The Good Mother (14 page)
Authors: A. L. Bird
This is the longest we’ve ever been apart. The school ski trip was the other time. I didn’t want her to go; I had horrific premonitions of her careening off a slope into a snowy abyss, or ploughing into a set of trees, limbs and skull smashed. Or just forming an illicit Alpine liaison and coming home too delicate to ski for nine months. That delicious fear reserved to parents.
But of course you were fine. More than fine. You were glorious. The pictures showed me that. My gorgeous, confident, blonde one. Much cooler than I ever was.
That was nine days. And I don’t even know how long this is. Plainly, counting is not what I’m best at. If I’d been any good at that, we wouldn’t have botched the escape attempt.
If we botched it.
And why should I be apart from you? Why shouldn’t we be always together? You were part of me for, oh, much longer than nine months. Even after you were born, I couldn’t tell us apart. In those exhausting nights early on, when I caught a rare moment of sleep, I would awake thinking I was you. I thought my hands were your hands; I adopted your foetal position; I felt so small. And you, you cried out to be in me again. No Moses basket placated you. Your father didn’t understand. He just moaned that you couldn’t be put down. (Did he want, all along, to ‘put you down’, like an inconvenient pet? Is this all somehow his doing? Was leaving, agreeing to leave, whatever, not enough?) But I knew. I knew because I felt it too. We are one and the same. Which is why you must be able to hear me thinking, mustn’t you? When you looked up smiling from my breast, I knew you could read my thoughts, my love for you. And, ever since, all these fifteen years, you’ve known, I’m sure. How much I love you.
How much I’ve failed you.
Because I have, haven’t I?
I’ve failed you.
I let you become a separate person. I let you leave the house. I let you talk to people I hadn’t vetted. I let you get here. I should have kept you at home, wrapped in cotton wool, too precious to leave. I as good as brought you here by my neglect.
And I made a plan that put you at risk. We could have waited. We could have waited for a rescue.
I’m to blame. I’m to blame for all of this.
I just thought, somehow, everything would be OK. Against the odds we’d get through this, together. That we were unbreakable. And we’d go home to Paul and be happy, for ever, the three of us.
I realise I’ve been staring at the grate, willing a letter to come. But why would it come?
Either you’ll be there, bleeding, cursing me (and you won’t write).
Or you’ll be free. Free. Praise the Lord, thank you thank you thank you. But you won’t come back to me. You’ll run as far as you can.
Or you’ll be …
No. Don’t think it.
So I mustn’t wallow. Unbearable, horrible, horrible though this is, I must—
But what? What’s that?
It is, isn’t it?
It’s a letter.
Through the grate.
You’re there!
Quick, quick! Tear apart the pages. Kiss them. Cara, Cara, Cara, my darling! What do you have to say?
Mum,
It didn’t work. Let’s just leave it at that, OK?
I know you will have been wondering what happened. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t write. I just couldn’t. I’m sorry. I just wanted to be alone. After … Well, after what happened. I love you, Mum. I love you. The only thing keeping me going is knowing, as I sit here shivering after … well, after we failed … was knowing you were so close. I wanted more than anything for you to hug me, like you used to when I was small. I’ve been going to that happy place, I think from when I was about eight, I remember sitting on your knee on that old brown sofa, after I’d fallen over or something while you wiped away my tears, put on a plaster and made everything better.
Some things run too deep for a plaster though, don’t they? So please, pretty please, let’s just not talk about it. It’s in a box. I’ve shut the lid. Maybe, later, we can talk about it. But I’m not writing about it. I tried. There’s another draft of this letter, all scrumpled up in a ball. I couldn’t finish it. I cried too much. I needed your hug too much.
So. We still need to get out of here. Which means a new plan. How’s your skipping girl coming on? Because if she hasn’t seen your sign, we need to use that other plan.
The killing plan.
Cara xx
She’s alive! Oh my Cara! Alive, well, happy …
No. Perhaps not happy. Or even well. But alive! And next door to me again. She never left me really. She was always there.
But oh, how have I made her suffer? Look at that letter, read the gaps between every word again. What has he done to her? I notice my fist clench round the letter, crumpling the paper. I smooth it out. I mustn’t let the Captor or my anger at him destroy anything belonging to Cara ever again. Because what must she have gone through? And what wouldn’t I have given to be there, on the other side of that wall, with her, giving her the hugs she needs.
The blood, then, might still have been hers. What kind of a parent am I to allow that to happen to her? I should never ever have let her play any part in that plan. It was all my fault. Saved from the crumpling, the letter now faces the onslaught of my tears. The paper could dissolve in front of me. Cara washed away by grief.
Stop it, Susan. She is next door. She is alive. Don’t waste your tears. Be a mother to her, don’t wallow in your own darkness.
And it’s clear what being a mother to her now means.
It means killing.
Unless …
I climb onto the armchair and look out of the window. No little girl. No skipping. No clue that she has seen or acted upon the sign.
I can’t hold out hope for that. We need to go the death route. Cara’s asked for it, so I have to give it to her.
I don’t mind. Of course I don’t mind. Just conjuring up the Captor’s face creates a hatred so strong in me that bile rises in my throat. He has driven us to this. The only question is how. How do we do it safely (for us)? The plan mustn’t fail again. I must do better than that for Cara.
We’ll need a weapon, of course. There’s always the pencils. I could take him by surprise; hide behind the door when he comes in. Then slam! Into his jugular with the broken wood. Watch the blood seep out, then step over his body to the outside world. But I’d have to be strong. Stronger even than him. Because it requires quite some jabbing, a pencil, I’d imagine. I prod my finger with the graphite. Nothing. Not even a grey mark on my finger. It might be better with the broken wood. I snap the pencil in two. Or, at least, I try to. It’s harder than it should be. I try again. If I can’t even snap the pencil, how do I shove it hard enough into the Captor’s throat to kill him? Come on. Put some strength into it. Some fire, some passion, some we-need-to-get-out-of-here energy.
Snap! The wood splits neatly down the middle and I’m left with two half pencils. I run a finger over the ends of each. Not nearly jagged enough. I would have been better with just the point. But that’s blunted from writing to Cara, and her pencil will be blunt too.
Something else then. What? If only I’d been able to keep that shard of glass from the mirror. That would do the trick. Could I get another one? Will he have replaced the mirror? Could I somehow distract him, smash it, then … no. This is the first plan all over again. I need something new. Something more unexpected.
I won’t be able to do it with my bare hands. That’s for sure. He’d knock me flat then probably kill me. Then Cara.
Cara. I need to write back to her. I need to let her know I agree, that I’m here for her, that I’ll do what she says. Think of her, my poor darling, sitting in the next room, wondering if I’ve got her letter, wondering if I hate her for refusing to share or plotting to kill. How we end the Captor is a detail. What is more important is that we will, and that Cara knows this. Besides, she may have some ideas.
I take up what remains of my pencil.
Darling Cara,
Darling, darling Cara.
I’m so sorry. It’s my fault; I should never have let you do this. I will not push you to tell me what happened. You’re a big girl now. I respect your privacy. But if you ever want to tell me, you can. And if not, I will pay for the best counselling we can get for you. When we get out of here. Because we will, we will get out of here.
Of course I’ll kill for you. Consider it done. I don’t know how; I’ve never killed a man before. Any thoughts welcome. I don’t think stabbing him with a pencil will work.
Anyway, we’ll think about it. And we’ll work something out. I just wanted you to know that I love you, and I’m here for you, even if I can’t sit you on my knee and cuddle you like I used to. How I wish I could.
Mum xx
Just pick her up and cuddle her. Craving her breath on your cheek. Your little girl.
She probably will need counselling, won’t she? I’ve probably got a permanently damaged daughter. Something I can’t cure with cupcakes (although, no doubt, I will try). We’ll probably both need counselling, once I’ve killed him. It has to be me. She can’t do it. I won’t put her in that position again.
I look round the room. There’s nothing I can use. Potpourri has never killed anyone, to my knowledge, and the bowl it’s in is plastic. The sheets, for strangulation? Possible. But I’d have to make some kind of crazy slip-knot lasso. Plan C, or X, maybe. Pillow, for suffocation. But how would I get him in a position where … Oh. Well. That’s possible, I suppose. Plan Z, perhaps.
There must be something, there must be—
The key turns in the lock. The Captor sticks his head round the door. His eyes seem softer than they did earlier. Maybe he’s got over being called a child murderer. Or his disappointment at not being one. I don’t know. I don’t know anything about him except his vileness.
‘I thought you might want some coffee,’ he says, holding out a mug.
And bingo. There we have it. The mug is ceramic.
Smashable ceramic.
As I take the mug from him our hands touch.
There’s a frisson, like an electric shock in my spine. I jerk my hand back. The mug slips from our grasp, towards the floor. His hand darts out to catch it. Good reflexes.
‘Careful,’ he says. ‘You don’t want coffee spilling everywhere!’
He looks at me like that is supposed to mean something.
‘Sorry,’ I say.
We try again. I take the mug. I’m careful to avoid touching his hand. I don’t understand that frisson. It was like a physical connection, as if …
As if nothing. Excitement, that’s all. Excitement that he’s handing me the tool for his own death.
I expect him to go again, to leave me to drink it in peace, but he lingers at the doorway.
‘Go on, then,’ he says. ‘Drink up.’
I look down into the mug. It will contain some drug, some doping agent, I know it will.
‘I’ll save it for later,’ I say. ‘I like my coffee cold.’
He raises an eyebrow at me. He doesn’t go away. Instead, he leans against the door frame.
‘I’ll wait,’ he says.
So. There must definitely be something in the coffee. Otherwise, why so adamant? And if he stays, he’ll take the cup back with him too, won’t he?
Maybe I can placate him. Maybe I can drink half now, pretend I’ll drink the other half later.
I take a sip. It’s hot and sweet. Is there an undertone of something else? Something noxious? Something that will see me wake up tomorrow morning, sore, in tangled sheets?
‘It’s too hot,’ I try again.
He shrugs. ‘As I said, I’ll wait.’
Damn. I take another sip. It tastes good. It would taste better with a cupcake. I have a sudden yearning for that melting of buttercream in my mouth, the breaking away of moist yellow crumbs, the satisfying licking of the blue and red patterned cake liner. I think of the ‘hundreds and thousands’ or brown and white crumbled Oreos, or little silver balls I could put on top. Running my hands through them beforehand in their little jars, feeling their texture in my fingers. Smelling the sweet luxuriousness of the sugar. Or perhaps the citrus scent of some candied orange peel.
I realise my eyes are shut. I open them to the stale beige room. And the empty whiteness of the mug.
I’ve drunk all the coffee.
‘Finished?’ he asks.
‘There are still some dregs,’ I lie. I clutch the mug to me, like I’m enjoying its warmth. Which I am. But that’s not the point.
He doesn’t inspect the mug. He inspects me, though. He looks me up and down. Like he’s trying to sense something. Some change. Some sudden bedability. Extra vulnerability.
I keep my poker face. Or at least, I think I do. But maybe I’ve betrayed something. Because there’s a slight upward turn of his mouth.
‘Sleep well,’ he says. Which is odd. Because it’s not night (I don’t think). And caffeine isn’t renowned for its sleep inducing properties.
But, of course, that wasn’t just coffee. My soppy reverie about the world of senses outside this room has done for me; whatever was in that drink, I’m going to succumb. Let’s just hope I’m not going to sleep like the dead. That my potential murder weapon contained a murderous brew. Why, though, would someone like him waste that brutal strength, by drugging me to death? No. There must be something else. Something I’ll find out to my cost.
I feel a chill spread over me. I want him gone. I feign a yawn. He smiles again, then he leaves. I’m alone. Alone with whatever now awaits me. But at least I have the mug.
The other side of the door
I hope it works, this stuff. It’s new. A new contingent, anyway. I’ve upped the dosage a bit. Not overdosed. That would be dangerous. And that’s not what I want. I want her to be safe, well, happy. With me. It was a bit brazen, I know, with the coffee. Even though the act itself – imagine it almost spilling, the surreal romance of that! – might trigger some recollection. I have no choice but to be brazen now. I might be running out of time. Because of him. And then where would all my plans be? He keeps telling me what he needs. ‘I need this from you, otherwise the next knock at the door will be the police.’ ‘Think of the money as a reverse ransom, mate.’ ‘I’m going to need you to give me everything.’