Fifty-Six
The church café had just opened. The young woman was unloading metal trays of scones and croissants and Danish pastries into the glass-fronted cabinet. She didn’t look up as I ran through the door.
‘Is she here?’
She frowned. ‘Who?’
‘Gracie. My daughter.’ What was the matter with her? ‘You know. She’s three. Nearly four. About this high.’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve been in the back.’ She gestured to the fresh food. ‘Still setting up.’ She went back to fiddling with her pastries, straightening them in their baskets.
My heart pounded. I ran through to the church. The morning light filtered softly through the stained glass. I crossed to St Michael’s window and checked under the pews there, trying to think where a three-year-old might hide. Nothing. The Lady Chapel too was empty.
I stood beside the altar, looking back down the body of the church, breathing hard. I’d been driven by the sudden hope that she might be here, that she’d seek refuge here if she could. Now I was again at a loss, deflated by the silence, the emptiness. I didn’t know where to go next. What to do. I checked my phone. Nothing.
The loss of you pressed down on my head and shoulders, a suffocating weight. I slid sideways into the nearest pew and leaned forward, rested my forehead against the worn wood.
I closed my eyes. I saw you again in the hospital, a frail, small figure, stabbed with wires. I remembered the commotion as machines sounded and nurses and doctors came rushing in. Richard smelled faintly of aftershave when I pressed against him, close in his arms. You were saved. I thanked God for it. Thanked him for sending you back to me.
‘Are you alright?’
A shift in the light. I looked up. The vicar, Angela, looked down on me, a cardboard file in her hand. Her face was creased with concern.
‘Oh.’ Her expression altered as she saw who I was. ‘Jennifer.’
She bent over me, put her hand on my shoulder. Her breath smelled of coffee.
‘What is it? Do you want to talk?’
My thighs trembled on the wooden pew. I felt a stab of anguish, of fear, deep in my stomach. I needed so desperately to see you, to hold you. No one seemed to know how to help.
‘It’s Gracie.’ I put my hands to my face. ‘He’s taken her. Matt. I don’t know where she is.’ I started to shake, then to sob, managing to blurt out: ‘What if he hurts her?’
She slid in beside me on the pew, a warm, soft bulk of person.
‘What do you mean, taken her? Should we call the police?’
‘I have.’ I raised my wet, running face to look at her solemn one. ‘They’re looking.’ I pointed to my phone. ‘They said they’d call me the minute they had news.’ I paused, trying to explain. ‘I just thought she might be here, you know. If she got away. She loves this church.’
She nodded. ‘She does.’
I gulped, tried to stop crying, to stop the shudder in my breath. I looked past the pew to the swimming patterns of light on the stone.
‘She likes to play up there, under the windows.’ I could almost see you, sitting on a hassock with your knees drawn up, jumping up and swinging on the end of a pew.
She reached out and put her hand on mine. ‘Wherever she is, Jennifer, she’s in God’s hands. That’s what I believe. He’s taking care of her.’
I thought of Matt’s eyes, so desperate and full of pain.
‘But what if he hurts her?’
She sighed but didn’t answer. We walked together back towards the café. The young girl was unpacking a bundle of newspapers and setting them out on one of the long, wooden tables.
My legs buckled and I sat heavily. My hands shook so much that I fumbled my phone, scrabbled on the floor to pick it up again, dropped it on the table. The sharp lines of the counter, of the tables, started to blur. I hung my head and stared unseeingly across the café. Please God. Bring her home. Please. I was too exhausted now even to cry.
A low buzz. On the table, my phone rang. I snatched it up.
His voice. But different. Desperate. ‘Jennifer …’
‘Is she alright?’
He paused. I strained to listen to the noise in the background. The throb and rattle of traffic.
‘You called the police, didn’t you?’
‘No.’ My voice was wild. ‘Where are you?’
‘Don’t lie to me.’ His breath juddered as if it were close to breaking. ‘They’ve been to my mother’s house. Upsetting her. Why did you do that? What’s she ever done to you?’
‘Matt. Please.’
Angela, listening, came to stand beside me and put her hand on my arm.
‘Just bring her back. Please.’
‘What about me?’ His voice rose in a wail. ‘I love you, Jen! You can’t leave me! Don’t you understand?’
I felt sick, took a deep breath. ‘Please. We can talk. Just tell me where you are.’
‘Come on your own. Promise? No police.’
A few moments later, as I ran across the café to the door, Angela called after me: ‘Is she alright? Was that the police?’