on the phone. She glances up, sees my uniform, and automatically unlocks the door. I wheel Sophie into the waiting area.
“You can wait here for your husband. I’ll let them know you’ve arrived.”
I walk away, heading along the corridor, recalling the layout from my previous visit. There are ten delivery rooms to my left and two postnatal wards to my right. Two hours ago I phoned the hospital and asked if Meghan Shaughnessy could have visitors. Staff confirmed that she gave birth this morning and gave me the name of her ward.
Turning a corner, I step around a cleaner’s trolley and glance into the ward. Curtains have been pulled around some of the beds, creating cubicles. One of them is open. A woman is talking to her husband. Her baby is sleeping in a small crib beside the bed. I smile at them and move inside, walking between the partitioned beds.
Almost immediately I hear Jack’s voice. He’s close to me, behind the next curtain, speaking to someone on the phone.
“He’s the most beautiful little boy you’ve ever seen. . . . Right now he’s sleeping. . . . You’ll get to meet him tomorrow. . . . No, he doesn’t talk yet, he’s only a baby.”
The cubicle next to them is unoccupied. I slip inside and pull the curtains closed, sealing myself off.
Jack finishes the call, sending love and kisses.
“How are they?” Meg asks.
“Excited.”
“I miss them.”
“It hasn’t even been a day. You should take advantage of this—relax, sleep, read.”
“And what are you going to do?” she asks.
“Celebrate.”
“I underwent major surgery, gave you another son, and you’re going to party.”
“Absolutely.”
Meg tries to scold him but doesn’t sound serious. A phone rings. Her sister, Grace, is on the line.
Someone opens the curtain, surprising me. I jump, startled, my heart hammering. A man is looking for his wife. He apologizes. I pretend to be smoothing sheets on the bed. I close the curtains again and steady my breathing.
Meg wants to get up and take a shower. “You’ll have to help me,” she says to Jack.
The bedsprings shift. She groans softly. The curtains move as she brushes past me. I wait a few moments and pull the fabric aside. Jack has his arm around Meg’s waist as she shuffles in her socked feet towards the bathroom.
“Are you sure you can do this?” he asks.
“I’ll be fine. There’s a seat in the shower.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“I don’t think we’re allowed to shower together.”
“I’m willing if you are.”
She smiles tiredly and kisses his cheek. Taking my chance, I push through the curtains to their bedside. For a moment I think the crib might be empty because the blanket and sheet are the same color. He’s swaddled in a bundle. A tiny round face with hands tucked beneath his chin.
I scoop him up and step outside, pulling the curtains closed and turning towards the corridor. Everything around me seems to have slowed down, while I have accelerated. I am faster, cleverer, and more capable than any of these plodding people.
“Excuse me, what are you doing?” asks a voice.
Jack has come back for something.
“Doing?” I ask, feeling my skin tighten across my face.
“That’s our baby.”
“Of course it is,” I say, summoning a smile. “You must be Jack.”
“Yes.”
“And this little chap was born this morning. He’s gorgeous. Where is your wife?”
“She’s having a shower.”
“Good. Well, your perfect little bundle is due to have a blood test. It won’t take long.”
Jack looks towards the bathroom.
“You’re welcome to come with me,” I say.
“Meg will need my help.”
“OK. I won’t be long.”
I turn and walk away from him, my stomach clenching and bowels turned to water. This is a one-time operation. I cannot turn back now. I pause as I reach the reception area, aware of the glass security door. The button is beneath the reception desk. The wheelchair I pushed earlier is empty. I tuck the baby inside and steer the chair towards the doors. The nurse at reception triggers the lock mechanism. The door slides open. I wave in thanks, pushing the chair into an empty lift. I press up. The doors close. I remember to breathe. Before stepping out on the fifth floor, I light up every button, sending the empty wheelchair to each floor.
Tucking Rory under my arm like a bundle of clothing, I carry him along the corridor to the ladies’ room, stepping over the OUT OF ORDER sign. Once inside, I lay him carefully in the sink and begin swapping the nurse’s uniform and platform shoes for work boots and a pair of shapeless men’s overalls with a stitched logo for a plumbing company. Removing my makeup, I quickly apply another layer, using brown powder to create darker bags beneath my eyes and wrinkles across my forehead and at the edges of my mouth. My wig is replaced by a baseball cap with a graying ponytail sewn into the back. I tuck my real hair inside and pull the cap lower before putting a single silver stud in my left ear. The final touch is a smear of grease on the back of my hands and another on my neck. Glancing at myself in the mirror I see an aging tradesman who didn’t escape the seventies.
Rory is still sleeping. He’ll wake when he’s hungry, but hopefully not yet. Most newborns sleep sixteen hours a day, so the odds are on my side.
Emptying the trolley completely, I gently place him inside, still swaddled snugly in the blanket. I have cut a hard piece of plastic to size, forming a partition that I jam halfway down the trolley, giving him room to breathe. On top I put the nurse’s uniform, wig, platform shoes, and glasses.
A clock is ticking inside my head. I am taking too long. They’ll raise the alarm and seal off the hospital.
The creature inside me is yelling instructions.
Hurry!
Don’t panic.
They’re coming.
Not yet. Unfolding a black plastic rain cover, I hook it over the tartan trolley, changing its color.
Now I’m ready. I open the door glance down the corridor.
“Have you managed to fix it?” asks a voice.
I try to stay calm. A woman cleaner is standing in a nearby doorway clutching a wastepaper bin in her circled arms. She’s Polish. Heavyset.
“Blockage is clear,” I say in my gruffest voice, not making eye contact.
“Don’t forget your sign,” she says.
I pick up the OUT OF ORDER triangle and carry it with me as I pull the trolley towards the main lifts, consciously keeping my feet wider apart and my head angled down. I thought of giving myself a limp when I practiced my mannish walk, but a disability draws attention.
I can’t risk using the foyer, and the internal stairways will have fire doors and possibly cameras. On my earlier visit, I discovered a goods lift at the eastern end of the building marked STAFF ONLY. It leads to a loading dock on the ground floor. I press the button and watch it rise slowly from the basement. 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . .
Come on! Come on!
I’m about to step inside when the alarm explodes, making my heart somersault. The raucous bell clangs through the corridors and up the lift well. I have no choice but to go on. Descending, counting down in the same slow rhythm: 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .
I have no idea what’s waiting. Armed police? Security guards? An angry father? The lift stops with a jolt. The doors slide open. I step into a darkened corridor with a concrete floor and pipes running along the ceiling. The alarm is still sounding, but the noise is muffled down here. Lights trigger above my head as I go, pulling the trolley behind me. My footsteps are too loud. The wheels of the trolley are too loud.
Around the next corner I see an exit sign above heavy fire doors with horizontal push handles. I put my weight behind the door and shoulder it open. Head down. Bracing myself for what awaits. The alarm is louder outside.
“Hold on, mate,” says a voice. A security guard in a high-vis jacket is standing in the loading bay talking into a radio clipped to his shoulder. He’s midthirties, Middle Eastern with a stubbled beard.
He’s holding up his hand, wanting me to wait. Grateful for the shadows, I ask him what’s wrong. He doesn’t answer. He’s still on the radio. I catch a few words: Baby. Nurse. I take a pack of cigarettes from my breast pocket and pull one out with my teeth before knocking it on the back of my hand. Letting it hang from the corner of my lips, I pat my lower pockets and take out a lighter, striking the wheel with my thumb and closing my eyes against the smoke. I crouch and pretend to tie the laces of my work boots, unsheathing the knife and holding it against the inside of my forearm.
The creature whispers:
Cut his throat and run!
No.
He won’t be able to scream.
Not yet.
Straightening again, I lean casually against a concrete pillar, keeping my right arm behind me. The knife is in my fist, the blade facing downwards. The guard turns back to me.
“What are you doing here?”
“Blocked toilet on the fifth floor.”
“You’re not hospital maintenance.”
“Private contractor. We work out-of-hours.”
He looks at the trolley. “That’s an interesting toolbox.”
“Bad back,” I reply.
He grabs the handle of the trolley, tipping it forward and rolling it back and forth as though feeling the weight.
“Did you see a nurse carrying a baby?”
“No. Why?”
He lets go of the trolley. The radio crackles to life. He answers. I wait. A bead of sweat rolls down my forehead and into the corner of one eye. Stinging. I try to blink it away. The guard gives me a final look and waves me away.
Pulling the trolley across the loading bay, I climb the sloping vehicle ramp, holding the knife against my stomach. The street outside is crowded with pedestrians, diners, revelers, and people heading home from work. I weave between them, moving farther from the hospital.
Run!
Act normally.
They’re right behind you.
Don’t turn around.
A church bell rings. Someone shouts for a taxi. I step over a smudged chalk drawing on the pavement and pass a pub with etched-glass windows. At the next corner I pause and dare to look back at the lights of the hospital. Nothing has changed. I put the knife in my pocket and continue walking. A police car speeds past me . . . then another . . . and another.
Gloucester Road station is ahead. I swipe my way through the ticket barrier and carry the trolley down the stairs. The platform is almost empty. A train has just gone. The next is due in four minutes. They are long minutes.
I stare at the electronic notice board while people seem to move in slow motion around me, turning their heads, blinking and talking. I remember seeing a TV program about a neurological condition where the brain alters the perception of time so that events appear to either slow down or pass in a blur. That’s what it feels like now, as though God has pulled the handbrake and the planet is decelerating.
Slipping my hand beneath the rain cover, I unzip the trolley and work my fingers inside until I touch the blanket. I bend my wrist and reach farther until I feel Rory’s head. Warm. Soft. Sleeping. I make sure nothing has fallen on his face. He has enough air.
The gust of hot wind signals an approaching train. The sound arrives and the carriages follow. Braking. Screeching. Stopping. I take a seat, holding the trolley between my knees. The doors close and we begin moving. The train enters the tunnel, but suddenly shudders to a halt. The lights blink off and on. My heart does the same.
A voice over the public address system: Due to an earlier signal failure at Manor House, eastbound Piccadilly line services are running approximately eleven minutes late. Transport for London apologizes for any inconvenience.
The lights blink again and the train jerks forward, slowly picking up speed, as though driven by noise rather than the live rail. At each stop I watch the carriage fill and empty with ever-changing faces, races, and mixtures—Polish, German, Pakistani, Senegalese, Bangladeshi, Russian, Chinese, Welsh, Scottish, Irish, English. I don’t often feel sentimental about London, but I love being another tile in this ethnic mosaic.
At Piccadilly Circus a gaggle of teenage girls invades the carriage, shrieking with laughter and tottering on ridiculous shoes. One of them bumps into my trolley.
“Mind yourself,” I say.
Her top lip curls. She pulls a face at her friends, making them laugh. Leaning forward, I press my ear to the top of the trolley, hearing a faint muffled cry. Rory has woken, but the noise of the train will keep him hidden.
At King’s Cross station hundreds of people are riding the escalators and crisscrossing the concourse. I slip inside a baby-changing room, locking the door and checking it twice. Unpacking the trolley, I take Rory into my arms and rock him gently, putting my cheek against his forehead and whispering that I love him.
I lay him down on the changing table, and he watches me undress, swapping the overalls and baseball cap for my own clothes. I dispose of the disguise, dumping it beneath dirty nappies in the rubbish bin.
Taking a scarf, I drape it over my right shoulder, gathering the ends and tying them together to form a sliding knot that I can tighten or loosen as required. I push the knot back to my shoulder and slip Rory into the sling, adjusting it so that his body is snug against mine. Heart to heart.
No more wigs or disguises. We are now mother and baby. I am Agatha and this is my little boy, Rory: an Irish name—it means “red king.”
Tomorrow I will take Rory home and show him to Hayden and he will see what a perfect mother I am and what a perfect wife I can be. I have my family now.
PART TWO
* * *
MEGHAN
* * *
