Page 63 of Deep Blue Lies
“Yes. I want to know.”
After lunch we drive back to Papadakis’ house, and wait in the kitchen while he rummages in a drawer for an old Covid testing kit. He explains that the same swab used to check for the Covidvirus can be used to take a sample of my DNA, to compare against the hair from the baby.
“Here.” He finds what he’s looking for and hands me the test. For a second it’s weird. There was that time when all these things were so familiar. Now I’d almost forgotten they exist, it’s like a reminder that time moves on, our realities with it. But it only lasts a second.
“May I see the hair sample?”
I give him the envelope and he opens it carefully, then takes it out and inspects it.
“There may be a problem.”
“What?” It’s Maria who answers. He turns to her.
“The hair sample does not contain any remains of the root. Hair fibres only contain mitochondrial DNA, not the nuclear DNA we would usually use to perform a DNA test.”
I feel a wobble of worry. Don’t do this, not now.
“Does that mean we can’t run the test?” I ask.
“No,” – he shakes his head seriously – “not exactly. Mitochondrial DNA can tell us if you and the baby come from the same mother – in this case the murdered girl, Mandy Paul. We cannot say anything about the paternal line. We cannot test if you and this baby share a father, the information will not be there.”
It takes me some time to understand this, because it seems so simple. If the baby is simply me, wouldn’t the test be really easy, to show this? But Sophia gets there quicker.
“But that doesn’t really matter? If Ava is this baby, then obviously they’re both going to show the same mum? And that’s what she wants to know?”
“Yes,” Papadakis nods. He takes the hair sample and slips it into a plastic bag taken from the testing kit. Then he watches while I rub the swab around the inside of my cheek. When I’m done I slide it into the plastic tube and fit the stopper. I hand it over. Papadakis seals the bag with practised ease, and I watch as my name is written neatly across the label.
“When will we know?” Sophia asks.
Papadakis keeps writing as he answers. “A few days,” he says. “I’ll let Maria know.”
He puts the tube down, with the words Ava Whitaker written down the side.
My name. Ava Whitaker. Except, if this test comes back positive, it won’t be my name anymore.
FIFTY-SEVEN
I wake late the next morning, and manage to make it to the bathroom before the anxiety catches me up. The thought of what I’m about to discover is like a shadow that’s following me wherever I go. It carries relief with it, but also a darkness that lurks ever-present in my mind.
When I get to the kitchen there’s a message from Sophia on my phone.
How are you?
I text back, trying not to make too much of it, but saying something about how it’s hard to stop worrying about things. She responds at once.
Meet me at the dive centre. 11.
I look around my little apartment. I don’t have anything else to do.
It’s a beautiful day as I walk down through the town. Every day is beautiful, it seems, here in Alythos. Though it’s not that every day is identical, it’s just that every variation of the weather theisland seems to provide is beautiful, in different ways. Some days there’s a fresh breeze, never enough to make it cold, but which lends the air a supercharged freshness, where the tones of salt and thyme seem to fill you with a sort of fizz. And then there’s days like today, when there isn’t a breath of wind, which have a magical quality, as if the whole universe has reached a state of calm. When I get to the seafront and see the bay is so still it could be a giant mirror, reflecting the sky without a ripple to disrupt the perfection. It’s so gorgeous I have to take my shoes off and walk through the shallows down the beach to the centre. The water’s warmed by the sun, and I see shoals of tiny fish flit away in front of me.
The centre has a relaxed feel. Two of the boats have already gone out, and I can tell they must have been filled with diving clients and their instructors because their shoes and belongings are stacked neatly in the changing area. But Kostas is still there, this time with two children, both boys, maybe seven and ten years old. They’re running around as if they own the place, and I quickly learn they sort of do, since they’re his sons Theo and Alex. When Kostas sees me though he tenses up – or maybe I just sense that. He sends the boys out to the beach to play then retreats to his office.
“Don’t mind him, he’s just old and they tire him out.” Sophia grins as the boys disappear and the centre quietens down. “But I thought you might need a little distracting this morning?”
I think about joking “from what?” but she doesn’t give me the chance.
“And when we’re not busy here, I get to use any of the toys that aren’t needed for the clients. Isn’t that right boss?” She calls the last part into Kostas’ still-open office door. He looks up, says nothing and goes back to his work. Sophia turns back to me.
