Page 99 of The One Day You Were My Husband
We drive past a closing service station somewhere in Wiltshire; its lights blink off as we pass. It’s late, and my children and husband have been unaccounted for for more than twenty-four hours.
I force myself to forget about Robin, the man who put Johan in prison; to think instead about my husband, Robin Carghill, aged forty-two. Owner of matching socks, astronomy manuals, secondhand camera lenses. Robin Carghill, daddy to my children, who buys them Roald Dahl books,choc ices, fragments of asteroids. Robin Carghill, my lover, my friend, my cheerleader as I fight my way back up the steep ladder into surgery.
He is a good man. He has to be. Like Johan said, I’d have realized by now if he was a psychopath. I’d have started to notice things; I’d have begun to worry.
Wouldn’t I?
I look out of the window. Stars watch our hire car as it inches toward my home. Is Robin looking at this sky, too? Is he asking for answers, for hope, just like I am?
There’s a brief moment of lightness just past Stonehenge, when we pull over to swap seats. I’ve just vacated the driver’s seat for Johan to have a turn at the wheel, but with the driver’s seat slid forward to accommodate my very short legs, he can’t actually get into the car. He laughs, pushing the seat back to its furthest limit, and although he doesn’t say anything I know he’s remembering the jokes we used to make about our height difference.
I allow myself to smile, to slide into this warm memory. It feels a lot safer than the present moment.
—
The house is empty. There’s a light on in the Pig Shed bathroom—a lot of our guests are discombobulated by the utter blackness of the moor at night—but nothing in our house. Not the usual soft glow of the kids’ night-light, or the porch light we always leave on in case of emergencies when we’ve got Roof guests.
I run upstairs anyway, but the rooms are empty. Our luggage is present and correct, minus the suitcase I took to Sweden, but the kids’ little Trunkis are gone.He wouldn’t take their travel bags if he was planning to harm them, I tell myself, but the silence of this empty house is like a scream. It’s becoming harder to stay rational.
“They’re not here,” I shout to Johan. “I’m calling the police.”
I pick up Maeve’s Squishmallow and as I inhale the smell of my daughter, the panic erupts from my body in a primal howl. Seconds later, Johan is in the room. He holds me, tightly, and I no longer have any idea if this is OK, for him or for me, especially here in my children’s bedroom, but I know also that I need him.
“It’s OK,” he’s saying. “Keep breathing, please, Carrie.”
I can hear his heart pumping fast. I allow myself to put my arms around him, and we stand there for a few seconds, my thoughts hurtling in all directions, until my phone starts ringing.
It’s Mum. She must finally have seen the missed calls. “Carrie? Are you OK? I’m so sorry about your dad.”
“Do you know where the kids are?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Raffy and Maeve. Do you know where they are?”
“No. What’s going on?” she says. Her voice has changed. “Hang on. Hasn’t Robin got them? Have you flown home early?”
“Yes. And nobody’s been at our house since yesterday evening when Robin told our Roof guests some bullshit story about an astronomical event that could never have been happening because there was a storm in Devon and I’m fucking terrified, Mum,where are they? What has he done?”
“Why are you suddenly worried about Robin? Carrie, what’s happening?”
“I have to go, Mum. I have to call the police. I’ll call you back.”
—
My children and their father are missing. I am curled up on the rug in their bedroom with Johan Kullberg sitting next to me and the police are on their way. Sobs churn through me as I repeat, over and over,please don’t hurt them, don’t hurt them, don’t hurt them.
Johan has his arm around me. He’s stopped saying he thinks they’ll be OK. I don’t know if this is because he doesn’t want to belittle my feelings or because he’s beginning to worry himself, but his silence just makes me more frightened.
Once I told her everything, Mum said, “Let me see what I can do”—but she said that to me in Thailand all those years ago and it didn’t come to much. As I’ve come to see over time, Mum is no superhuman. She’s just determined and fearless.
“Tea?” Johan asks. I shake my head. He nods, stroking my back with a warm hand. Then, after a pause, he says, “Teh tarik?”
“No. Actually, yes. Thank you.”
Mum taught him how to make it not long after I introduced them. He must have kept it going ever since.
Johan goes downstairs. “Condensed milk is in the cupboard above the toaster,” I say, but another sob comes out and I don’t repeat myself. I won’t be able to stomach it anyway.
