The Good Mother (5 page)

I’ve still got some little tokens of that life. Suze’s phone. She had it on her, when I locked her in. I confiscated it when she was sleeping. Switched off, of course. Good luck contacting her, anyone. And I have Cara’s cherished instrument. She had it with her when she got in the car. Must just recently have had her lips against this very hole that I now lay my mouth on. Must have fingered its length to make her own melodious sound. Like I saw her do before. Oh yes. I’ve been there, to the school concert hall. I’ve stood at the back, in the dark, watching her. They stop monitoring the doors once all the parents have sat down and the lights have dimmed. Anyone could walk in.

I should take this to Cara’s room. How I’d love to see her play, my own private performance. But I can hardly make her do that. I’m not deluded. Cara’s not going to do anything to my bidding, any more than Suze is (yet). And it’s Suze I’ve got to work on. Suze that holds the key to our happiness.

I get up and close the curtains. There’s no room in the mirror picture for intruders. I can’t risk answering the door and, if I’m clearly visible, there’s no excuse not to. I’ve been out; that’s enough. No reason to let them indoors wander free. I’ll choose what from this house goes into the world. And what comes in.

Chapter 9

Dearest Cara,

It’s me! I’m writing to you! I got him to bring paper and pencils (you might have heard). So we can communicate without risk of being overheard. But you must make sure he doesn’t find this letter, or future letters, or the pencil or paper that I’m enclosing. Look for a hiding place. And then write back.

If I can’t write again, for any reason, then remember this:
I love you
. And Dad loves you. And between us, somehow,
we will keep you safe
.

Mum

xxxx

I rip the letter from the notebook and tear out some other pages. I fold up the missive and wrap the other pages around it. Then I change my mind and put the letter on the outside, facing outwards, in case she otherwise doesn’t see my writing. I place the pencil in the centre. Then I advance to the grate and begin shoving it through. The grate is small – each vent only the length of a finger, and narrow too. I have to reduce the amount of paper I send through and refold the package. The pencil itself, the essential tool of reply, I wriggle through.

I put my head to the wall and listen for rustling. Nothing. I stay pressed like that. Maybe she is asleep. Or worse. Not there. Maybe when the Captor left the house earlier, he took Cara with him. Maybe he is ransoming us or disposing of us or … whatever-elsing us one by one.

Shall I tap-tap on the wall? Or is that too much? Do I need to limit myself, not show by my desperation for her safety, how vulnerable we are? I raise my hand, lower it again. Don’t alarm her. Don’t keep knocking. Don’t put the Captor on to us.

But please be there, Cara. If you are there and reply to my letter, I know you at least are still with me. Only in peril in the same way as me. Not in some dangerous outside place. Although there’s a wall between us, a daughter is safest nearer her mother, isn’t she? Please be there. Please let him not have taken you someplace else. I can’t bear for you not to be there.

You’ll always be this little one’s mummy. No one can take that way from you.

Tears well. I let them fall. I rock back on my heels and wait. And wait. What is taking you so long, Cara? Why don’t you reply? Should I risk a knock on the wall? A whisper? But no. That might endanger everything. I must have a little patience. Must breathe. Yes. Important to remember. And fill my time wisely. The window!

Yes, of course, the window. My sign. It will be poxy in small notebook paper and a pencil but I will do the best I can.

What to write?

Keep it simple. Something like:

‘Please help. Mother and daughter, Susan and Cara Bright, held hostage in here. Call 999.’

We must be all over the news – Paul will have done his bit insisting the media and police will be on the case. Right? Paul won’t just think I’ve taken Cara on a trip? No. We were due to be at home, to eat together. The Captor snatched me from home and must have snatched Cara from school.

And Paul will find us. Then everything will go back to normal. I’ll resurrect the cupcake business. Cara will go back to school – once I’ve spoken to the Head about security – and we’ll all dine out on this trauma for the rest of our lives.

I sketch out the words for the sign lightly first. They cover six sheets of paper. Then I start pressing hard. Deep grey shading, to make it visible outside. But not too dark so as to destroy the pencil. It’s all I have.

I’m so absorbed in my task that it’s not until I hear the key in the lock that I know the Captor is coming.

Quick! Hide the sign! Why didn’t I take my own advice to Cara and look for a hiding place? The door is opening, where can I put the sign?

I shove it under duvet, just in time. By the time the Captor’s face appears, I am posing with the notebook, pencil in hand.

He bends down to place a tray down on the floor. Granola, yoghurt, orange juice, a cup of tea. An inch at the back of his neck is exposed. If the pencil were sharper, I could bring it down, now, spear it through the skin, force him to the floor. Or could I? He’s a big guy. I’m not so huge. Maybe I need more than a pencil.

He stands up again. Moment or non-moment of potential escape gone.

He looks at me. ‘Writing in your diary then?’ he asks.

I shrug. ‘I can’t think of anything to write. Not much happens in here.’

‘Let me help with that,’ he says. And he sits down on the bed. Right on top of the part of the duvet that hides the sign.

If he pushes the duvet back, I am finished. He is too close to me. I can smell him. He smells of mould. Not in a way that makes me retch. More that fragrant mould, released in forests after the rain. Fine for forests. Not so nice on a man.

He takes the diary and pencil from me. I want to resist, want to claw them back, but we know who has the power here.

He writes in the diary. Seeing as he is so close to me, I try to lean in, see what he is writing, but he hides it from me. He is concentrating. I couldn’t, could I, stand up and make a run for the door? He sees my head move and follows my eye line. He puts one leg firmly across mine. He is wearing big, heavy boots. I stay where I am.

Then I notice that when he moved, the duvet moved with him. The edge of the sign I drew is now visible.

Shit.

I hold my breath, waiting for him to pull back all the duvet, find out what is underneath. Punish me.

He is still focusing the notebook. For now.

I resist the urge to look at the sign again. He is observant. He will follow my eyes. Instead, I force myself to stare at him, while he looks at the notebook. I scrutinise the hair in his ear, the little lines around the edge of his eyes. This is a villain who has smiled more than he has frowned then. Not a good sign. Potentially sociopathic.

‘There,’ he says. ‘Done.’ He hands me back the diary.

I look at what he has written.

‘Today is the day that I shared my bed. Sitting this time. But it’s a sign of closeness. A sign of more to come. I will give that man what he wants – what I want, really – in time.’

I shiver. I look up at him. He smiles.

So. That is the plan then. He does, as he says, want me. But, apparently, I have to give myself to him.

He stands up. I want to break eye contact, let him know his plans revolt me. But I daren’t, lest his eyes search out the paper sign instead. Holding his gaze, I shift along the bed, putting one hand behind me. I call feel the rough edge of the paper under my hand. I hope it is covered. I hope he doesn’t think the gesture is an invitation.

He stays in the room, staring at me. A smile – or is it a smirk – crosses over his lips. He adds to the creases round his eyes. Then he turns his back and opens the door, and goes out. And locks me in again.

Chapter 10

There it is – under the grate! A letter from Cara!

I was so busy trying to fend off, distract, comprehend the Captor that I must have missed it coming through. At least, I hope it’s a letter. Not just a bundle of papers. I rush to pick up the pages. They shake in my hands like leaves.

And yes! Thank goodness. Here is Cara’s wonderful handwriting. That beautiful, self-conscious, teenage script, with the dots of ‘i’s done in circles, the ‘z’s struck through, and all letters bulbous and round. That relief as real as when I used to look at you in your little bed, holding my own breath until your chest rose again. I clutch the paper to myself before I begin to read, inhaling it. Cara. Then I pull it away and study it.

Dear Mum,

Amazing. SO well done getting the paper and pencil. Totally get what you say about a hiding place. The room has a … actually, no, better not write where the hiding place is in case your place isn’t as good as mine
.

So. What’s the plan? How are we getting out of here? We will get out of here, won’t we? Dad must be coming, right? I reckon give him another few hours and he’ll be here. Definitely.

How did you end up in here? I remember being by the school gates, then in a car, but not much else. Then … here.

I just wish we could get a message out. Let people know where we are. That we’re alive. And so far, safe.

That first night, I think it was night, that was the worst. I just sat up in this horrible bed in the dark holding the duvet and shaking. I couldn’t believe it was happening. I thought I’d never see you or Dad again. I would have given anything to know you were here. And now you are.

I love you Mum. I know you’ll get us out of this.

You will, right?

Cara xxx.

I read the letter again and again. And again. I trace the loops with my eyes and then with my fingers. Cara. At once so strong and so vulnerable. So independent and yet still my little girl. I’d give anything to hug her. Kiss that beautiful face. To take her home, reunite her with the pink biro that I know this letter would be written in, had she the choice. She’d maybe cover it with some pink hearts, for extra measure, like the hearts she draws on the magazine articles and clippings that adorn her bedroom walls. Perfume ads, fashion pictures, cute animals – she’s a real girl’s girl. Then she recreates that physical space online, Pinterest and everything. I know. She showed me a picture of one of my cupcake ads she’d ‘pinned’ on her virtual board. I felt so proud that she should be proud of me.

Much as I would love to write back immediately with outpourings of love, I can’t write back until there is a plan. You can tell from the letter that she needs me to think of one, to keep her happy. What energetic and traumatised fifteen-year-old wants simply to hang round waiting for Dad to do something? I’m surprised I can’t hear her ricocheting off the walls with pent-up frustration.

No. I must provide an alternative.

The window sign.

I tuck her note into my pillowcase and pull the sign from the bed. Quickly, I finish emboldening the letters that I had loosely pencilled in. There. That sign should be readable by the little girl outside, if she is still there.

I clamber up my chair ladder to the window and look out. No little girl today. But she must come back. Or somebody else must. And see the sign. I lean the pieces of paper against the window, facing out. They take up almost all of the window, leaving me just a small chink to look out of. The paper seems flimsy, like it could fall down at any moment. And however visible it is from the outside, it feels painfully visible from the inside. The Captor may see it. And, with it, my knowledge of Cara. Then he’ll take down perhaps my only means of escape, and deny me my lifeline with my daughter.

So what I need is a prop. Something to keep the sign in position and also conceal it. But not arouse suspicion. From my chair, I look round the room. What would work?

The only contender seems to be a pillow. I have two. One should squidge up nicely to fit in the gap. I clamber down from the chair, seize the pillow and spring back up to the chair. Success. The pillow fits. It takes away most of the light and my room takes on a dungeon feel. But it’s for a greater good. Our greater good. Mine, Cara’s, Paul’s. If the Captor asks, I’ll say the light was stopping me sleeping. I can still move the pillow if I need to, when I’m alone, to look out. For the girl. Or for anyone else.

And the other pillow – well, its case can hide the letters from Cara. Two missions accomplished.

Escape plan A put in train, I can now face Cara again. I pick up her letter and reread it. Why wasn’t I there at the school gates to pick her up? The Captor must have already got me. Did he do it in two journeys then? Or was one of us in the boot? Or was there an accomplice? I want to tell her I’m sorry I wasn’t there. But it wasn’t my fault.

As I pick up the pencil, my stomach rumbles. I look over at the granola. Healthy, nutritious. Not that I need to watch what I eat so much these days. With the yoghurt it would be delicious. And give me energy to fight for Cara. Can I eat it? Who would drug granola? Surely if you were going to drug breakfast, you’d make scrambled eggs, or porridge, or something else sloppy and indistinct. Not granola. But I’m not dealing with a logical person here. I’m dealing with a kidnapper. So he might have drugged it. Best not to risk it.