by Elle Croft
I wish I’d brought a magazine – or something to distract me from what I’m about to do. Instead, I watch the second hand on the clock as it journeys around the face, and I think about Imogen. About how tiny she was when she came home with us. Malnourishment, they had explained. But soon she was guzzling milk by the cupful, devouring whatever we put in front of her as though it was her last meal. While other children her age threw tantrums over vegetables, demanding sweeter substitutes like stewed apple or pureed carrots, Imogen was licking smears of steamed broccoli off the plastic tray of her high chair. When she spoke her first word, it wasn’t Mamma or Dadda, or even no, like Jemima. It was more. That one syllable, which spoke volumes about her unmentionable beginnings in life, had broken our hearts.
But while we’d silently grieved for her, she’d smiled, banged her spoon against the side of the table and brightly demanded more. She was a marvel. What she’d been through in her short time on earth had been unthinkable, and yet she’d carried on as though life was a magical thing to be devoured with gusto. She doesn’t know it, but Imogen is, without a doubt, the most incredible person I’ve ever met. I wish I could tell her that. I wish I’d trusted her with the truth, that I’d ignored the potential dangers and just explained how brave and amazing she is.
It suddenly dawns on me that I might never have the chance to tell her these things, and the anguish that washes over me is physical, a hollowing out that threatens to scrape away everything inside me. I close my eyes and beg myself to think positively, to refuse to give in to the fear. But all I can focus on is the fact that she could be in the hands of a man who doesn’t know the truth, who doesn’t know who Imogen really is. She’s so much more than her DNA, than her early experiences. She’s not a victim. And she’s not the sum of her birth parents’ failures. She’s a fighter, a survivor. She’s my daughter.
‘Kathryn Braidwood?’
I look up nervously. A woman in a brown uniform and a bright blue lanyard is standing at the door marked SECURITY. I stand up, and she gestures for me to follow her. My heart is pounding in my ears, my legs shaking as I complete the security procedures. I’m hardly able to follow the instructions I’m given, as every cell in my body is willing me to run away, to forget this idea, to call Dylan and confess how reckless I’ve been, how stupid.
But, instead, I let myself be led further and further into the prison, closer and closer to the woman who gave me my daughter. The phrase ‘lamb to the slaughter’ flits through my mind. I dismiss it and lift my chin in defiance of my own thoughts. My fears don’t matter. I’m here for Imogen, not for myself.
And then I’m in a room filled with tables and chairs, with guards dotted along the walls, watching the conversations that are already taking place. And at a table in the middle is a lone woman in a brown tracksuit, with blonde hair, her arms chained in front of her, attached to the ring that’s welded to the tabletop. I’m almost upon her when she looks up, and my blood sizzles, as though electricity has been shot directly into my veins.
I’d know this woman anywhere. Anyone in the country would. I’ve seen her face a thousand times, on the front page of countless newspapers, on the evening news, in articles about criminals, in documentaries. This innocent-looking woman with a childlike face and delicate features is synonymous with evil. She’s a kind of bogeyman, a symbol of the darkness we all wish didn’t exist in the world.
It’s surreal, seeing her in the flesh like this. Like seeing a celebrity, except instead of wanting to lean in and memorise every detail for future anecdotes, I want to recoil, to stay as far away as possible, to erase this encounter from my memory. I don’t want to be around that perfectly formed nose, those rosebud lips.
And those eyes. They’re amber, like my daughter’s; warm pools of caramel flecked with small brown dots around the pupils.
She smiles, and an intense hatred that I’ve never felt before fills me from head to toe.
‘Hello,’ she says. Her voice is like thousands of tiny knives being dragged slowly across my skin. ‘You must be Kathryn. I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you.’
Chapter 40
SALLY
She’s scared. I can sense it.
I have that effect on people and, quite frankly, I like it. My whole life, I was the one who was scared. First, of my father. Then anyone in the world who could hurt my children. So … everyone.
Now, though, the tables have turned. At this particular table, we have me on one side, chained like a dog, in a deeply unattractive tracksuit, watched over by guards. And opposite me, a free woman, here of her own volition, trembling with fear. It’s perverse. It’s delicious.
It’s clear that I hold the power. More than she knows. As soon as I saw the press conference on the news, as soon as they flashed up the photo of my Amy, spitting image of her older sister Tash – lovely, unruly, Fearless Tash – I knew. I knew who Kathryn Braidwood was, before I demanded that the other girls turned the volume up and the news presenter confirmed it. I knew what had happened to the girl she claimed was her daughter. My chest had swelled with triumph. I guessed it’d only be a matter of days before she turned up here, wanting to see me.
She thinks she’s the one who got the wheels of bureaucracy turning yesterday, but, in fact, I’d already filled in the required forms to add Kathryn Braidwood to my visitor list. I know she’s curious about me, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to look into the eyes of the woman who stole my precious little girl.
I can tell she’s rich, from the clothing she wore at the press conference and her posh Adelaide accent, to those manicured nails, now chipped and ragged, but still showing signs of lifelong care. She’s a city chick, comes from money I expect, and has always had the whole world handed to her on a silver platter. If she adopted, I’m guessing that means she couldn’t have kids of her own. Must have come as a shock to someone who always got what they wanted. Must have been a tough pill to swallow. I bet they spent ages umming and ahhing about taking someone else’s offspring, about not carrying on their precious family name.
And somehow, by some twist of fate or government intervention or whatever you want to call it, my baby girl ended up calling this posh bitch Mum instead of me. It was my breast she latched onto, me she cried for in the middle of the night, my DNA that built every cell in her body, my blood that runs through her veins. She’s mine. A Sanders. Not a Braidwood.
I try not to think of the horrors my girl has had to endure since she left me all those years ago, the things she’s been exposed to and the people I haven’t been able to protect her from. I wonder if she turned out like Kimberley, a traitor who was only after what she could get for herself, or if she remained as flawless as she was when she left me. It’s not important, in the end. It doesn’t change anything.
I’ve been thinking, since I saw that news report, since my Amy’s face flashed in front of me – that unmistakable Sanders face with the small mouth and the golden eyes and Tim’s perfect jawline – I’ve been wondering what kind of rose I would have picked out for my Amy, if I’d been given the chance. I’ve decided that she might just be a Soaring Spirits. A shock of cheery colour, climbing, reaching for the sun, escaping the darkness, growing into the light. That’s my girl. That’s my Amy.
The chair scrapes as Kathryn shifts, her small hands twitchy, flitting between her lap and the table. Every time they land on the hard metal surface, she remembers where she is, who she’s with, and they lift again as though the table is electrified. Or maybe it’s because there are only a few centimetres between her hands and the hands of a killer. Everyone seems to think I’m infectious, like if they come too close, they might suddenly go on a killing spree against their will. That suits me just fine; it keeps the fear coursing through their veins.
Kathryn’s perfectly cut, expensive-salon-dyed chestnut bob is dishevelled, the roots only just betraying her age. She’s probably missed a regular appointment by just a couple of days. Losing a child will do that to you, make you f
orget things that were once important, cause you to lose focus. I’d know.
Her skin is smooth, good for her age, but she’s wearing no make-up and the stress is showing in the dullness of her cheeks, the sagging grey hammocks that her chocolate eyes are resting in. They dart from the guard whose presence I sense behind me to my hands to any other prisoner in this room. She doesn’t want to look at me.
She despises herself for being here, for even acknowledging my presence.
I smile. I’m going to enjoy this.
Chapter 41
KAT
‘So,’ Sally says with a prim smile as I perch tentatively on the seat across from her, careful not to touch anything, careful to keep my distance, ‘you’re the woman who stole my baby girl.’
My blood is pulsing so violently through my body that I’m scared the force of it will rupture my skin. I blink a few times to fight the black spots that are dancing across my vision. I breathe. And I look into the face of the woman who would have killed my daughter if she hadn’t been caught when she was.
Time may have lost its meaning for her in here, but Sally’s ageing process seems to have been accelerated. Her hair, once perfectly styled and finished with a curling iron – the same one that was used to administer punishments on her children – is lank and sparse, the shine gone, switched off, along with the spotlight she adored so much. Her skin is dull, the dark circles under her eyes suggesting that her life perhaps isn’t as cushy as the papers make it out to be. My eyes trace a constellation of marks that dot her once-perfect skin. There’s a livid red slash above her left eyebrow and a series of small, round scars, puckered and shiny with age, smattered across her cheeks. At a guess, I’d say they were cigarette burns. Triumph flares up inside me at the thought of the vigilante justice she’s being served in here.
‘Do you actually have something to say, or are you just here to stare, because I can just give you a photo if you like? I’ll even sign it for you.’
Her voice is sweet; childlike, almost. She’s well spoken, giving her an air of affluence, despite the surroundings. It’s unnerving.
I shake my head slightly in an attempt to focus on what I came here for. I clear my throat.
‘Imogen’s missing,’ I say simply. Then, ‘Amy. Amy’s missing.’
Sally’s mouth curls up a little in one corner. She sits back in her chair, completely relaxed, in perfect contrast to me. Her eyes – Imogen’s eyes – slide from the top of my head to the point where the table conceals the rest of my body. My skin bristles as I force myself to keep still. I will myself to stare back at this woman, to not be cowed by her. Every muscle in my body is tensed as I wait for her to speak. When she does, her voice is calm, and perfectly pleasant.
‘Why is it that you expect I should care?’
‘You should care,’ I seethe instantly, without weighing up my words, ‘because she’s your daughter, you selfish bitch!’
I sit back with a small gasp, unsure of what kind of damage I may have just caused with my outburst. Sweat forms in my armpits, making me sticky and hot. I risk a look at Sally. She hasn’t moved. She’s calm, unflinching. Her mouth is still curled in a little half-smile.
‘Ah, so I’m the selfish one, am I?’
Her eyes are gleaming with mischief. She doesn’t quite wink, although it wouldn’t surprise me if she did.
I keep my jaw clamped shut. Pressure builds behind my eyes, the self-control it’s taking not to launch myself across the table and strangle her exerting far more energy than it should.
‘Tell me,’ she says lazily, her words drawn out and songlike. ‘Why is it that you think I’m selfish, but you think you’re selfless? No, let me finish.’ She spreads her fingers out, imploring, as I open my mouth to answer her apparently rhetorical question. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ she continues, raising her left eyebrow and drawing attention to the vivid red scar. ‘But children don’t ask to be born. It’s got absolutely nothing to do with them. It’s the parents who are desperate to see a little clone of Mummy and Daddy toddling around the house to satisfy their narcissism, isn’t it? Seems to me, and I’ll readily admit that I’m hardly a shining example of motherhood, but it looks as though everyone – myself included – has kids because they want them. Look at you. You took a convicted murderer’s child, because you were so desperate for one yourself. If that isn’t selfish, I don’t know what is!’
‘How is it selfish,’ I spit, ‘to take in a child that would otherwise be tortured, beaten, unloved and probably m—murdered?’ I can hardly bring myself to squeeze out that last word. Imogen’s alternative reality is so horrifying that most of the time, I can’t bear to acknowledge that it was ever possible. Bile rises in my throat, hot and fast. I swallow it back down.
‘It’s selfish,’ Sally replies lightly, as though we were talking about nothing more serious than how best to keep plants alive in a heatwave, ‘because you wanted her for you. People don’t get pregnant out of selflessness, although they like to think they do. People have babies because of their own wants and needs. They’re scared of being lonely. They want the things they’ve accumulated to end up in the hands of someone they know, as if that gives any of their belongings more meaning. They want ready-made caretakers when they’re old. They want mini replicas of themselves, little minions who they can manipulate into doing the things they never had the guts to do themselves. They want trophies, Kathryn. What’s more selfish than that?’
My mouth opens and closes, like a fish that’s found itself on dry land, gasping for the cool escape of familiarity.
‘My—my children aren’t trophies,’ I stammer. ‘I love them, I’d do anything for them. That’s not selfish!’
Somewhere at the back of my brain, my subconscious recognises that she’s baiting me. That I’m just another plaything for her, someone new to torture. But I can’t help myself. I know I’m rising to her twisted taunting, but I won’t be called selfish. Not by this madwoman.
‘Sure,’ she says, a sharp little puff of breath escaping her nostrils, a muffled laugh at my insistence. ‘It looks like you gave Amy a lovely middle-class life, probably better on the surface than what we could have given her, to be honest, but, on some level, you wanted her for you. For your purposes. I’ll admit that the things you wanted kids for was probably less … unsavoury … than my reasons, but in the end, kids are just adults’ playthings, aren’t they? Sugarcoat it however you like, but babies aren’t much more than dolls for you to dress up and pass around to impress your neighbours. Accessories that make you feel good about yourself because you’re, I don’t know, passing on your superior genetics or something.’
I try to tune her out as she delivers her soliloquy. As soon as she started comparing the two of us as mothers, I understood. She’s deranged. This is nothing more than the ravings of a lunatic. Instead of focusing on her words, I tell myself that I’m safe, that she’s chained to the table, that she’s locked up for life without hope of ever being released.
And I remind myself that the reason I’m here is for Imogen, not to justify my parenting. I ignore the fear that’s pounding urgently at the back of my eyes, warning me to run, to forget this insanity, to be done with this woman. I can’t leave. Not without getting what I came for.
I wait until Sally pauses for breath. She peers at me, suddenly curious as to why I’m not reacting. I cross my arms over my chest.
‘So, have you heard from her?’
‘Who? Amy? Oh yeah, of course. We’re thick as thieves, my daughter and I. Go shopping every week, share clothes, do each other’s nails, pillow fights, the works,’ she sneers.
‘She could be in danger,’ I say, ignoring her sarcasm. ‘She’s been missing for almost a week now.’
‘Is that so?’ Sally shrugs, her tone laced with boredom, as she inspects her ragged fingernails. I try not to think about what those hands have done, the pain they caused the children who weren’t as lucky as my daughter. She got out alive. Almost completely unscathed. She ha
dn’t reached the ‘prime’ age yet, it was revealed in the trial, as Tim had tried to justify their sick rituals.
And then it dawns on me that I had this all wrong. That I was stupid for following my irrational, emotion-driven whim. Of course Sally doesn’t care that her daughter is in danger. Sally created danger for her children, she didn’t protect them from it. For her, love is something sick and depraved, a need to harm rather than to shelter, a compulsion to destroy rather than to build. I’m suddenly exhausted, all of my momentum halted instantly by this solid realisation.
I move to stand and Sally straightens up.
‘Wait,’ she says, her tone transforming from arrogant and taunting to something softer. There’s a hint of desperation in her voice. She wants me to stay. It must be lonely, being Australia’s most hated woman. Being in a maximum-security prison for life, with no visitors, no friends outside, and plenty of enemies inside, if those scars are anything to go by. And then I understand. I have the upper hand here. She may repulse me, but I have the power.
I stand, silent and resolute, my arms crossed over my chest.
‘I don’t know where Amy is,’ she says slowly. ‘But there is something you should probably know.’
I raise an eyebrow. I can’t tell if she’s lying, manipulating me to get me to stay.
‘Honest,’ she says, splaying her fingers out, pleading.
I sit down again without a word and wait for her to tell me whatever it is that she knows.
‘About a year ago,’ she begins, ‘I received a letter. Now, I should point out that I get quite a few letters in here. Fan mail, you know? Proposals. Not that I’d ever do that to my Tim, but it’s a nice little ego boost, I’m not going to pretend otherwise.’
My stomach curdles. What kind of man would propose to this woman? Surely the police should look into the sort of person who wants to be romantically involved with a serial killer and child torturer? I blink away the visions of Sally in a wedding dress, smiling and holding hands with someone equally deranged.