Douglas Kennedy - A Special Relationship

Once I was off the phone, I had to face up to a very large question: what should I do next?

The answer was: Nothing. There was absolutely nothing that I could do right now. Nor did I have anyone to turn to here. Nor did I know the whereabouts of Tony and Jack. Nor -

I suddenly decided to take a gamble that, maybe, the entire country house story was just that - a story. So I called the minicab company, and asked them to send another car around. This time, the driver knew the way. Traffic had marginally lightened, so we made it in just fifteen minutes. Once again, I banged heavily with the big brass knocker. The housekeeper was deeply unhappy to see me.

'I told you, they are not here'.

'I just want to make certain...'

I pushed past her into the house. The housekeeper yelled after me. I went from room to room, shouting my son's name. The house was large with high minimalist decor, good art, sleek modern furniture. I dashed up a flight of steps, and poked my head into a large master bedroom, then headed down a corridor, stopping dead when I saw...

A nursery.

Not just any nursery. The same identikit nursery as the one we had at home. The same wallpaper. The same cot and wardrobe and chest of drawers. The same revolving night light which played a lullaby as it turned. The same colourful mobile suspended above the cot. It was as if his room had been picked up and transposed completely to this house. And it made me realize the extent of the planning that had gone into this operation.

The housekeeper came rushing in, furious, unnerved.

'You leave now, or I call the police'.

'I'm leaving', I said.

I'd asked the driver to wait for me outside.

'I'd like to go back to Putney now'.

Halfway there, however, I realized that I had run off without any cash.

'I need to stop at a cash machine, please', I said.

We pulled up in front of a Nat West machine on West Hill - possibly the ugliest section of road in South London. I fed in my card, hit the numbers, and was greeted with the following message on the screen:

This Account has been closed. Please contact your local branch should you have any further queries.

Instantly I re-fed the card into the machine and pressed the necessary numbers, and once again read:

This Account has been closed. Please contact your local branch should you have any further queries.

Account closed? He couldn't have...

I rifled through my wallet until I found an AMEX card which I held jointly with Tony. I fed it into the machine. I punched in the Pin Number. I read:

Card No Longer Valid.

No, no, no. I saw the driver glance at me with concern. I checked my purse. My net liquid worth was £8.40 - and the round-trip fare was bound to be at least £20. I tried my own account, into which my Boston Post salary used to be paid. It had been largely depleted over the last few months since I was no longer employed by the Post. Whatever remaining funds were left over from the paper's final payout to me had been transferred to our joint account - to help cover the mortgage and also pay for some of the final renovations to the house. But I was still hoping that there might be a little cash left in it - so I punched in the PIN number requesting £200. The screen message read:

Insufficient Funds.

I tried £100. The message read:

Insufficient Funds.

I tried £50. Bingo. Five ten pound notes came sliding out towards me. My new liquid worth was £58.40.

Actually, it was £36.40 by the time I paid off the driver.

Back at the house, I rang the bank. The customer services representative confirmed that the joint account I held with Tony had been closed down two days ago. Ditto our shared VISA card - though the good news was that the outstanding balance of £4882.31 had been paid off. How kind of him.

'What about any outstanding funds in the joint account?' I asked. 'Where did they end up?'

'There were no outstanding funds. On the contrary, there was an overdraft of £2420.18... but it's also been cleared'.

'Let me ask you something: don't you need the written permission of both parties to close down a bank account?'

'But the account was always in Mr Hobbs's name. He just added you as an adjunct signatory ten months ago'.

An adjunct signatory. It said it all.

I tried to reason all this through. Tony quits his job. Jack's nursery is exactly replicated in the house of that Dexter woman. And our bank accounts are both closed, after debts of around £7300 are paid off.

What the hell was going on here?

'Don't you get it?' Sandy said after I called her and horrified her with a detailed account of my London homecoming. 'He's met some rich bitch. And the way he's set the whole thing up makes it pretty damn clear that he wanted you to find out about the whole set-up straight away. I mean, he could have used your own address in the court order. Why didn't he?'

'I don't know'.

'Maybe because he wanted you to know immediately about his new life. I mean, imagine if he had just disappeared with Jack, without letting you have his new address. You'd have the cops on his tail. This way... you know exactly what's happened...'

'But not why it's happened'.

'To hell with why. He's taken Jack. You've got to get him back. But the first thing you've got to do is find a lawyer'.

'I'm waiting for someone to call me back'.

'How are you going to pay for it?'

'Remember the bonds Mom and Dad left each of us?'

'Mine were cashed in long ago'.

'Well, I'm about to do the same. They should be worth around $10,000 now'.

'That's something, I guess'.

'But if I don't have any other income...'

'One thing at a time. Get on to the lawyer. Now'.

'Right', I said, suddenly feeling exhausted.

'More importantly, do you have some friends in town who can look after you?'

'Sure', I lied. 'I've left a couple of messages'.

'Bullshit', she said. And then her voice cracked. 'Jesus, Sally - this is horrible'.

'Yes', I said. 'It is'.

'And I wish I could jump a plane right now...'

'You've got enough to cope with'.

'You won't do anything stupid...'

'Not yet'.

'Now you have me scared'.

'Don't be'.

But the truth was: I had me scared too.

I called back Virginia Ricks at three pm that afternoon. I was connected to her voice mail. I left a message. I called back at five pm. This time, I was connected to her secretary again.

'Like I told you before', she said, 'she's out at court all day'.

'But it is urgent. Genuinely urgent. And I desperately need...'

I broke off, covered the mouthpiece with my hand, and started to sob. When I was finally able to speak again, I discovered that the line was dead.

I called back. Now I found myself on voice mail again.

'It is absolutely imperative that you get Ms Ricks to call me back as soon as possible'.

But I received no further calls for the rest of the day. Or night. Except for Sandy who rang at six pm London time and then again at ten pm to check up on me.

'No news at all?' she asked.

'I've been waiting by the phone all night. For what, I don't know'.

'You did try Tony's cell phone again?'

'Only about five more times. It's locked on to voice mail. Which means it's pointless continuing. He's screening all his calls'.

'But you'll still keep trying?'

'What other option do I have?'

'You should go to sleep'.

'It's an idea, yeah'.

I took two sleeping tablets with my end-of-the-day dose of anti-depressants. Around three that morning, I jerked awake - and the silence of the house seemed cavernous. I walked into the empty nursery. I could hear the voice of Ellen Cartwright - the hospital therapist - telling me over and over again, It's not your fault... it's not your fault.