Free Her by Harriet Lane

bright as mirrors.
    After a few minutes I look at my watch, and then I glance around. I can’t see him.
    I turn my head, checking the paths. A woman jogs past, earphones in, lost in her own secret soundtrack. A man bends down for a stick and throws it for his spaniel.
    I scan the shrubbery, the battered huddled outline of the ornamental walk, the view over to the kitchen garden, and then I turn in the other direction, towards the pond, the boardwalk around it, the disused drinking fountain and the line of empty benches leading to the adventure playground. Two women walk past with pushchairs, chatting and laughing. The sun slides into cloud.
    He’s wearing a bright green anorak and a knitted wasp-striped bobble hat. I search for that acid flare of yellow, and I can’t see it anywhere.
    I pull Cecily out of the swing, ignoring her complaint, the crumple of her face, and I clip her into the buggy. Which way? I come out of the playground, the weighted safety gate knocking my thigh. I turn right, to the pond. ‘Christopher!’ I shout, and then I shout it again, hurrying the buggy along, my eyes on the black water through the iron railings, snarled with leaves and twigs; and, hearing me, two fifty-something women glance up out of their conversation and come towards me.
    ‘He’s nearly three, he’s wearing a green jacket and a yellow striped hat,’ I tell them. ‘His name is Christopher, he was just there, on his scooter,’ and I point, and they say they didn’t see him by the pond, he didn’t come in their direction, they’re fairly sure of that, but they’ll do a quick circuit and they’ll check the adventure playground as they go past. ‘Thank you so much,’ I say, for something to say, and then I’m off again, hurrying in the other direction this time, towards the kitchen garden and the shrubbery.
    It’s dark under the trees, and as I pass, calling for him, heavy fat drops of water slide from the overhanging foliage and fall on me, little detonations on my cheek and hands, spilling through my hair.
    I’m calling for him, and Cecily has stopped crying, maybe it’s the motion of the buggy or maybe she can tell from my voice that something’s wrong.
    A few people hear me shouting and approach, concerned, wanting to help, and then they join the search, but it’s all hopeless, I know it, he’s not here. ‘Thanks, that would be great,’ I say to them, and then I run off, heading uphill to the little café, the terrace deserted, chairs tilted to the tabletops, the windows opaque with breath and steam from the Gaggia, and there’s no sign of him, and I can’t see him on the lawn, and – oh Jesus – he’s not near the fountain either, though it’s a source of endless fascination. I run up to the fountain, and I look in, and then I turn on my heel and bump the buggy down the broad steps, between the broken stone urns, heading downhill again, taking the path that comes out by the compost bins and the lower gate.
    When I reach the road I stand there for a moment, looking up and down, my chest rising and falling, the air scouring my dry throat. The road’s quiet as dusk begins to settle, the jolly lollipop flash of the Belisha beacon starting to assert itself in the fading light. I realise a Fiat Punto has halted to let me cross. I wave it on. ‘Christopher?’ I shout, into the trees, and it’s a pathetic sound, weak and insubstantial, nothing like it feels.
    This isn’t happening.
    I need to call the police?
    ‘There she is.’ A voice behind me. I turn around, electrified by hope. The two women from the pond are hurrying along the path towards me, and a park attendant is with them, a man with a radio, but no child in a green anorak. The park attendant sees the expression on my face and puts the radio to his mouth.
    It has only been five or ten minutes, I realise. It doesn’t sound like much. Anything could happen in five or ten minutes.
    No.
    I describe Christopher to the park keeper, who bends his