by C. L. Taylor
‘Is she OK?’ Helen asks.
‘I’m not sure. Have you got a thermometer?’
‘Batteries gone. Sorry. Want me to pop to Boots and get one? I won’t be gone long.’
‘Would you?’ I say and then pause. ‘No, actually, I’ll get it.’
‘But what if you—’
‘Have a panic attack? I need to get over it, Helen. I need to prove to the court that my agoraphobia doesn’t stop me from looking after Elise. If you weren’t here I’d have to get the thermometer myself, wouldn’t I?’
In all honesty I’m terrified at the thought of just stepping outside Helen’s front door but I have to do it. I’m going to have even scarier situations to deal with when I return to Bristol with Elise – the hospital for one, and then the court. No one else is going to make me better. I have to do it myself.
‘OK,’ Helen says hesitantly. ‘If you’re sure.’
I kiss Elise on her hot, clammy forehead and stand up. ‘I’m sure.’
My mobile rings, making me jump. For the last ten minutes I’ve been repeating the phrase ‘nothing bad will happen’ over and over again in my head as I’ve walked from Helen’s house, down Wesley Lane, left onto Charles Street and right onto Bridge Street, where I stopped to get money out at the cashpoint on the corner. According to the directions Helen gave me, I need to go into the shopping arcade, take the next left after the Pandora store and Boots will be at the end of the mall.
My hand shakes as I reach into my pocket. What if it’s Paula again? I should have Googled how to record a conversation on an old Nokia. If that’s even possible. Alternatively it could be Max. He’s been ringing me on and off all day. I nearly replied several times but Helen talked me out of it.
‘What are you going to tell him?’ she asked. ‘That Paula broke into the house, hurt Elise and then rang you up to taunt you?’
‘Yes, of course. It might convince him to take this seriously.’
‘What if it doesn’t? What if he uses it against you in court? What if he says that you can’t protect your child? Or, worse, tries to convince the judge that you were the one that hurt Elise?’
‘But you were there. You know what happened.’
‘I do. But I don’t think you should talk to him about it yet. Talk to your solicitor first.’
But it’s not withheld number or Max’s name flashing on the caller display. It’s Mum. How long’s it been since I last rang her? A few days? A week? I normally call her every day.
‘Hello?’ I hold the phone to my ear. ‘Mum? Is Dad OK?’
‘Sure, he’s grand. Well, no. There’s been no change, but that’s not why I’m calling. Listen to me, Joanne. Max just rang. He asked if you and Elise were up here with me.’
I press a hand to my stomach as a wave of nausea pulses through me. Max knows we’re not in Bristol? He must have been to the house to check.
‘I told him no, that you weren’t here, and he asked where else you might be. He said you weren’t answering your phone. What’s going on, Joanne?’
‘It’s … it’s a long story, Mum. I didn’t want to worry you.’
‘Well, I’m worried now, so c’mon. What’s happened?’
She listens as I give her a condensed version of everything that’s happened since we last spoke.
‘Oh, Joanne,’ she says when I finish. ‘Why didn’t you tell me any of this before? I can’t believe it. Why haven’t the police arrested that woman? She can’t be allowed on the street, terrorising you like that. And as for Max … I can’t believe it of him, really I can’t. He knows you’re a good mammy. Oh, I could kick myself for giving you those tablets …’
Now it’s my turn to listen as she tries and fails to make sense of what’s happened. I feel awful putting this on her. She’s got enough to deal with, looking after Dad, but Max has dragged her into this horrible mess too. Will it ever end?
‘You need to go back to Bristol, Joanne,’ Mum says. ‘Running away isn’t going to solve anything. You go back there and you need to work with your solicitor to put this right. No one in their right mind is going to believe that you harmed Elise.’
‘I know, Mum.’
I turn left after Pandora and walk past Superdry and Castle Fine Art. Boots is practically empty. Two sales assistants, chatting on the tills, don’t pause their conversation as I walk by, but one of them, an older woman with short hair and a side-swept fringe, follows me with her eyes. I scurry down an aisle, out of her eyeline, but the feeling of being watched remains.
‘Mum, I need to go.’ I swap the phone from one hand to the other and wipe my right palm on my jeans. ‘I just need to grab something for Elise from the shops then I’ll drive back to Bristol.’
‘OK, love. Will you go straight to the hospital or to see your solicitor?’
‘I don’t know. The hospital probably.’ I glance over my shoulder. A man with closely cropped dark hair is examining the toothpaste selection, further down the aisle.
‘How was the bruising this morning?’ Mum asks.
‘Same as yesterday.’
‘No new bruises have appeared?’
‘No.’ Helen suggested we take photos of Elise’s bruising last night. We took a couple of her chest and back and some more with my fingers wrapped around her to show that the tips of my fingers barely graze the marks on her back if my thumbs cover the bruises on her back. I don’t know if it’s enough to prove that I didn’t hurt her but Helen thought it was important that we have photographic evidence before the bruises fade.
‘Well, that’s good news,’ Mum says as I switch aisles and pass bottles of shampoo and conditioner and box after box of hair dye.
‘And Elise hasn’t said anything? She hasn’t mentioned seeing a stranger in her room or anything?’
‘No, she hasn’t said a word.’ I swipe the back of my hand over my forehead. I’m too hot in my thick winter coat and my hairline is damp with sweat. I’ve reached the baby aisle but I can’t see any thermometers. Nappies, wipes, creams and earbuds, but no thermometers.
I glance to my left. The man with the close-cropped hair is standing at the end of the aisle. He reaches for something from the top shelf and twists it round in his hands so he can read the back. I can’t be sure from this distance but it looks like a packet of disposable breastfeeding pads. He puts them back on the shelf and reaches for something else. It’s entirely possible that he’s a new dad and his wife has sent him out to buy a few bits and bobs but there’s no basket hanging from his arm, no list in his fingers. Something doesn’t feel right.
‘You need to get the police round,’ Mum says. ‘They need to fingerprint the door handles because if someone did take your key then …’
She continues to talk as I walk to the end of the baby aisle, take a right and head for the make-up display to the right of the shop. Beneath my heavy woollen coat my skin is tingly, my heart is racing in my chest and I am breathing through my nose in short, sharp gasps. As I pass the Rimmel display the tips of my fingers go numb and I feel light-headed and woozy. The air in the shop is too thick, too dense. I can’t breathe.
‘Mum, I’ve got to go.’
I end the call before she can object and shove the phone into my pocket. I pause by the Maybelline counter. The ground beneath my feet tilts and sways and I reach out a hand to steady myself. Tubes of foundation fall from the shelf and bounce off the polished floor as a wave of panic crashes over me. I can’t let this happen. I need to buy a thermometer. I have to pull myself together. I have to do it for Elise. No one is following me. I’m being paranoid. I’m—
A noise, like trainers squeaking, makes me look up. The man with the close-cropped hair is walking towards me. His hands hang loosely at his sides. He’s walking quickly, with purpose, and he’s looking straight at me.
‘Jo? Jo Blackmore?’
I don’t know if it’s the look in his heavy-lidded eyes or the set of his thin lips, but I react without thinking. I lurch away from the make-up display, showering th
e ground with cosmetics. And I run.
Chapter 31
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ Helen says through the open car window. The street is empty but she keeps her voice low.
‘What other choice have I got?’
‘You could go back to Bristol and tell the police everything.’
‘And then what? They hand Elise over to Social Services and prosecute me for harming her? They already think I’m a drug addict.’
‘That’s not true. They let you out on bail.’
‘But they didn’t do anything when Paula threatened me, did they? And they didn’t turn up when I rang to say someone had ransacked my house. As long as Paula is out there Elise is in danger. No one believes me, Helen. Not the police, not Social Services and certainly not Max.’
Helen’s face creases with concern. ‘I believe you. So does Mr Harrison. Your mum does too. Oh God, Jo. I wish there was something I could do. Can’t you stay with me another night and see how you feel in the morning?’
I glance into the back of the car where Elise is resting her head against her car seat, her eyelids flickering open and then closing again as she fights the urge to fall asleep. Her cheeks are flushed pink and her forehead is clammy, despite the teaspoon of Calpol I gave her five minutes ago. I know it’s just a cold or a viral infection but she should be tucked up in her cot, not shifted from place to place. How is she ever going to get better if she hasn’t got time to rest?
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘I can’t risk going back to Bristol. If the police arrest me they’ll give Elise to Max. Paula knows where he works and where we live. I wouldn’t be surprised if she knows where Elise goes to nursery too. She could still get to her. The only way to keep her safe is to leave.’
‘If you’re sure.’
‘I am. Thank you. For everything. For letting me use your car and for these.’ I tap the envelope on the passenger seat. ‘You could get into a lot of trouble if the police realise you gave them to me.’
‘I’ll tell them you stole them.’ She laughs lightly. ‘Are you sure you don’t want my mobile too?’
My phone had just enough battery life left to ring Helen from my hiding place – a skip on Mill Lane Road – before the screen went black. I don’t know when I’ll get to charge it again but I know Mum’s phone number off by heart and Helen’s written hers on the envelope she gave me. And if I need to ring Mr Harrison I’ll call one of those 118 numbers from a phone box. Really I should get myself a new phone, something pay-as-you-go that can’t be traced, but there’s no way I’m about to risk going back into the centre of Cardiff.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I might need to get in touch with you. But thank you.’
‘It’s the least I could do,’ she says. ‘Where do you think you’ll go now?’
I shrug. I ran through all my options while I was waiting for Helen to show up with the car and Elise. I could go up to Chester but the police will know about my mum. Mr Harrison told me this morning that the police would come after me if I don’t take Elise to the hospital and I’ve watched enough missing persons programmes to know that they’ve got access to cash withdrawals, motorway CCTV, mobile phone signals and social media to track anyone in the UK. My only option is to leave the country. And there’s only one place in the world where I’ve ever felt truly safe.
‘Ireland,’ I say. ‘I’m going back to Clogherhead.’
Chapter 32
Elise runs from one end of the caravan to the other, then scrambles onto the sofa and slams both palms against the net curtains covering the window, making me jump.
‘Dark!’ she says, yanking the net curtain up and pointing outside. ‘Dark, Mummy!’
‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’
We arrived at the caravan park four hours ago, after the woman in the Fishguard ferry office told me that the next sailing was at 2.30 a.m. Eleven hours’ time. I took one look at Elise, her eyes ringed with dark circles, her nostrils crusted with snot, and booked the sailing for 2.30 p.m. tomorrow instead.
Spending another night in the UK feels risky. Someone managed to track me to Cardiff but I avoided the motorway on the way here and haven’t used my dead mobile or a cashpoint since I left. I considered booking us both into a hotel or B&B in Fishguard then I spotted a policeman walking through the town and swiftly changed my mind.
The woman at reception wasn’t keen on giving me a static caravan just for one night but she finally relented. It was February, she said, and business was quiet. What harm would it do? I paid quickly, in cash, and ignored her question about our plans for tomorrow.
I nearly drove straight back out of the park when I saw where the caravan was situated, right on the edge of a cliff – only a low metal fence separating us from a near-vertical drop down to the black, swirling sea. I didn’t feel any better after we went inside. It was like walking into a rectangular, corrugated fish bowl, with two windows on each side and only one door. I locked the door behind us then checked that all the windows were locked and closed the curtains. Then I did the circuit again, double-checking. The television didn’t work so I wedged myself into the corner of the sofa and pulled Elise onto my knee. From that angle I could see three of the windows and the door. That left one window directly behind me. I tried to relax and read Snug as a Bug but I could barely speak, my breathing was so shallow. The words danced on the page as shadows moved in my peripheral vision and I couldn’t shake the feeling that, at any moment, someone was going to slam through the window and grab us. That’s how we ended up playing dolls in the bedroom, wedged between the side of the bed and the windowless wall until the tight knot in my stomach had loosened and my breathing had slowed.
‘Li-li,’ I say now as I walk out of the tiny bathroom. ‘Do you want to play a game?’
She turns away from the window and looks at me excitedly. ‘Yes.’
I feel sick to my stomach but I keep my tone light and playful. ‘It’s a dress-up game.’
‘Princesses!’ Elise bounces off the sofa and runs up to me. She pulls at the hem of my jumper. ‘Elsa dress. Elsa dress, Mummy!’
‘Actually, darling,’ – I touch a hand to the towel on my head as I crouch down next to her – ‘I thought we could play a different kind of dress-up game. Mummy will dress up as Helen and you can dress up as Ben.’
Elise shakes her head. ‘No, Mummy. Princess game.’
‘We can play that tomorrow, when we get to Ireland. But I thought it would be fun to pretend to be Helen and Ben first.’ I touch the plastic bag that’s leaning up against the door. ‘Helen gave me some of the clothes Ben wore when he was two, like you. Shall we put them on? See if they fit?’
Elise shakes her head, more resolutely this time, and her bottom lip protrudes. ‘No.’
‘Look!’ I pull the towel from my head and shake my hair loose. My daughter’s jaw drops, her eyes widen and then fill with tears. She backs away, shaking her head.
‘Don’t like it. Don’t like it, Mummy.’
I lift a strand of my damp, newly red hair and twirl it around my finger. ‘When I dry and curl it and put glasses on I’ll look just like Helen. It’s a funny game, isn’t it?’
Elise doesn’t look convinced.
Monday morning and it’s all I can do not to burst into tears each time I look at my daughter. Her red patent shoes, white tights, grey dress and scarlet cardigan are gone, shoved into the tiny bin in the cupboard beneath the sink, along with a pair of Ben’s Spiderman underpants. I couldn’t bring myself to throw away Elise’s pink and white spotty knickers. I let her wear them under the jeans – the only part of her identity that I hadn’t disposed of.
Now, tear-stained and puffy-eyed, she plucks at the worn green Ben 10 sweatshirt I wrestled her into this morning and scuffs one trainered foot against the other as she arranges her dolls on the tiny caravan table. But it’s not Elise’s outfit that’s making my heart break. It’s her hair. I knew there was no way she’d willingly let me cut her blonde curls so, as she munched on a piece of t
oast this morning, dropping crumbs onto the sofa as she gazed out of a window, I sat behind her with a pair of nail scissors. I lifted up curl after curl and snipped them away. Silent tears rolled down my face as I added them to the pile of blonde hair in my lap. I was worried that I’d have to dye Elise’s hair as well as my own and was flooded with relief when I opened Ben’s passport. He was only two when his photo was taken. His hair was lighter than it is now, still sun-bleached from a holiday to Spain – the last one Helen and Jake took before they split up. But it was short, much shorter than Elise’s wild mop. Her hair’s not long any more. I can see her forehead, her ears and the nape of her neck. I have snipped away her softness. I have shorn her of her identity. She looks, to all intents and purposes, like a small boy.
She wailed when she realised what I had done. In my haste to finish I touched the cold metal of the scissors to the back of her neck. I didn’t hurt or nick her but her right hand flew to the nape of her neck and she twisted round so suddenly that the hair in my lap flew up. Elise stared at me with wide, horrified eyes as it drifted back down, settling on me, her, the sofa and the rough, worn caravan carpet.
‘My hair.’ She touched the crown of her hair, her ears, her cheeks. ‘My hair, Mummy!’
She looked so shocked, so uncomprehending, so betrayed that all the soothing words I’d prepared to console her with instantly dried up on my tongue and I burst into tears. For weeks I’ve been telling anyone who will listen that I’m not a bad mother but, in that single moment, I felt like the worst mother in the world. My daughter had sat between my legs, at peace, safe and secure, and I had abused her trust. I hadn’t just cut her hair against her will, I’d scared her. For the first time since I’d left Bristol I doubted my decision to run. I should have taken her to the hospital, let the doctors look her over and let Max win. She’d still have her hair, her clothes, her home, her identity. She wouldn’t have to endure stifling car journeys or claustrophobic caravans. She wouldn’t be able to run into my room for a good-morning hug or press her lips against mine before she fell asleep at night. If I could prove I hadn’t hurt her she’d see me maybe once during the week and every other weekend. I’d justified my escape because I didn’t want that for her. I thought she’d suffer without me. But had I made that decision for her, or for me?