by C. L. Taylor
Anger flashes on her face. ‘Elise was in danger but, instead of supporting me, you patronised me. Poor old Jo, reacting to every tiny little thing. This is our daughter we’re talking about. I don’t care if we’re being overcautious, so long as she’s safe.’
‘Elise was in no more danger than if she’d been crossing the road or playing in the park. Not that she ever gets to do that, when she’s so wrapped up in cotton wool that she’s suffocating in her own home.’
‘DON’T!’ Jo snaps. ‘Don’t you dare go there, Max.’
‘I think we should talk about it. I think we should discuss the fact that you’re too ill to take our daughter anywhere other than to and from nursery but you’re well enough to plan a move up to Chester, are you? To start a new job? To take her to a new nursery? To build a new life for yourself?’
‘I’m trying to get well, Max.’ Jo’s gaze is still steely but her voice sounds choked, as though she’s trying not to cry. ‘I’m trying to do what’s best for everyone: for Elise, for Mum, for Dad, for me.’
‘But not for me?’ It takes every last bit of control to hide the pain that’s tearing at his chest. He’s always known that he’s last on Jo’s list of priorities, but hearing her say it hurts like hell.
‘Yes, for you!’ Jo says. ‘I’ve done nothing but support you for the last twelve years but you never listen when I try and tell you what I want.’
‘I listen!’ Max jumps up from his seat. ‘I do nothing but listen.’
‘No, you don’t. You don’t listen to a word I say. I told you not to get into investigative journalism because you were putting us at risk, and you patted me on the head and told me not to worry my silly little self.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘It is. You put yourself first, Max. You’ve always put yourself first. It’s always been about you and your career. I put up with that when it was just you and me but we’re a family now.’
‘You think I don’t know that?’
‘Well, you obviously don’t care. If you did you would have given a shit when I told you that a stranger had threatened our daughter and—’
‘I LOVE ELISE!’ Max roars with pain and anger and frustration. His right hand unclenches and he swipes at the framed photos on the mantelpiece, sending them clattering to the ground. Why is she being like this? Why is she attacking him when he’s just trying to do the right thing? He’s only ever tried to do the right thing. He’s vaguely aware of Jo screaming at him to stop as he tornadoes through the room, grabbing, smashing and destroying all the things he paid for, everything he worked so hard for, and then he hears it, he registers the threat that makes his blood go cold.
Chapter 7
I’m watching you, Jo. I’ve been watching you for a long time. I know where you go, what you do and who you talk to. And I know what your weak spot is. Some women become more powerful when they become mothers. They become more alert to danger, more ready to react, to defend. But you’re no tiger mother, Jo. You’re prey. And if you try and disappear down a rabbit hole with Elise I’ll come after you. I want what’s mine and I know exactly how to take it back.
Chapter 8
I should never have threatened Max, but I just wanted him to stop. I’d never seen him that out of control before. I begged him to calm down but it was like he couldn’t hear me, or our daughter whimpering upstairs, and so I told him that, if I moved away, he’d be lucky if he ever saw Elise again.
He froze. He stopped still in the middle of the room and he stared. Not at me. Not at the broken picture frames lying on the rug. At nothing. Then he said, ‘Elise is crying. I’ll go and check she’s OK,’ and he stalked out of the room before I could object, leaving me in a sea of smashed glass and splintered wood.
As Max’s footsteps clump-clump-clumped on the landing above me and the low rumble of his voice drifted down the stairs, I rolled onto my hands and knees, gritting my teeth as I forced myself up and onto my feet. He was halfway down the stairs by the time I got to the living-room door. In his right hand was his black sports bag.
‘Max,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. Can’t we just talk about—’
He walked straight past me, opened the front door and then looked back. His eyes were so filled with pain and hurt it took my breath away.
‘Mummy,’ Elise says now as I hobble across the kitchen to the cupboard near the sink where we keep our medicine. ‘Mummy, back owie?’
‘Yes, sweetheart. Mummy’s back’s still hurting.’ I root around the boxes of plasters, Calpol and indigestion tablets but the strongest painkillers we have are a couple of paracetamol.
I swallow them with a glass of water then take Elise’s plate from the table and drop it into the sink, then swipe at the jam on the front of her top with a damp dishcloth. I would change her but it’s taken me so long to do the simplest thing this morning and we’re already running fifteen minutes late.
Somehow I manage to wrestle my daughter into her shoes and coat and out the front door. As I do, the door to number 35 opens and our next-door neighbour Naija appears, walking backwards as she attempts to wrestle her huge double buggy out of the house and onto the path.
‘They’re doing my head in,’ she says, gesturing towards her eighteen-month-old twin boys who are red-faced and screaming. ‘I can’t wait until we go on holiday next week.’
‘I can imagine. I remember when—’ I break off mid-sentence.
Someone’s watching us. I can sense it, even without turning my head.
And there she is, Paula, standing on the corner of my street staring straight at us.
‘Naija, can you keep an eye on Elise for a second?’ I reach down and attempt to lift my daughter over the low wall that separates our front gardens but, as I do, my back spasms violently and I wince. I see a flash of amusement on Paula’s face and then she’s off, walking down the street towards Wells Road.
‘It’s OK.’ Naija reaches for Elise and lifts her over the wall. As soon as she’s in her arms I take off, hobbling down the path.
‘Paula!’ I try to run but I can’t stand up straight. Instead I half rock, half gallop along the pavement, gritting my teeth against the pain. It seems to take for ever to reach the corner and, as I turn it, my heart sinks. She’ll be long gone. An eighty-year-old could outrun me today.
‘Paul—’
I stop sharply. Paula is standing right in front of me, her hands in the pockets of her black padded jacket, her high-heeled feet planted wide. I would have ploughed straight into her if I hadn’t stopped so quickly, but she doesn’t jolt or step backwards as I draw up next to her. Her kohl-lined eyes flick from the top of my head to the scuffed Clarks shoes on my feet, and then rest on my arm, twisted behind me, my hand on my lower back.
‘Hello, Jo.’ The top half of her face doesn’t move as her lips curl up into a smile.
‘What are you doing here?’
Her fixed smile doesn’t slip. ‘My son lives here. I told you.’
‘No, he doesn’t.’
‘Doesn’t he?’ She tilts her head to one side. Her mascara-loaded eyelashes unblinking. Her cold, blue eyes fixed on mine. ‘That’s strange. I could have sworn I just came from his house.’
‘What number does he live at?’
She glances up Wells Road towards the small crowd assembled at the bus stop a couple of metres away. A woman with her child glances quickly away, embarrassed at being caught eavesdropping on our conversation, but an elderly woman continues to stare. Paula makes eye contact with her, tilts her head towards me and rolls her eyes. She may as well make twirling circles with her index finger whilst pointing at her temple.
Further down Brecknock Road, Naija is still standing outside her house, one hand on the buggy, the other clutching Elise. When she sees me looking, she lifts a hand from the buggy and holds it out, palm upturned. What’s going on? Paula shifts position. She’s watching them too.
‘Leave us alone,’ I hiss. ‘I don’t know who you are or what you want but if you don’t
stay away from us I’ll call the police.’
Paula leans in so close I can smell cigarettes on her breath. ‘And tell them what, Jo?’
I react instinctively, pressing my palms against her horrible shiny jacket and shoving her away from me. ‘Leave us alone!’
‘Oooh.’ She looks back towards the bus stop. Now everyone is staring at us, their jaws agape. ‘That was assault!’ She looks back at me. ‘I think the bloke in the black coat is going to call the police. He’s got his mobile out, look.’
I don’t look. I’m so angry I’m shaking.
‘Just leave,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘Just leave me alone.’
‘I will when your husband returns what he took.’
‘He didn’t take anything from you. He doesn’t even know who you are!’
‘Doesn’t he?’ A slow smile creeps onto her face. ‘He would tell you that, wouldn’t he?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Just tell him to return my property, Jo,’ she says as she turns to leave.
‘Why me?’ I shout after her as her high heels clip-clop on the pavement. ‘Why not talk to Max?’
She turns back and there it is, the same tight-lipped, narrow-eyed look she gave me in my car. ‘Because you’re more fun, Jo.‘
Chapter 9
I fight back tears as I shepherd Elise through the heavy glass door and into nursery. I don’t really know what I’m doing here.
I didn’t tell Naija what had happened with Paula. Elise was staring up at me with big, worried eyes and I knew that, if I said a word, I’d burst into tears. Besides, I barely know my next-door neighbour. We’ve made small talk about the children in the front garden and I once emailed her some information about a course she was interested in but we’ve never been in each other’s homes.
‘Come on then, sweetheart. Let’s get your coat off.’
I feel breathless and sweaty as I pull at the elasticated cuff around my daughter’s wrist. If I can just follow the schedule – nursery, work, nursery, home – everything will be OK. Elise will be safe here. I overreacted before. There’s no way anyone could take a child out of the nursery without a member of staff knowing. When Elise started I had to provide Sharon with a list of anyone I might send to pick her up, along with a description of them, and then I had to provide a password. They won’t release Elise to anyone who doesn’t know it.
With Elise free of her coat I lead her towards the twos room, hoping desperately that Sharon isn’t in today. She gave me such a strange look the last time I came in, and there’s something about her that makes me feel ill at ease. A week doesn’t go past when she doesn’t take me to one side to tell me off for not labelling Elise’s clothes or for forgetting to bring in family photos for a display.
‘Jo!’ A perplexed-looking woman with a baby in her arms and a shoeless toddler at her feet gestures for me to come to her aid. I’m so stressed I can’t remember her name. ‘You couldn’t hold Mia while I put George’s trainers on, could you?’
She thrusts the baby into my arms before I can object. My lower back twinges as I take the weight of the child.
‘Dat’s George,’ Elise says, pointing as the small boy gleefully throws his trainers across the hallway and his mother chases after them.
‘Baby,’ she adds, pointing at the red-cheeked, drooling bundle in my arms.
‘I’m so tired,’ the other woman says, crouching down beside her son. She grabs one of his socked feet and wiggles a shoe onto it. ‘Mia’s still waking me up every three hours for a feed. She’s six months old, for goodness’ sake. I swear George was sleeping through by now.’
‘Looks like she’s teething,’ I say as I dab away some of the drool on the child’s chin with the muslin tucked under her neck.
‘Four teeth! She’s started biting when I feed her. I don’t think my nipples can take much more.’ She glances up at me. ‘Sorry, too much information.’
‘It’s fine. I know exactly where you’re coming from. The first time Elise did that I was so shocked I shoved her away and she ended up on the floor!’
The other mum laughs but the sound comes to an abrupt halt and she hurriedly looks away. Sharon has appeared beside me with her arms crossed and a disapproving look on her face.
‘I don’t think potentially injuring a child is a laughing matter, do you?’
Sharon doesn’t wait for me to respond. Instead she reaches for my daughter’s hand and leads her towards the gate. ‘Come on, Elise, let’s get you inside.’
I watch open-mouthed as she ushers my daughter inside without giving me a chance to say to goodbye to her.
‘Don’t worry about Sharon,’ the other woman says in a low voice as she helps her son to his feet and reaches for her baby. ‘She’ll understand when she has kids.’
‘OK, Jo,’ says the policewoman on the other end of the line. ‘I’ve created a log of everything you’ve told me and you’ve got your incident number, haven’t you?’
I tap the number written on the pad of paper in front of me, even though she can’t see it. ‘Yes, I’ve written it down.’
‘An officer will visit you at home tomorrow to take some more details.’
‘Do you … do you have any idea what time?’ I feel awful trying to pin her down, given how accommodating she was when I said I’d struggle to make it to the police station because of my agoraphobia.
‘It could be any time, I’m afraid.’
That means I’ll have to take a half-day’s holiday from work and then pray they don’t turn up when I leave to collect Elise from nursery. Or maybe I could keep her home with me?
‘OK,’ I say, ‘that’s fine.’
‘Great. If anything else happens between now and then, make a note of the date, time and what happened and give us a ring back, quoting your incident number. And if you feel in any immediate danger call 999. OK?’
‘OK.’ I look up to the ceiling as tears well in my eyes, then take a steadying breath. I didn’t expect the police to take me seriously, not after the way Max reacted.
‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’
I want to tell her that I’m scared. That I’ve been home for less than five minutes and every noise, every shadow that’s passed the living-room window, has made me jump. I want to tell her that I’m scared that when another police officer comes round to talk to me I’ll have to admit that I shoved Paula in the street. There were witnesses – at least half a dozen. If the police track Paula down and she presses charges my career will be over. I’d lose my job at the university and I won’t find another. Not here. Not in Chester. Nowhere.
‘Wait!’ I say before she can put the phone down. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want anyone to come round and see me.’
‘Why’s that then?’ I can hear the frustration in her voice.
‘I … I … it’s fine. It’ll be fine. I … I think I overreacted. Sorry, the line’s breaking up. I appreciate your time. Thank you. Bye!’
I jab at the end call button, wincing as I sit back against the sofa cushion. I lasted less than half an hour at work. Within ten minutes of sitting down in my chair I was in so much pain from my back I wanted to cry. Then, when I rang my GP to try and arrange an appointment and the receptionist said there was no space for five days, I did cry. Diane, my boss, took one look at me and sent me home. I nearly passed out when I got into the car, and the pain is going nowhere.
I check my phone to see if there’s been a reply from Max to the voicemails and texts I sent him at work, apologising for what I said last night and telling him what happened with Paula this morning. When I woke up I picked up my phone, expecting to find a grovelling apology from my husband. He’s lost his temper before but he’s never smashed things up. Never. That was so out of character it scared me. But there were no new messages and I haven’t heard from Max all day – not a call, not a text, nothing. I don’t know what I expected. Maybe an ‘I’m sorry’ or an ‘I should have believed you’ or even a ‘
let’s talk’. But no, nothing at all. He knows he was out of order last night. The only possible reason for his silence is because he’s paying me back for what I said. That’s why I apologised. One of us had to break the deadlock.
I hobble into the kitchen, leaning on the walls for support, and rifle through the medicine cupboard again but nothing stronger than paracetamol has miraculously appeared overnight. I’ve already taken the two ibuprofen that Diane gave me but they haven’t touched the edges. I pick up my handbag from where I left it on the kitchen counter when I came in, and upend it. My purse, keys, make-up, tissues, various pieces of paper, an assortment of change and my phone tumble out. And something else – a packet of pills that don’t belong to me. I pick them up and turn them over in my hands. They’re some of Dad’s muscle relaxants. Mum thrust them at me when I mentioned that my back was hurting but I shooed her away, telling her that a couple of paracetamol would sort me out. She must have slipped them into my bag before I left. There’s no advice slip in the packet but a quick Google reveals side effects including dizziness, drowsiness, a dry mouth and possible addiction. Nothing overly scary. I make a split-second decision and pop two out of the blister pack and into my mouth. As I swallow them down with a glass of water a wave of exhaustion crashes over me. I barely slept a wink last night: a combination of the pain and the aftermath of the argument with Max. I glance at my watch as I shuffle back down the hallway, check the front door is double-locked, then step into the living room and ease myself down onto the sofa. It is 12.15 p.m. I’ll just grab a couple of hours’ sleep and, with any luck, I’ll feel better when I wake up. I might even be able to do a couple of hours’ work on my laptop before I go and pick up Elise.
I wake with a start but my mind is so foggy it takes me a couple of seconds to realise where I am. The living room is dark, the sofa is lumpy and uncomfortable and the house is silent. I turn my head. It’s dark outside but the blinds are still open. Unease pricks at my consciousness but sleep still has a grip on me, making me groggy and slow. I twist my wrist up towards my face and squint at the display through the gloom – 6.14 p.m.