The Night Ferry

“They’re staying with me. Simon is my new business partner. I told you.”

Could this get any worse? “You must think I’m such an idiot,” I say. “I’m sorry. I mean, I’m not the jealous type, not usually. It’s just that after what happened in Amsterdam, when you didn’t call me and I didn’t call you, I just thought—it’s so stupid—that you’d found someone else who wasn’t so crippled, or troublesome or such hard work. Please don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m looking at that car.”

I follow his gaze. A Volvo Estate is parked near the front gate of No. 85. There is a sunshade on the nearside rear window and what looks like a baby seat.

Dave is giving me a way out. He’s like a chivalrous gentleman spreading his coat over a muddy puddle.

“I should check it out,” I say, opening the car door. “You stay here.”

Dave watches me leave. He knows I’m dodging the issue yet again. I have underestimated him. He’s smarter than I am. Nicer, too.

Crossing the street, I walk along the pavement, pausing at the Volvo and bending as if to tie my shoelaces. The windows are tinted but I can make out small handprints inside the glass and a Garfield sticker on the back window.

I glance across at Dave and make a knocking motion with my fist. He shakes his head. Ignoring the signal, I open the front gate and climb the steps to the house.

I press the buzzer. The front door opens a crack. A girl aged about five regards me very seriously. Her hands are stained with paint and a pink blot has dried on her forehead like a misplaced bindi.

“Hello, what’s your name?”

“Molly.”

“That’s a pretty name.”

“I know.”

“Is your mummy home?”

“She’s upstairs.”

I hear a yell from that direction. “If that’s the boiler man, the boiler is straight down the hall in the kitchen.”

“It’s not the boiler man,” I call back.

“It’s an Indian lady,” says Molly.

Mrs. Gallagher appears at the top of the stairs. In her early forties, she’s wearing a corduroy skirt with a wide belt slung low on her hips.

“I’m sorry to trouble you. My husband and I are moving into the street and I was hoping to ask about local schools and doctors, that sort of thing.”

I can see her mentally deciding what to do. It’s more than natural caution.

“What beautiful curls,” I say, stroking Molly’s hair.

“That’s what everyone says,” the youngster replies.

Why would someone who already has a child buy a baby?

“I’m rather busy at the moment,” says Mrs. Gallagher, brushing back her fringe.

“I understand completely. I’m sorry.” I turn to leave.

“Which place are you buying?” she asks, not wanting to be impolite.

“Oh, we’re not buying. Not yet. We’re renting No. 68.” I point down the street in the direction of a TO LET sign. We’ve moved from North London. My husband has a new job. We’re both working. But we want to start a family soon.”

Mrs. Gallagher is at the bottom of the stairs now. It’s too cold to leave the front door open. She either invites me inside or tells me to go.

“Now’s not the best time,” she says. “Perhaps if I had a phone number I could call you later.”

“Thank you very much.” I fumble for a pen. “Do you have a piece of paper?”

She looks on the radiator shelf. “I’ll get you one.”

Molly waits in the hallway, still holding the door. “Do you want to see one of my paintings?”

“I’d love to.”

“I’ll get one.” She dashes upstairs. Mrs. Gallagher is in the kitchen. She finds an old envelope and returns, looking for Molly.

“She’s gone upstairs to get one of her paintings,” I explain. “A budding artist.”

“She gets more paint on her clothes than on the paper.”

“I have a boyfriend like that.”

“I thought you said you were married.” She fixes me with a stare. There’s steel behind it.

“We’re engaged. We’ve been together so long It feels like we’re married.”

She doesn’t believe me. Molly yells from the top of the stairs.

“Mummy, Jasper is crying.”

“Oh, you have another one.”

Mrs. Gallagher reaches for the door. My foot is faster. My shoulder follows. I have no right to enter. I need a warrant or I need proper cause.

I’m at the bottom of the stairs. Mrs. Gallagher yells at me to get out. She grabs my arm. I shrug it away. Above the noise, behind it, in spite of it, I hear a baby crying.

Taking the stairs two at a time, I follow the sound. The first door I come to is the main bedroom. The second door is Molly’s room. She has set up a painting easel on an old sheet. I try a third door. Brightly colored fish spin slowly above a white cot. Within it, swaddled tightly, a baby is unhappy at creation.

Mrs. Gallagher pushes past me, scooping up the boy. “Get out of my house!”

“Is he yours, Mrs. Gallagher?”

“Yes.”

“Did you give birth to him?”

“Get out! Get out! I’ll call the police.”

“I am the police.”

Wordlessly, she shakes her head from side to side. The baby has gone quiet. Molly is tugging at her skirt.

Suddenly her shoulders sag and she seems to deflate in front of me, folding from the knees and then the waist. Still cradling the baby, refusing to let go, she lands in my arms and I maneuver her to a chair.

“We adopted him,” she whispers. “He’s ours.”

“He was never available for adoption. You know that.”

Mrs. Gallagher shakes her head. I look around the room. Where is she? The girl. My heart skips between beats. Slow then fast.

“There was a baby girl. A twin.”

She looks toward the cot. “He’s the only one.”

Worst case scenarios haunt me now. The baby girl was so small. She struggled to breathe. Please God, let her be safe!

Mrs. Gallagher has found a tissue in the sleeve of her cardigan. She blows her nose and sniffles. “We were told he wasn’t wanted. I swear I didn’t know—not about the missing twins. It wasn’t until I saw the TV news. Then I began to wonder…”

“Who gave him to you?”

“A man brought him.”

“What did he look like?”

“Mid-fifties, short hair—he had an Irish accent.”

“When?”

“The Sunday before last.” She wipes her eyes. “It came as a shock. We weren’t expecting him for another fortnight.”

“Who arranged the adoption?”

“Mr. Shawcroft said a teenage girl was pregnant with twins but couldn’t afford to look after both of them. She