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The wound on my forehead began to itch and I scratched it while I listened to him finish reading the
script:
‘This is a message for whoever might be holding Ben. I would like to reiterate that this is an
unusual situation for all of us, and you might not know what to do next. Our suggestion is that you
speak to someone, tell someone you trust, it might be a friend or a family member, or, as we’ve said, a
solicitor, and ask them to help you get Ben back home safely. Ben’s safety is a priority for all of us.
He needs his family. Thank you.’
Noise erupted.
‘We’ll do a couple of questions,’ Clemo shouted, ‘but one at a time. Hands up.’
He picked a man near the back. ‘Can you explain why no description of what Benedict was
wearing when he was abducted has been issued?’
‘No, I’m afraid I can’t give you any information about that at this time.’
Clemo pointed to a woman who sat in the front row.
‘I’d like to ask Ms Jenner a question,’ she said.
‘I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.’
‘It’s OK,’ I said, foolish me. I leaned forward so that I could hear her.
Her voice rang out, direct and clear. ‘Why are you smiling, how did you injure your head, and how
did it happen that Ben was separated from you in the woods?’
And that was what it took, to make me realise what I’d done and how stupid I’d been. My euphoria
disappeared. It was a fizzled out firework, a limp balloon.
I’d smiled because I’d felt triumphant. I’d felt triumphant because I’d taken the initiative, reached
out to my son, spoken to the abductor as they should be spoken to, without mercy.
Now I saw how stupid I had been. If my euphoria and my misguided sense of conviction had been a
long stretch of golden beach that I’d basked on momentarily, then reality was the turning tide that was
going to swamp it, an unstoppable mass of cold, black water lapping around rocks, shifting shingle
and rising until it engulfed me.
I pushed myself back into my chair until the edges of it dug into my shoulder bones.
‘Don’t answer that,’ Clemo snapped at me, and then Fraser was on her feet and she had to shout to
be heard: ‘This press conference is over. We’ll update you again this afternoon.’
The journalist had one more thing to say: ‘Rachel! Did you know you’ve got blood on your hands?’
Her voice drifted up above the other sounds and activity in the room, as if it were a wayward
feather, caught on a breeze. It captured everyone’s attention. All eyes were on me.
I looked at my hands and there was blood on one of them, greasy red smears like ink, revealing the
contours of my fingerprints on my thumb and first two fingers. With my clean hand I touched the gash
on my forehead. It felt damp. I’d made it bleed when I scratched it.
‘Get me out of here,’ I said to Zhang. I said it under my breath, but I forgot that the microphones
were on and my voice rang out, loud and urgent.
They got me out quickly. Even so, the noise in the room swelled again in a swift crescendo, and by
the time I’d travelled the few paces to the door they were all shouting, a chorus of ‘Rachel, Rachel,
just one more thing, Rachel,’ and they’d got to their feet and were straining towards me.
Zhang propelled me out through the doors. They swung shut behind us and we stood for a moment
in the corridor. I could hear Fraser shouting to try to restore order. I sank to the floor.
‘Not here,’ said Zhang. She gripped my arm by my elbow, pulled me up.
‘I feel sick,’ I said.
The urge to vomit was overpowering, faintness was making my head lurch and spin.