The Stranger on the Train by Abbie Taylor Page B

heating in their building hadn’t come on yet. The coldness exaggerated the loneliness and emptiness of the flat.
    A whole night. He’d been gone a whole night. She’d thought she’d known what misery was, but now she knew she hadn’t at all. She’d known nothing, nothing compared to this. Gribbit sat on her knee, his long fuzzy legs brushing off her calves, just at the place where a toddler’s feet might reach. Emma stroked him, over and over, feeling her fingers bump over the dents on his tummy where his stuffing was wearing out.
    How long she sat there for, she had no idea. The buzz of the intercom, belching harshly through the silence of the flat, brought her to. Emma started. Lindsay had said she’d call round today, but surely she hadn’t meant this early? Why would she be here now, unless it was to say they had some news? Oh Jesus! She jumped up, flinging Gribbit off her lap, and hurried to the intercom.
    But it was only Dr. Stanford, her GP. What was she doing here? She didn’t normally make house calls. Emma pressed the button to open the main doors below. Dr. Stanford arrived up in the lift a few minutes later. She had a second person with her: a youngish, frizzy-haired woman in a green top.
    â€œEmma, how are you?” Dr. Stanford floated into the tiny hall of the flat. She was tall, greyhound-thin, with ash-colored hair smoothed back in a bun. She wore her usual uniform of immaculate gray skirt suit and silk blouse with a bow at the collar.
    â€œThis is really awful,” she said. “You must be at your wits’ end. You’ve met Alison Regis, haven’t you?” She indicated the woman in green. “Our health visitor?”
    â€œNo,” Emma said listlessly. She’d met several health visitors after Ritchie was born, but it seemed to be a different one each time.
    â€œI’ve been on maternity leave,” Alison Regis explained. “Today is my first day back.”
    â€œI’ve been away myself,” Dr. Stanford said. “All last week. At a conference in San Diego.”
    â€œSan Diego?” Alison brightened. “Lovely. That’s where I went for my honeymoon.”
    There was a pause. Dr. Stanford cleared her throat.
    She said to Emma: “The police were at the surgery. They asked to see Ritchie’s medical records. I hope you don’t mind. I saw the form you signed, giving permission.”
    â€œThat’s fine.”
    â€œThey asked if I would check on you,” Dr. Stanford went on. “I would have anyway, of course. After your last visit to me, if you remember, I had left an urgent message for Alison here to come and see you. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize at the time that she was still on her maternity leave.”
    For some reason, Dr. Stanford seemed nervous. Her bony fingers shook as she fixed a loose strand of hair. Usually she was very calm, efficient, remote. She’d seen Emma and Ritchie for various ailments; had given Ritchie all his vaccinations, and twice some antibiotics for an ear infection. Emma had worried that the infection wasn’t clearing up properly, but Dr. Stanford was always briskly reassuring. The ten-minute slot didn’t leave much time for chat. The last time Emma had been to the surgery was just over a week ago, and Dr. Stanford had been just the same.
    â€œYou look exhausted, Emma,” Dr. Stanford said now. “Have you managed to get any sleep?”
    Emma’s eyes stung from fatigue, and from the salt of a constant seepage of tears. Her jaw ached; no matter what way she held it, she couldn’t seem to get it into a comfortable position. They’d given her some Valium at the hospital; she’d taken one and it hadn’t worked at all. She wanted nothing more than to sleep, to get away from the panicky, relentless thinking about Ritchie, the horror of what might be happening to him, the helplessness and acid panic of not knowing what