‘Delivery.’ Dan kept it businesslike, as though he was expected. We heard a click and the gates slid open.
We all looked at each other in surprise.
‘That was a bit too easy.’ Steve frowned.
‘Don’t worry about that, let’s just do this, stick to the plan.’ I squeezed Steve’s hand and didn’t let go.
Dan drove in. The gates closed behind us. We were trapped here. Dan backed the van up on the left-hand side of the drive, in theory so we could drive straight out again, although I wasn’t sure how. We all jumped out. The cold air pinched my face. My breath billowed out in small white clouds. We took two boxes each from the back.
The front door was already open. A maid the size of a child stood aside for us to go in.
‘Shall we take them to the kitchen for you?’ Steve asked.
The maid nodded but didn’t move. Had she understood? My heart was pounding into my throat.
Steve pointed down the corridor behind her, making out the boxes were heavy and we’d be doing her a favour. Finally she turned inside and we followed her. I held back until she was out of sight with Dan and Steve trailing behind her. I put my boxes down behind the front door and ran up the sweeping staircase, two steps at a time in my silent trainers.
At the top was a closed door and at least three more down a corridor to the right and three to my left. I could hear a baby crying. My legs were shaking. I carefully turned the handle nearest to me and eased the door open. My hand shot to my mouth. Three metal cots stood in the centre of the vast room. The kind they had in children’s hospital wards. White chipped paint, deep barred sides, almost like cages. An old rocking chair and changing table stood in one corner and a wardrobe and chest of drawers in the other. The smell of milk lingered in the air. I crept forward. Three tiny babies were fast asleep. Above each of them was taped a piece of scrap paper scrawled with: Boy, 6 weeks, (mother red hair); Girl, 7 days, (mother dark brown hair); Girl, 7 weeks, (mother blonde hair). Jesus. What were they here for? Were any of them mine? I peered closer. My stomach twisted. They looked too young. Sudden, silent tears shook my body. Hold it together. Call the police. Search the other rooms. I dialled 999 on my mobile and reported that I’d found three babies at Malcolm Stewart’s home.
I pushed open door after door to more and more cots. My mouth dropped open, aghast. Which were mine? I peered at each in turn, frantically trying to recognise Rose and Robert. I thought I’d memorised their faces, but they changed so quickly.
Were these all surrogate babies? Did any of the surrogate mothers wonder what had happened to them after they gave them away, or did they just presume they were being looked after?
In three rooms on the right were five more sleeping babies. I stood looking at them, but none were familiar. One started to shift around, so I quickly came out. I peeped round the door of the first room on the left. A waft of dirty nappy hit my nostrils. A nanny was feeding a baby rocking gently in a chair, facing the window. The baby seemed older the way she was holding it, maybe two months, but I couldn’t get a closer look without the nanny seeing me. In the last room were three more cots, but they were all empty. I touched the edge of one and set off the crude rocking motion. Three mournful notes burst out of the broken sheep mobile clamped to the side. I grabbed at the soft animal shape, fumbling to make it stop. I held it still, half expecting a nanny to burst in.
After a moment, I picked up a cotton blanket and pressed it to my nose. I’d told myself I’d recognise the smell of Rose or Robert, but there was nothing familiar to latch onto, nothing to link them here.
Downstairs, a car door slammed, making me jump. I ran out to the landing.
‘Who’s that parked on the drive?’ a man shouted.
I froze at the familiar voice. The front door flew open and Malcolm strode in carrying a baby in a car seat. Its cries sent chills right through me. He dumped it on the floor with a clonk. A nanny trotted up, hands together as though praying for forgiveness. She unstrapped the baby and whisked it away into a downstairs room, shutting the door behind her.
Malcolm wasn’t wearing his usual smart trousers and trademark V-neck jumper. Instead he had a tracksuit and trainers on and looked like he hadn’t showered.
‘Oi you scum!’ Steve bowled across the hall from the direction of the corridor, followed by Dan and a nanny holding a baby’s bottle like a grenade.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ But before Malcolm could say anything else, Steve had landed a punch in his face. Dan stood back, arms crossed, nodding his approval. The nanny ran up and down the hall, crying for help, hands and bottle waving by her ears.
‘That’s for what you did to Brenda. Want some more?’ Steve bared his teeth as he lunged at Malcolm’s stomach, toppling him over.
‘Where are my twins?’ I screamed, running down the stairs.
‘And where’s our money?’ Steve growled, standing over him.
Even with blood dripping from his mouth, Malcolm still managed a sly grin. ‘You people only care about the money, don’t you? Haggling with me, always wanting more.’ He rolled on his side and spat blood onto the shiny white tiles. ‘Look at you both. What kind of parents are you, giving your babies away for a wad of cash?’
‘What have you done with our twins!’ I shouted, standing in the middle of Steve and Dan.
‘Oh dear, couldn’t you find them?’ he said in a mock-whiny voice. ‘He’s not even their father. I am, remember? They’re our children, Charlotte.’ Malcolm gave a gurgling laugh and spat blood on the floor again.
‘You’re a sick bastard.’ Steve kicked his leg.
‘What kind of sad little life would they have in that tiny flat of yours? They’re better off with parents who really love them and can give them anything and everything they want.’
‘What are you talking about? Where are they? Tell me – please – I’m begging you – where are my babies!’ I screamed at him.
At last, police sirens filled the air. I thumped the button by the front door to open the gates. Malcolm made a run for it through the house into the back garden. I ran after Steve and Dan who rugby-tackled him. Malcolm landed face down on the lawn.
At last we’d found Malcolm, but we were no closer to finding the twins.
* * *
Steve linked his arm through mine as two officers escorted Malcolm from the house in handcuffs. Inspector Johnson arrived with an armed police unit.
‘You should have left it to us, you could have been hurt,’ the inspector said.
‘What will happen to all the babies upstairs? When will I know if any are Rose or Robert?’ I asked.
‘They’ll all go into temporary care for now. We’ll let you know as soon as we can.’
‘Can’t I go back up and find them?’
‘Sorry, this is a crime scene now. We’ll be taking DNA samples from all the babies to be certain of who belongs to whom.’
A girl not much older than me got out of the back of the police car. She told us she was the surrogate from the forum, the last one due to meet Malcolm.
‘Thanks for helping me,’ she said. We hugged.
‘What will happen to your baby now?’
‘I’m thinking of putting him up for adoption.’
We both looked up. Malcolm grinned at us from the back of the squad car as it sped off.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
‘The police arrested a forty-nine-year-old man, who has been using the alias Malcolm Stewart, during a raid at a property in Peterborough early this morning. He has been charged with the murder of Paula Bennett and the abduction of nine babies, found at the premises. Three Filipina nannies, also at the house at the time of the arrest, have been taken in for questioning.’
I switched off the radio and stared into space, my mind blank. I hadn’t even been to bed. The kitchen clock told me it was 9 a.m., but for me time had stopped. I pictured the twins tucked into their cot in the hospital, a few hours old. I’d overridden my instinct to protect them. I’d fa
iled them. Given them away to a criminal. Stupid, stupid girl. Why hadn’t I listened to Mum instead of pushing her away, assuming she was being selfish? I’d acted like a rebellious child.
A car pulled up outside. Two doors slammed shut. I jumped up and peered out of the kitchenette window.
‘All clean.’ Steve came out of the bathroom, holding Alice. She repeated his words.
‘It’s the police.’ My voice sounded alarmed, as though we were the ones who had reason to hide. Part of me dreaded the truth, but the agony of not knowing if the twins were among those found safe in that house paralysed me.
Steve squeezed my hand before letting them in.
Inspector Johnson’s face was solemn. He seemed to have aged since yesterday. An older policewoman with a kind smile followed him in. My eyes darted around our messy room: the unmade bed, toys strewn across the floor, the faint sour smell of Alice’s nappy. I pulled clothes off two chairs for them to sit down. They didn’t seem fazed by any of it. We both sat on the bed, Alice at our feet playing with a jigsaw. Steve held me tightly round the shoulders; his skin as cold as marble on my bare arm.
‘Have you found them?’ My voice was barely a whisper.
‘I’m afraid we’re not certain yet,’ the policewoman said, ‘we have to do DNA tests on all the babies.’
‘Because the parental orders are fake, no tests were done at the time, which would have been the normal procedure,’ Inspector Johnson said. His face softened. Perhaps he was more hopeful than he was giving away.
‘If I could test you now, we’ll find out as soon as we can if any of them are a match.’ The policewoman pulled a long-handled swab out of a packet.
I nodded and shut my tear-filled eyes. She gently swiped around the inside of my mouth and dropped the sample inside a clear plastic tube.
‘All the babies found have been taken into care. Social services will carry out a welfare enquiry,’ Inspector Johnson said. ‘We’ll make them aware that you’re the biological mother if any prove to be yours.’
‘Thank you.’
‘The nannies are being questioned, but none of them speak much English so we’ve had to call in translators. We doubt they’ve been told much about the set-up, but I’m sure we’ll glean some information from Mr Brown.’
So that was his real name. I tried to shake the dark thoughts pressing heavily on my mind. I daren’t contemplate what I’d do if the twins weren’t among those at the house.
‘I know you can’t say much, but off the record, do you really think Malcolm fathered all those babies?’ Steve grimaced.
‘It seems entirely possible from what we know so far,’ Inspector Johnson said.
‘What did he intend to do with them?’
‘That we’re not sure of yet.’
Steve tipped his head back and blew air from his mouth.
The inspector’s reply was enough to send chills through me. When would I wake up from this nightmare? If the twins weren’t there, where the hell could they be, and who were they with?
Chapter Fifty-Nine
After the police had gone, I pinned up a Santa stocking for Alice. I wished I had one for Rose and Robert too, their first Christmas. The not knowing pressed on my thoughts. I’d almost forgotten to buy presents or food because I couldn’t focus on anything else. I only had a few things for Alice, a light-up push-along car, a chunky set of story books and a new T-shirt with Santa’s favourite helper embroidered on the front.
I kissed Alice and sat her in the buggy still in her pyjamas and tucked her in with a blanket.
‘Where are you going?’ Steve stood across the doorway.
‘I need to clear my head.’
‘I’ll come with you.’ He grabbed his jacket.
‘No. Let me go, I need to be alone.’ I wouldn’t look at him.
‘You’re blaming me aren’t you, for all of this?’ His swung his arms out.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because I made you do it, didn’t I? I wanted the money.’
‘Let me get out, I can’t even breathe.’ I pushed past him with the buggy to the hallway and out of the main door. I didn’t blame him, I blamed myself. I was the twins’ mother and I should have protected them.
The air weighed heavily after the earlier downpour, leaving the streets deserted except for the occasional car splashing past, spraying water over the pavement. I kept my head down and marched on, hoping I’d come to the edge of the world and fall into oblivion.
I reached the park on the other side of town and stopped under an oak tree. Distant thunder rumbled across the sky. I told Alice it was a lion snoring. I pushed on, letting the rain wash away my tears. When I reached the main road, I glanced both ways, certain it was clear, but as I stepped out, screeching brakes pierced my ears, my head. But something pulled me back just as a car whizzed past, hooting its horn at me.
‘Jesus, Charlotte, what are you trying to do?’ Steve let go of my coat.
‘It was clear a second ago.’ I tried to get my breath back.
‘Getting killed is not going to help anyone. How could you be so careless, putting Alice in danger? She should be your priority.’ He took the pushchair from me and started walking back. I ran to catch up with him.
‘What were you doing following me anyway?’ I asked.
‘Your mum called. She wants to know if we’re still going over for Christmas dinner tomorrow.’
‘Do we have to?’ I stopped in the middle of the pavement.
‘She’s worried about you. You need to give her a chance.’
I saw my younger self then, standing on the other side of the street, just as the fortune teller had described – a lost child, playing on my own, outside my mother’s bedroom door, praying for her to stop crying. When she did eventually come out, she’d step over me, curled up on the floor like an embryo and accuse me of trying to trip her up. I spent hours longing for Daddy to come home, but as soon as he arrived, he’d lock himself away in the shed, the radio crackling out tunes that filled the gaps around the door, making sure there was no way in.
‘Let’s go home,’ I said, realising that Steve was waiting for me. ‘There’s going to be another downpour in a minute.’
* * *
We woke early on Christmas Day and exchanged a small present each. I gave Steve the new Paul Weller CD and he bought me a diary and pen. Neither of us was in the mood for Christmas. We would have quite happily gone back to bed, but we played along for Alice, helping her to open her gifts from us and Santa.
We set off for Mum’s mid-morning, grateful that I didn’t have to cook and knowing we could leave at any time.
Mum answered the door with a flushed face and wet hands.
‘Come in, come in.’ She pecked each of us on the cheek. ‘I’m in the middle of checking the turkey.’ She rushed back to the kitchen, her fluffy slippers slapping against her bare feet. We took off our coats and Steve followed her in holding Alice, while I went up to the bathroom. On the radio, a choir of young children were singing ‘Little Donkey’ followed by ‘Silent Night’.
I remembered holding baby Jesus in one of my school nativities, in a freezing-cold church with all the angels around me in their silver tinsel halos. I’d stared as hard as I could into the doll’s eyes, tipping it backwards and forwards to make the eyelids close and open again, willing it to come alive, praying for a Christmas miracle, so I could take home a real baby for Mum. She’d sat in the front row, tears running down her pale waxy face, eyes fixed on the statue of the Virgin Mary behind me.
When I came back from the bathroom, the radio had been turned down low. Mum and Steve exchanged a glance. All of a sudden Mum rushed forward, arms out wide. I flinched but made myself stand still to let her hug me.
‘I heard the news. I’m so pleased he’s been caught and those babies are all right.’
‘They don’t know if that’s all of them yet.’ I fought the urge not to shake her off. I counted the seconds in my head until she released me. Steve
handed me a glass of white wine. I sloshed it down my throat like medicine; a dose of alcohol to steep my brain in.
‘Were the twins there?’
‘We don’t know yet.’ I tugged at my hair, my T-shirt and the baggy flesh underneath. My body remembered them. Their roots were within me.
Mum’s arms wrapped around me again and this time I gave in and clung to her, my legs buckled but she held me up as I sobbed.
When I finally pulled away, Steve lifted Alice up to me. I grabbed some kitchen roll and cleaned my face up. I kissed her cheeks and smiled as she said, ‘Mummy.’ He poured me another glass of wine and quietly took Alice into the living room. I drank a mouthful, more slowly this time.
‘When do you think they’ll know?’ Mum asked, stroking my back. She’d been crying too. This was hurting her as much me. I’d been so selfish pushing her away.
I shook my head.
‘We just have to hope.’ Mum checked the turkey while I sipped my drink. She shoved the hot shelf back in and kicked the oven door shut, but as usual it bounced open. We both smiled at how ridiculous it was. She’d been saying for years she needed to get a new one. I bent down, turned the handle and pushed it firmly closed.
‘It can stay there now until it’s ready to eat.’ Mum opened the window, her back to me. A tendril of dried-up wisteria reached in. She washed her hands and wiped them over and over on the towel, not once looking up.
‘Mum?’
‘I… I want to say sorry.’ She folded the towel into a neat square and smoothed it over.
‘What for?’
‘Having a go at you the other night. Not realising how badly you’d been affected by what happened to me.’
‘Maybe I was too young to understand the full picture.’
‘Even so.’
‘I… I thought I’d done something wrong, that I wasn’t enough for you… because you wanted another baby, then another.’
‘I’m sorry. I can see that now.’ Her fingers brushed her lips.
‘It hurt that you barely acknowledged me when you were grieving for them – I loved them too.’ I didn’t mean for the words to snap so sharply from my mouth. I sounded like a child.
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