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My Little Girl

Page 28

by Shalini Boland


  I need to stay calm. I mustn’t panic. This could be nothing but an outrageous coincidence. Maybe they’re simply looking in this area for Beatrice, or maybe they’re after someone else entirely. If that’s the case, then why are my hands trembling and why is my left leg shaking uncontrollably? Sweat prickles on my forehead and under my arms. I grip the steering wheel tighter, unsure whether to continue driving at this same pace so as not to appear guilty, or to put my foot to the floor and try to outrun them.

  Blue flashing lights coming up the lane behind me help to make up my mind. I take a breath, put the Land Rover into third gear and press down on the accelerator, taking a sharp right turn down the next lane. I know these narrow country roads and farm fields like the back of my hand, but will that knowledge be enough to lose a helicopter? Don’t think about that, just concentrate on driving. I also need to draw them away from Bea’s caravan.

  As I increase my speed, a wail of sirens start up behind me and I almost veer into the hedge in shock as I’m instructed to pull over by an obscenely loud police megaphone.

  ‘Yeah, right. That’s not happening.’ As I race and brake and swerve along the deserted lanes, I shoot glances left and right at the field entrances. All I need is for one gate to be open. Just one. On these tarmac surfaces, the police vehicles are gaining all too easily, but my 4x4 will outpace a police car cross-country.

  Finally, up ahead at the T-junction, I see what I’m looking for – Davey Lyndhurst’s lower field has both gates wide open. He, or one of his farmhands, must be in there, but I don’t care about that. I come up to the ‘Give Way’ sign at the end of the lane, ignore it, and almost fly across the road, praying there are no cars coming. My luck holds, and I find myself jolting across the cattle grid into Davey’s twenty-acre field, which just so happens to back onto woodland.

  The helicopter is right above me now like a giant spider, the moving shadows of its whirring blades passing across my windscreen and bonnet. Behind me, three police vehicles have followed me into the field, the distance between us increasing with every metre. If I can just make it to the woodland, I can slip away through the trees and hide from the helicopter beneath the thick summer foliage.

  A dull thud in my chest tells me that my dream of being with Ollie is over. That the best I can hope for now is to evade capture. A small, panicked voice tells me that even that is impossible. That it’s too late. Even if I manage to get away from my pursuers today, where would I go? How would I live? I’ll deal with that later. Right now, I need to lose the police.

  I floor it to the end of the field, by which time I’ve managed to accrue a healthy distance between me and the police cars. Right now it’s the helicopter I’m most worried about. My heart rate increases as I reach the edge of the woods and drive alongside the trees, casting desperate glances into the undergrowth, looking for a path of some kind.

  Yes! Finally, I see what looks like a gravel track up ahead and I nose my vehicle beneath the trees, plunging into the dappled gloom of the woods. It’s rough going, but that’s great because it means the police cars will have an even harder time on this uneven, flinty terrain.

  I gun the engine along the track, which is barely wide enough for the Land Rover, but at least that means the tree canopy stretches right across the path. So why then can I still hear the helicopter directly above me? How can it see me through the trees? If I can’t lose the helicopter then how will I escape?

  The police cars have already made it onto the track and the path is narrowing, slowing my progress. I need to get out, to try to slip away on foot. No time to lose. I grab my bag, ditch my phone and fling open the Land Rover door, jumping out and hurling myself into the deepest section of woodland I can see.

  I stagger a good way before risking a glance over my shoulder. It’s not good. I spot at least two uniformed male pursuers. A panicked sob escapes my lips. Surely there must be a way out of this. A brilliant plan I can conjure up. Something. Anything. All I can do is run, paying close attention to the ridged tree roots and clawing branches – the last thing I need is to trip and fall.

  The harsh sounds of police-radio chatter follow me through the gloom, the intermittent shouts from the officers telling me to stop running, that I’m under arrest. I can’t stop now. I have to at least try to get away. How can the helicopter still be overhead? There’s no way it can see me.

  My breathing is so loud, my lungs ready to explode. I’m fit and healthy. I can normally run for miles. But not like this. Not with pursuers at my back and fear in my chest squeezing the breath out of me. This is agony. I want to fall to my knees and sob at the injustice of it all.

  Only when I hear the bark and whine of dogs approaching do I finally realise that it’s truly hopeless. That the chase is finished. That I’m finished. My dream of being with Ollie is over.

  I slow my desperate run to a walk, raise my hands in the air and turn around.

  Fifty-Two

  CLAIRE

  Gayle drops me and Jill at the entrance to the field where the stolen caravan was hidden. So now here we are, striding shakily across the grass, every nerve ending in my body lit up with anticipation. The paramedic did a decent job cleaning all the dried blood from my head and face, although she warned that there’s still some caked in my hair that won’t shift without a proper wash.

  Checking me over, they said I have a mild concussion and insisted on taking me to hospital. Of course I refused. I’m not delaying my reunion with my daughter by going where they’ll probably only tell me to rest. I can do that at home with my family. At least I don’t need stitches. I didn’t tell them about the mother of all headaches that’s zigzagging across my skull. I’ll deal with that later and go to the hospital tomorrow if I really need to.

  After placating the paramedics, I then had to deal with Gayle, who said that it wasn’t advisable for me to greet my daughter straight away, looking like I did in my bloodstained clothes. But there was no chance I was agreeing to that either. Not when every cell in my body is screaming to go to her. In the end, the paramedic kindly lent me a spare shirt and Gayle relented.

  Once they had the information about the stolen caravan, the officers located it almost straight away. It had been sitting in a disused field not far from the Collins’s farm. Oliver went straight there when he arrived. I spoke to him ten minutes ago on Gayle’s phone.

  Oliver tried to reassure me that Beatrice is absolutely fine. Wonderful, in fact. Seemingly unharmed and unaware that she’d been kidnapped; she thought she’d simply been staying with Aunty Freya for a few days. I’d known she wouldn’t be able to keep that information to herself. Apparently, according to Beatrice, it had been boring and hot in the caravan, and she’d had to spend ages all by herself, and she can’t wait to come home to see Mummy and Granny.

  Once the police discovered who was behind the abduction, Freya didn’t get very far in her Land Rover. According to Gayle, Freya saw the police helicopter hovering above her vehicle and realised she was in trouble. There was quite the police chase around the lanes and into a neighbouring farmer’s woodland where the helicopter tracked her using thermal imaging. I’d have paid good money to see all that, after what she’s put us through.

  So now Jill and I are half-running, half-walking across the patchy grass towards a caravan hidden from view of the road by a dense stand of trees. Emergency vehicles litter the site. Lights flashing, security tape flapping, and people in uniforms talking into radios, along with the busy-looking white-clad CSI team.

  I turn to Jill. We inhale in unison. Her eyes are bright with nervous, excited emotion. My heart jumps a beat and my shoulders tingle. I won’t be able to truly relax until I see Beatrice with my own eyes. Until I’m reassured that she’s whole and unharmed.

  I suddenly grit my teeth in fury at the thought of our daughter locked up on her own for hours at a time. The blood begins to roar through my veins again. Freya better hope I don’t run into her on a dark night. She better pray she gets locked up where I c
an’t reach her. I take another deep breath, trying to banish my ex-friend from my thoughts. This is finally the moment I’ve been waiting for. I should be thinking good things, not getting sucked back into a vortex of rage.

  ‘You okay?’ Jill puts a hand on my arm and we slow down for a millisecond.

  ‘Just trying not to think about Freya.’ I narrow my eyes and start striding once more.

  Jill sighs and catches me up. ‘She’s a very troubled girl. Let’s concentrate on our darling Bea instead.’

  ‘Good idea.’ I exhale and my blood cools a little.

  Now everything is moving in slow motion as we approach the trees, and the large white caravan comes into full view, early evening sunlight glinting off the windows. A man steps out from behind it.

  It’s Oliver. In his arms he’s carrying a dark-haired child in a red dress. I let out a gasping sob. Jill and I stare at one another with what can only be described as unfettered joy, our hearts swelling, no more words needed.

  Oliver sets Beatrice down onto the grass, crouches and points in our direction. I forget about my throbbing head, about where I am and what’s happened as I stagger into a makeshift run.

  Bea’s face breaks into a radiant smile. ‘Mummy!’ She races towards me, arms outstretched, and I can’t speak, can’t even see as the tears fall down my cheeks and I sink to my knees. She almost knocks me to the ground as she flings her little arms around me and I breathe in the scent of my daughter. Kiss her all over and squeeze her tight.

  My daughter is finally safe.

  One Month Later

  The folding chair in my cell is uncomfortable, its back slopes at the wrong angle. At least it makes a change from lying on that hard, narrow bed. I like to alternate between the two. I’m not used to staying in one place. Before this, my days consisted of striding through fields, driving farm vehicles, seeing to animals and fences, manual labour. I’m not sure how I ended up here. How things spiralled so badly. And I can’t work out whether I’m at fault, or whether it’s everyone else who’s to blame. Whatever the reason, none of it’s fair. Why do some people get their happy ever after and others end up trapped in a small room with dirty walls and no fresh air?

  I pick at the skin around my fingernails, taking pleasure in the raw flaky mess surrounding the nail beds. Each nail is a work of art in itself, a sore little canvas of blood and skin. The thing I don’t understand about any of this, is why I placed so much importance on Oliver. If I think about it – and I do – we were together for such a short time. Granted, it was a wonderful time. The best months of my life. But since then, I realise he’s actually caused me nothing but pain. The pain of getting pregnant, of losing a child, of yearning for our lost love, of jealousy over his new loves, of hatred, of bitterness, of rage. And for what? So I could end up in this room?

  I can’t have ended up here because of him, can I? I try to push out the crowding thoughts of all the things I’ve done. The years of gaslighting and manipulation. Of lies and schemes. The abduction of a child. Of Beatrice. I inhale and blink back tears. It was justified. She should have been mine. Mine and Ollie’s. I shake my head at the blurred carousel of thoughts that won’t stop wheeling around my head. If only they would settle on a real answer. But they never do. They just keep spinning…

  Fifty-Three

  JILL

  ‘Granny, are you going to come to the harvest festival next week?’ Beatrice holds my hand as we wait for the bus up the road from her school, which sits midway between her house and mine.

  ‘I most certainly am. Do we need to get some donations together for it? Tins of food and packets of soup?’

  ‘Um, yes, I think so. Mummy said she’d buy some stuff at the weekend.’

  ‘We can have a look in my cupboard too, if you like. See if we can find a few bits for you to take home this evening.’

  ‘Yes!’ Beatrice smiles up at me, excitement spilling over.

  I lean down and kiss the side of her head, stroking the wispy dark strands of hair that have come loose from her ponytail. It’s at moments like this when last month comes rushing back to me. The horror of almost losing her forever. I shouldn’t dwell on it, but it’s sometimes hard to put aside. The fear of what might have happened.

  One positive that’s come out of such an awful situation is that I now get to play an active role in looking after my granddaughter once more. I collect her from school twice a week, and she comes back for tea. As well as spending quality time with my granddaughter, I also get to see more of Oliver as he picks her up from mine after work and always makes time for a chat and a cuppa before they both head home.

  I realise that part of the reason I barely saw Oliver before was that I placed too much responsibility on him to care for me after Bob died. I wanted him to take charge and be ‘the man’. I’m ashamed to remember that I played up to the image of being the frail old grandmother, when I’m actually not. My rescue of Claire and Beatrice showed me that I’ve still got plenty of fire left in my belly. So, now I’ve decided that I’m leaving it up to Oliver to see me whenever he’s free, rather than pressuring him to come over all the time. Funnily enough, I see an awful lot more of him now than I did before.

  Along with these unexpected pleasures, my relationship with Claire has blossomed into something wonderful. Yes, she’s my daughter-in-law, but she’s also becoming a cherished friend. I realise that my continued friendship with Laurel didn’t help my relationship with Claire at all. Not that Oliver and Claire knew an awful lot about mine and Laurel’s ongoing friendship, but listening to Laurel’s woes was bound to make me more biased against Claire. I don’t think I ever gave Claire a proper chance to be part of my family, and for that I’m sorry.

  In addition to our improving relationship, Claire and Ollie now know all about my financial mess and, far from being judgemental, they’ve both been really sympathetic and helpful. We’ve decided that the best thing will be for me to sell the cottage. Apparently, because of its town-centre location, it’s actually worth quite a lot. At first, I was resistant to the idea, nervous of leaving my house – the last home I shared with Bob – but Oliver explained that I could then buy a lovely apartment and still have a small lump sum to live off, which will mean less scrimping and saving. No more sleepless nights stressing about money worries. There might even be a bit left over for a holiday.

  I’ve already accepted an asking-price offer on the house, and I’ve found a pretty, characterful ground-floor garden flat on the other side of town which is walking distance to the shops. Walking distance was an important factor, because I’ve now had my driving licence revoked for eighteen months. I’ve sold my car and I don’t miss it at all. Maybe I won’t bother buying another one when my suspension’s over. It would certainly make better financial sense. I can’t believe I’m thinking about saving money in this way. Claire has taught me well.

  ‘Here’s the bus, Granny!’ Beatrice startles me out of my reverie.

  ‘Put your hand out then. Wave it down.’

  Beatrice plants herself squarely on the pavement and sticks one skinny arm out into the road. The bus driver smiles, gives her a thumbs up and pulls over while everyone else at the bus stop coos over how cute Bea is. Pride and love swell in my chest and I want to proclaim loudly that she’s my granddaughter. Of course I don’t, I simply take her hand as we step up onto the bus, the two of us, ready to take on the world.

  Fifty-Four

  CLAIRE

  Oliver and I walk up the sandy path as sunlight glints through the pines, willows and birches of St Catherine’s Hill. Despite the heat of the day, faint signs of autumn catch my eye – leaves tinged with orange and yellow, and brown curling heather that carpets the earth around the trees.

  Ahead of us, Beatrice darts and weaves through the bracken with that energetic blonde bundle of craziness who’s recently become the fourth member of our household – Winnie the golden retriever.

  Oliver and I had decided that we were going to wait until next spring to
get Beatrice a puppy, but one of Jill’s Pilates friends runs a dog rescue centre and, according to Jill, two-year-old Winnie was just perfect for Beatrice and we just had to come and see her. Of course, as soon as we clapped eyes on the pup, it was love at first sight, and I already can’t imagine life without her. Beatrice is besotted. We all are.

  That first night our daughter came home was both wonderful and unsettling; Ollie and I didn’t want to let her out of our sight. We hugged her, kissed her, let her play with whatever she wanted, ordered her favourite Domino’s pizza, with rocky road ice cream for dessert. But, although we were in raptures over her return, she was so at ease that it felt strange. We’d thought we would be comforting her and soothing her tears, or worse. Instead, it just felt… normal.

  That night, we tucked Beatrice up in bed with all her cuddly toys arranged around her. We sat on the edge of the bed and read her stories until she fell asleep. Even then, we couldn’t bear to leave the room. We sat for ages just gazing at our daughter, throwing each another occasional grateful glances. Eventually, Ollie and I tiptoed downstairs where we talked about how we’d have to be careful not to change how we interacted with our daughter. We had to get back to normal, for her sake. At least Freya hadn’t traumatised her in any way that we could see. It was just me, Ollie and Jill who had gone through hell.

  ‘Beatrice!’ Ollie calls out. ‘Stay where we can see you!’

  ‘We’re right here!’ Bea replies, charging back onto the path, Winnie panting at her heels.

 

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