The cab pulled up to the house and I halted, spotting my vanished wife in the upstairs window.
Enough! I snapped, flinging the photograph onto the table. My voice quivered. Its been a year and a half, Emma. She wont come back.
Inspector Margaret Hughes, the local constable, lifted the picture gently and slipped it back into her folder. Were closing the case, Mr. Whitaker, she said. By law enough time has passed to declare Mabel Whitford missing.
My wife is dead, then, I said bitterly.
I didnt say that, she replied softly. We just need to finish the paperwork. Please sign here.
I took the pen, stared at the document for a few seconds, then signed with a sweeping flourish.
Is that all? Will you leave me alone now?
Mr. Whitaker, Margaret sighed, I understand how you feel. Believe me, weve done everything we can.
I know, I whispered, rubbing my eyes. Sorry. Every time you bring that file, it drags everything up againsleeplessness, thoughts, memories
I understand, she nodded. But if anything else comes to mind that might help
For a year and a half I have replayed every day, every hour before she vanished, I said, shaking my head. Nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary. A normal morning, a usual breakfast. See you tonight, love. And then she was gone, somewhere between home and work.
Margaret gathered the papers and stood.
In my experience some people do return after three or five years, she said.
Have you ever had a case where a wife simply left for another man without a word? I asked sharply.
She fell silent, then nodded. Yes, but they usually leave a note.
When the constables door closed behind her, I sank into a chair and shut my eyes. A year and a half had passed since Mabel walked out and never returned. No call, no message. Her phone had been switched off, her debit cards untouched. It was as if she had melted into the earth.
I had tried everythingpolice inquiries, private detectives, newspaper ads, online posts. Nothing. No one had seen her, no one knew anything.
The first months were the hardest. Endless questioningof course, I was always the prime suspectsearches, false hopes. Then came the numbness, a dull ache in my chest, and a flood of unanswered questions.
Why? How had I missed it? Was she unhappy? Had she met someone else? Had something terrible happened? Could she be alive but unable to contact me? I forced myself not to think about it.
A sudden ring snapped me from my dark thoughts. The caller ID showed the local cab firm.
Hello, Whitaker? The dispatcher, Tamara, sounded tired. Can you start early tomorrow? Mr. Palmer is under pressure and weve got orders coming in fast.
Yes, of course, I said, rubbing my bridge of the nose. What time?
At six, if you can. First run to the airport.
Will do.
I had taken the cab drivers seat three months after Mabel disappeared. I had lost my job as a civil engineermy superiors were patient at first, but endless unpaid leave and sick days eventually wore them out. I could no longer concentrate on calculations or blueprints.
Steering a vehicle, however, suited me. It required attention but not intense concentration, and there were no emotional tiespassengers came and went, conversations flickered, stories passed like clouds. One day you ferry them, the next day someone else takes the wheel. The only responsibility was to get people from point A to point B.
Mornings began as alwaysup at five, a cold shower, a strong cup of tea. I stared at my reflection: a wan face, a touch of grey at the temples, lines that werent there a year and a half ago. Forty-two, yet I felt fifty.
The first client waited by the entrancea stout man with two suitcases, nervous and chatty. He rattled on the whole way to Heathrow about a business trip to Bristol, a mother-in-law who nagged his wife, and a boss who was a tyrant. I nodded, gave occasional affirmations, but my mind drifted elsewhere.
The day passed in the usual rhythmtrain stations, shopping centre, office park, back to a station. By evening fatigue set in, but the dispatcher asked for one more run.
Whitaker, could you do River Road to Green Estate? Thats the last job for tonight, the passenger is waiting.
Alright, I sighed, checking the address on the satnav.
The passenger turned out to be a young mother with a small child, a boy about three or four, who refused to sit in the car.
Mike, please, she coaxed. Well be home soon, Daddys waiting.
I dont want to go home! the boy shouted. I want to see Grandma!
Well go to Grandma on Saturday, I promise. For now we need to get home.
I waited patiently as they settled. The ride was destined to be long; the child whined, the mother looked exhausted.
Sorry, she said once she finally sat in the back. Its been a hard day.
No problem, I replied, turning on the meter. Green Estate, Lime Street, number 17, right?
Yes, thats it.
The journey took longer than expectedan accident in the city centre caused a traffic jam that held us for nearly an hour. The boy eventually fell asleep in his mothers arms. She stared out the window, silent. I put on a soft tune, careful not to wake him.
When the jam finally cleared, dusk had settled, a light rain fell, and puddles dotted the road. I drove with a growing headache, focusing on the road rather than the ache.
Green Estate lay on the outskirtsa mix of new flats and highrise blocks, still halfempty. I rarely visited such places; the faceless concrete never appealed to me.
Right here, the woman said as we turned into the courtyard. Third entrance, please.
I obeyed, stopped at the specified doora plain seventeenstorey block, unremarkable.
Weve arrived, I said, switching off the engine. Thatll be £420.
She handed me a £500 note. Keep the change. Thanks for your patience.
Thank you, I smiled. May I help with the child?
I opened the rear door, and she gently handed me the sleeping boy before stepping out herself. I cradled him while she paid and gathered her bags.
Ill take him, she said.
Are you sure? Maybe I should drop him at the flat?
No, thank you, well manage. My husband will be home.
I placed the boy back in the boot, watched her disappear into the building, and lingered in the car as the rain drummed on the roof. The light in one of the thirdfloor windows caught my eye.
Through the glow I saw a silhouettefamiliar, the shape of a woman, hair tucked behind her ear. My heart skipped, then hammered. I recognized the profile, the way she tucked a strand behind her ear. It was Mabel.
I could not recall how I had left the car, crossed the courtyard, or entered the stairwell. I felt as though I were moving through fog, hearing faint voices, sensing eyes upon me. All that mattered was the third floor, the flat that faced that side of the block.
The lift was out of order, so I bolted up the stairs, leaping over steps. At the third landing I paused, breathless, faced with four doors. I remembered the layout: counting from the left, the second door was the one. I approached, pressed the buzzer with a trembling finger.
A long, painful pause, then footsteps. The lock clicked, the door swung open.
A man in his forties, in leisure trousers and a Tshirt, stood in the doorway.
What? he asked, baffled.
I opened my mouth, but the words failed me. Where is
Who are you looking for? the man asked, eyebrows knitting.
Im searching for my wife, Mabel Whitford, I managed, voice shaking.
His expression shifted from surprise to wariness. Theres no Mabel Whitford here, he said. Youve got the wrong address.
He began to shut the door, but I grasped the handle.
Wait! I saw her just now, in the window. Im not mad, I swear. Shes my wifeshe disappeared a year and a half ago.
The man hesitated, then the door opened wider. Behind him stood a woman, the very passenger I had just dropped off, holding the sleeping child.
Whats happening, Sam? she asked.
This man says hes looking for a Mabel, the husband replied.
The womans eyes widened. Youre the cab driver who took us here? she asked.
Yes, I said, stubborn. Mabel Whitford. About your height, dark hair to the shoulders, a mole above the right eyebrow.
The couple exchanged a glance. Something in their looks made me uneasy.
Theres no Mabel here, the husband said. Only me, my wife, and our son.
And Gwendoline, the woman added quietly.
Who? I prompted.
My mother, she said. Shes been living with us for the past year.
May I speak with her? I asked, desperation creeping in.
No, he answered. Shes ill, and theres no point. Besides, we have no reason to give you a look.
The woman placed a hand on his shoulder. Sam, let him at least have a look. What do we lose?
Sam frowned. Shes not stable, and this could upset her.
Please, I pleaded. Ive not known a day since she vanished. Let me see her, even for a minute. If shes not her, Ill leave and bother you no more.
After a long silence, Sam nodded reluctantly. Fine, one minute. If it isnt her, you go.
They led me to a modest hallway. The womanEmmatook the child to another room, and Sam gestured me forward. We passed the sitting room and stopped before a closed door.
Stay here, Sam said. Ill alert her first.
He knocked gently, then entered without waiting for a reply, closing the door behind him. From within I heard muffled voices, indistinct.
Finally the door opened. Sam emerged, face tense. You may go in, but dont disturb her.
I stepped into a small bedroom, neatly made, with a bedside table, a dresser, and a chair by the window. A woman sat in the chair, looking out at the drizzle. She turned as I entered, and my heart stopped.
Mabel. Slightly thinner, hair cut shorter than I remembered, yet the mole above her right eyebrow was unmistakable, as was the faint scar on her chin from a childhood bicycle fall.
Mabel, I whispered.
She stared at me, expression blank, not recognizing me.
Im sorry, she said gently. You have me confused with someone else. My name is Gwendoline.
Her voice was familiar, yet the tone was foreign.
Mabel, its me, Nick, I said, taking a step forward. Your husband.
She frowned, a flicker of unease crossing her eyes.
Sam? she asked. Whos this?
Sam appeared at the doorway, placing a hand on my shoulder. Its best you leave, old man. Youre unsettling my motherinlaw.
Motherinlaw? I echoed, bewildered. What are you talking about? Shes my wife!
The womanGwendolinelooked at me with a mixture of fear and confusion.
Sir, I dont know you, she said. My name is Gwendoline Hughes. Im Emmas mother.
My wifes name is Mabel Whitford, I insisted. She has a mole above the right eyebrow, a scar on her chin, she loves strawberry icecream and cant stand the smell of chrysanthemums.
She touched her chin, as if checking for the scar.
Emma entered, now without the child. Whats happening here? she demanded.
The man here says Im looking for my wife, Sam said, his voice tight. She vanished, and I finally found her.
Emmas eyes widened. Youre the cab driver who brought us here? she asked.
Yes, I said, voice cracking. Mabel Whitford. We were married eight years, lived on Sadler Street, I work as an engineer, weve been trying for a child.
A brief shadow crossed her face, as if memory tried to surface, then vanished.
Im sorry, Gwendoline replied. Im not Mabel. Im Gwendoline Hughes. Im Emmas mother.
No, I said, shaking my head. Youre Mabel. You have the mole, the scar, youre afraid of heights, you love strawberry icecream, you cant stand chrysanthemums.
She shivered, hand moving to her chin.
Emma, looking horrified, stepped forward. Youre saying youve been living with us for a year, calling yourself my mother, and youre actually my husbands missing wife?
Sam intervened, his grip on my arm firm. We saved her when she was found unconscious on the banks of the Thames, near the North Bridge. Shed lost her memory. No ID, no fingerprints in any system. The police couldnt match her.
Did I report her missing? I asked, suddenly remembering the frantic call Id made on the day she disappeared.
You must have, Sam replied. But the paperwork never got through, or the description didnt match. We took her in after the hospital released her, thinking she needed a home.
Emma nodded. My mother died a year ago. When we found this woman, we thought it was a sign, that we should look after her.
Anger rose in me, sharp as a blade. You stole my wife, gave her a new name, a new life!
We gave her shelter, Sam said. When no one else would.
Ive been searching every single day, I shouted. Every minute of the past year and a half!
Gwendolines face went ashen. The bridge snow, cold.
A heavy silence fell. Emma whispered, Mum?
The bridge, Gwendoline murmured. White car, a rough man
I pressed forward. You were on a bus that morning, as usual. What happened next?
She stared out the window, eyes unfocused. He grabbed me pushed me into a car. I screamed, but nobody helped.
Who? I asked, voice hoarse.
She shook her head, trying to banish the nightmare. I dont remember. I dont want to think about it.
Emma moved closer, hugging her mother. Its alright, Mum. Youre safe now.
I need to know, I said, Are you really my wife?
A flicker of recognition sparked in Gwendolines eyes, brief as lightning. She reached out, touching my cheek. I I feel something familiar, she whispered.
Ill give you time, I said, softer now. Lets get to know each other again. If you decide you belong with me, well sort everything out. If not, Ill step back.
Sam nodded. Shell need time. Shes lived a year with us. It wont be easy to untangle.
I agreed. I wont involve the police now, as long as you dont hinder our meetings.
Gwendoline managed a small smile. Id like to try to know you again.
The thought that after a year and a half of hopeless searching I might finally have my wife, even if shrouded in a new identity, warmed me like a sunrise after a long night. I promised to wait, however long it took.
Leaving the flat, I glanced back at the thirdfloor window. She stood in the doorway, arms wrapped around herself as if cold. The rain had stopped, and stars began to pierce the evening sky. I took a deep breath of the damp air and felt, for the first time in ages, that I could truly breathe.
She was alive. She had been found. The restnames, paperwork, the tangled pastcould be sorted later, in time, together.
I climbed back into my cab, gave the window one last lingering look, and raised my hand in farewell. She seemed to wave back.
Tomorrow would be a new day, a new life, a new courting of an old love.
First, I would call Inspector Margaret Hughes and ask her notHe lifted the receiver, dialed Margaret Hughes, and calmly urged her to keep the case open, for hope still lingered in his heart.
