Lullaby by Claire Seeber Page B

from side to side. He was breathing without the machines now and his mouth twisted in discomfort. Pain flashed across his face and I wondered where he was, what world he walked. And then suddenly his eyes snapped open. I stepped back in shock.
    I steeled myself. I tried to be the strong person I once was.
    ‘It’s me, Mickey. It’s Jessica,’ I said, and I leant down to him a little, as if he was a child. ‘How’re you feeling?’
    For a moment he just looked at me blankly and I saw nothing behind his eyes. Panic filled my chest, pressed against my lungs. Oh God, I’ve lost my husband too, I thought. We stared at one another and then slowly, very slowly, he brought one scraped hand up to touch my face.
    ‘Jessica,’ he whispered, and I could have sworn I saw a tear glinting in his sore eye. ‘My Jess.’ He took me unawares. ‘I’m so pleased to see you, darling.’
    I swallowed, nervous, stroking his hand while I racked my brain for something sensible to say. His face contorted again, like he was struggling to remember something gone. Then he said, ‘How’s Louis? I can’t wait to see him. Is he here?’
    The bile rose again, burning my damaged throat. What the hell did he mean? I clenched my fists and bit my tongue; I turned from the bed. I fought the impulse to run away. Instead I found a chair, pulled it slowly up to sit beside him. I took a deep breath and then I said it. ‘Louis is missing, Mickey.’ I couldn’tspare him my pain. I couldn’t do it on my own any more.
    ‘Missing?’ He tried to sit up. ‘What do you mean, “missing”?’
    I felt my chest contract again as I stared at him, searching for the words. I knew he needed comfort, but I didn’t know where to find it.
    ‘I mean missing. Gone. Someone—someone’s taken him. Don’t you remember
anything?
’
    He shook his head slowly, and the tear that had been pooling in the corner of his dark, swollen eye finally escaped. I watched with horrified fascination as it tracked down his cheek and hit the scar below, seeped through the neat stitches that puckered there. Then it was lost.
    ‘Louis has been missing for almost—for two days now. He was with you when he disappeared.’
    He looked back up at me blankly.
    ‘You had him.’ My voice was climbing. ‘I lost you both, don’t you remember that at least?’ I was sweating now.
    There was an unearthly pause.
    ‘I think I remember a train,’ he said then, almost hopefully, brow knitted with anxiety; the effort it took tangible.
    ‘Yeah, well, we went to the Tate. To see the Hopper exhibition. I lost you both in the gallery. The next time I saw you, you were here, and Louis—’ I couldn’t bear to say the words again ‘—Louis was missing. I haven’t—no one’s seen him since. Apart from five hundred nutters, apparently.’
    ‘Five hundred nutters?’
    ‘Yeah, five hundred bloody nutters. The nutters phoning the police since the appeal.’ He still looked blank. ‘I can’t believe you can’t remember.’
    ‘The appeal?’
    ‘I’ve been depending on you, Mickey. On you remembering what happened.’
    ‘For pity’s sake, Jessica. I—’
    One of Mickey’s machines began to beep loudly, fighting his words for supremacy. Sister Kwame padded to his side and fiddled with it for a while. Then she took Mickey’s pale hand in her own dark one, circled his wrist.
    ‘And you?’ he whispered, but his eyes couldn’t quite connect with mine. ‘Are you all right?’
    ‘Oh yes, I’m grand,’ I said numbly, ‘to coin your phrase.’
    The nurse spoke softly. ‘His blood pressure’s rocketing. I think he needs some calm, my dear.’
    Calm? If only there was some to give.
    ‘Mickey, I’ve got—I’d better go. You sleep. I’ll see you later.’ I stood up. ‘But please,’ I implored, ‘please, while you’re lying here, you must try to remember. We’ve got to find him quickly. The police are outside. They’re waiting to talk to you. You’ve got to think-don’t you