Redemption Road

by Lisa Ballantyne

  The nurse left and closed the door. Once again, Margaret took Maxwell’s hand. The room was warm, and he was stripped to the waist as he had been the last time she visited. She could see his ribs underneath his scarred skin as his chest rose and fell. He looked thinner, his head turned away from her and his chin down, making him seem vulnerable and alone. Looking at him now, it was difficult to believe that this was the powerful man who had saved her.

  Margaret cleared her throat and spoke in a low voice. ‘I just popped in to see you before Christmas. It’s good to hear that you’ll be waking up soon. I’d love to meet you properly. I’m so, so grateful to you. I think you’re an angel.’ Margaret smiled and let go of his fingers. She felt silly, talking to an unconscious man as if he could hear her.

  There was no blind on the window that looked out on to the nurses’ station, but when Margaret peered through it, she could see that the nurse was seated at her desk with her back to Maxwell’s room, doing paperwork.

  She bit her lip. She was desperate to know more about who Maxwell was. No one had come forward to claim him. He had to have a history, and a life that was waiting for him.

  There was a long cupboard beside the bed and Margaret opened it. It was a wardrobe with shelves at the bottom. On the bottom shelf were the brown boots that Maxwell had been wearing in the crash – dirty and unpolished. Above were the clothes he had been wearing, neatly folded: brown corduroy trousers, a T-shirt and a checked shirt; and hanging – a heavy brown jacket.

  Margaret peered through the window at the nurse again, but she was still bent over her desk. Instinctively, she reached into the pocket of the jacket. She was not sure what she was looking for, but the pocket was empty. She slid her hand into the other pocket. She felt a coin and then a piece of paper, which might have been a receipt.

  She glanced over her shoulder and saw that the nurse was now on her feet, talking to one of the doctors.

  Margaret took the piece of paper out of the pocket. Before she was able to inspect it, she saw the doctor and nurse walking together towards Maxwell’s room. She crushed the paper in her palm and closed the cupboard door. She knew nothing about Maxwell other than his name and his date of birth. She was desperate to learn anything she could about him. The flap of the cupboard sounded loudly as it closed, and the room door opened. Margaret swallowed, feeling embarrassed and guilty, but the doctor, a tall Asian woman with dark-rimmed glasses, only smiled at her.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ the doctor said. ‘We’re going to send Mr Brown up for another MRI. Visiting hour’s nearly over anyway, but I’m sorry to rush you off.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Margaret, picking up her coat and her bag. ‘I was just leaving. You’re thinking that you might bring him out of the coma soon?’

  ‘We’ll know more after the MRI.’

  ‘He had bleeding in his brain?’ Margaret frowned, trying to understand the extent of Maxwell’s injuries. She wondered if he might have sustained brain damage.

  ‘That’s right, an extradural haematoma.’

  ‘It sounds so serious, but I was with him on the motorway. I knew he had hurt his head, but he had so much strength. He saved my life.’

  The doctor adjusted her glasses on her nose. ‘That’s right. With EDH, patients can be lucid for periods of time – sometimes days – before they lose consciousness. He did the right thing to come in.’

  ‘He broke his hand saving me. He smashed the window of my car.’

  ‘Yes, we heard Mr Brown is a hero. But that broken hand maybe saved his life.’

  Margaret touched Maxwell’s arm before she left the room, then watched through the window as the doctor checked his chart and the nurse began to lower his bed in preparation for moving him to the MRI scanner.

  Margaret put on her coat and walked down the corridor. The hospital was too warm and she was looking forward to being outside.

  There were few visitors in this critical ward and Margaret was alone in the corridor as she moved towards the lift. As she walked, she slowly unfolded the note she had clutched in her palm. It was not a receipt but a telephone number handwritten in thick, bold felt pen.

  Margaret stopped still in the corridor as she realised that it was the main office telephone number for her school: Byron Academy.

  21

  Big George

  Thursday 3 October, 1985

  Leaving Newcastle, George chose not to follow the A1 south but cut west, on to the smaller roads, passing through Consett, Crook and Bishop Auckland. Moll sat looking out of the window at the passing fields, villages, houses. He kept the radio on and drummed his fingers on the wheel to the beat of the tunes that were played, but turned it off when the news came on.

  They had stopped their game half an hour or so ago. George had said he needed to concentrate on driving.

  When the radio was turned off, the car seemed too quiet – all of the sound lost to Moll’s sad eyes. The day was waning and the sun cast sharp shadows on the harvested fields. Cylindrical haystacks were spaced around the corn stubble, random yet deliberate, like pagan standing stones. The horizon was pink and bloodied by the sinking sun, and George flipped the visor down to shield his eyes from the glare.

  He took one hand off the wheel and reached inside his right pocket, taking out a coin. ‘Penny for your thoughts,’ he said, offering it to her and winking at her when she turned.

  She took the coin from him, smiling thinly and clasping it in two hands, as if holding something alive, a beetle or a butterfly. The smile stayed on her lips and yet she didn’t share her thoughts with him.

  He knew he had it in him to win her.

  He wished he had thought to buy sweets for the journey and decided that he would get some when they stopped. Was he possibly the only man to kidnap a child and forget them. George had smoked cigarettes since he was eleven years old and could now barely taste sweet food, but he remembered being Moll’s age and loving it – elbowing his way to the front of the queue when the ice cream van came.

  ‘Right,’ he said, rolling down the window and lighting a cigarette. ‘Don’t you know any car songs?’ The friction of the air against his window was awakening. The smell of his cigarette blended with the smell of manure off the fields.

  ‘I know “Row the Boat”,’ she said, eyebrows raised.

  ‘So do I.’

  They sang ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’ overlapping verses, each trying to sing louder than the other.

  George had no idea where he was going, but he ended up in York at six thirty at night. The wean was starving again and tired and they both needed a bath. He wanted a big hotel, where people wouldn’t ask too many questions, and so settled on the Queen’s Hotel, which looked on to the banks of the River Ouse. He was apprehensive about taking her inside after the incident in Newcastle, but they needed real food and a bath and a bed and he believed that he had begun to win her over.

  George turned off the engine then turned to look at her. He could see that she was weary.

  ‘This is a hotel. I’ll get us a room here and we can have something nice to eat.’

  She turned to him, nodding.

  He took a deep breath. ‘The truth is people are looking for you. They’re looking for a little girl. I know you don’t like your hair short or those clothes I bought you, but you can grow your hair again. It’s kind of a disguise, like I said… like dressing up.’

  She watched his face.

  ‘It’s just like pretending. Do you ever pretend when you’re playing?’

  She nodded vigorously.

  ‘Well, that’s what this is like. I need you to help me out. You just pretend that you’re a little boy. It’s a game we can play, and only you and me know we’re playing it. You can even choose a boy’s name. What name do you think you’d like?’

  The thought brightened her. She put a finger to her lips, considering, her body suddenly tense with the thrill of it.

  ‘Come on,’ said George, getting out of the car and taking their bag
s from the boot. He looked down at her and smiled. She was convincing with her Batman trainers and her jeans. He touched the skip of her cap. ‘Well, Batman, did you come up with a name?’

  ‘Batman?’

  ‘Your shoes, I was meaning. What name do you choose for yourself? Your pretend boy name.’

  ‘Batman.’

  ‘You can’t be Batman, that’s a bit weird, but you could be Robin. That OK?’

  ‘OK, are you Batman, then?’

  George grinned at her. ‘No, I’m George Harrison, like in The Beatles.’

  Moll smiled and George felt grateful.

  ‘Come on then… Robin.’

  She giggled.

  The receptionist was a young woman who wore bright red lipstick. George put a hand on Moll’s shoulder and smiled at the young woman, making sure that he made eye contact.

  ‘I wondered if you had a twin room free?’

  ‘Certainly,’ she said, blushing as she checked the register, so that George knew that she liked him. ‘We have a twin available for sixty pounds, and the suite for one hundred.’

  George paused to consider. He had the money for three suites, but experience had taught him only to throw money around when you wanted to be noticed. Where he came from, the only people with money were doctors, lawyers and gangsters, and it would be obvious which one George was.

  ‘I think the smaller room will be fine,’ he said.

  ‘Very well, I just need you to fill this in, and then it will be sixty for the room and a ten-pound deposit.’

  George stared at the form, feeling a desolate sickness that he remembered feeling every day at school. He opened his wallet and counted out sixty pounds and placed it on the counter. ‘Here you go.’ He took another five-pound note out of his pocket and placed it near the woman’s long, pale hand. ‘And this is for you, for that beautiful smile.’

  ‘I can’t really,’ she said, blushing deeply, and passing the note back to him.

  ‘What do you mean? I could give it to the guy who’ll carry our bag, but I can guarantee that he won’t have a smile that beautiful.’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said George, warming to her already. ‘Don’t underestimate your beauty.’

  The woman laughed, and gently pushed the form towards him. ‘If you could just fill this in.’

  ‘I tell you what,’ he said, winking, ‘you’ll not believe it, but I sprained my right hand only last week. Even driving’s difficult. If you need it completed desperately, could you do it for me and I’ll sign it?’

  The receptionist frowned in confusion but then agreed.

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘George Harrison.’

  The woman glanced up, smiling.

  ‘I know. That guy from The Beatles is mistaken for me all the time.’

  The receptionist printed his name. ‘And your son is…’

  ‘Batman,’ said George, winking at Moll, who grinned and corrected him.

  ‘Robin!’

  ‘Address?’

  George gave the address that he had had printed on his fake driving licence, which he had arranged before he left. It was an address in Edinburgh.

  ‘You’re just in York for the weekend?’ the woman asked.

  ‘Just passing through. We’re on our way back up north.’

  ‘Well, enjoy your stay.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The woman took their key from the slot and then smiled down at Moll, before passing the key to her. ‘He has your eyes,’ said the receptionist, and George winked at her.

  ‘Lucky him.’

  Their room was large with its own bathroom and there was a view of the river and the car park, which George thought was useful, although he was trying not to get too paranoid. As soon as they were inside, he gave Moll the room service menu and asked her what she wanted to eat, then began to run the bathwater.

  ‘Do you like bubbles in your bath, Robin?’ George said, raising an eyebrow at her.

  ‘Yes,’ Moll said, reading with her forefinger pressed against each word. ‘I want steak pie.’

  ‘That sounds great. I’ll get one for me too.’

  While the bath filled and the bubbles frothed, George made the call and asked for two steak pies, a pint of lager, an orange juice, and a chocolate ice cream sundae.

  ‘There you go,’ he said, hanging up. ‘You get your ice cream after all. I told you I always keep my promises.’

  Moll smiled at him, but it was a wary smile and he wondered what she was thinking.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, kneeling on the bathroom floor to test the water. ‘I think this is cool enough for you. You get in there, wash your hair, mind, and then we’ll eat our tea and watch the telly.’

  He left the bathroom door ajar and fetched her fresh clothes. When he returned she was deep in bubbles and trying to open a small bottle of shampoo.

  ‘Will you be all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, you’ll shout if you have any trouble.’

  He turned on the television, then saw the mini-bar and poured himself a whisky. He drank it straight as he changed the channel. It was the six o’clock news and Moll’s school picture flashed on to the screen.

  And now to our top story, said the suited male reporter. Police continue their search for young Molly Henderson, who was abducted from her home in Thurso in the Scottish Highlands yesterday. The seven-year-old, who was last seen wearing the school uniform pictured, was witnessed getting into a dark-coloured car with a tall, dark man, wearing a suit. Highlands Police are coordinating with the national force but have asked for the public to report any suspected sightings.

  George turned the volume down a little and stepped closer to the television to hear the report. When Moll had been asleep, he had listened to the news about her on the radio. One of the radio stations had suggested that the abduction could be linked to other child murders, and this had pleased George. He wanted the police to waste time comparing Moll’s disappearance with other crimes by other criminals.

  Yesterday evening, Molly’s mother Kathleen gave the following address…

  The camera cut to a recording of a press conference, where Kathleen was sitting with her husband at her side. They were both grey with grief, and Kathleen’s lip trembled, her eyes searching with confusion, not sure where to look. She had prepared something to say and now looked down at the piece of paper which shook in her hands.

  Molly’s very little and I know she’ll be frightened. Kathleen’s voice trembled and broke, but then she regained composure. If anyone has any information, I urge them to come forward so that I can have her back. Please. Please. We… miss her very much.

  George cleaved at the sight of Kathleen in such pain. He took a large sip of his whisky, wincing.

  Just then, Moll screamed in the bathroom.

  ‘Shit,’ he said, assuming that she had heard and spilling some of his drink as he rushed to change the channel.

  He went to her, cringing at the bathroom door before he entered.

  She had soap in her eyes. Her hair was covered in white foam and she was screaming with her knuckles pressed into her eyes.

  George rinsed a facecloth and wiped her face, then got a fresh towel and dried it off.