The Girl You Gave Away: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller

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The Girl You Gave Away: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller Page 2

by Jess Ryder


  People raise lighters in the air like it’s a real pop concert, and I start to notice a group of older lads standing close by. One of them – the best-looking one and therefore the leader – is watching me. I can feel his eyes boring into my back as I jiggle my hips and wave my arms above my head. Every time I turn around, he’s staring at me, a smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Want some?’ he calls out, raising a supermarket-sized bottle of mineral water.

  ‘Yeah, ta, I’m gasping.’ I grab the bottle off him and take a long, enthusiastic swig. But it’s not water, it’s alcohol. Vodka, I guess, mixed with something. I try not to cough. Whatever I’ve just drunk, it’s set the back of my throat on fire, but I style it out, pretending I knew what it was all along. I take another gulp and let the alcohol rush into my veins.

  ‘Finish it if you like,’ he says, his eyes flickering over me and coming to rest on the thin line of sweat running between my breasts. I laugh and keep hold of the bottle, sipping from it while I dance, drifting ever closer to him. Sensible Asha gives me a bit of a warning look, but I pretend not to notice.

  It’s nearly ten, our curfew, but the concert is at its height. The lead vocalist is strutting across the stage, leaning forward to grab girls’ hands. My body is a drum. The light show sends coloured pulses through my brain.

  ‘We’d better go,’ says Asha. ‘Don’t want to get caught in the crush.’

  ‘Okay … Come on, Erin.’ Holly taps me on the arm. As I spin round to face her, my head takes a split second to catch up.

  ‘But it’s not over yet,’ I moan, looking longingly towards the stage. We don’t have to run out of the park like three Cinderellas, surely. I’ve emptied the bottle of secret vodka and am feeling deliciously rebellious. ‘Your dad won’t mind waiting.’

  ‘He said ten o’clock on the dot; that was the deal.’ Asha looks anxious. ‘Please, Erin.’

  ‘Okay, okay …’ I roll my eyes with annoyance and, throwing down the bottle, stomp after the two of them as they weave through the crowd towards the exit. After a few yards, a hand grabs mine and I turn sharply. It’s the guy who gave me the vodka; the guy who’s been staring at me all evening.

  ‘Don’t go,’ he shouts above the music. ‘The night has only just started.’

  The vodka sings in my head; I feel my limbs softening, my hand weakening in his grasp. ‘But I prom—’ I start to say before my words are drowned in whooping applause. The band has announced that this is going to be their last number. ‘Oh, what the hell,’ the alcohol says, and the next thing I know, he has his tongue down my throat.

  I sense the park emptying around us, snatches of chatter and laughter floating past. The temperature suddenly drops, and when I came up for air, the sky looks vast and full of stars. My head is spinning, and I stumble in Holly’s silver sandals as he leads me over to a tree, propping me up against its rough bark. The snogging is hungry, almost brutal. His stubble scrapes against my soft young skin. He starts to fiddle with the buttons on my top, but I put my hands on his and whisper, ‘Not here.’

  ‘How old are you?’ he asks, pulling back and scrutinising my face. The sweat has wiped most of my make-up off.

  ‘Sixteen,’ I say, quickly adding two years. He looks at least twenty.

  ‘What’s your name, princess?’

  ‘Erin.’ He kisses me again. ‘And you?’

  ‘Me?’ he replies in a tone that implies I must surely know. ‘Dean. Dean Philips.’ I smile and nod, but the name means nothing to me.

  ‘Better go,’ I say woozily. ‘Friends … waiting …’

  ‘Nah, they’ll have given up by now.’

  How long do we kiss under the tree? Ten minutes? Half an hour? His mates are standing in a group about twenty yards away, scuffing the ground, hands in pockets, looking restless. There are a few stragglers still wandering out of the park, a team of litter-pickers in yellow vests spearing rubbish and putting it into black bin liners. On the stage, hefty guys in black T-shirts are dismantling the lights and packing the speakers into large shiny boxes.

  ‘Gotta go …’ I try to peel myself off the tree trunk. Is Asha’s dad still waiting for me, or has he already driven off? He’ll tell my parents that I failed to turn up. What if Dad jumps in the car and comes to find me – drags me out of the park like a lost toddler? It would be utterly humiliating, especially in front of Dean. What if Mum calls the police?

  The euphoria is starting to wear off and I’m feeling sick. I have to find the others or get a bus. Either way, I’m already in a whole heap of trouble.

  ‘Sorry … need to go.’

  ‘You’ll never make it in that state,’ Dean says. ‘We’ll take you home.’ He clicks his fingers at his mates, who jog up obediently. ‘Gary? Bring the car round, will yer? Kid needs a lift.’

  Gary – tall, skinny, face pockmarked with acne – rattles his keys in reply. I know he’s drunk at least as much vodka as me, and has to be over the limit, but there’s nothing I can do. I need to get home, and fast.

  I stagger out of the park, supported by Dean, who is holding me so strongly around the waist he almost lifts me off the ground. His friends walk ahead, shoving each other jokily, making lewd comments under their breath that I don’t understand. But I don’t feel scared; I feel safe. Dean is the boss and he’s taking care of me.

  Gary’s Ford Mondeo is parked up on the grass verge a few hundred yards away. Dean opens the door and I clamber into the back. Another guy, who I later find out is called Mark, gets in on the other side, deliberately squeezing up so that our thighs touch. I am the filling in their man sandwich.

  I tell them the name of my street and we set off. Gary swings the car around the corners, slamming on the brakes at the last moment and accelerating through amber lights. Dean keeps one arm around me the whole way, his other hand stroking my thigh. He gnaws at my neck, sucking vampire-like at my tender flesh. I feel Mark’s body tense and his leg press against mine, but he doesn’t dare do anything else. I’m Dean’s plaything; not for sharing.

  The car smells of sweat and fags. Gary puts on some loud music and they wind the windows down. Mark drums his hands on the back of the front passenger seat, and the guy sitting there – I’ve forgotten his name – tells him to cut it out.

  ‘Drop me off here,’ I say, as we reach the top of Coleridge Close. We live at the very end and I don’t want Gary attempting a three-point turn outside our house.

  Dean opens the door and gets out. I shuffle along the seat and fall onto the pavement. As the fresh air hits me, I think I’m going to throw up right in front of him.

  ‘You’re well tanked,’ he laughs, as he heaves me upright and sets me against the side of the Mondeo, where he gives me a final grope. ‘We hang out most nights in the Craven Arms on Main Street – know it?’ I nod. ‘Come and find me, yeah? Soon.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks for the lift.’

  ‘A pleasure, princess. Mind how you go.’

  He stands back and releases me. I search for my balance and stagger down the road towards home. I’m so unsteady, I daren’t look back for fear of falling over again, but I hear the car door slam and the Mondeo screeching away.

  The downstairs lights are still on. My mother must have been looking out of the window, because she opens the door as soon as I step onto the front path.

  ‘Erin,’ she growls. ‘Get inside, now. Your father’s out looking for you. He’s furious.’

  As I cross the threshold, I instantly sober up. ‘Wasn’t my fault,’ I protest. ‘I got lost in the crowd. I went looking for them but they’d gone. They didn’t wait for me.’

  She slaps me across the cheek. ‘Don’t you lie! I know what you’ve been up to. You stink of booze and your mascara’s all smudged. You look like a tart. You’re not to leave this house for the next two weeks, do you hear me? Now get upstairs.’

  I crawl up to my room, ears singing, head spinning. I don’t care about my punishment – at this moment, it seems worth it. All I can thi
nk about is Dean, kissing me, touching me, calling me princess. I’m going to find a way to escape the house and meet him at the Craven Arms. He wants to see me there. He’s expecting me.

  Chapter Three

  Erin

  January 2020

  My heart was beating furiously in my chest and I felt faint. I had to get away from the party and up to my bedroom. The birthday card hung between my fingers like a dead thing. I wanted to drop it, but I didn’t dare. I wanted to destroy it, but I couldn’t. Even though my legs felt like they’d been shackled with heavy weights, I dragged myself into the hallway and started climbing the stairs.

  Tom must have seen me leaving the room, because he followed me out. ‘Darling? Where are you going? We’re about to do the cake!’

  ‘Give me a few minutes. I need to … um … different shoes.’ My words grated against the back of my throat. I was terrified he’d ask why I was gripping a red envelope as if my life depended on it, but perhaps he hadn’t spotted it.

  I made it to the bedroom and locked the door. My stomach churned as I sank onto the bed. I didn’t have much time to pull myself together. Tom had let me retreat for now, but he wouldn’t allow me to hide for long.

  My head was bursting with questions. How had she known where to find me? Why had she chosen my fortieth birthday, of all days, to reveal herself? It was as if she’d thrown a hand grenade into the house, designed to explode in front of family and friends and destroy my celebrations. Why had she done that?

  I started to feel angry, but then realised I was looking at it from entirely the wrong point of view. She would have no way of knowing that she was a huge dark secret. She probably thought she was giving me a wonderful surprise – the best birthday present of all.

  My fingers shaking, I opened the envelope again and took out the card, examining it for clues about the young woman who’d sent it to me. I still couldn’t comprehend that this was my girl, my grown-up daughter …

  In my imagination, she was still a tiny baby. I remembered how pink and squashy she’d looked, with puffy bags under her eyes and wrinkles like an old woman. She was seven weeks premature, very small and underweight. The midwife put her into my arms for no more than a couple of seconds before they whisked her away to the special care baby unit.

  I visited her a couple of times the next day; just stood and stared at her through the glass of her crib, unable to compute that she had come out of my body. She looked like a little alien thing, barely human, mine and yet not mine at all. My hormones were all over the place; I was exhausted and sore, not thinking straight. But what was there to think about? The decision had already been made. I was going to be discharged later that day and would never see her again.

  She was lying in just her nappy and a pink woolly hat that kept falling over her eyes. There were sticky pads on her chest and an intravenous drip in one tiny arm, which was splinted. She was plugged into a machine that bleeped, flashing numbers and wavy coloured lines. I didn’t understand what any of it meant. A few times she made a sudden movement and set the alarm off. I thought she was about to die, but nobody else seemed worried, and eventually a nurse came over and pressed the reset button.

  The crib had two portholes, and the other mums would open the little doors and put their hands inside to change their baby’s nappy or even just stroke their skin. I never did that. Never asked if I could hold her one last time. I desperately wanted to take her in my arms and give her a goodbye kiss, but I didn’t think I was allowed. I’d already signed the documents and given up my rights. She belonged to somebody else now and could never be mine.

  I was told she’d be adopted immediately. There was a shortage of newborn babies and she’d be snapped up by a decent, loving family who would give her a much better life than I ever could. The adoption agency had already found her new parents; they’d been waiting patiently for years to find the perfect match. There was no need to reproach myself. I was bringing joy to a deserving couple and putting the interests of my child first.

  I read the message again. The blue biro handwriting was rounded and not properly joined up; she’d put a small heart above the ‘i’ in ‘birthday’ instead of a dot, but there was no getting away from it: her words were laced with judgement. With love from the girl you gave away. She hadn’t signed her name, maybe because she knew I hadn’t given her one, choosing instead to remind me of what I’d done. Hadn’t anyone ever explained that I’d wanted to keep her but hadn’t been given the choice? Yet she’d called me Mum and sent her love, which implied that she didn’t blame me. The card was a mass of contradictions. I didn’t know what to make of it, how she wanted me to feel. Happy? Guilty? Even, perhaps, afraid?

  There was a knock on the door. I froze for half a second, the card stuck in my hand.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Asha. Holly’s here too. Can we come in?’

  ‘Um …’

  ‘Tom sent us up. He thinks you’re having one of your birthday-phobic attacks.’

  ‘Are you?’ Holly’s voice, full of concern.

  I walked over to the door and unlocked it. ‘Sort of …’ I said quietly as I opened up. ‘You’d better come in.’

  We sat in a row on the edge of my bed, as we used to when we were teenagers – except it was never at my house; always Holly’s or Asha’s. I showed them the card and they took it in turns to read it. A small, horrified gasp escaped from Holly’s mouth, while Asha just shook her head in disbelief.

  ‘But how come?’

  ‘Children are legally entitled to trace their biological mothers,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I know that.’ Holly stared at the evidence. ‘But usually they do it officially, through an intermediary. She shouldn’t have done this. Why today of all days? How does she even know it’s your birthday?’

  ‘No idea … Maybe it was on the adoption papers?’

  ‘Well I think it’s fantastic,’ said Asha. ‘She’s gone out of her way to trace you, so she clearly wants to have a relationship. You should be pleased, Erin. It must have taken a lot of courage for her to contact you.’

  ‘I know … you’re right. It’s just all so complicated. I always knew there was a chance she’d try to find me, and I am happy, but … there’s something about that message that makes me feel uneasy …’ I let out a sigh. ‘Oh, I don’t know what to do.’

  We didn’t say anything for a few seconds, but I knew what we were all thinking.

  ‘You have to tell Tom,’ said Holly finally. ‘There’s no choice now.’

  Asha nodded. ‘She’s right, I’m afraid. You can’t keep your little secret any longer.’

  ‘But it’s not a little secret, is it? It’s a massive, enormous one! I’ve been lying to him our whole time together. He despises liars, you know that. He’s got a really big thing about it because of the way his dad cheated on his mum. He’ll never forgive me.’

  Holly put her arm around my shoulders. ‘Yes he will. He loves you; he’ll understand. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You just have to explain. You were very young, you made a mistake, that’s all – you did the right thing giving her up.’

  ‘Did I? Did I really?’

  ‘Of course. She found a loving family who could look after her properly.’

  ‘But you don’t know that! She might be really angry with me.’

  ‘If she was angry, she wouldn’t have sent that card,’ said Holly.

  I stared down at it. ‘No, I guess not …’

  ‘Well, when you meet her,’ said Asha, ‘you’ll have a chance to explain.’

  I shook my head vehemently. ‘No, no, I can’t, I can’t …’

  ‘But she’s your daughter!’ said Asha. ‘How can you not want—’

  ‘Of course I want to meet her,’ I snapped, ‘I’m desperate to meet her, but it’s not possible. Not right now.’

  Asha blinked at me. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Think about it! The timing’s all wrong. Oli’s got these really important exams coming up that will affect
his whole future. I can’t jeopardise them. And Chloe … well, you know the trouble we’re having with her. She’s being so difficult. I don’t know how she’d react to that kind of bombshell – it could send her over the edge. I can’t do that to either of them, it’s not fair.’ Suddenly galvanised, I snatched up the card and ran towards my chest of drawers, hiding it at the bottom under a pile of jumpers.

  Holly and Asha exchanged a glance. I could tell they thought these were just feeble excuses – that I was being a coward – but to me they were compelling reasons.

  ‘Okay … but what about Tom?’ Asha looked at me with her dark brown eyes, her brow furrowed with fine lines. ‘Doesn’t he deserve to know the truth?’

  ‘Course he does,’ I muttered. ‘But please, please don’t say anything. I need to think about this, work out the best way of approaching him.’

  ‘We’ve kept shtum all this time; we’re not going to blurt it out now,’ said Holly soothingly.

  ‘We’re your best friends, remember?’ added Asha. ‘More than friends; we’re sisters.’

  ‘Yes, I know, and I couldn’t manage without you.’ They stood up and we had a tight group hug. ‘Love you both so much,’ I whispered. ‘I owe you big time. Not just for keeping my secrets, but for everything else you’ve done for me too. I don’t know where I’d be without you girls. You saved my life.’

  Holly extricated herself from my hold. ‘We’ll talk more about this later. But now you’ve got to go downstairs and blow your bloody candles out.’

  * * *

  ‘Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you!’ I blinked back tears as everyone belted out a tuneless but enthusiastic chorus. They assumed I was overcome by their outpourings of affection, but in reality I was crying with self-pity. All my happiness suddenly seemed fragile and temporary, a beautiful bubble floating across the room.

 

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