The Escape

by C. L. Taylor

  She was in the kitchen stacking the dishwasher when she felt the breeze. The radio was on and she was quietly singing along to Queen’s ‘We Will Rock You’. The song reminded her of Patrick. He’d been a huge fan of the band and played their CD in the car wherever they went. Mary used to needle him to play something else, The Beatles or The Beach Boys, maybe a little Daniel O’Donnell, but he’d insist, ‘My car, my music.’ Over the years she’d grown to like Queen as much as he did and she’d learned all the words without actively trying to. Singing along made her feel close to her late husband. It reminded her of happier times.

  In the quiet bits of the song, the pauses between notes, she heard snippets of the conversation going on in the dining room. She couldn’t make out what Helen was saying but she could hear the child, Lee, saying something about his grandmother. When she’d served them breakfast she’d asked Helen what her plans were for the day. She’d been quite non-committal in her reply, something about continuing to explore the area. Mary didn’t push the issue; she was too busy watching the child. At his age most children didn’t look distinctly masculine or feminine – they all had soft, round faces and large eyes – so you had to look at the way they were dressed to decide their gender. Lee was dressed as a boy, Helen referred to him as a boy, and yet Mary had seen him sitting on the bed in girls’ underwear. The image had confused her – Lee looked so much like a little girl that she’d thought immediately of Niamh. There were lots of reasons why a boy might wear a girl’s underwear – he had a sister, Helen had run out of his normal underwear but had only been able to buy girls’ underwear in the shops, or even that he’d requested knickers rather than pants. But none of that was the issue. Lee was a little girl. Mary was 100 per cent sure of it. Now she could see past the short cropped hairstyle and the sweatshirt, jeans and trainers, she could see how delicate Lee’s features were: how long her eyelashes were, how feminine her cupid’s bow was, how tiny her hands were. Why would Helen dress her little girl as a boy? Mary had seen a programme on RTÉ about transgender children, but Lee must be, what, two years old, nearing three? She considered herself to be fairly open-minded about most things but that was too young to let a child decide that they wanted to be a different gender. Surely?

  The Queen song ended as she arranged the last of the plates in the dishwasher and she became aware of footsteps on the stairs. She hadn’t thought anything of it but then she’d shivered as a cool breeze drifted through the open kitchen door. Someone had left the front door open. She felt vaguely irritated as she walked out of the kitchen into the hallway to close it. And then she saw the child, standing at the open front door. And it was Niamh, in her red and white spotted summer dress, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, pointing outside at the blue summer sky shouting, ‘Kite! Kite!’ Mary watched, frozen to the spot, as her daughter, in her shiny patent red shoes, stepped out of the door and onto the pavement. A scream caught in Mary’s throat. She tried to run but each step was heavy, laden and slow.

  But she made it. She reached her daughter before the car did. She snatched her up and into her arms. She half stumbled, half fell into the hallway and she doubled over, wrapping herself around Niamh, and sobbed with relief. She’d dreamed of this moment a thousand times. The sliding-doors moment when, instead of talking to her friend in the kitchen, she glanced into the hall to see what her daughter was up to and she saved her. There was no squeal of brakes. No heart-stopping terror when she realised she’d disappeared. No searching. This time she’d saved her. She’d never have to go to her grave again. Never wish what if. Never berate herself. Never hate herself. She had her Niamh back. She could continue to breathe, to live, to love.

  And then Helen had appeared and pulled at her arm.

  They sit in silence for five, maybe ten minutes, then Lee starts to grizzle about wanting to go to the beach. Mary can tell that Helen is conflicted. She wants to take her child outside but she’s worried about leaving her on her own. She needs a push to make the right decision.

  ‘Just go,’ Mary snaps. ‘I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. It’s your child you should be worrying about, not me.’

  Helen reacts with a shocked ‘Ooh!’ but Mary’s deliberate harshness does the job. She stands up, reaches for her child’s hand, says, ‘Thank you’ again and heads out of the living room. Lee pulls on her hand, twisting round to look at Mary. She raises a hand, smiles and says, ‘Bye! Bye!’ in her soft, squeaky voice.

  Mary turns her head to hide her tears.

  Chapter 48

  As Elise’s eyelids flicker and then close I inch away from her and swing my legs over the edge of the double bed. I need to ring Mum. I couldn’t face calling her earlier, after what happened with Mary. I should have double-checked that the front door was closed. Anything could have happened to Elise. She could have been hit by a car, got lost or been snatched. And it would have been my fault. Thank God Mary got to her first.

  I knew Mum would be able to hear the anxiety in my voice if I called her so I went to the beach with Elise instead, hoping that a walk would calm me down. It was easier, leaving the house for the second time. My hands weren’t nearly so clammy when we reached the beach. After years of fearing the unknown I actually felt calm. The sea, the rock pools and the excitement in Elise’s voice whenever we discovered a shell, crab or tiny fish slowly melted away the tension in my body and the sick feeling in my stomach. It didn’t return until we walked back into the B&B and I saw Mary, still sitting in the living room where we’d left her, with a haunted look on her face.

  ‘Mary?’ I say now as I hover in the doorway in the lounge. She’s not a tall woman but her presence fills every room she enters. Not now though. She seems tiny, swallowed up by the large floral armchair she’s sitting in. Her hair is ruffled, her cheeks wan and her eyes glassy and staring.

  ‘Mrs Byrne.’ I take a step towards her. ‘Mary?’

  Her gaze flickers towards me but there’s no emotion in her eyes. She’s obviously still traumatised by what happened this morning and it’s all I can do not to throw my arms around her and give her a hug.

  ‘Mary, are you OK?’

  ‘I’m grand, thank you,’ she says, her eyes still glassy. ‘Did you enjoy your trip to the beach?’

  ‘We did, thank you. Are there … um … any phone boxes nearby that work? I found one on our way back but it was out of order and Li was too tired to walk any more so we came back. He’s napping now but I thought we could head out again this afternoon, after he wakes up.’

  ‘You can use the phone here.’ She points across the room to a black cordless phone on a pine side table. ‘Are you ringing a number in Ireland?’

  ‘No, the UK.’

  ‘OK. Could I ask that you ask them to ring you back once you get through? The number is on the phone.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it then.’ She grips the arms of the chair and stands up. She crosses the room but turns back when she reaches the doorway. ‘Could I ask you something, Helen?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention what happened this morning to anyone local. I’d rather people didn’t talk.’

  I’m not sure I understand why she’s worried about people talking – she did something heroic in my eyes – and there’s no one I could mention it to, other than Sean, but I say, ‘Of course. Yes.’

  Mary nods. ‘Thank you, Helen.’

  I snatch up the phone the second it rings. ‘Hello, Mum?’

  ‘Joanne! Oh, Joanne. I’ve been so worried about you. How are you? How’s Elise?’

  ‘She’s fine. I’m fine. One second.’ Mary left the door ajar when she left. I close it quietly, the phone still in my hand.

  ‘You’re all over the news,’ Mum says when I press my phone to my ear again. ‘I can’t turn on the television without your face staring back at me. The newspapers say you’re in Ireland. Is that right, is it?’

  ‘We
’re in Clogherhead, in a B&B.’

  There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘What are you doing there?’

  ‘I thought someone might be able to help me. One of our relatives.’ I tell her, as quickly as I can, about the ferry crossing, the Gardaí at the B&B in Wexford, and Sean rescuing us when we broke down. Mum doesn’t comment on any of it. Instead she snaps.

  ‘Have you told anyone who you are?’

  ‘No, I’m pretending I’m Helen. I dyed my hair red to look like her.’ I don’t mention that I cut off Elise’s hair. It would break her heart if she knew.

  ‘You mustn’t tell anyone who you really are.’

  ‘I know.’ I’m startled by her tone. She sounds almost angry with me for coming here.

  ‘And you mustn’t go looking for Sinead or the others. You need to leave them out of this.’

  ‘But … but the car’s still in the garage and I need some money.’

  ‘I’ll give you the name of a friend in Cork who might be able to help you out with some money but you cannot stay there, Joanne. Do you hear me? You’re in danger.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘No, Joanne. You don’t know. You’ve stepped out of the frying pan and into the fire. You need to leave as soon as possible.’

  ‘But where? Who’s your friend in Cork? I want to come home, Mum, but I’ll be arrested the minute I set foot in a British airport.’

  ‘Oh, Joanne.’ I hear the quaver in my mum’s voice then the sound of her blowing her nose. She never gets this upset. Ever.

  ‘We miss you,’ I say. ‘We both miss you so much.’

  Mum blows her nose noisily again and I hear her juddering breath as she tries to control her tears. I hate that I’m adding to her stress. I should be with her, helping her with Dad, not hundreds of miles away across the sea. I shouldn’t have come to Ireland. I should have found somewhere closer to Chester to hide.

  ‘How is he?’ I ask. ‘How’s Dad?’

  There’s a pause and I wait for Mum to tell me that Dad’s OK, that the carers have been in, that he’s comfortable. But the pause stretches on. Outside the window an elderly woman in a heavy wool coat and clear plastic rain cap strolls past with her grey-muzzled dog.

  ‘Mum?’ My throat tightens. ‘Mum?’

  She stifles a sob. ‘He’s not good, Joanne. The doctors don’t think he’ll last the week.’

  Chapter 49

  ‘Yes?’ Fiona jabs the call answer button on her speakerphone.

  She’s going to have to talk to HR about getting a new receptionist. Ever since Sally left she’s been inundated with requests to take calls or greet visitors that really should be given short shrift. How the hell is she supposed to concentrate and get her job done when she’s continually interrupted?

  ‘There’s a Paula Readman here to see you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘She said she needs to talk to you about Max Blackmore.’

  Fiona sighs. ‘Her and the rest of the world. Tell her I don’t know where he is.’

  It’s true. She has no idea where her crime reporter is. Two days earlier he sent her an email telling her he was going to Ireland to find his wife and child. She immediately picked up the phone to talk to him but her call went to voicemail. So has every call since. He hasn’t answered his work phone or replied to any of her emails either. Yesterday she rang the hotel he’d been staying at only to find out he’d checked out two days previously. There was no answer when she rang his doorbell, and his car wasn’t in the street outside. He’d definitely gone, with no word when he might be back.

  ‘Miss Readman says she has something you need to see,’ the receptionist adds. ‘She says it’s proof that Max Blackmore has broken the law.’

  She sighs. Another complaint about Max. What had he done this time? Got an OAP’s name wrong? Taken their photo without permission? ‘What law does she think he’s broken?’

  ‘She won’t say and she’s refusing to leave reception until you see her. Should I get security involved?’

  Fiona sighs again. ‘Give it five minutes and then show her up to my office.’

  The blonde woman takes off her black Puffa jacket, sits down in the chair opposite Fiona and flashes her a warm smile.

  Fiona returns the smile but tightly. Paula’s made herself comfortable. This isn’t going to be a quick chat, she’s settling herself in for a long stay.

  ‘I like your earrings,’ Paula says.

  ‘These?’ Fiona touches the chandelier earrings that dangle from her lobes. Her husband Mike wouldn’t notice if she went to work dressed in a bin bag, and everyone she works with is too scared of her to risk commenting on her appearance.

  ‘The colour really brings out the amber tones in your eyes.’

  ‘Oh … um … thank you.’ For a woman who supposedly refused to leave reception, Paula seems very calm and self-assured. Pleasant, even.

  ‘Expensive, were they?’

  Ah. OK, time to revise her opinion of Paula. There was something deeply unpleasant about the way her eyes just glittered when she said the word ‘expensive’.

  ‘Not really, no.’ Fiona frowns as Paula twists round in her chair to stare out of the large glass windows into the open-plan office.

  ‘Would you rather I close the blinds?’ she asks.

  ‘If you like.’

  Fiona closes the blinds then sits down again. ‘OK, what exactly are you here to talk to me about?’

  The blonde sits forward in her seat. She taps the edge of Fiona’s desk with the sharpened tips of her nails. ‘Where’s Max?’

  ‘He’s off sick.’

  ‘No, he’s not.’

  ‘Can we get to the point here?’ Fiona fights to stay calm. She’s tired; Mike forget to take his snoring medication and she was woken up every couple of hours, and letting this woman into her office was a mistake. ‘You told the receptionist that you’ve got proof that one of my journalists has broken the law. That’s a very serious allegation.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’

  Stupid cow. She needs to stop playing games and get to the point. ‘Just tell me what it is that you think Max has done.’

  ‘You can find out for yourself if I give you the footage.’

  ‘What footage?’

  ‘CCTV.’

  Getting information out of this woman is about as easy as getting a drink from the Cornubia on a Friday after work. ‘Of Max doing what exactly?’

  Paula leans forwards and, before Fiona can stop her, grabs the silver-framed photo of her family from the desk. She flips it over and examines the photograph. ‘I bet your eldest boy’s a bit of a heartbreaker, isn’t he? That’s one nice-looking family you’ve got.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Fiona reaches for the frame but Paula snatches it away.

  ‘You’d do anything for them, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You wouldn’t put their safety at risk because of something you’d done, would you?’

  Fiona stares at the blonde-haired woman with the frozen forehead and the red glossy lips. What is she implying?

  ‘Are you suggesting Max has put his family at risk because of something he’s done?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting,’ – she stresses the word – ‘anything. It’s just a question, Fiona. Just a simple question. And you seem like an honest kind of woman,’ – she smirks – ‘for a journalist.’

  Fiona doesn’t bother to hide the look of disdain on her face. This woman is scum, pure and simple, but she’s got something on Max and Fiona’s not going to let her leave the office until she finds out what it is. ‘No,’ she says. ‘I wouldn’t put my family at risk.’

  Paula nods. ‘There we go, I was right. Honest. Exactly as I said. I imagine you’d respond to a request to return lost property too, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t need repeat reminders. Firm reminders.’

  There’s something about the implied threat in the word reminders that m
akes Fiona shift further back in her seat. Who the hell is this woman and how did Max get involved with her?

  ‘OK, Paula. OK.’ She holds up her hands. ‘Enough with the questions. Just tell me what it is that you want.’

  ‘Ten thousand pounds.’

  Fiona laughs but the other woman doesn’t crack a smile. ‘For what?’

  ‘The CCTV footage I’ve got.’

  ‘C’mon, Paula, you’re going to have to give me that. CCTV footage of what? I’m not handing over ten grand just because you ask me to.’

  The blonde tilts her head to one side and purses her lips as though she’s considering the request.

  ‘You do like Max’s wife?’ she asks after a lengthy pause.

  ‘I’ve never met her.’

  ‘I have. She’s … fun. Reminds me of a horse. Quick to startle, big nose.’ She laughs. ‘You know she’s run off to Ireland, don’t you?’

  ‘I do, yes. It’s all over the news. What of it?’

  ‘I can find out where. Consider the ten grand a finder’s fee. And I’ll throw in the CCTV footage for free. You’ll have two stories for the price of one – the Runaway Wife and the Bent Hack. The truth is, Fi, I’m not getting any younger and I haven’t got the energy to go charging over to Ireland to get my lost property back. I mean, I could send someone to get it back for me but, you know, overheads …’

  Fiona doesn’t buy the ‘not getting any younger’ line for one second. This is extortion, plain and simple. Paula has pretty much threatened to go after Max and Jo unless she pays her £10,000.

  She rubs the index finger of her right hand over her lips as she considers her options. Morally she should take this straight to the police. If Paula’s telling the truth about knowing where Jo is, they really need to know. And if Max has broken the law, she really shouldn’t sit on that.

  But she also can’t ignore the twinge of curiosity she’s felt ever since Paula opened her mouth. What exactly is it Max is supposed to have done?

  ‘If you’re not interested I’ll take my story to one of the other papers,’ Paula adds. ‘One of your journalists up to no good – they’ll have a field day.’