The Daughter (19 page)

The waiter appears and stretches strong brown arms over the table, collecting plates and cutlery; a few spots cluster at his hairline but otherwise his skin is smooth. About sixteen, seventeen, he looks as if he swims in his spare time, and wouldn't touch a cigarette. Ted asks him to bring coffee; he nods seriously and leaves.

“Why were you thinking about drugs when you were ill, if they were so unimportant?”

He smiles briefly. “I was ranting.”

“Why, Ted?”

As he looks away from my gaze, his mouth becomes tighter. He starts to stroke his right eyebrow with his fingers, back and forth.

“I kept coming back to it in Africa. There were kids hanging around on the street corners in the township where the clinics were, or lying on the sidewalks, completely stoned. Children. It began to haunt me that I'd taken her word and not followed it up more.”

“But just weed, only once, Ted . . .”

The color creeps into his cheeks again; he shifts in his seat and looks down.

“Weed was before, Jenny. It was ketamine.”

I hear the clinking of glasses and the clatter of knives faintly. It was as though a blanket had fallen between us and the other ­people in the restaurant.

Ketamine. My face feels hot with shock.

“Fuck. How is it possible that you didn't tell me?” My voice is rising and the young ­couple at the table next to us cough quietly and stare straight ahead.

“I told the police.” He glances at me quickly, then looks down again. “It was when I went to see them to tell them about . . . about Beth.” He pours some more wine, tips it quickly into his mouth. “I told them about the ketamine then. They didn't think it was relevant, but they said they'd look into it.”

“They?”

“Michael left me with a ­couple of policemen on duty. They took the details. I can't remember their names.”

“And . . . ?”

“Nothing. No one got back, so I assumed it wasn't important.”

“Anything could have happened to that information—­they might have thought it wasn't relevant, they could have forgotten to file it or not filed it properly . . .” Inside my head it is hot and black; the blackness is swelling and filling my throat so it's difficult to speak.

“Policemen are professionals,” he says.

“Professionals make mistakes.” He looks away at that, tapping the table with his fingertips.

The boy comes back, bringing the coffee. He places the tray very carefully in front of me and unloads the little jugs of milk and coffee. He smiles and leaves. Pouring coffee, I remember Michael's advice: one step at a time, unravel each thread from the beginning.

“How did you find out in the first place?” I ask.

“It was when she did the internship with me in my lab. The summer holidays before her last term. Remember?”

Of course I did. I was the one who had encouraged her.

“Good for your CV, darling. It's a chance to find which it'll be, acting or medicine. You can go on ward rounds with Dad if you go in early with him. Ed did it.”

She had jumped at the idea. She took pride in working at Ted's hospital. As the days of the internship wore on, she'd gotten up earlier and earlier, spending hours putting on makeup, getting ready, looking the part.

Ted's voice is continuing: “And she had the job of recording the drugs we used in the spinal cord injury trial; she was responsible for filling in the order sheet so we knew how many vials of ketamine to order to anesthetize the rats. She was neat and quick. I was proud of her.”

He stops and puts his elbow on the table and leans into his hand. It makes his voice less distinct.

“No one ever knew. She was the one counting them, so when she took some vials, she simply ordered more to replace them. Once when I happened to notice that the order sheet didn't match what we had used, she said she had dropped a whole box.” He looks down and speaks even more quietly. “She even showed me the smashed glass.”

“Very clever,” I whisper. “How did you find out?”

“She accidentally left her bag behind in the lab one day. I didn't know who it belonged to, so I looked inside. I opened the wallet and found her bank card, but there were six vials of ketamine as well, carefully padded with paper.”

There was a little pause. I imagined the sickness of that moment, how quiet the lab must have been, only the scampering of the rats in their cages and the sound of Ted's breathing.

“I took the ketamine out, and brought the bag home with me that night, then put it on the kitchen table for her to find the next morning. I left early; when she got to the hospital she came to find me and she started crying. She said she had taken it to give to friends.”

I saw her explaining this to Ted: her hands over her eyes, and the fair hair spilling over her hands.

“She had smoked weed at that party with older kids, and when they found out later she had access to ketamine, they persuaded her to steal some. She promised she had never actually used any.”

“Why didn't she come to me after that?” I am confused; I thought Naomi had told me everything back then, everything important.

“I suggested she should, but she said you wouldn't believe her at first and then you would have been disappointed, and how that would be worse than being angry.”

He pauses, looks at me, worried about the effect of his words. I make my face blank.

“Go on.”

“She said you expected perfection, not just from yourself but everyone else as well.” He sips his wine and looks out of the window, his face unhappy. “You didn't allow ­people to be who they were. She felt you didn't know her.”

“That's not true.” I feel breathless. “I knew her better than anyone.”

There was a little silence. I hadn't known her that well, though. I hadn't known about James or her pregnancy. She had shared much more with Ted. Was that because he didn't try to be perfect? He is looking down at the floor; I can see blotches on his scalp where the sun had struck through his thinning hair. The wine in the bottle is nearly finished. I pour the rest into his glass.

“I don't understand why you didn't tell me at the time.”

He drinks the wine quickly. All the other customers have left. The waiter is wiping the tables, looking over at us.

“I'll pay for the coffee now. We need to go in a minute.” He gets up, pulling his wallet from his jacket.

We've been sitting too long. I'm shivering, the dreary January afternoon seeps in from the outside. The Christmas tree lights blink pointlessly in the dull light.

BRISTOL, 2009

ELEVEN DAYS AFTER

The little glass vial was cold. I held it carefully in one hand. I went out of Ed's bedroom, down the stairs, and out of the back door into the garden, but the chill leafless space made no difference to the facts that were jostling in my head. I stood by the wall. Ed had been lying; I had no idea for how long. He had been taking drugs from my bag, maybe selling them, which would account for the money. Anya had stubbed her toe on the bag because it had been moved from its usual place, and not put back. Stealing drugs. It didn't seem possible.

But then, how was it also possible that Naomi had been gone for eleven days? I knew it was true because I had watched the clock hands crawl around the hours; I'd watched the phone as if watching would make it ring. I had taken her picture everywhere I'd said I would, and to more places besides—­newsstands, post offices, the library, and the emergency room—­and doing those things had helped blot up time. I had walked around the streets at night and sat by the docks staring into the black water. I had talked to Nikita and Shan and James. I'd ignored the journalists who still lined up outside to speak to me or phoned the house several times a day. And in between I'd simply stood, as I stood now, because sitting down was wrong, too comfortable. Today at work there were moments when I forgot, but I had been almost undone by the neat fingertips of a child holding tight to the desk edge.

If we could lose our child, any disaster was possible.

There was a little crack and I felt liquid in my hands and the sharpness of broken glass. The phone rang. I jammed it between my ear and my shoulder while I rinsed my hand in the sink, shards of glass and blood swirling down the drain. It was Michael to tell me that they had interviewed all the club owners in Bristol but nothing had come of it so far. He would come around tomorrow.

As I was wrapping my hand in a dish towel, I heard Ed come home. I stood at the bottom of the stairs, listening to him climb to his room and bang his door shut. It opened again, and I sat down on the bottom step and heard his feet come slowly down the stairs toward me until they were next to me. I stood up and saw that there were lines under his eyes that looked like red bars, his hair was dishevelled, and there were stains on his school tie. The shirt sleeves hung unbuttoned over his thin wrists. He had clearly lost weight, though I hadn't seen it before; how could I have missed something so obvious?

“You're back early.”

He took no notice of that. “Have you been in my room, Mum?”

“But then it's not surprising, is it?” In spite of myself my voice was rising. “As there was no rowing after all.”

“Yeah. Canceled. What about my room?”

It was the lie; if he hadn't lied, I might have been able to wait and see if he told me of his own accord.

“It wasn't canceled. There's no rowing this term. Why have you been lying to us?”

“Jesus.” He flinched as if I had hit him. “Because it's such a big fucking thing with you. Joining in. If I pretended to go, at least you'd give me a bit of space.”

“Space to do what, Ed?”

He looked down and shrugged.

“So you could steal drugs from my bag? What for?”

He stared at me without speaking and his face was paler than I'd ever seen it. His eyes darker and more desperate.

And then I knew. I moved quickly, and before he could twist away I had pushed up the loose sleeves of his shirt. On the inside of his left arm there was a mass of lumpy red scars. Old and fresh scars crisscrossing the antecubital fossa, made from needles inexpertly finding veins.

 

Chapter 25

DORSET, 2011

THIRTEEN MONTHS LATER

A
t the back of the beach the cliffs are unevenly hollowed out where the sea has sculpted the rock into little caves and crevices. In the summer these places are sour with the smell of old urine but winter storms have since sucked them clean. As we crouch down out of the wind between arms of rock, there is only the cold scent of salt water and fresh seaweed. Ted bends to light a cigarette, pulling one from a crumpled blue packet. He turns back to face the sea and sighs. The smoky fragrance of Gitanes instantly conjures forgotten images of twisted sheets, books under the bed, notes tossed on the floor. Making love after lectures. When did he start smoking again? Perhaps Beth smokes, though that doesn't fit my image of her. Perhaps they smoke after sex, as we used to. These thoughts skid alongside the worry for a few seconds and then drown in it.

“So, why didn't you tell me, Ted?” I ask him again.

He pulls on his cigarette, and there is a little pause. “She asked me not to,” he replies simply. “She trusted me.”

“Didn't it occur to you that I should know? You could have told me in secret . . .”

Ted shrugs. “You might have felt you had to take it up with her.”

The cigarette smoke stings my eyes. I turn my face away.

He carries on, “Things are either right or wrong with you. Of course I know you would never have told the police—­”

Before he can say words that will make it my fault, I stand up. The wind catches my hair, and blows it across my eyes. I snatch at the strands and hold them back roughly as the hot fury rises. I hate him at that moment, but I hate myself more. I want to pull out my hair in handfuls to throw away in the wind.

“She wouldn't have thought I'd tell the police. I've never punished her for anything.” My voice is breathless. “I hardly remember Naomi doing anything wrong. She was always good, even when she was little.”

“That's exactly it. How could she disappoint you? All that expectation made it easier simply to lie.”

His words are like a net catching me at every move, cutting in. Everywhere I turn I was wrong. The sea has changed: crashing and hissing. My teeth hurt with the cold of the wind.

“I'm going home now.” As I start to walk my legs feel stiff and move slowly. Ted follows me, cupping his fingers around his cigarette, stumbling a little on the shingle.

“Once she'd gone,” I shout over my shoulder above the noise of the waves, “there was nothing left to lose. Why not tell me then?”

He catches up; leans close as he walks and puts his hand on my shoulder so his words are near my ear.

“You had too much to deal with.” He is wheezing slightly. “Anyway, from then on, I watched the ketamine supply like a hawk. Not one vial ever went missing again.” He stumbles once more, and tightens his hand on my shoulder. We have reached the top of the beach and he stops, holding me there with him.

He says more quietly, “I thought it was a one-­off.”

He stops talking. Three gulls fly swiftly past us, heading inland, taking refuge from a storm that is brewing out at sea where dark rain clouds reach down to the horizon. He clears his throat as we start walking up the little bridle path that leads to the back of the churchyard, our footsteps quieter on mud.

What would I have done if I'd known at that stage? I would have told the police instantly and anyone else who might have helped, but my feet stop as I remember back to the headlines in every tabloid newspaper: “Doctor's Teenage Daughter Missing” they had screamed. The school photo alongside had looked grainy in newsprint. Some of the papers used an old one of Naomi receiving a trophy after a swimming race. In her tight swimsuit she was all legs, her small breasts pushed together; she was fourteen at the time the photo had been taken, but pictures of a near-­naked girl sold papers. If the media had got hold of the ketamine story, the headlines would have been more sensational: “Doctor's Druggie Teenage Daughter Missing.” She would have felt betrayed; she wouldn't have come back even if she could. Then again, if the police had known about the ketamine, they might have found her by now.

I begin to walk quickly, as if by moving fast I can catch up with lost time. Ted's hand slides off my shoulder. We are now alongside the churchyard, where the path is dark and slippery with overhanging yew branches dipping low; in the autumn they drop their tear-­shaped crimson berries and the ground is slimy with their broken flesh. Now the mud is swollen with rain and tiny needles of ice.

We are almost home by the time the rain starts. Mary is feeding her hens. She turns to us as we pass by her gate and we wave to each other, a brief wordless salute. She will understand how sometimes even pretending to smile is too difficult.

As we reach the door, Ted looks at me. His eyes are full of guilt and misery.

“Around the time I found the vials in Naomi's bag, there was a huge amount going on. I was being threatened with legal action for that girl's spinal operation, and I was back and forth to Sweden with the stem cell trials, which weren't going well either. I should have asked her more.”

Inside the house, Bertie comes sleepily to greet us, his wet nose bumping our legs. I bend to him, my hands absorbing the warmth of his solid back, but I can't stand still. I pace around the kitchen, into the sitting room, back again. A window rattles in the freshening wind and the rain patters thinly against the glass. Ted takes off his coat and flicks the kettle on.

I turn to him as he opens the cupboard for mugs.

“What do you mean, you should have asked her more, Ted? What more do you think you could have found out?”

“I could have asked her for more information. She told me it was for friends. I assumed she meant school friends, but it might have been someone else.”

As I absorb that, a new thought strikes me. “What about Ed? Is there a link?”

“His problem was different. Naomi wasn't using drugs like him; she just . . . stole them.”

“So did he.”

Ted pushes a mug of tea across the table to me. “They both stole because they had access, but their reasons were completely different. Bad coincidence.”

In the little pause that follows his words I tell myself that there is no such thing.

“I still think she was telling the truth,” Ted continues, as he sips his tea. “It was just a one-­off, for friends.”

But she had lied so often. “Was Naomi ever with any of her friends in the hospital, or with anyone you didn't know from outside?” I ask. Someone encouraging her, taking the drugs, perhaps slipping her money.

“No. I always kept an eye on her, whether she was in the lab or on the ward. I would have seen.”

“I didn't know she was on the ward as well.”

“Yes, you did.” He looks surprised. “It was your idea for her to do ward rounds with me. She liked the bustle. Sometimes I would find her chatting to patients while she waited for me. I think they took her for a medical student in her lab coat.”

“Did she help with drug rounds?”

“For God's sake.” He knows instantly what I am thinking. “Those drugs are locked away. You have to be a qualified nurse even to push the trolley around. She just used to sit with ­people, make friends.”

“Did she meet her?” A sudden new suspicion flashes in front of me.

“Meet who?”

“Your girlfriend, Beth.”

“She's not my girlfriend now. It's over.” He gets up and stands with his back to me; he looks out of the kitchen window into the garden, where the rain is now falling in dark sheets. “And the answer to your question is no.”

“How d'you know?”

He shrugs. “She was never round when I picked up Naomi. She often worked late shifts.”

Beth would have seen Naomi, though. Curiosity would have compelled her. She might have wondered what it would be like to have a child of Ted's, might have played with the idea that Naomi was hers. The thought takes hold.

“Where's she now?”

“Who?” he asks again.

“For Christ's sake, Ted. Beth. Perhaps it's her all along. She's got Naomi, because she belongs to you and­—­”

“Stop.” He raises himself on tiptoes and lowers again, hands deep in his pockets. He looks calm except for the fact that his hands are clenched so tightly the trousers are stretched over them; I can see the knuckles through the thick cotton.

“You know she was with me the night Naomi disappeared,” he says quietly.

“I know that's what you told me.”

“She was in her flat. She has an excellent alibi.”

Is he talking about himself? He turns and catches my glance.

“Not me, the police.” I can see he is still hiding something. “She called them because someone broke into her flat that night.” He pauses for a fraction. “Then she called me.”

“She called you?” My mind begins to jump down steps to a place I hadn't seen before. “So you weren't there for the first time, making a mistake because you were tired and drunk. You were already lovers. God, I've been even more stupid than I realized.”

“I haven't had a chance to explain anything—­”

How long does it take to tell someone you've lied? Minutes? Months? Years? I put down my mug of tea; it tastes unpleasantly flat. “I already know it carried on after you told me it had ended. I hadn't realized you were lying about when it started as well.”

“How could I tell you with Naomi gone?” He has turned to face me.

I ignore his question; push away the past lies and the future ones. I need to keep focused.

“Beth called the police and then you because her flat had been burglarized.” I speak slowly, working it out for myself. “The police should have made the connection later that Beth's lover was Naomi's father and her flat had been vandalized the night Naomi disappeared. This is important. Why didn't Michael tell me then?”

“He didn't know.” Ted sits again, facing me across the table. “The police didn't find out I was . . . with Beth till later, when I went to tell them at the station. That night I waited, parked farther down the street from her flat, until the police had gone.”

What had he been thinking as he hid there, in the dark street? Was he ashamed? Perhaps he had been thinking about his research or the operation that had gone wrong? No, he must have been thinking about Beth. About sex with Beth later, once the police had left.

“Of course,” I said. “Stupid me again. It had to be secret.”

“I was going to end it . . .”

This isn't the point, I tell myself. None of this is. There's something I'm missing.

“What were you doing when she phoned you?” I start at the beginning again. One thread at a time.

“Getting into the car. I was bloody exhausted that evening.” He shakes his head at the memory. “The court case had just crumbled, and I was wiped out. I was so relieved that the scheduled op wasn't going ahead; all I could think about was coming home. I'd even forgotten whether I had to pick Naomi up or not.”

This has the ring of truth and I believe him.

“Then I got Beth's call. She was distraught and frightened. The flat had been trashed. They had even set fire to the kitchen.”

A faint memory of the scent of burning floats past me, how Ted had stood in the hall thirteen months ago and I had smelled burning on him. I'd thought it was the diathermy he'd used in the operation, then I'd forgotten that instantly in the overarching fear of that night.

“They? More than one, then?”

“The police apparently thought it was a gang of some kind, maybe kids. Even when they knew about my connection with Beth they didn't think it was in any way related to Naomi's disappearance.”

“What did they take?”

“Nothing seemed to have been taken.” Ted shrugs; he has accepted the strangeness by now. “Her laptop, television, camera, jewelry—­it was all there, jumbled up but there.”

“Doesn't that strike you as odd, the night that Naomi disappeared?” I look at him, but he shakes his head.

“Break-­ins happen all over Bristol every night.” Ted sounds weary.

A thin child with bruises and tiredness. That combination hadn't been a coincidence either, or even child abuse. Jade had had leukemia.

“Did Naomi really never see you and Beth together?” It's getting difficult to sit still; I get up and rinse the cups, turning my hands in the water to warm them.

“No. I just told—­” Then he stops as if a memory catches him. “Actually, now I think back, that's not strictly true. Beth came into my office once, but she saw Naomi and left again. Naomi didn't even register.”

He was wrong. Naomi would have smelled Beth's lavender scent as she came in; she would have lifted her head and might have been puzzled at its familiarity, until she remembered she had smelled it on her father's skin. She would have looked out of Ted's window, the narrow one above the desk with the peacock-­pattern curtains that I sewed years ago. At the same time she would be watching Beth out of the corner of her eye, so she would have caught the tiny glance between Beth and Ted. Naomi would have registered almost instantly.

“I'll need to phone Michael to let him know.”

“Are you still in touch?”

I thought of his warm hands and serious eyes. Touching his mouth with my mouth.

“Yes.” I look down, then away. Why should I tell him about Michael? I owe Ted nothing now. “You'll need to stay and see him, if he agrees to come here.”

“Of course. Look, Jenny . . .”

I do look at him then, and beyond the known shape of him, the new stubble and unfamiliar nicotine stains on his fingers, the longer hair and the reassuring smile, I see a middle-­aged man grown older, tired, and bitter, as if he knows he has made mistakes and wishes he hadn't.

“I meant what I said. It's really over with Beth now.”