The Stolen Child

by Sanjida Kay

  ‘Oh God,’ I say, taking it from him and trying to keep it away from Ben. ‘Have you looked inside?’

  He nods guiltily. ‘It was open already. I’m sorry, Zoe. I’ve got to go – I’m in the middle of getting the girls their tea. But call me later if you want to talk.’

  I take it from him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says again, and he dashes back down the path.

  Is he sorry because it’s another present from Evie’s father, or that he looked to see what it was? Or is it what’s inside that makes him pity me? I hope it’s something innocuous like a colouring pad. To my relief, I spot Evie. She’s sitting on the step by the sandpit, so close to the French windows I’d missed her. I step into the garden. The light is a rich orange, the colour of marmalade, and pulls out copper highlights in Evie’s dark hair. She frowns at Ben.

  ‘That’s my doll!’

  ‘He’s just playing with it.’

  Uncharacteristically, Ben holds out the doll for her. She grins and takes it, kissing him on his fat tear-streaked cheek. I put Ben down and sit next to her, holding the package in my hands.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ she asks.

  ‘I was going to ask you the same question. Andy brought it round. He said you’d left it at their house.’

  She snatches it from me.

  ‘Where did you get it, Evie?’

  She shrugs. ‘I found it.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘It was there.’

  She points to the wooden bench in front of us. It’s even closer to the house than the last hiding place.

  ‘Who’s it from?’ I ask, although I already know the answer.

  ‘My real daddy. Look.’

  She turns it over and shows me the sticker and the smudged handwriting.

  ‘Evie, love, I asked you to tell me if you found another present.’

  ‘I knew you’d take it away from me,’ she mutters.

  ‘May I see?’

  She clutches it to her chest and then relents. She slides a small red book out and passes it to me. The cover is soft leather and has been embossed with a gorgeous pattern; the title, in gold, glints in the sun. The pages are the colour of cream. It has beautiful illustrations and clear, easy-to-read prose. Evie leans over and her breath is hot on my wrists, the ends of her hair drape across my arm.

  ‘He’s even written to me inside,’ she says, and turns over the frontispiece. In a flowing script, quite different from the Biro on the card and presents, it says:

  To my darling daughter,

  Let this be the guiding light for our journey together,

  with all my love,

  Daddy

  I snap the book shut; my heart stutters in my chest. The red book is small and light, just right for a child’s hands, but in my own, it feels unbearably heavy.

  It’s a Muslim prayer book.

  I watch you. I’ve seen you grow and develop over this past year. You’re flourishing, my darling, now that I’m in your life. I know you will bloom when we’re together all the time. Not long now, sweetheart, we’re almost there.

  Nothing can make up for all the years I’ve lost. You’re a little girl: a person. I’ve missed the chance to shape you; to cradle you as a baby, to watch as you took your first steps, to hear you speak your first words. I’ve missed all your birthdays. I didn’t light the candles on your cakes, I never taught you to count them, or witnessed your delight as you unwrapped your presents.

  This is the closest that I can get to making up for those lost years: buying you gifts and leaving them in our special place. Sometimes I hide and watch as you discover the parcels I’ve left for you. You’re so happy to find something for yourself that you don’t have to share with the other child, Ben. No matter how they disguise it, or what they call you, you’re not their daughter and he’s not your brother. You don’t belong with them, my child.

  I love the way your face lights up when you tear open your presents. I know you have to hide these gifts so that they don’t confiscate them, and, for now, it can be our secret. And one day, very soon, you’ll be with me always and you’ll be able to play with them openly and without shame. I’ve bought you a special present this time. I hope you will treasure it. I know you’ll be entranced by the pictures. You won’t understand it yet, because they haven’t taught you what is right and good and essential in this life, but you will. I will teach you.

  ‘This Book is not to be doubted…’

  This book will be the blueprint, the map, the guiding light for our journey together, my love, my treasure.

  SATURDAY

  I’ve finished my painting, the one I started after I met Harris, and I need to begin a new one. It’ll help if I can draw inspiration from the moor. I want to ring him. I want to hear his voice. I want him with me. But I don’t call. I’ve dropped Evie off at Jack’s house for the afternoon. I could have left Ben too, but Evie needs some quality time with an adult who cares about her and who isn’t me or Ollie. If she’s going to talk to anyone about what’s going on, it would be Andy or Jack. And I want time alone with Ben too, just the two of us. As usual, Ollie is at the office. Ben and I are going on an expedition so that I can take new photos and maybe do a few sketches. I can’t manage Bella as well so I leave her behind, eyeing me sadly.

  I wear a cross-body bag with my pencils and drawing pad, my camera, snacks, wipes, nappies and water for Ben, keys and my phone – I won’t need any money – and I put him in a baby carrier on my back. He’s so heavy, I struggle to catch my breath as I head straight out, past the golf course and up the hill towards the Cow and Calf rocks. I look around but there’s no one else out – apart from the golfers – and, for once, I don’t feel as if I’m being watched. Ben hums tunelessly and happily in my ear and waves a long stalk of grass. I join in and we sing ‘The wheels on the bus’.

  As soon as I held that little red book in my hand yesterday afternoon, I knew I had to end things with Harris. I cannot have an affair with him. My daughter could be in danger. I don’t know what the book means. That her father’s Muslim? I don’t know enough about Islam to know what it signifies; all I know is that a man has invaded our privacy and is threatening to destroy our family.

  Last night Ollie was at a northern movie premiere and came home after I’d gone to bed, and then this morning he left before I got up. I haven’t had a chance to talk to him about it. But what I do know is that I cannot do anything that would take my focus away from my family right now. Evie has to be my priority. I have a terrible sick feeling when I think what I might have done – what I still want to do – which is to meet Harris. To be with him. To have sex with him. And while I’m in bed with him who knows what could happen to my daughter? Who might be spying on her? Thank God we’ve known Jack for five years, or else I would have no one I could trust to look after her.

  I think about Ollie too. I know I love him. It just doesn’t feel like love right now. It’s not the burning desire that rages through me for Harris, or even the cosy intimacy Ollie and I used to have. We first got together when I was nineteen and he was twenty. After we split up, I told myself I wanted to have fun and to be free; really, the entire time we were apart I was anxious and stressed. When I had that brief relationship with a guy in his late twenties after I graduated, I spent most of my time wishing I knew where I stood with him. I know Ollie inside out. Or, at least, I used to. Even when I was in my early twenties I was certain Ollie was the man I wanted to be the father of my children; I thought he would always care for me and our family. Look after my mum. Walk the dog. Take the kids to the park. Ollie is dependable and reliable. I never saw him as my soulmate.

  ‘Ben’s on the bus jumping up and down, up and down, up and down,’ I sing.

  And now it feels like I’ve found my soulmate. I understand how Harris’s mind works at an artistic level: I’ve got no idea whether he’d change the sheets if Evie wet herself in the middle of the night, if he’d teach Ben how to read, or bring me a cup of sweet tea
when I come down with a migraine. And living with another artist would be erratic, chaotic, unstable. Children need security. I cannot continue to see Harris, I tell myself repeatedly, my footsteps keeping time with the chant in my head. Even if the thought of never seeing him again, never touching him, feels like losing my left hand.

  It’s a beautiful September day. It’s definitely autumn. The sky is pale blue and although it’s sunny, there’s a chill in the air. The bracken is bronze across the lower slopes of the moor. We stop at the Cow and Calf rocks and I take a few snaps, although I have photographed this iconic landscape in every conceivable weather and time of day. I pass Ben some fruit Yo Yos, which he calls worms, and he unwinds them and sucks them and wipes his sticky hands on my shoulders. We set off diagonally across the moor, towards the archaeological dig and the Twelve Apostles, leaving Ilkley behind.

  I don’t know what to do with myself, with my feelings for Harris. Despite my efforts to convince myself, I can’t deny that I’m drawn to him. A small voice whispers, ‘What if he’s the one?’

  I’m passing up the chance of a lifetime; forgoing tempestuous happiness – because somehow I know stability is not one of Harris’s strengths – in favour of domestic drudgery as the wife of an accountant. I’m exaggerating. I do know how lucky I am, what I could lose. I think of all that Ollie and I have been through – the years of trying for children; two miscarriages, one stillbirth, three years of being vetted for adoption, a year searching for the perfect child – a baby who would be ours virtually from birth – and then finding Evie; the trauma of wondering if she’d been brain damaged, the uncertainty of knowing whether her biological mother might change her mind in those early weeks; the gift of such a beautiful little girl and then being able to have a child of our own, too. It makes me pause for breath – our sheer bloody good fortune. I cannot jeopardize what we have, what we’ve fought so hard for. I must tell Harris that it’s over and that I can’t see him again.

  We cross a deep peat bog; I take care to keep on the raised wooden walkway. I stamp my feet pretending to be a troll and make Ben laugh. With any luck he’ll fall asleep – he’s been so tired since he’s stopped having his afternoon nap. On the ridge of the hill, by the Twelve Apostles, I take Ben out of the backpack and stretch. He runs in between the stones and I take photos, some with him, some without. The air has changed: there’s an electric charge in the atmosphere and the sky has darkened to sheet steel. Normally I don’t walk beyond the stone circle – but this was the whole point of my expedition – to venture deeper into the heart of the moor. Past this ancient Neolithic site, the land is flat and bleak and barren. The heather is bitten to the quick and shards of mica glitter on the paths. I want to reach the plateau. My pictures will be all sky and bare desolation. I’m half delighted at the strange colour of the clouds and half worried. I haven’t brought any waterproofs and the weather can change so quickly.

  Ben reaches for my hand and we walk further. I take a few more photos but he starts to cry. He’s cold and I haven’t brought any more warm clothes. It starts to rain. I hastily pack my camera away, wipe his nose and start to bundle him into the backpack. It’s one of those cloth ones – the other has a heavy frame and I can’t carry him in it. I crouch on the ground and push up with my thighs. I’m almost upright when there’s a tearing sound and Ben falls. I half catch him but he still tumbles and twists – one foot trapped by the rucksack – and hits his head on the ground. He’s screaming. I unfasten the carrier and shrug it off and hug him tightly.

  ‘You’re okay, my love, you’re okay. There’s my big, brave boy.’

  I check for bumps and cuts and bruises but it’s more the shock. I’ve grazed my hand against the stony ground where I cushioned his fall. One shoulder strap has sheared away from the buckle. I curse myself for buying a second-hand carrier from eBay. Ollie told me to get a new one but I couldn’t bring myself to spend that kind of money on something we’d only use for a few months. I try and tie the strap, but it’s not long enough and it wouldn’t hold Ben’s weight anyway. I pass him a flapjack, the last of my snacks. It starts to rain heavily, big drops that sting our faces. Ben begins crying again and drops the biscuit in the sand.

  I feel the first twinge of fear. We’re in the middle of the moor. No one knows where we are. It’s pouring. It’s cold. I don’t have any food or any money. I have no more warm or waterproof layers. Ben can’t walk far and I can’t carry him for long. We can’t go back the way we’ve come – it would take too long. Ben might get hypothermia. I push my wet hair out of my eyes and try to think. If we head straight across the moor, in a north-east direction, we might hit a path. I vaguely remember the Dales Way runs between Black Beck and Coldstone – it would take us down to Moor Road. From there we could hitch a lift, catch a bus, get some help.

  ‘Come on, little man,’ I say, and take his hand.

  He follows me, snivelling. I bundle the broken carrier into my bag and check my phone. I don’t expect there’ll be a signal and there isn’t. There might be one nearer the road though.

  After a few paces, Ben stops and sits down. I cajole him and get him to his feet and we walk a little way. He stops again and starts to cry in earnest. The heather, even though it’s short, is too deep for him to walk through. It’s old, with hard, gnarled branches. I lift him up and balance him on my hip. He’s too small for me to give him a piggyback – he can’t hold on by himself. I can’t see; my mascara has run and my eyes sting. I stumble, the heather scrapes my legs. I’m worried there might be a proper storm with lightening. We’re on top of the moor and I’m the tallest object for miles around. My biceps feel as if they’re being ripped apart. I put Ben down and shake my arms. He screams and stretches his hands towards me, his eyes shut against the rain.

  He shouts, ‘No, no, no, no,’ and then, ‘Mummy!’

  Our hair is plastered to our skulls and we’re soaked to the skin. Ben has one long dry patch down his front where he’s been pressed against me, but that darkens as I take his hand and tug him a little way further on.

  I step in a bog and leap back. Cold, muddy water seeps into my trainers. I pick Ben up again and hug him tightly against me, trying to keep him warm. I go faster but it only makes me slip.

  ‘Home,’ he says. ‘Want home.’

  I can’t risk falling into one of the bogs or tripping on a stone. Sometimes there are small cliffs and steep gullies hidden in the heather. I should have stayed on the path. I might have met someone who could have helped me carry Ben. It feels as if I’m wading through treacle and I want to cry. I curse my stupidity: I’ve grown up next to this moor and have become too confident, too arrogant about my ability to navigate it. It’s a wilderness, not a place for a child. We come to a stream. I don’t know whether I’ve veered too far and hit Black Beck or if this is Carr or Coldstone – or maybe even another beck altogether, one of the many nameless waterways the moor is riven with. It’s not deep but the banks for several metres on either side are boggy. I can’t jump it. I follow the water’s course a little way and then wade straight through it. I reach the other side, mud up to my knees, my feet squelching with water, panting with the exertion. I switch Ben to my other hip, and push on, gritting my teeth against the pain in my arms.

  And then I see the path. It’s ahead of us, over a small ridge in the heath. It’s stony and not easy to walk along, but it’ll be easier than stumbling through the heather. When we reach it, I put Ben down to relieve the pressure on my shoulders.

  ‘You need to walk for a little way, love,’ I say, pleading with him, and I hold out my hand. But he cries and keeps his raised, jumping as he tries to get me to pick him up. I take his fist and pull him along, wailing. At least we’re on the Dales Way, but we’re still far from the road. I check my phone. No reception. I’m shivering and cold water is running down my back. Ben falls backwards into a puddle. His shrieks reach a crescendo. I want to block my ears. I lift him up and kiss him. I’m starting to feel desperate. I have to reach the ro
ad. There has to be someone who can help us. I remember I didn’t bring any money for the bus – even if one were to come.

  The visibility has dropped. It’s growing darker and sheets of rain obscure the path. I start to jog. My bag bumps uncomfortably against my hip, the camera hits my leg. I keep my eyes firmly fixed on the ground so that I won’t trip. When I glance up, hoping that I’ll see the road, there’s a man on the path, walking towards us. He seems to flicker in the curtains of rain, like an illusion. My first thought is that it’s Harris, but that’s only because I’ve been thinking of him constantly. Of course, it can’t be him. Why would it be? Still, it’s another human being. I switch Ben to my other hip and speed up. His shape is familiar: spare, tall, broad-shouldered; the face, square-jawed, dark-haired. It is Harris. He’s running up the hill towards me. I want to cry with relief.

  When he reaches us, he takes Ben as if he weighs nothing and slings my bag over his shoulder. He grasps my arm and guides me down the path.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I shout above the noise of the rain.

  ‘I was out walking and I saw a woman and a child. Thought they must be in trouble. When I got closer I saw it was you.’

  ‘In this weather?’

  ‘It’s only rain. Nothing could keep me from the moors. You should know that.’

  He smiles at me and water drips from his eyebrows, runs down his cheeks. He stops and hands Ben back. He shrugs off his waterproof and wraps it round my son, puts his own woollen hat on Ben’s blond head. He peels off his jumper and passes it to me. I shake my head but I’m so cold and wet I accept it. He takes Ben again. I think my son will protest at being held by this strange man, but he snuggles into Harris’s chest. I wish Harris would hold me too. Ben finally stops crying.

  ‘Good job I’ve got the Fiat. It’s on the road. I usually take my pickup. Better for collecting scrap. Not so good for transporting waifs and strays.’