The Foster Child

by Jenny Blackhurst

  Another snap in the bushes and I let out a small gasp. I’ve always been fascinated by how easily the mind can be influenced by a person’s surroundings, and I try to concentrate on the psychology of it. Thinking about the autonomic fear response focuses my mind and calms my thumping heart. That doesn’t help when I hear the voice.

  ‘Imogen.’

  It’s a low whisper from somewhere behind my left shoulder. I spin around, relieved to have someone I know to walk the rest of the way home with, but the path behind me is empty. My heart banging against my chest, I peer into the bushes for any sign of someone playing a trick on me, but the silence seems even thicker than before and the path around me is still. Stupid woman, I curse myself. Stupid woman hearing things.

  Still, I dig my hand into my pocket, lace the thick plastic fob of my car keys between my fingers and wish to God that I had my car here now instead of letting Dan drop me off at the coffee shop this morning. My makeshift shiv firmly in place, I turn on my heel and stride purposefully on, embarrassment at my own fear propelling me forward.

  ‘Help me. Please help me.’

  A child’s voice sounds small and helpless from the dark trees beyond. I wince. Is this in my head as well? My own fear battles against the knowledge that if I’m not imagining the voice, if a child is in trouble and I do nothing, I will never forgive myself.

  I pause, waiting for the voice to speak again, to pinpoint where it’s coming from. As I wait, I pull out my mobile phone from my coat pocket and press Dan’s number on the call log. I keep it away from my ear until a voice in my hand says, ‘Hello? Immy?’

  ‘Dan.’ I put the phone to my ear and whisper my husband’s name. ‘I’m walking back along the canal path . . .’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Im, I told you not to walk that way. Remember that woman had her purse stolen there last—’

  ‘I know, but I’m here now,’ I hiss, cutting him off. I’m annoyed at myself for choosing to walk this way when Dan expressly told me not to, but also annoyed at him. If he hadn’t been telling me what to do as usual, I probably would have come to my own conclusion that this path was a bad idea. As it is, part of my decision to come this way was to prove to him I’m not a child. And see how that turned out, I think ruefully.

  ‘Look,’ I continue, ‘I heard a child’s voice, in the trees. Asking for help. I’ve got to go in and have a look, but I wanted to let someone know where I—’

  ‘You absolutely will not, Imogen.’ Dan’s voice is livid and I can picture how red his face will be. ‘Just keep walking. I’m getting my coat and coming to meet you now.’

  My face burns. ‘I don’t need you to come and get me, Dan. I’m thirty-two years old. My mother stopped walking me to school before I was ten.’ Any fear I felt just a few minutes ago has dissipated at the sound of my husband’s voice. Now I just feel annoyed.

  ‘You do realise that there are gangs who use children to lure women into the woods so they can rob them and . . . Just keep walking, Imogen, please.’

  His last plea sounds so desperate that I can’t help but soften. ‘Okay. I can’t hear anything now anyway. It was probably just some local kids playing hide-and-seek or something.’ Even as I say it, I know that’s not likely. Kids playing are noisy and boisterous, shouting and crashing about. Not quietly imploring. Still, when Dan replies, he sounds so relieved that I know I’m doing the right thing not venturing into the woods.

  ‘Thank you. Shall I still come and meet you? We can grab some supper from the chippy on the way back.’

  ‘Mmm, sounds lush.’ I start walking again, Dan’s voice a comfort in my ear.

  ‘Okay, just leaving now. How far down the canal are you?’

  I glance around. ‘Past the old bench. Just coming up to—’

  My words catch in my throat as the thump on my back reverberates through my chest, and I am knocked off balance into the filthy, freezing water of the disused canal.

  41

  Imogen

  I cough violently and try to push myself upwards. My lungs burn and I struggle to pull in fresh clean air, but I am drowning, drowning in stagnant muddy water. Algae claws its way down my throat, wrapping itself around my windpipe and dragging me further under the surface. I can’t open my eyes; they are thick with sticky brown mud, and I claw desperately at my face to wipe it away. But every time I clear it, more of the filth closes in to take its place. I feel the last of my breath expel from my lips, and I know in that instant that this is it, I am dying. As my body fights with its last ounce of strength, I hear a voice, the voice that dragged me down into the depths, the voice of a young girl. ‘I only wanted help,’ it chants, and now I can’t tell whether it is a girl or a boy. The boy . . . ‘I just needed someone to help me . . .’

  ‘Imogen!’ Firm arms grab me around the shoulders and clutch me tightly. I cough again; my fingers stretch out for the arms holding me and I grab them, clinging on to stop myself being dragged down to the murky depths of the disused canal.

  Except, I realise, I’m not wet any more. And my eyes are no longer thick with mud. My lungs still burn but they aren’t filled with water; they are filled with air, clean air.

  ‘Imogen, can you hear me?’

  I open my eyes, then snap them closed again when the bright white lights hit my retinas. I bury my head in Dan’s chest and let him rock me gently until the pounding behind my eyes subsides and my breathing slows. Within a few minutes another voice speaks, female this time.

  ‘Imogen? Imogen, my name is Dr Harding. Can you hear me? Can you open your eyes, Imogen?’

  42

  Imogen

  I turn over in bed and shift around to get comfortable. I fluff up my pillow, punch a dent in the middle and try to sink back into it. Closing my eyes, I try to zone out, refocus my mind so my thoughts aren’t so close to the surface, but just as they begin to sink downwards, as they fade into a dull drone, the words slide through my mind and they are back in focus: I just needed someone to help me. I am awake, alert again, hear them as keenly as if someone has whispered them in my ear. But there is no one in the room with me, I know that, and I know that those words are ingrained in my subconscious, along with the feeling of thick dirty water clogging my throat. The water is just the memory of a dream, and yet still I swear I can feel the cold wet mud and the reeds snaking their way down my windpipe, wrapping around my lungs until I can barely breathe.

  Throwing my legs out of the warm covers, I pull myself to my feet and put on my dressing gown. Feeling my chest relax a little and my breathing returning to normal, I pad across the hallway, flicking the light on as I go.

  The clock in the downstairs hall shows 9.15 p.m. – I’ve managed to grab a couple of hours then – but I have no idea what woke me so abruptly. Dan left at 7 p.m. to meet the editor of the local paper for drinks at the pub; he had approached the man to talk about an idea he’d had for a regular column about the glamorous life of a novelist, and it turned out the editor has read a couple of Dan’s books and considers himself a fan.

  ‘I thought we didn’t need to worry about money now I’m working again,’ I questioned when he mentioned it earlier. It’s not that I object to him working on other projects – it’s great for him to have something else to focus his mind on, and this might open doors for him – but the idea of being at home alone since the incident in the canal leaves me cold.

  ‘It’s not about the money, baby, it’s just that . . . well, I’m a bit lonely stuck here all day while you go out to work.’ He looked sheepish, as though admitting to needing company was a stupid weakness. ‘I thought this might get me some human contact every now and then.’ I felt selfish and rotten when he quickly told me that if I wanted him to stay in then of course he would; this feature wasn’t as important as I was – it could wait until another time. I know enough about the world of journalism, though, to understand that ‘another time’ is about as reliable as ‘one day’ or ‘in the future’.

  ‘No, of course you have to go,’ I said wi
th a smile that I hope wasn’t as fake as it felt. ‘I’m absolutely fine. I’ll be going back to work in a couple of days, and without me to fuss over, you’re going to need something to focus on.’

  I have to admit that my husband would have made an incredible nurse. He’s looked after me tirelessly since my release from the hospital the morning after my fall into the canal. They kept me in overnight – for observation, they said, but I knew it was more a case of not having anyone around at that time of night to sign the release forms – but the next morning they declared that I was fit to return home as long as I was well taken care of. Dan took to the task as though he’d signed his name to it in blood, almost to the point of smothering me. Thank God he was out making a phone call when they told me the baby was fine.

  In the kitchen, I flick on the light, then look around, blinking. Everything is normal, exactly how I left it when I went upstairs to nap. So why do I feel so uneasy? There is nothing obvious down here that could have woken me, no dishes slipped down into the sink or recycling fallen over. It isn’t a comforting thought that I was probably woken by my own nightmares.

  Stoically ignoring the solid darkness outside the kitchen window and silently reminding myself to buy some blinds at the next opportunity, I pull open the fridge door and lift out the carton of orange juice Dan brought back from the shop earlier especially for me. Full of vitamin C, he said proudly. Taking a swig straight from the carton, I resist the urge to giggle at my insubordination – Dan would shudder at the mere thought. If I’m going to take the rest upstairs, I need to pour it into a glass so I don’t get told off.

  I push the fridge door shut firmly with my elbow and glance up. The carton slips through my fingers. Cold, sticky orange juice explodes onto the floor, soaking my feet, but I barely notice. I let out an ear-splitting scream as I see the pale face pressed up against the kitchen window.

  43

  Imogen

  The face moves away from the kitchen window and towards the back patio doors. I let out a yell and yank down on the back-door handle – locked. I run through to the dining room. The curtains are closed across the double doors. I have no idea whether Dan locked them when he left, but I can’t force myself to pull back the curtain and face whoever is standing outside. I grab my handbag containing my mobile phone from the dining room table and close the door behind me. Standing in the front room, I look around for something to barricade the dining room door with – even if the patio doors are open, I can stop whoever is outside from coming through the house.

  Who is it out there? I try to picture the face at the window, pale and bloodless, with sunken black eyes – although that could have been my imagination, or the reflection from the glass. I jump as I hear a pounding on the patio doors. My heart thumping, I attempt to pull the large mahogany dresser across the dining-room door, but it is laden with Nan’s old trinkets and won’t budge. At least if they’re knocking on the doors it must means they’re locked. When the pounding stops, I check the front door – that’s locked too.

  Outside, there is silence, which is worse than the pounding on the glass. Without the sound, I have no idea where the intruder is, and therefore where I should be. Pulling my mobile from my bag, I thumb through my recent call log until I find Dan and click call, feeling my heart sink as the pre-recorded answerphone woman invites me to leave a message after the tone.

  ‘Dan, it’s me. Don’t panic, but can you give me a call when you get this, please?’

  I hang up and stare at the phone in my hand. Should I call the police?

  And tell them what – that there’s someone knocking on the door? I imagine the humiliation of the police turning up at my front door to find Dan outside having left his keys at home and his phone battery dead. Or Pammy, or Lucy from work returning my purse or my cardigan, or something else equally innocuous. I take a few deep breaths in and out, knowing that I am going to have to find out who’s outside before I can call for help. Even my call to Dan makes me feel a bit stupid now, like a helpless teenager in a horror movie. Steeling myself, I push open the dining-room door, half expecting someone to be on the other side with a carving knife.

  You’ve watched too many scary movies, idiot.

  Yeah, and if I was watching myself in one now, I’d be screaming at me to call the police, not to open the frigging curtains.

  Still, this isn’t a scary movie, and even I have to admit that the likelihood of being carved into tiny pieces in my own home is slim.

  There is no one in the dining room. Before I open the curtains to face whoever is on the other side, I go cautiously back into the kitchen – avoiding looking at the blindless window – and draw a knife from the knife block. Chancing a glance at the window, I see nothing but an inky black square and my own face reflected back at me. I take the knife back through to the dining room, switching off all the lights as I go. I don’t see any reason to backlight myself if there is someone still out there.

  I take another couple of deep breaths, then, holding the knife out in front of me, rip the patio door curtains open.

  The back garden looks empty. No sign of anyone outside. I press myself up against the window, searching the blackness for signs of movement, but there is nothing. Releasing the breath I have been holding, I let the curtain fall back into place. Whoever was outside is gone.

  Still clutching the knife, I go back into the front room. My mobile lies unblinking on the mahogany dresser – Dan must not have got my message yet. As I’m about to sink down into the sofa, there is a bang on the front door.

  I am there in an instant. I’ve had enough of being scared now – I just want to find out who is stalking around my house at this time of night. Kids, trying to scare me? I fumble with the security latch, and when the chain slides into place, I pull open the front door, stepping back when I see the figure standing on the porch.

  ‘Mrs Reid?’ Hannah Gilbert emerges from the shadows. ‘I’m so sorry I scared you. I shouldn’t have gone to your kitchen window, but there was no answer at the front and I . . . I’m sorry.’

  I feel my pulse slow. There’s nothing threatening about the teacher and I feel slightly stupid as I close the door and take the chain off. Opening it wider, I realise I’m still clutching the knife. Hannah Gilbert sees it before I can hide it.

  ‘Oh God, I really did scare you,’ she says, putting a hand to her chest. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ I say, sliding the knife onto the telephone table behind the front door. ‘New house, middle of the countryside – I’m still a bit jumpy. Used to living in the city, I suppose. Is something wrong?’

  Hannah looks beyond me into the hallway. ‘I, erm, I was hoping to have a word. Would you mind if I came in?’

  ‘Please do.’ I open the door all the way and gesture for her to come inside, though I can’t resist peering out into the darkness beyond, just in case.

  Inside, and with the door firmly locked, I see just how jittery Hannah Gilbert looks. No wonder her face scared the life out of me – even in the light of the hallway she is pale, dark purple circles beneath her eyes. I might be the one who narrowly escaped drowning in the canal two days ago, but Hannah looks as though she has been through a near-death experience of her own.

  ‘Can I get you something to drink?’ I ask in an attempt to break the awkward tension. It seems that now Hannah is inside, she doesn’t have the slightest idea what to say. ‘Tea? Coffee? Wine?’

  Hannah nods. ‘A glass of wine would be great, thanks.’

  I lead her through to the kitchen, and pour her a glass of white wine and myself a glass of water, noticing how her hand shakes slightly as she takes the glass.

  ‘You’re not having one?’ she asks, bringing it to her lips and taking a gulp. I shake my head.

  ‘Painkillers,’ I offer by way of explanation.

  ‘Yes, I heard what happened at the old canal. Are you okay?’

  I nod, wondering who else has heard of my embarrassing fall. ‘Yes thank you,’ I reply. �
��Silly accident.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Hannah says, but doesn’t push any further. We go into the living room and I gesture for her to sit down.

  ‘Is your husband out?’

  ‘Yes, he’s at a work meeting. What is it you want to talk to me about?’

  Now that she has my full attention, Hannah seems almost too embarrassed to speak.

  ‘I’m not really sure how to say this,’ she begins.

  ‘Why don’t we just speak candidly, Hannah – if you don’t mind me calling you Hannah?’ She nods. ‘And please call me Imogen. Why don’t we forget the work issue and you just tell me what is troubling you enough to come to my house late at night.’

  She seems to consider this, then gives a small nod. ‘Okay, fine. I came because I heard about what happened to you. And I heard about your, erm, your discussion with Sarah Jefferson in the café just hours before that.’

  ‘Well, news certainly travels fast in this town.’ I fight to keep the barb from my voice. This is one of the things I never came to terms with when I lived in Gaunt before – the idea that your business is everyone else’s business. It isn’t like that in London – you can shoot someone on their front doorstep and as long as the blood doesn’t splatter the neighbour’s windows, no one else notices a thing.

  Hannah has the good grace to look embarrassed. ‘I know a lot of people.’

  Why, when she says this, do I get the feeling she is doing more than replying to my comment? I hardly need reminding that Hannah knows more people in this town than I do – even the ones I knew once upon a time don’t know I’m back and wouldn’t care a jot if they did.