Stolen

by Tess Stimson

  Damn it, where is Jack? He still hasn’t responded to my text, and now he’s not answering his phone.

  I can’t just leave, not without my daughter. It’s Monday tomorrow: for all I know, the woman may only be renting the cottage for the weekend. I’d feel slightly less frantic if I knew they lived here, but without the resources Jack has at his disposal, there’s no way to find out. I don’t know anyone else who can—

  Quinn.

  Like her or not, the woman has an uncanny ability to ferret out information. Maybe having a journalist involved will actually help me for once, putting pressure on the police to get their act together. Quinn Wilde has become part of my story as much as I’ve become part of hers. I have her number: my phone automatically stored it last time she called me.

  But she doesn’t answer her mobile either.

  chapter 57

  alex

  The urge to beat down the cottage door and snatch my daughter back is almost as hard to resist as the drive to bear down during childbirth. I force myself to stay in the car, staring unseeingly into the darkness through the teeming rain as I think this through. I can’t rush in, like a bull in a china shop. I only have one shot at this. I have to do it the right way, the legal way, or the woman will take Lottie and disappear again.

  My phone buzzes and I snatch it up. But it’s not Jack or Quinn.

  ‘Alex, you need to come home,’ Dad says, without preamble.

  ‘Dad, I can’t—’

  ‘We’re at the hospital,’ Dad says. ‘Your mum’s not well. We’re waiting for her to be seen. We’re not sure what’s wrong until we see a doctor, but she’s in a lot of pain. It’s like she’s got appendicitis, but it’s in the wrong place.’

  My stomach goes into free fall. Mum’s had cancer twice already; she’s in remission, but we all know it could come back at any time.

  ‘Is she going to be OK?’

  ‘Darling, I’m sure she’ll be fine, but I think she’d like to see you.’

  He doesn’t sound like he thinks she’s going to be fine.

  ‘I’m out of town right now,’ I say, not wanting Dad to know I’m in Devon. He has enough to worry about without thinking I’m chasing phantoms again. ‘I’ll be back some time tomorrow. I’ll come and see her as soon as I can. Can you let me know how she’s doing in the morning?’

  ‘There’s no rush,’ Dad says. ‘It’s quite busy here tonight. I think we could be in for a long wait.’

  ‘Dad, you need to keep on at them,’ I urge. ‘Make sure they know she’s had cancer. Don’t let them just shove her to the back of the queue.’

  ‘I’ve got this, Alex. Look, I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  He hasn’t got this.

  My parents are decent, good people. They take their turn, play fair, pay their share, don’t make a fuss. Dad will never go up to whoever is managing triage and demand my mother is seen. He’ll sit patiently waiting for her name to be called, while a mouthy girl with a stubbed toe creates such havoc she gets whisked to the front of the line just so they can be rid of her. He’d never dream of making a nuisance of himself.

  I have no such compunction.

  But I can’t just leave Lottie. What if the woman disappears with her again? I have to wait here until Jack mobilises the police. I can’t let her out of my sight.

  I check the live wait times at the Mid-Surrey Hospital. Six hours. Mum can’t be left on a trolley for six hours! Dad’ll never get her bumped up the queue. And in her immune-compromised state, a wait like that could kill her.

  No one should have to choose between their mother and their child. I slam the palm of my hand against the wheel in fury and jump as the horn blares. A light goes on in the café and I freeze in place till it goes off again. I don’t want to draw attention to myself.

  I have to make a decision. Do I stay or go?

  Lottie isn’t in imminent danger; she’s clearly well-cared-for. My mother is sick and getting sicker. Mum would tell me to stay with my daughter, but if I don’t get to the hospital and fight for her, she could die on a hospital trolley waiting to be seen.

  I don’t think I’ve ever felt this alone. I’m so tired. Tired of having to be strong, of never allowing myself to doubt, of supporting everyone else no matter how defeated and beaten down I feel. My parents have done their best to look out for me and I wouldn’t have survived the last two years without the support of everyone at the Foundation, but, at the end of the day, when everyone else has gone back home to their lives and families, I’m alone with my grief. Luca was a lousy husband in many ways, but he was a wonderful father. We didn’t agree on much, but we were united in our love for Lottie. No matter our differences, if he’d been here, at least I’d have had someone with whom to share the pain of the last two years, someone who’d understand.

  Someone to make me feel just a little less lonely.

  My phone buzzes with an incoming text and, as I read it, I realise the decision has been taken out of my hands.

  chapter 58

  We have to move again soon. We’ve already been in one place longer than I’d like. But the child seems happier here and I’m tired of fighting her.

  She’s used to me now and she’s accepted her new name – she even calls me Mummy. I trust her enough to let her play on the beach below our new cottage without me and sometimes I take her to a café in the village. She makes friends with the owner’s dog, and now and then the man lets us take him down to the beach with us to frolic in the surf. It’s the only time I see the child smile.

  But then one day a woman stares at us a little too hard when we’re in the café, and I’m sure I see her watching us again later, when we’re walking back home. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I haven’t stayed one step ahead of the police all this time by taking chances.

  I’ve got too comfortable here. It’s time to move on.

  The girl won’t be pleased when I tell her. Our truce is fragile and she’ll blame me for dragging her somewhere new, just when she’s got settled. But I’m only trying to protect her. She belongs with me. I can’t let them take her away.

  I’d rather die.

  In the afternoon, while she’s playing on the beach, I start packing. We travel light: a few changes of clothes, some toys, my iPad. It doesn’t take long to fit everything into a holdall. We can be ready to leave first thing tomorrow.

  I check the leaflet I got at the café for local bus times to the nearest train station. By nightfall tomorrow, we’ll be hundreds of miles away. It won’t matter then if the woman recognised us.

  We’ll be long gone.

  chapter 59

  alex

  Dad said in his text Mum was being rushed into emergency surgery, but he didn’t say why. When I arrive at the Mid-Surrey Hospital a little after midnight, the receptionist informs me Mum’s still in intensive care, but she can’t, or won’t, tell me what’s happened.

  My fear intensifies as I follow the woman’s directions up to the ICU on the third floor. I thought I’d come to terms with Mum’s mortality after her cancer diagnoses, but I feel blindsided by the suddenness of this. She’s had surgery and chemo and radiation, she’s lost her hair, and aged ten years in less than two, but never, for one moment, have I believed I might actually lose her until now.

  Dad’s text left me no choice but to come. Mum might die; of course I had to be here. I just pray to God Jack gets my messages and mobilises the police before the woman leaves the cottage. I can’t find the house on any property rental websites like Airbnb, so perhaps she and Lottie live there after all. And I’ll go back first thing tomorrow, when Mum’s out of the woods.

  If.

  Dad’s by her bedside when I’m buzzed into the ICU. His eyes are frightened above his mask. Mum is unconscious on the bed and more pale than I’ve ever seen her, more pale than I’ve ever seen anyone still living. I tell myself the wires and tubes and monitors around her bed make things seem more alarming than they are.

  I apply another li
beral pump of hand sanitiser and take Mum’s hand. ‘I’m here,’ I say softly. ‘It’s Alex. I’m here, Mum.’

  She doesn’t open her eyes. Tenderly, I stroke her hair back from her forehead.

  Her skin feels cool, almost clammy, to the touch. She’s not spiking a fever, at least. That has to be good, doesn’t it?

  ‘What happened, Dad?’ I ask. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘Let’s go and find some coffee,’ Dad says. ‘You must be tired after your drive. They’ve got some fairly decent biscuits in the waiting room.’

  I don’t want to leave Mum’s side, but I recognise Dad needs a break. I follow him to a small waiting area just outside the ICU. We’re the only ones here; this late at night, any visiting relatives are sitting with their loved ones, keeping vigil.

  Dad inserts a coffee pod in the machine and pours me a cup, then makes a second for himself.

  ‘She started complaining of pain in her stomach yesterday morning,’ he says. ‘It got worse all day, but you know your mother, she doesn’t like to make a fuss. Then this afternoon she started vomiting, like nothing I’ve ever seen. She didn’t want me to bring her in but I had to. She was in so much pain she couldn’t even speak.’

  I voice the fear that haunts us both. ‘Is her cancer back?’

  ‘The doctor said the CT scan showed a perforated bowel. It can be quite serious, so they whipped her straight into surgery. Mr Terpsichore said it went well, but she’s obviously going to be a bit under the weather for a while.’

  ‘But what caused it? The chemo?’

  ‘They don’t know. The important thing is, they caught it in time.’

  He’s part of a generation that always believes the men in white coats and doesn’t like to challenge their authority by asking questions. I don’t blame the doctors for trying to project optimism, but I want to know the truth, however hard it may be to hear.

  ‘I’d like to speak to her surgeon,’ I say. ‘Find out exactly what’s going on. Is Harriet on her way here?’

  ‘Oh,’ Dad says.

  I feel a brief pang of compassion for my sister. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll phone her.’

  ‘Thanks, love. I’m going to get back to your mum,’ Dad says. ‘I don’t want her waking up and me not being there.’

  ‘Why don’t you go home and get some sleep? I’ll stay with—’

  ‘It’s all right, love. I wouldn’t sleep anyway.’

  As we return to the ICU, we’re met by a doctor. She looks tired and anxious. Her hair is very dark and cut into an asymmetric bob. She’s wearing a neat pair of gold earrings, shaped like horseshoes.

  ‘Mr Johnson, I was just on my way to find you.’

  ‘Is Mary awake?’

  ‘Are you family?’ the doctor asks me.

  ‘I’m her daughter,’ I say. ‘Alexa Martini.’

  ‘Naomi Todd. I’m sorry to meet you under such circumstances.’ She sighs. ‘I’m afraid your wife’s taken a bit of a turn for the worse, Mr Johnson. Her heart rate’s up and her temperature’s started to climb. We don’t want to concern you, but we’d like to pop her back into theatre.’

  ‘More surgery?’ I say. ‘Are you sure that’s necessary?’

  ‘The doctors know best, love,’ Dad says.

  ‘Your mum is worrying us a bit, Alexa,’ Todd says. ‘Her bowel must have perforated quite some time before she arrived at A&E. There was considerable faecal matter in the abdomen, enabling all sorts of nasties to get into her bloodstream. We’d like to stay ahead of this thing, if we can.’

  ‘Can I see her first?’ Dad asks.

  ‘Just for a couple of minutes.’

  ‘I’ll be right there, Dad,’ I say.

  I wait until the doors to the ICU have swooshed shut behind him.

  ‘What’s the prognosis?’ I ask bluntly.

  ‘It’s still very early days—’

  ‘Dr Todd, I’d appreciate whatever facts you’re able to give me.’

  Her grey eyes appraise me. ‘Your mother is very sick,’ she says, after a moment. ‘The biggest danger is sepsis. Mr Terpsichore is going to try to stabilise her condition with an abdominal washout, and he’ll also put in a drain. He may need to remove more of her large bowel. I’m afraid, after that, it’s very much a waiting game.’

  The ground shifts beneath my feet. I have gone from they caught it in time to very much a waiting game in just a few minutes.

  ‘Is she going to die?’

  ‘We’re going to do everything we can.’

  ‘My sister lives in the Shetlands,’ I say.

  A beat passes.

  Naomi Todd’s voice softens. ‘In an otherwise healthy patient, the overall mortality rate, in a case such as this, is roughly thirty percent,’ she says. ‘Your mother has metastatic cancer, and the infection was already well-established before we were able to operate. If there are members of the family who might like to say goodbye, now would be the time to call them.’

  two years and twenty-one days missing

  chapter 60

  alex

  Harriet doesn’t come.

  She doesn’t come when I tell her Mum is in a medically induced coma, fighting for her life. She doesn’t come when Mum’s organs start to fail, one by one: her kidneys, her liver, her heart. She doesn’t come when the doctors try a Hail Mary pass, obtaining an emergency licence from the General Medical Council to try a new drug that still hasn’t completed its clinical trials, but is showing promise.

  She doesn’t even come when that fails, and Naomi Todd tells us there’s nothing more they can do.

  Mum’s sister, Julie, has travelled twenty-six hours nonstop from New Zealand to be by her side. Her oldest friend, Sharon, whom she’s known since primary school, makes the long journey down from Newcastle. But for Harriet, it’s too upsetting.

  ‘I couldn’t bear to see her like that,’ she says, when I phone again to tell her if she doesn’t come now, it’ll be too late. ‘It’d break my heart, Alex. I’m not strong the way you are. I love Mum so much, watching her fade away would kill me.’

  I ignore the implication that I must therefore love Mum less.

  ‘Dad wants us all to be together,’ I plead. ‘He’s needs you. He’s falling apart, Harry. He still refuses to accept this is really happening.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be any use,’ Harriet says. ‘It’s you Dad needs, not me. You know he relies on you.’

  ‘What about me?’ I say. ‘What if I need you?’

  ‘You don’t need anyone, Alex. You never have.’

  The hospital has given us our own family suite now, the one they reserve for relatives when there’s no hope left. It has a bed made up with fresh sheets, a kitchenette, even a tiny shower. In the adjacent sitting room, there’s a sofa and a couple of armchairs, and a vase of fresh flowers on the coffee table: From the Friends of Mid-Surrey, a small card reads beside them. Despite all the thoughtful touches, grief and loss seep like moisture from the bland, beige walls.

  Only two people are permitted in the ICU with Mum at any one time, so we take it in turns. We only leave her when the doctors come in to carry out more of their tests.

  Dad is sitting on the sofa with Aunt Julie and Sharon, while I pace the room restlessly. I haven’t smoked since I was in college, but I itch for a cigarette now.

  ‘We’re going to have to get some sort of rota going,’ he says suddenly. ‘Once Mary comes out of hospital, she’s going to need to convalesce. I’m happy to do the lion’s share, but I don’t want her to get bored. We’ll need to keep her spirits up with visitors, once she’s up to having people over.’

  My aunt and I exchange a look. My courage deserts me; I can’t be the one to tell my father that Mum’s not coming home.

  ‘Tony,’ my aunt says, gently. ‘I think you need to be prepared for the worst.’

  ‘I realise that,’ Dad says. ‘I know Mary could be in this coma quite a while. And Dr Todd’s told me she could have significant deficits when she wakes up. She’ll need rehab
, and even then she might never get back to where she was. I know all that. But we’ll get her through it.’

  He nods several times, as if to convince himself.

  I sit down next to him. ‘Dad, she may not wake up,’ I say.

  ‘Of course she will. We just have to give it time,’ Dad says.

  When Naomi Todd returns and tells us Mum’s near the end, Dad still refuses to accept it. Aunt Julie is the one who asks the parish priest at my parents’ local Catholic church, Father Jonathan, to come and give Mum the last rites.

  It’s been less than forty-eight hours since Mum arrived in casualty.

  Dad isn’t the only one who can’t get his head around what’s happening. I’m in the grip of emotional whip-lash: I’ve finally found my daughter, only to lose my mother.

  I’m desperate to get back to Lottie, but I don’t even know if she’s still at the cottage. And I have no way of finding out: Jack’s on a fact-finding mission about climate change in Alaska, and won’t be home for another two days, and I haven’t even heard back from Quinn. I can’t call the police, who’ll either dismiss me as crazy, or blunder in to talk to the woman and send her running again the moment they leave. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this powerless.

  The doctors have lifted the limit on who can be with Mum now, so we all gather at her bedside. Outside, it’s dark. The nurses have turned the lights down low and drawn the curtains around her bed.

  Father Jonathan opens a small vessel of oil and anoints Mum’s forehead and hands with the sign of the cross.