The Escape

by C. L. Taylor

  Fiona’s heart rate quickens. The last thing she needs is for one of her journalists to be torn apart by the opposition. It would bring her paper into disrepute. ‘You did the right thing, Paula,’ she says quickly, ‘coming to me.’

  The blonde smiles victoriously. ‘Great. I knew I liked you, Fiona.’

  However,’ Fiona adds quickly, ‘I need proof that what you said is true.’

  Paula’s smile doesn’t slip an inch. ‘I thought you’d say that.’ She reaches into her handbag and pulls out a piece of paper. She unfolds it and slides it across the desk but keeps hold of the edge.

  ‘There!’ She taps the centre of the grainy image. ‘That’s Max.’

  Fiona nods. It’s definitely Max and she can see exactly what he’s doing but there’s no way she’s going to write Paula a cheque for £10,000 on the basis of a single black and white image. She needs to buy some time while she decides how to handle the situation.

  ‘OK, Paula,’ she says as the blonde tucks the image back into her handbag. ‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to ring the accountants and I’m going to authorise a payment to be made to you. But it’s going to take a few days. This isn’t petty cash money we’re talking about. I need you to do something for me while it’s going through. I need you to promise me that you’re not going to take this to any other paper.’

  Paula smiles. She thinks she’s got the upper hand. ‘I’m not promising anything. They might offer me more.’

  ‘True. And they might offer you nothing. News travels fast and if I find out that you’ve peddled this story to our competition you’ll get nothing. Do we understand each other?’

  ‘Yeah.’ The other woman pushes back her chair and stands up. ‘We do.’

  ‘One thing before you go.’ Fiona pushes a pen and a blank piece of paper across the table. ‘Give me your mobile number. That way I can ring you when the money’s been authorised.’

  Paula gives her a long look, as though she’s trying to work out whether that’s a good idea or not, then she picks up the pen.

  ‘Anything?’ Fiona hovers behind her IT manager’s chair and rubs her arms. It’s perpetually freezing in the office, thanks to the stack of servers that take up most of the room.

  ‘Nothing on Max’s computer from a Paula Readman. Is there another name you want me to search for?’

  ‘No. Can you access his voicemails?’

  Graham raises his bushy eyebrows. ‘Mobile or office phone?’

  ‘Both.’

  Most of Fiona’s staff would have asked her a dozen questions by now, but not Graham. He’s been with the paper for nine years and, other than the fact that he’s single with no kids, she doesn’t know the first thing about him. He hasn’t attended a single staff party or get-together in the whole time he’s worked for the Bristol News. Ask him to do something and he does it, but if it’s not in his contract then you may as well forget it, and that includes social occasions. At first Fiona found his automaton attitude to his work strange, but now she welcomes it. It’s so much easier to get things done without constantly being asked to justify your request.

  ‘I can’t access his mobile phone voicemails, but you could listen to the ones on his office phone,’ Graham says.

  ‘Great, do that. Let me know if there are any messages from a woman called Paula, or any woman who sounds like she’s blackmailing, threatening or trying to extort money from him. Oh, and can you see if you can trace this number?’ She hands him the piece of paper Paula wrote on. ‘A home address would be ideal.’

  Fiona follows Graham out of his arctic room and back into the open-plan office. It rumbles with the sound of voices and clacking keyboards. Several pairs of eyes follow her as she makes her way through the desks, then look away, uninterested – or possibly relieved – as she walks back into her office and closes the door. She ducks down under the desk and retrieves a piece of paper. All it took was a tap of the handbag to tip it onto its side as she questioned Paula’s phone number, then a subtle slide of her foot. She looks at the printout of Max and smiles. Honest journalist? Paula Readman has no idea.

  Chapter 50

  ‘Mary?’ I say.

  My landlady, who is folding bed linen into neatly stacked piles that cover the dining-room tables, turns sharply at the sound of my voice. I sat alone in the living room for ten minutes after I said goodbye to Mum on the phone. It took me that long to stop myself crying so I could leave the room.

  ‘Yes – oh.’ The sheet she is folding drags on the carpet as she steps towards me. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ Her eyes search mine. ‘It’s not the little one, is it? Nothing’s happened to—’

  ‘No.’ I take a deep, steadying breath. ‘It’s my Dad. He’s … he’s not been well for a while and my … my mum … she said he hasn’t got,’ – a sob steals my voice – ‘long.’

  ‘Oh, no. Oh, I’m so sorry.’ Mary gently pats my shoulder. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  I swipe at my eyes with the backs of my hands but new tears swiftly replace the ones I wipe away. I try to talk but my chest judders with each breath and all I can manage is a shaky ‘I … I … I …’

  ‘It’s OK. You’ve had some bad news. You take your time.’ Mary guides me by the elbow to one of the chairs then stands silently beside me. ‘Will you have some tea?’ She leaves the room, not waiting for an answer.

  When she returns with two hot mugs of tea in her hands I’ve managed to get my breathing back under control again.

  ‘Thank you.’ I pull down the sleeves of my jumper and wrap my hands around the mug. ‘You’re very kind.’

  She takes the chair next to me. ‘What will you do?’

  Do? I don’t know what to do, I think. If I go, I could lose Elise, and if I stay I’ll never get to say goodbye to Dad. I won’t get to tell him how much I love him or how grateful I am that he came into our lives when he did. I won’t be able to thank him for making Mum happy or for being the best dad in the world to me. I’ll spend the rest of my life thinking of all the things I never got to say to him. It’s a risk, but I’ve still got Helen and Ben’s passports. If the police haven’t figured out that I’m pretending to be her I might be able to get back into the country. I might even make it to Dad’s bedside before I’m arrested. That’s if I am arrested. I might have luck on my side. I’m going to have to leave Clogherhead anyway and I haven’t got the slightest clue where else I could go in Ireland.

  ‘Fly back to the UK, I guess.’

  ‘Can you change your tickets?’ Mary asks. ‘Bring the date forward?’

  ‘I didn’t fly. I bought a one-way ticket on the ferry and my car isn’t back from the garage yet.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I’m sure it can’t be much longer. They’ve had it for a few days now, haven’t they? But if you’re desperate to leave now I’m sure Sean would run you to Dublin airport if you asked him. I would offer myself but—’

  ‘No, no need.’ I shake my head. ‘But, perhaps, could I use your computer? So I can book some tickets?’

  Mary pulls an apologetic face. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t have broadband at the moment. There’s been a big mess-up with me switching providers and they can’t come out to see me until next month. I’ve been taking my laptop over to my friend Carmel’s house a couple of times a week to check for bookings and the like.’ She pauses. ‘I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you went over. Do you have a computer?’

  ‘I’ve got an iPad.’

  ‘That might work. Or you could use Carmel’s computer, I’m sure. She’ll be in now. Should I give her a ring for you?’

  ‘That would be great, thank you so … oh!’ I glance at my watch. Elise has only been asleep for half an hour. Normally she naps for two hours after lunch. ‘I guess I should wake Li.’

  ‘No. No. You let him sleep. I’ll keep an eye on him. It won’t take you long to print out a couple of tickets, will it?’

  ‘C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.’ I tap my nails against Carmel’s white lacquered computer
table and glance at my watch for the third time in as many minutes.

  Carmel, a small, thin woman with brown, wavy hair down to her shoulders, tears her eyes away from the large flat-screen TV on the other side of the room. ‘Taking a while, is it? The broadband can be awfully temperamental round here. It’ll speed up again, you’ll see.’

  Her house is only a couple of streets away from Mary’s but I still ran here. Instinct told me not to leave Elise’s side for a second but what was the alternative? Wake her up and bring her with me – miserable and demanding attention. Or wait for her to wake up and bring her with me – excited and demanding attention. It’s not as though I can’t trust Mary. She saved Elise’s life this morning. The thought of what could have happened still makes me feel sick.

  ‘Come on.’ As the circle in the centre of the Aer Lingus website continues to swirl around and around I open a new tab and type in the URL to access my work email. I haven’t seen or spoken to my boss for well over a week. I imagine the police will have been in touch with her to ask if she knows where I’ve gone. She’ll be worried sick.

  My emails load and I quickly scroll through the messages I’ve received. Five emails from Max – I don’t bother opening those – and one from Helen asking me to let her know if I’m OK. There are several emails from Diane, the last one saying that she saw me on the news and she wants me to get in touch. There are dozens and dozens of enquiries from academics and students. I don’t open those either and instead continue to scroll down, past messages to all staff from HR, past announcements about visiting lecturers, past an email with the subject line ‘See for yourself, Jo’ that’s been flagged with a spam warning, past a request to meet with the financial adviser. Past Naija Mattu.

  Naija Mattu.

  I stop scrolling. Naija has sent me four emails. That’s strange. We don’t have each other’s mobile phone numbers and we only swapped email addresses so I could send her the details of a course.

  I open the first email. It’s dated almost three weeks ago.

  Hi, Jo, how are you? Sorry to email you at work but I was surprised to see Max returning to your house at lunchtime. He said you had a burst pipe. Is everything OK? Should I be worried about our house?

  Naija

  Next email:

  Hi, Jo, me again. I haven’t seen you for a few days. Can you let me know if the burst pipe has been fixed as we’re off to India tomorrow and I don’t want to return to a flood! I don’t want to add to your stress. Sorry!

  Naija

  Third email:

  Hi, Jo, don’t worry about the last email. I saw Max coming out of your house earlier. He said the burst pipe was sorted. I haven’t seen you for a while. I hope everything is OK. See you when we get back.

  Naija

  Fourth email:

  Hi, Jo, we’re back from India and I just saw your photo on the news. They’re saying you’ve run off with Elise and you need to return her for her own safety. I can’t believe it. What happened? Are you OK? I haven’t seen Max to talk to and I don’t want to interfere but if you need someone to talk to then this is my mobile number …

  I click the square box next to each of her emails and hover the mouse over the delete button. It’s not unusual for Naija to freak out when something goes wrong with our house. She was the first one to complain when the roofers decided to throw the broken tiles off the roof and into the skip below rather than use a chute, and she was at our front door within minutes of the pest-control man pulling up outside to sort out our mouse problem. But …

  I lift my finger from the mouse. Burst pipes? We’ve had all sorts go wrong with the house since we bought it – not least an ongoing damp problem – but nothing’s ever gone wrong with the plumbing. The estate agent told us the last owner had had it all professionally replaced. And it can’t be the boiler because it was serviced a couple of months ago.

  Burst pipes?

  I stare at the date of Naija’s email. Thursday, 10 February. I was at work that day. I remember because I’d had to deal with a student complaint about a member of staff and I didn’t have a spare second to go through my emails. Then I’d picked Elise up from nursery and returned home. There was no burst pipe. No flood. Not that day or the day before.

  Oh my God. That was the day the police turned up, searched the house and arrested me for possession of drugs. I rang Max to pick me up from the station and he spent the night on the sofa. I asked him how his day had been and he said he hadn’t left the office. But Naija said he’d come home to deal with a burst pipe.

  I re-read the second email:

  Hi, Jo, me again. I haven’t seen you for a few days. Can you let me know if the burst pipe has been fixed as we’re off to India tomorrow and I don’t want to return to a flood! I don’t want to add to your stress. Sorry!

  She’d sent that when we were up in Chester seeing Mum and Dad. And the third one:

  Hi, Jo, don’t worry about the last email. I saw Max coming out of your house earlier. He said the burst pipe was sorted. I haven’t seen you for a while. I hope everything is OK. See you when we get back.

  That was … I count the days off on my hands. That was the day we drove back to Bristol to meet with Lorraine Hooper. He told me on the phone that he hadn’t been in the house since the Thursday when I was arrested. That was a lie. He’d let himself into the house the morning after I told him that Lorraine would be visiting. He told Naija that he’d fixed the flood.

  But there were never any burst pipes to fix.

  He let himself into the house and he tipped rubbish all over it to make it look like I couldn’t look after our daughter.

  And the drugs. The reason I was meeting Lorraine Hooper in the first place. He’d planted those too.

  Chapter 51

  I burst into the B&B, clutching a printout of my tickets to Dublin, and take the stairs to the bedrooms two at a time. I’m sweating, and not just because I just ran across Clogherhead in my thick woollen coat and hat. It was Max. Every awful thing that’s happened to me is down to Max. Paula threatened me in my car and in the street but he was responsible for everything else. Naija’s emails prove that. There were no burst pipes. I would have known if there were. And why would Max lie to her unless he had something to hide? He must have taken the spare key, then he set me up with Social Services, convinced me that Paula was responsible.

  I stop running and dry retch as I reach the top of the stairs. Was Max responsible for Elise’s bruises too? Did he deliberately hurt our daughter to ensure the courts gave her to him? How could he claim to love her and do something so awful? He must have really hurt her to bruise her like that.

  ‘Elise?’ I fly through the open bedroom door then stop short. There’s no bump under the duvet. No short, scruffy hair on the pillow.

  ‘Elise?’ I run to the other side of the bed but she hasn’t fallen onto the carpet. She’s not hiding behind the curtains. She’s not in the wardrobe or the en suite.

  ‘Elise?’ I thunder back down the stairs and into the kitchen. ‘Mary?’ I shout as I leave the empty room and run into the dining room. ‘Mary?’

  The sheets and towels are still piled high on the tables but there’s no sign of my landlady.

  ‘Mary? Elise?’ I run into the living room but that’s empty too.

  I take the stairs again, my heart racing in my chest as I push at every door on my floor. They’re all locked.

  ‘Mary?’ I push back the curtain that covers the stairs to Mary’s private quarters in the top of the house and speed up the steps.

  But Mary’s bedroom is empty. The curtains are pulled back, her double bed is neatly made, with a blanket tucked over the end of the duvet, and there’s a book splayed open on the bedside table. There’s no one in the en suite either.

  I head towards the last remaining door on the second floor. They have to be in here.

  A gasp catches in my throat as I push at the door.

  A cot. A rocking horse. A nursing chair. Teddies. Dolls. Pink cot linen. Win
nie the Pooh pictures. An ABC border. Pink and white spotted pyjamas folded neatly on the pillow. A tiny child’s pushchair. An open chest of drawers with a girl’s clothes spilling onto the floor.

  It’s a child’s nursery. But Sean told me that Mary doesn’t have any children or grandchildren. She told me she didn’t have a cot. Across the room a silver photo frame glints in the weak February sunlight that streams through the open curtains. I walk towards it, slowly, as though in a dream.

  It’s a photograph of a little girl, not much older than two. A little girl wrapped up for the winter in a cream knitted bobble hat and a red woollen coat with gold buttons. A little girl who looks a lot like Elise.

  ‘Mary! Mary Byrne! Elise!’ I run down Main Road towards the beach but the tide is high and the seafront is deserted so I double back the way I came, my coat flapping in the wind. The streets are deserted. Televisions flicker and lights glow beyond the net curtains I pass. I stop when I reach Strand Street and double over, sucking in cold air. Mary’s car was parked up outside the B&B so they have to be on foot. Unless somebody took them. No, no, I won’t believe it. They’re still here. I know they’re still here. I straighten up and continue to run. My lungs burn and my cheeks sting as I run along the main road. I slow down as I reach the amusement arcade but, other than a man playing the slot machines, it’s empty. An older man, walking his dog, passes me as I stare through the window. I call out to him, asking if he’s seen an older woman and a little girl.

  ‘A little boy?’ I correct myself breathlessly. ‘The child may have looked like a boy.’

  The man shakes his head and yanks on his dog’s lead.

  As I continue to run down the road, a fresh wave of fear washes over me. Max. After everything he’s done he wouldn’t think twice about snatching Elise from the B&B. But what possible reason could he have for taking Mary too? He can’t have found us. Elise and Mary have to be here but Clogherhead is a small place and I’m running out of possibilities. Think, Jo, think. There’s the RNLI Lifeboat Station, further along the beach, but that’s little more than a shed with a lifeboat in it. The doctors’ then? Perhaps Elise woke up with a fever or fell out of bed? But where’s the doctor’s surgery? I have no idea. The woman in the post office might know.