Douglas Kennedy - A Special Relationship

'Please help me here'.

'You have to go'.

'Just a phone number. I'm' -

The word 'desperate' was on my lips, but I couldn't get it out, as I found myself overwhelmed by despair and shock. The housekeeper looked at me with alarm.

'Please', I whispered.

She glanced around nervously, as if somebody could be watching us, then said, 'They went to his office'.

'When?'

'Half-an-hour ago. They had to stop there before they went to the country'.

I touched the top of her hand.

'Thank you'.

I walked quickly back to the cab.

'Can you get me to Wapping now?'

En route, I tried to process the limited information I'd received. The woman was named Dexter. She obviously had money - not just for that big Albert Bridge Road pile, but also for a country place. And the fact that my husband was referred to as Mr Tony meant...

What? That he'd been around and about this house since... ?

After an ex parte hearing in front of Mr Justice Thompson...

I reached for my phone, about to try Tony's mobile again. But then I stopped myself, thinking that if he knew I was on my way to the Chronicle, he'd have a chance to run interference or...

What is he doing? What?

'Get yourself a solicitor, luv. He'll know what to do'.

But I knew no solicitors in London. I really knew no one here. No one at all I could call now and say...

No, this is all too absurd. This is some horrible prank, some fantastical misunderstanding which has ballooned into...

And he was so friendly on the phone when I was back in Boston. Before then, he couldn't have been more considerate when Sandy's ex fell off the mountain. Go darling, go... and here's a better class of air ticket to make your journey more comfortable. Because while you're out of town...

Stop it, stop it - you sound like one of those demented conspiracy theorists.

We approached the Wapping gates. I paid the driver £30 and then approached the security cordon - a place which Tony always referred to as Checkpoint Charlie. But instead of the Stasi on duty, I found myself face-to-face with a uniformed guard at a little visitor's booth.

'Can I help you?' he asked.

'I'm here to see my husband', I said.

'Which paper does he work for?'

'The Chronicle. Tony Hobbs - the Foreign Editor'.

'Oh right, him. And you're his missus?'

I nodded. As he rang a number, he asked me to take a seat. He spoke into the phone, explained who I was, and then heard something from the person on the other end which made him cast a sideways glance at me, as if I was potential trouble. After he hung up, he turned to me and said, 'Someone will be out here in a moment'.

'Someone?' I said, standing up. 'Didn't you speak with my husband?'

'Someone will explain...'

'Explain what?'

'She'll be here shortly' the guard said.

'Who is she?'

The guard looked a little alarmed by my raised voice. But instead of saying anything, he just turned away from me and busied himself with paperwork.

So I sat down in one of the plastic waiting room chairs, clutching myself tightly. A minute or so later, Judith Crandall walked in. She was Tony's secretary - a woman in her late fifties who had been working for the Foreign Desk since she joined the paper thirty years earlier. 'The original Chronicle lifer', as Tony called her (takes one to know one) - and someone who knew where all the bodies were buried. She was also a rabid chain smoker, and had a lit cigarette in hand as she approached me. Her face looked grim, uneasy.

'Hello, Sally', she said.

'What's going on?' I said, my voice loud again.

She sat down in the chair next to mine, and pulled it towards me, so we were huddling together conspiratorially.

'Tony resigned from the paper yesterday', she said.

This took a moment to register.

'You're lying', I said.

She took a deep drag off her cigarette.

'I wish I was'.

'Why?'

'You'll have to ask him'.

'But he's here, isn't he?'

'He was here - until about fifteen minutes ago'.

'You're lying. He's here. With Jack'.

She stubbed out her cigarette and immediately lit up another one.

'I am not lying', she said in a low, conspiratorial whisper. 'He left fifteen minutes ago'.

'With my son?'

'He was on his own. He showed up with his car and cleared his desk. Then he came over to a few of us and said goodbye and left'.

'Did he give you any forwarding address?'

'Albert Bridge Road in Battersea'.

'Same address that was in the court order...'

She said nothing, but looked away - which is when I knew that she was aware of everything that had happened.

'Who's this other woman?' I asked.

'I don't know'.

'You do know', I said.

'He didn't talk about her'.

'Please...'

'I'm serious'.

'Liar', I shouted.

The guard stepped off from behind his desk and approached me.

'I'm going to have to ask you to leave now'.

'Sally', Judith said, taking me by the hand, 'this is doing no good'.

'He took my child. You know that. He's disappeared with my son. And now I'm not leaving. Because I know you're hiding him. I know it!

That last sentence came out as a shriek - causing Judith and the guard to blanch. He recovered quickly, however, and said, 'I'm saying this just once: you leave now of your own accord, or I will be forced to escort you off the premises myself. And if you fight us, I will have no choice but to call the police'.

Judith was about to reach for my hand, but thought better of it.

'Please Sally, don't make him do that'.

'You know everything, don't you?' I said, my voice a near-whisper. 'You know who this Dexter woman is, and how long he's been seeing her, and why he's taken out an order barring me from...'

I started to weep. Judith and the guard backed away. I dropped into the chair, sobbing wildly. The guard was going to make a move towards me, but Judith stopped him, whispering something in his ear. Instead she crouched down beside me and said, 'You need help. Can I call someone for you?'

'Oh, is that what he told you... that I'd gone completely ga-ga and needed help?'

My angry voice prompted the guard to approach me again.

'I'll go', I said.

I stormed out of the security hut without looking back.

I found myself on a road called The Highway, staggering in the direction of Tower Bridge, but not really knowing where I was headed. A high, long wall ran the southern length of The Highway. After around twenty paces, I slumped against it - unable to move any further. Though I was still standing on my feet, I could feel myself plummeting: that same descending swoop I so associated with the initial stages of my postnatal disaster. Only this time, it was accentuated by the realization that my husband had vanished with my son - and had obtained a court order to bar me from seeing him.

Here, finally, was legal confirmation of what the world already knew: I was a disaster as a mother. Here, finally, was proof that I should do everyone a favour and walk the quarter-mile to Tower Bridge, and climb over one of the railings and -

'Ma'am, are you all right?'

It was a constable - walking his beat and finding me slumped against the wall. Looking -

Well, I must have been looking pretty damn desperate for a big city policeman to take notice of a lone woman holding up a wall.

'Ma'am... ?'

'Yeah, fine'.

'You don't sound fine'.

'I'm... uh...'

'Do you know where you are now?'

I nodded.

'Where then, please?'

'London'.

'Yes, but where exactly?'

'Wapping'.

'You're North American?'

I nodded again.

'Visiting London?'

'No - live here'.

'And you don't need help right now?'

'Just... upset... private thing... uh... a taxi'.