When She Finds You

by A J McDine

  I give a hollow laugh. ‘I assumed the problem lay with Matt, so I nagged and nagged him until he agreed to get tested. Of course, he was over the moon when he found out he wasn’t shooting blanks. When I went in for tests they found severe scarring on my fallopian tubes and told me the only way we stood a chance of having a baby was through IVF. It took four rounds and nearly killed us, emotionally and financially.’

  ‘Oh, Sophie, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK. I saw it as my punishment.’ I pause. ‘I used to think you wanted me and Ed to split up, so you could have him all to yourself.’

  Her eyes widen. ‘That’s not true!’

  ‘I know. I see that now.’

  She reaches for my hand again. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. It was my decision. I was my own person. I could have said no. I loved that baby with all my heart, even though I knew it wasn’t much more than a mass of cells. But I was too scared to go through with the pregnancy. Too worried what people would say. I didn’t want to be one of those teenage mums you read about in magazines. It wasn’t your fault.’

  Lou lets go of my hand and shakes her head. ‘Christ, what idiots we’ve been.’

  ‘We were kids, doing what we thought was right at the time.’

  She gestures at my bump. ‘You deserve your happy ending, Sophie darling.’

  I give her a weak smile. I want to believe her, I really do. I want to think that I’m finally absolved from the guilt I’ve carried around for the last twenty years. But it’s too ingrained, too entrenched. Deep down I know the guilt won’t go until I forgive myself. And I’m not sure I ever can.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Now

  ‘I’d better go,’ Lou says. ‘I’m supposed to be picking Josh up from the station at five.’ She eyes me rubbing my belly. ‘Are you going to be alright?’

  ‘I’ll be fine. Matt’s promised to be home by seven. I’m still only thirty-eight weeks. It could be another month yet, knowing my luck.’

  ‘You’re probably right. Josh was ten days late.’ She hugs me tight. ‘I’m so glad we’ve sorted things out.’

  ‘Me too. And thanks so much for the pram.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure.’ She pats her jeans pocket and frowns. ‘Have you seen my phone?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘No worries. I must have left it in the car while I was faffing about with the pram. Make sure you call me if you need anything, OK? Otherwise I’ll pop by on Monday to see how you’re doing.’

  I smile. I’m glad Lou’s back in my life. ‘You’d better go or you’ll be late,’ I chide.

  She gives me another hug. ‘Take care of yourself,’ she says fiercely.

  ‘I will. Now go!’

  I close the door behind her and wander into the sitting room. The pram is parked between the window and the back of the sofa and I pull it out to have a proper look. It is a thing of beauty. Sleek aluminium chassis, a hood lining as soft as butter and a thick fur seat liner. There’s even a matching silver-grey changing bag. It is, as Matt would say, the dog’s bollocks.

  ‘Lucky baby,’ I murmur. My stomach muscles contract again and I groan out loud and massage the small of my back until the pain fades. An unwelcome thought hits me square between the eyes - if Braxton Hicks hurt this much, what the hell are contractions going to be like? My carefully-constructed birthing plan includes soft lights, chill-out music and a TENS machine. Pain relief does not figure. I’ve read too many horror stories about epidurals that have ended in forceps deliveries and Pethidine making mums vomit and babies too sleepy to breastfeed to want to go down that route. I want to do it naturally, like women before me have for millennia. After all, how hard can it be?

  Jackie, my midwife, was silent as she read my birthing plan, but I saw her mouth twitch.

  ‘You think it’s all a bit sanctimonious, the “I want a natural birth” thing, don’t you?’

  ‘Not at all. Just keep an open mind. If you go into this thinking it’ll be intervention-free, you might be bitterly disappointed if it doesn’t go to plan. And babies have a habit of doing things their own way.’

  I smiled and nodded, but inside I thought, she’s wrong. I’ve wanted this baby for so long I’ll be able to withstand any pain to hold him in my arms.

  Now, as another Braxton Hicks sweeps through my body, doubt edges into my mind. Have I been too prescriptive? Surely a little gas and air wouldn’t harm? And if an epidural is on offer…

  My musings are interrupted by my phone bleeping with a text. It’s Roz. I haven’t seen her since I left work, but she texts me every day to see how I’m doing, regular as clockwork.

  How’s things?

  OK, I tap back. Getting a few twinges but I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.

  What kind of twinges?

  Braxton Hicks… I think.

  Is Matt home?

  No, he won’t be back ’til seven.

  I can see from the three dots in the speech bubble that she’s typing a reply, but I’ve wandered back into the kitchen and am staring inside the half-empty fridge wondering what to cook for dinner when my phone pings again.

  I’ve been in two minds whether to tell you this because I don’t want to worry you, especially at the moment. But I know who’s behind everything.

  I sink on a chair and stare at the screen.

  What do you mean?

  The arson, the vandalism and the cat. I know who did it.

  My fingers feel rubbery, as though they aren’t attached to my arms, as I type a response.

  WHO???

  There’s something I need to show you first. Can you meet me now?

  I glance at the kitchen clock. It’s just gone half five. I could always pick up a curry while I’m out. Something spicy that might get the baby moving.

  OK, as long as I’m no more than an hour. Where shall we meet?

  Her reply is back in a blink.

  Cam.

  I dash out a note to Matt, which I leave propped against the fruit bowl on the kitchen table.

  Had to pop to work.

  Don’t worry about dinner.

  I’ll treat us to a lamb dhansak on my way home.

  Be back about 7.15pm x

  At the front door I pause. My navy hospital bag is under the console table, packed and ready to go. It wouldn’t do any harm to take it. As I bend over to pick it up another twinge grips my body and I hold onto the table for support until the pain subsides.

  I’m locking the front door, the strap of the hospital bag digging into my shoulder, when my mobile rings. Assuming it’s Matt letting me know he’s on his way home, I fish around in the bag for my phone.

  ‘Sophie, it’s Lou.’

  ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘You know I couldn’t find my mobile? I’ve hunted high and low for the bloody thing then remembered I put it in the pram when I carried it to the car. I must have left it in there. Can you have a quick look?’

  ‘Sure.’ I tuck the phone between my chin and shoulder, let myself back into the house and peer inside the pram. ‘I can’t see it. Oh wait, there it is. It’s slipped under the padding. Do you want me to drop it round?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll come over in the morning. I’m sure I can live without Facebook and Instagram until then.’

  ‘It’s no trouble, honestly. I’m popping to Cam now anyway. I can swing by your house on my way home.’

  ‘Cam? It’s a quarter to six on a Friday night and you’re on maternity leave. Why are you going to work?’

  ‘Roz has worked out who’s been causing all the problems. I’m meeting her there. She’s got something to show me.’

  ‘Roz?’ Lou’s voice is sharp.

  ‘I know you two haven’t exactly hit it off, but she’s been a good friend to me.’

  ‘Can’t it wait until the morning? I could come with you.’

  ‘I can’t wait that long. I need answers now. Look, I’ve got to go. I’m already running late. I’ll drop by
yours on the way home, alright?’

  She’s still chuntering away in the background when I end the call and slip both phones into my hospital bag.

  Pulling out of our road, I realise too late that I’m heading straight into rush hour traffic. It’s going to take an age to cross the city. What if Roz thinks I’ve changed my mind and leaves before I arrive? I wasn’t exaggerating when I told Lou I had to find out who’s behind all this. The need to know is insidious, infiltrating every dark crevice of my mind. It’s not curiosity, it’s far more deep-rooted, more primeval than that. It’s my survival instinct kicking in. I have to know who hates me enough to harm me. Not for me. For my baby.

  I swerve onto the pavement, ignoring the angry blast of a horn from the white van behind me, and try to call Roz to warn her I’ll be late, but her phone goes straight to voicemail.

  ‘Roz, it’s me, Sophie. I’m on my way, OK? I should be with you in about twenty minutes. Don’t leave before I get there. Please?’

  I pull back onto the carriageway and soon I’m inching forwards on the ring road. As I drive past the police station I wonder if I should swing in and leave a message for DC Bennett telling her I’m close to finding the answers. I glance at the dashboard. It’s already gone six. I don’t have time.

  The traffic is lighter as I head up Old Dover Road and soon I’m passing Kent Cricket Ground and indicating right onto Stone Street.

  I check my mirror for police cars and, seeing none, put my foot down.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Now

  I’m expecting to see Roz’s little hatchback, so I’m surprised when I reach Cam and the car park is empty. I pull into my usual space and try phoning her, but it goes straight to voicemail again and I don’t bother leaving a message. She must have tired of waiting and gone home.

  Shit. I run my hands through my hair. I would drive to her house, but it occurs to me that I have no idea where she lives. I turn the keys in the ignition. As I slip the car into reverse I’m racked by another Braxton Hicks. Shit. This one literally takes my breath away and I grab the steering wheel like a drowning man grasps a lifebuoy. A vice-like pain grips my stomach. I count out loud to take my mind off the agony, reaching forty before it subsides.

  I try to remember what Jackie told me about Braxton Hicks. She described them as the body’s way of getting ready for labour, lasting less than a minute and happening a few times a day. She said they were irregular and didn’t increase in intensity.

  Are you kidding me? These are getting worse and worse. What if they’re not Braxton Hicks? What if they’re contractions? The last was just before Lou rang, at a quarter to six. Twenty-five minutes ago. Could I be in the early stages of labour? All thoughts of Roz forgotten, I snatch my phone and dial Matt’s number.

  ‘Hello, this is Matt Saunders. I’m afraid I can’t come to the phone right now -’

  ‘Fuck’s sake! What’s the point of having a mobile phone if you don’t bloody answer it?’ I howl. The urge to be at home is overwhelming and I slam the car into reverse and stamp my foot on the accelerator. The car skids on the loose gravel and I throw it into first gear. Out of habit I glance in the rear-view mirror before I pull away. The old wooden door is swinging wide open. I hit the brakes. The seatbelt presses into my belly and the baby squirms in protest.

  I’m torn. I need to get home. But it’s a quarter past six. The door should be locked at this time of night. Roz doesn’t have a key. I was going to meet her in the car park. If Geoff was working late his battered Land Rover Discovery would be here. What if he forgot to lock the door when he left for the day?

  I’m desperate to go home, have a bath and count my contractions until Matt gets back. But I can’t bring myself to leave. What if the person who wrecked the garden has come back for another go? What if Roz was here when he arrived and she’s lying somewhere, hurt?

  One quick look, I decide, reversing the car as close to the open door as I can. If the crunch of gravel hasn’t already alerted any intruder to my presence it will have now. I peer through the driver’s window into the garden. There are no broken pots or overturned wheelbarrows. Everything looks exactly as it should. I switch off the engine and slip the keys and my phone into the front pocket of my maternity dungarees and heave myself out of the car.

  I inch my way over to the door, feeling like an intruder myself. There are no signs of forced entry. My heart in my mouth, I step into the garden.

  At first glance it looks deserted, but I stand inside the door and scan every inch, to be sure. Satisfied the only sign of life is a robin, watching me with bright eyes from the branch of a pear tree, I walk in.

  ‘Hello!’ My voice sounds scratchy, as if I haven’t used it for weeks. ‘Hello! It’s me, Sophie. Is anyone here?’

  Nothing.

  I cross the garden to the office door and try the handle. It’s locked. I walk around to the window and look inside. All’s in order. My breathing returns to normal. Everything’s fine. I wrap my fingers around the clutch of keys in my pocket, thankful Angela didn’t insist I returned Cam’s keys when I went on maternity leave. I can lock the outer door, drive home and wait for my baby to arrive with a clear conscience. I’ll have done my duty. Whoever was last out must’ve forgotten to lock up.

  No harm done.

  End of story.

  Except as I turn to leave I hear a faint cry. The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. I stop, cock my head and listen. And there it is again. My name.

  ‘Sofee!’

  It’s a woman’s voice, weak and reedy, but I recognise it instantly.

  ‘Roz, is that you?’

  ‘I’m in the cellar.’

  I stumble forwards, trying to ignore the tightening of the muscles in my abdomen that presages a contraction. But it’s futile. The pain comes in waves like an incoming tide, fast and furious and absolute bloody agony. I cry out involuntarily and hold onto the edge of the cellar door.

  ‘Are you alright?’ calls Roz from the dark depths.

  I wait until my breathing has steadied before I answer. ‘I’m fine. But never mind me. Are you OK? What happened?’

  ‘Someone had left a spade out. I was putting it away when I slipped on the steps. I think I’ve broken my ankle.’

  ‘Shit!’ I feel in my pocket for my phone. ‘I’m phoning for an ambulance.’

  ‘No, wait!’ she cries. ‘It might just be a sprain. I can make it back up with your help.’

  ‘OK, if you’re sure. I’m coming down.’

  I feel behind the door for the light switch, grimacing when my hand comes in contact with the filmy mesh of a spider’s web. I flick the switch, but nothing happens. I try it again, just to make sure, but the cellar remains inky black.

  ‘Bloody light’s not working,’ I shout.

  ‘I know. I couldn’t see the steps. That’s why I lost my footing. Be careful, OK?’

  ‘I will,’ I mutter, grabbing hold of the handrail. The darkness grows denser as I descend until I have to feel with my toes for the edge of each step. The temperature drops, too, and I shiver in the damp, musty air.

  ‘Where are you?’ I call into the shadows. It’s so dark I may as well have my eyes closed.

  ‘In the corner by the hand tools.’

  I turn my head towards the sound of Roz’s voice. By my calculation I must be two-thirds of the way down.

  ‘Almost there,’ I puff, as much for my reassurance as hers.

  She groans and I quicken my pace, almost stumbling over the last two steps. I give the ground an exploratory sweep with my toe and, satisfied I have reached the bottom, take a couple of steps forwards, my arms outstretched.

  Afterwards, I can’t help but wonder why I didn’t use the torch app on my phone. But in the cold, dark cellar it doesn’t even occur to me. Baby brain.

  I take a tentative step to my right, towards Geoff’s neat shelves. Without sight, my other senses have taken over. I can almost taste the dank cellar air. A movement to my left makes me
stop for a moment, but I press on. The sooner I find Roz and we both get the hell out of here the better.

  I hear a sharp intake of breath and stand stock still, trying to work out where it’s coming from. I sense a whoosh of air and feel a searing pain at the back of my head. The last thing I remember is a rushing sound in my ears and strong arms under my armpits as my legs buckle beneath me.

  Chapter Forty

  Now

  When I come to, the cellar is still in darkness and I’m sitting slumped against an old potting bench. The base of my head is throbbing like crazy but when I try to lift a hand to assess the damage I realise my wrists are tied to one of the bench legs. Even worse, I’m not wearing my dungarees. Fear turns my stomach to liquid.

  ‘Roz,’ I whisper urgently. ‘Are you OK?’

  Laughter ricochets off the walls. There’s a click and light floods the room. Flinching, I squeeze my eyes shut before the powerful wattage burns my retinas.

  Roz steps in front of the light. ‘Never better. Thanks for asking.’ Her face is in darkness.

  I blink. ‘You’re OK,’ I say, surprised.

  ‘Of course I’m OK. More than OK, in fact.’

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  She laughs again, the sound as deadly as shattered glass, and flexes each ankle in turn, inches from my face. ‘As you can see, there’s no broken ankle.’

  ‘So why did you -’

  ‘Lure you down here? Because it’s almost time.’

  ‘Time for what?’

  ‘For someone who’s supposed to be intelligent you’re surprisingly stupid. Time for the baby.’

  As if on cue I’m racked by another contraction even stronger than the last. Shudders convulse my body and I long to curl up in a corner and cradle my bump in my hands. I struggle against the ties, but they don’t shift an inch. The pain gradually subsides and my muscles relax.

  Roz squats on her haunches so I can see her properly for the first time. Her hair is scraped back in a pony tail and her face is devoid of make-up, but it’s her eyes that transfix me. They’re blazing with a terrifying intensity.