Freeing Grace (2 page)

‘I can’t handle this,’ said Cherie. Without warning, as though a switch had been flicked, she seemed to panic. She struggled to stand up. ‘Get her off me, for God’s sake. Get her off me, right now!’

Deftly, Jude lifted the baby. Cherie shuffled her legs over the edge of the bed and staggered, unsteady and distressed, crumpled in her hospital gown.

‘I need a fucking shower . . . I’m filthy, look at me, it’s disgusting, there’s blood everywhere . . . I’m sticking to everything and there’s . . . Oh my God, oh my God, I need to get out of here.’

‘It’s okay, Cherie,’ said Imogen, getting up and laying a hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘Calm down.’

But Cherie would not be calmed.

Jude settled Grace in a clear plastic crib. ‘It’s normal to feel grotty after what you’ve been through. Your body’s in shock. I’ll take you to the bathroom in a wheelchair.’

Wincing, weeping, Cherie stooped to pick up her overnight bag. ‘I can walk,’ she snapped, and hobbled painfully towards the door.

The baby seemed to sense her abandonment. She took several fast, furious breaths, filling her lungs. Then she cried out in a tremulous, lonely wail.

Cherie froze, as though she’d been slapped in the face. She turned, and Imogen saw that her cheeks were washed with tears. For a long moment her eyes rested on the helpless little figure in its plastic box.

Then she met Imogen’s gaze.

‘I need a shower, and a fucking
smoke.
’

Imogen gratefully accepted coffee in the nurses’ room. She didn’t feel like going on to join in the death throes of a wild hens’ night. Not now.

‘So.’ Jude had wheeled Grace’s crib into the room and was writing up her notes while Cherie had a shower. ‘No idea about this baby’s father?’

Imogen grabbed a biscuit from the tin. She felt odd, as though she’d had a glimpse of another universe. She thought it must be hunger.

‘Cherie won’t say. We think she might be protecting the guy because she was underage. She turned sixteen last Novermber and—what’s today?’ Imogen glanced at her watch. ‘First of August, but the baby’s a couple of weeks early. You can do the sums yourself. It’s a close run thing.’

‘Who’s your dad, little one?’ Jude smiled down at the tiny girl who slept, snuffling and solemn, in her plastic crib. ‘Maybe a married man. Wife, kids and a shiny BMW that he cleans on Sundays.’ Her mouth twisted cynically. ‘He won’t want to know.’

After a thoughtful silence, Imogen sighed. ‘I just hope Cherie can get herself together, you know? She’s got the ability, but she’s so erratic— fine one minute, off this planet the next.’

‘Mm.’ Jude nodded, fervently. ‘As we saw.’

‘She’s damaged, poor kid. We all like her, but she’s never known anything but abuse, neglect and a string of care homes. She’s used every substance, messed with every kind of high-risk behaviour. The assessment was quite tentative . . . she might just cope, with a truckload of support.’

‘I can see she’s a handful. But my word, she’s got guts.’ Jude shook her head in admiration. ‘What happens if she fails?’

‘Well . . .’ Imogen looked unhappy. ‘We’ve got a Plan B.’

Jude bent over the sleeping baby, tucking the blanket more tightly around her. ‘Adoption,’ she murmured. ‘Sad.’

When Jude went off to check on Cherie, Imogen leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Staff traipsed in and out, but she barely acknowledged them. She drifted, wondering what the future might hold for Cherie and her baby.

Jude seemed to be gone a long time. When she reappeared, she was in a hurry. Imogen heard the rapid footsteps and looked around as the midwife strode in.

‘Cherie’s gone,’ said Jude flatly.

‘What?’ Imogen leaped up, immediately alert. ‘She can’t have.’

‘Long gone.’

Imogen was thinking fast. ‘How? When?’

‘She told one of the orderlies she was nipping out for a smoke. She didn’t have an overnight bag or anything, just a packet of cigarettes. Janet thought she needed a bit of time to herself. Showed her how to get out. Then she legged it.’

‘She shouldn’t have been allowed out alone.’

Jude’s turned-down mouth made deep valleys in her chin. ‘Cherie may be in care, Imogen, but she’s not in custody.’

‘Okay, okay.’ Imogen half waved an apologetic hand. This was a mess. ‘Are you
sure
she isn’t still outside?’

‘Quite sure. There’s a patient down there, having a smoke, who saw her. Said she seemed heartbroken. She told him she’d just lost her baby. He watched her being picked up by a car.’

‘A car?’ Imogen was aghast. ‘How on earth . . . ?’

‘Crafty young madam must’ve called someone when she went for her shower. I suppose she’s got a mobile phone?’

‘She has.’ Imogen glanced at her watch. One o’clock, give or take. ‘Was it a taxi?’ Perhaps they could trace the driver.

‘Not a taxi. A young maniac, doing handbrake turns and fishtailing all over the car park. Screaming at Cherie out of the window. A black car, the man said. All jazzed up, with a sound system to wake the dead.’

‘Oh God,’ moaned Imogen. ‘That sounds like Darcy Fox. He graduated straight out of the care system and into the criminal courts.’

‘Okay, that’s a start. D’you know where he lives?’ Jude crossed to a telephone. ‘Maybe we could send someone to pick her up.’

‘Darcy?’ Imogen gestured hopelessly. ‘Pillar to post.’

‘We have to get her back.’ Jude stood at the window, scanning the lights of the city. ‘She had a baby about an hour ago. It’s dangerous. She needs care.’

Imogen dialled Cherie’s mobile with fingers that were, unaccountably, shaking. No reply. She tried again. Then she sent a text.

‘We
have
to get her back,’ repeated Jude, urgently.

Imogen called Ellen Bayley, waking her up; she was home, but Cherie was not. She tried the police, who promised to look out for the car. Nobody had Darcy Fox’s latest address. Perhaps he didn’t have one.

The end of Jude’s shift had long passed, but she made no move to leave. The two women stood together at the window, willing Cherie to return, listening out for a stereo to wake the dead.

In her crib, the new baby slept on, oblivious.

Shortly after one am, emergency services were called to an accident at a roundabout on the dual carriageway. A black Vauxhall Corsa had collided head-on with a lorry.

The police arrived first, sirens wailing, swiftly followed by the fire brigade and an ambulance. The Corsa was barely recognisable as a car. Its stereo was silent.

‘Must have been going a hell of a lick,’ remarked a fireman as the ambulance crew jumped out. He gestured through the shattered windscreen. ‘There’s nothing you can do for these two. Just kids.’

‘We’ll have to cut them out,’ said his colleague. ‘What a bloody mess.’ And he strode off to organise the equipment.

The lorry had slewed sideways and was blocking the road. A couple of police officers stood talking to the shaken lorry driver; others were setting up cordons and directing traffic.

The older of the paramedics was a bruiser of a man, almost bald. A gold stud gleamed in one ear. He shook his head resignedly at the carnage and then leaned down to the driver’s door, looking in. Street lighting and shadows swarmed across his face.

‘Hang on,’ he muttered, moving closer. ‘That looks like . . .’

‘What’s up, mate?’ asked his colleague.

The older man didn’t answer. He straightened and ran around to the passenger side, squeezing himself between the lorry and what was left of the car’s bonnet. The interior of the wreck was lit rhythmically by the pulsating lights of emergency vehicles. He eased himself forward, peering through the contorted space that had once been a windscreen.

‘No,’ he said, suddenly. His voice was high and splintered. It sounded almost as though he was in tears. ‘Jesus Christ. No.’

Chapter One

I never asked for any of this.

The day started out pretty routine. You’d never guess my life was about to spin off the track and smash into the barriers. The radio alarm began making a racket, I dragged myself upright with my eyes glued shut, and Friday morning was off to a flying start.

I was brushing my teeth when out of nowhere there was Anna, standing beside me, all blow-dried and high-heeled and little-black-suited. She was watching me in the mirror. I didn’t even have my lenses in yet, and I’d nothing on but a pair of boxers. You feel at a bit of a disadvantage when the world’s all fuzzy and your mouth’s overflowing with white froth. I saw her taking a long, sad look at my reflection, and wished I could fit down the plughole.

‘My clock’s ticking, Jake.’

I didn’t like the sound of that, but I couldn’t reply. Not without spitting first, and that really would have upset her.

She had layers of reddish hair and a pale, wistful face. Sometimes I thought she looked as if she’d stepped out of an elfin kingdom. She drew her eyebrows together as though I was one of her more difficult clients.

‘My biological clock. Also my emotional and financial clocks. In fact, their alarms have gone off.’ She reached across and pulled the toothbrush from my mouth, and I spat into the basin with as much dignity as I could manage, which wasn’t a hell of a lot.

‘Can’t you just press the snooze button?’ I suggested hopefully.

‘I already have, Jake. Several times.’ She rubbed her hand across her eyes. ‘I’ve spent an entire night sitting in the kitchen, thinking. And I need to know, right now. Are you, or are you not, going to show me some commitment?’

I turned off the tap. I was thinking fast.

‘Probably. In the end,’ I mumbled grumpily, like a teenager caught smoking. The fact was, I knew I’d wasted enough of her time.

She smiled miserably. She was wearing a touch of lipstick for the occasion. ‘After four years, we both know you never will. I’m running out of time, and so are you, if you could only face up to it. You’re not immortal, for all your blarney. Your half-time whistle’s blowing, same as mine.’

‘Look, you don’t
want
kids, Anna,’ I protested. ‘You work about eighty hours a week. Where do kids fit in?’

She was a solicitor, a partner in a city firm, and there were weeks when I was lucky to see her before midnight.

She was staring directly at me now, not at my reflection, and her eyes were unnaturally bright. ‘I’m sorry, Jake. I’ve tried and
tried
to discuss this, and it’s got me nowhere. I want to have a family, I’ve never pretended anything else. I hoped we might talk about it last night, on the boat.’

I couldn’t seriously deny it. Trouble had been brewing for months. Over the past year, recession had forced her firm to get rid of staff— people with families and mortgages. Guilt weighed on Anna, made her re-evaluate her life. And finally, yesterday had been her thirty-fifth birthday, and that seemed to have an awful significance for her. I’d thrown money at the problem, got her some pearl earrings and—on the advice of Lucy from work—booked a river cruise for dinner.

It was a sound enough idea, bobbing romantically along the Thames among the ripples and reflections, but it was all a bit of a disaster. Anna was moody and quiet, waiting for me to ask what was the matter. I hate that. Makes me feel guilty. So I didn’t ask. I got canned instead, rolled home and fell asleep with my shoes and socks on.

‘You’ve got another thirty seconds,’ she said now, still watching me.

‘Don’t do this, Anna,’ I said. ‘Please don’t do this.’

It was a long thirty seconds. Finally, with me busily drying my face and looking anywhere but at her, I heard her sigh. It was a long-suffering sort of a sigh, like your mother makes when you’ve forgotten to tidy your room again.

‘Okay. I hoped I’d never have to say this.’ She took a long breath. ‘I want you to go.’

I stopped drying my face. Looked at her.

‘I know you’d carry on as we are for another four years. But I can’t,’ she insisted, blinking fiercely. ‘I have to move on.’

‘When?’ It was a staggeringly feeble response, I know. But it all seemed a bit unreal.

‘I’ll be away for the weekend. That’ll give you enough time, won’t it?’

‘Anna,’ I said, taking a step towards her. ‘Wait.’

‘How much longer should I wait?’ She watched me hesitate. Then she shook her head. ‘It’s no good, is it?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. Funny thing: even when you expect some kind of a showdown—even when you’ve brought it on yourself—it still comes as a bit of a kick in the ribs.

‘Thank you for everything, Jake Kelly. Thanks for all the fun. And . . . everything.’ Slipping one warm hand around my neck, she kissed me on the mouth. I found I’d wrapped my arms around her, and she leaned against me, her face against mine.

‘’Bye,’ she whispered, and I felt her breath graze my ear.

Then she walked out of the bathroom. Her footsteps paused in the hall; I’d like to think she was waiting for me to call her back, but perhaps she was just looking for her keys.

I didn’t call her back. It wouldn’t have been honest.

Eventually I heard the front door slam and her footsteps on the pavement, fading away. It wasn’t a cheerful sound.

‘’Bye,’ I said.

The flat seemed to hold its breath. I sat down on the edge of the bath. I could still smell her scent. By now she’d be halfway to the tube station, stopping to buy a newspaper. She’d be getting wet, rain plastering down her hair, undoing all the blow-drying. I could easily grab some clothes and catch her up, but then I’d have to ask her to marry me.