Runaway Girl

by Casey Watson

  The only other item in the bag, as far as I could see, was a chapstick. No birth certificate or any other form of paperwork. I looked carefully, sleuthfully, even felt around the lining, but there was no sign that it had even been tampered with.

  So if the birth certificate wasn’t in there, she must have stashed it somewhere else. And logic told me it would be secreted among the possessions she’d brought with her. She was too bright a girl to have hidden it in the fabric of the house. And probably right not to do so, if that had indeed been her logic – according to her thinking, once she’d confessed and made her true position known to us, there was as much chance of her never being allowed back here as there was of her being able to come home again.

  I went to the wardrobe and opened it, seeing the few items of clothing it contained, and felt a pang of compassion, thinking of her lying there in hospital, having finally confessed everything, and, despite my assurances (after all, she’d been lied to before), wondering what was going to become of her now. And missing her baby. The ever-present agony of her loss must be so visceral, and I was reminded of a book I had recently read about a young unmarried mother who’d been forced to hand over her baby for adoption, and how eloquently she described the intensity of her pain.

  The leather jacket, then. It called to me. She would have hidden it in her leather jacket. Her traffickers could, and probably did, search her handbag. All their power lay in making her powerless, by being paperless. But they’d perhaps not think of searching the lining of her coat.

  And, within a matter of moments, I had my hands on it. A much-folded piece of paper, closely wrapped in thin plastic – perhaps a slip case for a student ID card or some such, and inserted, via a neat slit, under the chunky, biker-style lapel. I carefully eased it out, feeling even more like a criminal, and grateful for the breadth of my pre-fostering career. Working in a comprehensive school and, prior to that, with vulnerable teens and young adults, I too had done my flotsam and jetsam years.

  ‘Car pulling up!’ Mike’s voice, from the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Coming now!’ I called back, putting the jacket back in the wardrobe, and closing the bedroom door before rattling back down the stairs with my booty.

  ‘Got it,’ I said, brandishing it, once he’d paid the delivery driver.

  ‘And?’ Mike said, following me into the kitchen with the goodies.

  I slipped the document from its plastic sheath and carefully unfolded it. ‘Adrianna Aleksandra Rudzinski, born in Gdansk – ah, so that detail was true – on, let me see … oh my word, look at that!’

  ‘Look at what?’

  I thrust the paper in front of him. ‘That.’

  ‘That being what?’

  My husband, for all his fine attributes, wasn’t perfect. ‘That,’ I said. ‘Look. At the date, stoopid! Adrianna has the same birthday as Marley Mae!’

  Mike looked, finally registering. Dates weren’t his forte. ‘So you’ve decided there’s some spooky significance to that, have you?’

  ‘Derrrr,’ I teased. ‘Don’t be daft. Though, actually, come to think of it … No, silly,’ I said, grinning. ‘I’m thinking party!’

  I had thought it would be most appropriate to leave the call to John till Monday – whatever he’d said, his weekend was still his weekend, after all. But Sunday morning brought news of Adrianna’s marked improvement and the fact that I could pick her up on Monday instead, and I decided that, with so much new information to impart, I’d better put John in the picture before I went to fetch her.

  With Mike and Tyler safely ensconced in the living room in front of the telly, I called him that afternoon and told him all. I’d already logged everything I could remember, because I wanted to get it down while it was still fresh in my mind, but I was keen to run it all past John as well.

  ‘So it looks like we need to allocate that social worker now, doesn’t it?’ he said, once I’d finished giving him chapter and verse on Adrianna’s life story.

  ‘And the local constabulary, and Interpol, and possibly Sherlock Holmes, while you’re at it. John, we have to track down her baby for her.’

  He chuckled. ‘Just like that, eh?’

  ‘Just like that. How hard can it be, after all? As soon as she has identified the police station where she left him, it’s surely only a matter of following the paper trail, isn’t it? Which surely can’t be that long. They’ll have called the local social services office, who’d have gone and collected him, and if they didn’t take him to the nearest hospital – actually, that’s exactly what they’d have done, isn’t it? Might even have put an appeal out on the local TV. In fact, I’ll bet they’ll have done that too, don’t you? Anyway, after that, they’d have placed him with a local foster family while they waited for someone to come forward to claim him – simples!’

  ‘No, you’re right,’ John said, ‘it shouldn’t be too difficult at all.’ He paused. A pregnant pause. Which I might well have pointed out to him, while chortling, had his next utterance not sounded as ominous as it did. ‘That bit of it will be simple, at any rate,’ he said. ‘Casey, don’t leap too far ahead here. Especially where the girl’s concerned. The next bit might not be quite so straightforward.’

  ‘But she’s 16, John,’ I pointed out, belatedly aware of where this was leading. ‘Not 14. Sixteen. So –’

  ‘So, yes, in theory that makes a huge difference. And obviously, reuniting mother and baby is the outcome everyone would hope for. But it’s by no means cut and dried. Specially given the paucity of information we have about her and where she came from.’

  ‘But we do now.’

  ‘Not exactly. She’s come into the country without a passport, illegally. There’s a lot still to know. A lot. Before they’d even consider doing any considering.’

  ‘John, I know that. I’m not daft. I know it’s all going to take time.’

  ‘I know you do. I’m just reminding you. So you can spell it out to her. You know what they are going to say. That they have a duty of –’

  ‘Care. Yes, I know all that too.’

  ‘And this is a whole other council we’re talking about, don’t forget. And the baby is settled where he is and presumably thriving. I just don’t want her getting her hopes up that getting her child back is a foregone conclusion. There might be some major hoops to jump through …’

  ‘John, stop stressing. I know all of that too. Though you don’t know her like I do. Trust me, she will be capable of looking after him.’

  ‘You can’t be that sure,’ he pointed out. ‘You’ve only had her with you a few weeks. And, more pertinently, you’ve just begun being able to have proper conversations with her!’

  ‘John, it’s not about talking. It’s instinct. She’s a decent kid. I know she is.’

  ‘One who’s allegedly been abused, Casey. And trafficked. There might be a great deal you don’t know.’

  I sighed. I knew full well why John had to run all this past me. ‘Hey,’ I said, ‘is this the five-minute lecture or the full half-hour?’

  He laughed. ‘Me? Lecture you? I wouldn’t be so presumptuous! Seriously, though –’

  ‘Seriously, John. You don’t need to worry. I do know. And I know you have to make sure I don’t forget it. And I promise I shall be sure to make sure that I manage her expectations.’

  I then added another ‘simples!’ to reassure him that I would. And made a mental note to myself that I must stop using that expression. I was getting way beyond the point of wearing it out.

  And, as it turned out, it was anything but simple.

  Chapter 11

  ‘What a difference a couple of days make!’ Sister Skaja said when I arrived on the ward the following day. ‘She hardly seemed like the same girl when I came in this morning. Bright eyed, bushy tailed – what a transformation! Suspect the blood might have helped too,’ she added, grinning at me. ‘And, of course, she’s been chattering nine to the dozen to everyone, apparently …’

  Sister Skaja was sitting a
t the nurses’ station, pen in hand. She took her bright turquoise reading glasses off and shoved them carelessly into her hair. She then reached across the counter and touched my arm, grinning again. ‘You and your family get several mentions in dispatches, I can tell you. Seriously,’ she added. ‘Bless her. You should think about starting a fan club. You’ll definitely be needing to polish your halo.’

  I could feel the colour rising in my cheeks, which didn’t happen very often. Neither did those awkward moments when you have absolutely no idea what to say in reply. I settled on, ‘Well, we have so much to thank you for. If you’d not been on duty Friday night … And been so kind, and so helpful …’

  She raised both hands in front of me, her smile turning to a chuckle. ‘Okay, touché! We’ll stop all this now, shall we? She’s hot to trot. So, go on. Go and fetch her home. And that baby of hers,’ I heard her add as I walked away.

  I’m not really one for the paranormal or magic or any of that stuff, but when I pushed back the curtain around Adrianna’s bed (after calling out ‘It’s only me!’ just in case she was only half dressed) I just had this sixth sense that all wasn’t well. Hard to explain – just this slight ‘oh no’ feeling, when I saw her empty bed.

  I pushed the curtain back more fully, and looked up and down the ward. Plenty of hospital staff milling about, but no sign of her.

  I walked back to the nurses’ station, thinking she’d perhaps gone to wait in the day room, but as I passed the nearest occupied bed I stopped to ask the lady in it if she’d seen her. Might as well.

  ‘Adrianna?’ I said, gesturing back towards the other bed. ‘The girl in the bed next to you? The Polish girl? Do you know where she is?’

  The woman, who was very elderly, craned her neck a little. Then she mumbled something.

  ‘Sorry?’ I said. She raised a finger in the air and flapped it vaguely.

  ‘She went to get dressed,’ called the woman opposite. ‘Don’t worry about her. She probably can’t hear you,’ she added, nodding her head towards the elderly woman.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ I said, feeling stupid for having had such a dozy premonition. Of course Adrianna would have gone off to get dressed.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said to the elderly lady anyway, and went across to where the other woman was sitting up in her own bed. She was wearing a floral winceyette nightie, and was knitting.

  ‘It’s a scarf,’ she said, even though I hadn’t asked her. ‘I told your girl … well, I know she’s not actually your girl, obviously …’

  ‘I’m her foster carer,’ I quickly supplied. The feeling wasn’t going away.

  ‘That’s it,’ the woman said. ‘She did explain, bless her. I told her I’d make her one of these if she was staying in here long enough. I rattle through them like nobody’s business, I do. I get this bobbly wool from down the market,’ she added, fingering the heap of tufty knitting in her lap. ‘Two pounds a ball, that’s all it is. Knits up lovely, doesn’t it? I told her I’d make her a nice one in reds and browns – go with that lovely hair of hers.’

  She shifted the pile in her lap again, which was blue. ‘Well, that’s if my daughter was coming anytime soon,’ she said, ‘which she isn’t – she’s a legal secretary, you see, out in the business park. She nips down and gets it me. Still, never mind. It’s not like you can’t buy them for peanuts these days in Primark, is it? But it passes the time. The days drag when you’re in hospital, don’t they?’ She nodded towards Adrianna’s bed. ‘Lovely girl, she is. Such a shame.’

  The woman didn’t elaborate on what aspect of it being ‘a shame’ she was aware of. ‘She is indeed,’ I said, casting my gaze around the ward again, the strange feeling of anxiety still refusing to leave me. ‘Where would she have gone? D’you know? You know, to get dressed and that?’

  ‘Disabled toilet,’ the woman said, knitting furiously as she spoke. ‘Makes sense, doesn’t it? Plenty of room in there. Down by the ward entrance, it is.’

  I nodded. ‘Of course. I think I’ll wander down then … anyway, thank you,’ I added. ‘Happy knitting.’

  First, however, I went back to Adrianna’s bed. I looked around. There seemed to be nothing of hers left there. Just the big plastic water jug, which was half full and had formed thousands of bubbles against the sides.

  I opened the door in the bedside cabinet. There was nothing in there either. So she’d obviously taken the backpack Mike had filled with her toiletries and night things. It was an old one of Tyler’s. Black, with a Nike swoosh.

  I sat quietly on the noisy chair, and waited for a good five or ten minutes. Perhaps she was putting on some make-up. Maybe doing her hair.

  But when a further ten minutes had passed, I went back to the nurses’ station, where Sister Skaja was still sitting, drinking tea and sorting through some paperwork.

  ‘All set?’ she asked. Then looked behind me. ‘Oh. Where’s Adrianna?’

  I waved a hand back towards the ward. ‘The lady opposite says she’s gone to get ready,’ I explained. ‘But she’s certainly taking her time about it. If that’s what she is doing. Have you seen her?’

  Sister Skaja put her pen down. ‘No. No, I haven’t. Not since she went to get changed.’ She rose and looked down towards the ward entrance, the view of which was partly obscured by an elderly couple shuffling along, and a nurse pushing a drugs trolley.

  ‘The lady told me she might have gone to change in the disabled toilet,’ I said. I was starting to feel slightly panicked now. Properly panicked even. Sister Skaja came round from behind the counter.

  ‘She might well have,’ she agreed. ‘For the mirror. In fact, I think she said she was going to do exactly that. Have you checked?’

  I shook my head. Sister Skaja passed me and headed off, striding purposefully, to a wide toilet door about three down, by the swing doors.

  It was shut, but she pushed it. ‘Vacant,’ she said. ‘And also empty. So where …’ She pushed open another door, this time marked ‘Patient Toilet’. And underneath that, ‘Visitors are respectfully reminded that these facilities are for the use of patients ONLY. Public facilities are available in the main hospital reception and in Muffins cafeteria.’

  ‘Also empty,’ Sister Skaja observed. ‘Might she not have gone back to her bed?’

  I told her Adrianna hadn’t. Well, at least, that I didn’t think she could have passed me without my seeing her. ‘Her bed’s at the end,’ I added, the ominous feeling still refusing to go away.

  ‘Well, in that case,’ Sister Skaja said, ‘I’m stumped. Ah – unless she’s gone to wait for you in the day room, that is.’

  We duly trooped across to the day room. ‘But then I’d have seen her myself, surely?’ she mused. ‘And I’m pretty sure I didn’t. So,’ she said, as we went back to the nurses’ station once again, ‘she’s either gone off somewhere else to wait for you, or … well, I really have no idea. So perhaps that’s it. Perhaps she’s gone to wait for you down in the main reception. That’ll be it, I imagine. Don’t you?’

  I told Sister Skaja I thought she was probably right, all the while feeling certain she was probably wrong. That hadn’t been the plan. I was to come up and fetch Adrianna from the ward, and she’d have known that. She’d have been given her chit from the pharmacy, or …’ Another thought hit me.

  ‘Ah. Did she have to go and get her drugs, perhaps?’ I asked, feeling just a small spark of hope. ‘Her antibiotics?’

  Sister Skaja shook her head. ‘No, they were brought up to her earlier, just after the doctor’s round.’

  ‘Well, she’s obviously gone downstairs to wait for me, like you said,’ I agreed. I felt a powerful urge to go looking for her now. ‘No worries!’ I said, smiling brightly. ‘I’m sure I shall track her down!’

  I didn’t. I looked everywhere I could imagine Adrianna could conceivably be waiting for me. I checked Muffins, the main reception and the A&E reception. I checked the little place with the vending machines round the corner from A&E. I checked the coffee bar that
was on the far side of the main reception, plus the newsagents, the WRVS shop and the paved area outside that sternly said ‘No Smoking’ but where, late at night, I knew patients sneaked down and smoked nevertheless. Then I walked out to the car park, hoping that by some miracle she’d be out there, wandering around, looking for my car.

  She wasn’t. So when I reached it I clicked the remote and opened it, slung my bag on the driver’s seat and ferretted about in it for my mobile.

  Mike’s phone rang several times before he answered, and I used the time to keep scanning the car park.

  ‘What’s up, love?’ he said, sounding concerned. I generally tried not to phone him at work.

  ‘It’s Adrianna,’ I told him. ‘She’s disappeared.’

  ‘What? How could she disappear?’

  ‘That was precisely my question.’

  ‘What – from the ward? I thought you’d arranged a time to pick her up?’

  ‘I had. And they said she’d gone off to get dressed, ready. And then – pfft! – she disappeared.’

  ‘You sure you’ve checked everywhere? Sure you didn’t miss each other on one of those corridors?’

  ‘No. At least, I don’t think so. Why would she even leave before I got there? The plan was that I’d come up to the ward and fetch her, wasn’t it?’

  ‘So maybe she got confused …’