by A J McDine
‘Another contraction?’ she asks.
I’m silent, watching her warily.
She prods me on the shoulder. ‘I said, was that another contraction?’
‘I think so,’ I mumble.
‘When did you have the last one?’
I shrug.
‘No matter. We’ll just have to time it, won’t we?’ she chirps, tapping at the screen of her mobile. I glance at my pocket.
‘Don’t worry, your phone and keys are safe. Safely out of reach, anyway,’ she chuckles, jerking her head backwards. Metal glints from the highest shelf.
‘What do you want?’ I croak.
She sits cross-legged opposite me and claps her hands together. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this for months. It’s been so hard to keep the secret.’ She hugs herself and for the first time I notice she’s wearing a lavender-blue wraparound maternity dress.
‘I’ve got a dress like that.’
‘It is your dress. I found it in your wardrobe and borrowed it. You don’t mind, do you?’
My head is muzzy and it takes a second for her words to sink in. ‘Are you pregnant, too?’
‘My neighbours think so,’ she trills. ‘Thanks to my fake baby bump. It’s made from silicone. It’s so lifelike I almost convinced myself I was up the duff.’ She laughs again.
‘Why would you -’
‘Christ, you really are slow today. I’m faking a pregnancy so that when I bring a baby home no-one’ll be suspicious. They’ll assume he’s mine. Which, of course, he is.’
Fingers of dread squeeze my heart. ‘You mean my baby?’
‘Of course I mean your baby.’ She makes a show of looking over her shoulder. ‘I don’t see any other pregnant women here, do you?’
‘But you can’t,’ I say, stifling a sob. ‘He’s not yours to take.’
‘I’m afraid that’s where you’re wrong,’ she says, jumping to her feet and rifling about in her handbag. She takes something out and examines it in the light. At first I think it’s a Biro, but with mounting horror I realise it’s a syringe. She taps the end of it a couple of times and bears down on me, her face a mask of concentration.
‘What are you doing?’ I shriek, shrinking back.
She stabs the syringe into the muscle in my thigh and I cry out, more in shock than pain. ‘What have you given me?’
Roz tosses the empty syringe over her shoulder and it rolls under an old shelving unit. ‘Syntocinon,’ she says, as if that explains everything.
I’m expecting to slide into unconsciousness, but nothing happens.
‘It’s the synthetic form of oxytocin, used to speed up labour. It stimulates the uterus, making it contract.’ She peers at me. ‘Matt promised me a baby, and a baby’s what I’m going to have.’
‘Matt what?’
‘You heard.’
‘But you’ve never even met him!’
She leans over, her face inches from mine. Her breath is hot on my cheek. ‘Is that what you think? If so, I’m afraid you’re wrong.’
What is she talking about? I try to marshal my thoughts, remembering the missed calls, the mystery card and the flowers. Roz is just his type. Dark, slim and pretty. Like I used to be before pregnancy bloated my face and thickened my ankles.
‘Are you the one he’s having an affair with?’
For a second, doubt flickers across her face. Her eyes search mine. ‘He’s having an affair?’
Even though I’m shackled to a bench and Roz is looming over me, anger makes me brave. ‘Don’t play the innocent with me. I know he’s been playing away. No wonder you always check he’s at work before you come over. Too worried you wouldn’t be able to resist falling into each other’s arms in front of me like star-crossed lovers?’
‘You’re wrong -’
‘I don’t give a monkey’s what you say. I’m not completely stupid. But tell me this, Roz, how many men actually leave their wives, their heavily-pregnant wives, for their mistresses?’
‘He was mine before he was ever yours,’ she hisses.
‘What?’
‘I met Matt twelve years ago when I was twenty and he was twenty-three.’
‘You went out with each other?’
‘We lived with each other, Sophie. We had our lives mapped out. A house, wedding, kids, the lot. Even a fucking golden retriever. That’s what he promised me.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
Crack! Roz’s hand snakes through the air so fast I don’t have time to twist my head out of the way. Her palm connects with my cheekbone with blistering force.
‘Bitch!’ I cry, straining at the ties around my wrists.
‘Shut up then,’ she says in a low voice. ‘Do you want to hear this or not? I was the love of his life. He was about to propose, I know he was. Then that slapper Tess arrived at the bank and started making cow eyes at him.’ Roz adopts a coquettish tone that’s so exaggerated it’s grotesque. ‘“Oh Matt, you’re so clever. Can you please run your eye over my figures?” He was weak, like all men, and he fell for it.’
I’m curious despite myself. Perhaps she is telling the truth. I know so little about Matt’s past. ‘He left you for her?’
She throws her head back and laughs, exposing the translucent white skin of her neck. My hands twitch in their bindings and for a second I wonder what I’d be capable of given the chance.
‘Technically she left him. Very silly of her to go running along country lanes at dusk. She was asking for trouble.’
‘Why? What happened?’
Roz re-arranges her features so her face is a picture of concern. ‘It was all terribly sad. She was knocked over by a hit and run driver and left for dead. The funny thing was, when they found her she was. Dead, I mean.’
I gasp.
‘I know. Terrible, right?’
‘Was it you who ran her over?’
She smirks. ‘I couldn’t possibly comment.’
My God, she’s actually insane. I’m used to dealing with people having psychotic episodes, but this is something else entirely. Keep her talking, says a voice in my head. So I do.
‘Did you and Matt get back together after Tess… died?’
Her face hardens. ‘They sent me away. I wasn’t displaying ‘normal’ behaviour.’
‘Define normal,’ I say, trying to inject warmth into my voice.
‘My point exactly!’ she cries. ‘I only followed Matt because I wanted to speak to him. He ended it so suddenly. I needed to understand why.’
A new wave of pain rolls in and I let out a guttural grunt.
‘Oh goody, another one!’ Roz exclaims, rubbing her hands in anticipation. ‘Let’s count together.’
My chin is on my chest as I try to breathe through the contraction, doing my best to ignore Roz as she counts to fifty-two. She pats my knee and I force myself not to flinch.
‘Not long now!’ she says.
I give her a wan smile. Beads of sweat are trickling down my brow despite the chill dampness of the cellar.
‘Where did they send you?’
‘Oh, back to the asylum. Only they don’t call them that anymore, do they? A locked ward on a psychiatric unit. Bastards. And by the time they let me out Matt had disappeared.’
‘What do you mean, disappeared?’
‘He’d left the bank, sold our house, left Portsmouth. I tracked him down in Chester, but he moved again. He kept bloody moving. And then I lost him completely.’
‘But you found him in the end,’ I say in a dull voice.
Her eyes gleam. ‘I created a fake profile on Linked In -’
‘Matt’s not on Linked In.’ Or Facebook, or Twitter, or Instagram for that matter. I always assumed it was because he couldn’t be bothered with social media. More likely he didn’t want Roz using it to track him down.
‘If you’ll let me finish,’ she says, glaring at me, ‘I used my fake profile to connect with a few people we used to work with and pretended I was recruiting for a bank in London. When I aske
d them if they knew any branch managers looking to further their careers, one suggested a certain Matt Saunders, who managed the Brighton branch of a high street bank. I made some more enquiries and realised it was him. Bingo.’
‘Wouldn’t it have been easier just to Google him?’
‘He’d changed his name. So no, it wouldn’t.’
‘Changed his name?’ I repeat stupidly. Why didn’t he tell me?
‘He used to be Matthew French.’
French and Saunders. Matt’s always loved them. Christ almighty, I owe my last name to a comedy act. What else don’t I know about my husband?
‘I knew he might be a bit… wary if I turned up without any warning, so I changed my name, too. Clever eh?’ She winks at me.
‘Very clever,’ I agree tonelessly.
‘My real name is Leanne.’
‘So, when I told Matt a woman called Roz was cutting my hair he had no idea it was you. Have you actually spoken to him?’
‘Not in so many words. I’ve tried calling and texting. But he’s very loyal to you, Sophie. He’s a good man, I can see that. He doesn’t want to hurt you. Unfortunately for you, I do.’
Chapter Forty-One
Now
‘He’ll come looking for me the minute he gets home and realises I’m not there,’ I tell Roz.
She picks up my mobile and waves it at me. ‘Afraid not. I sent him a text from your phone while you were out cold. He thinks you’ve had a change of plan and have come to mine for supper. You told him not to wait up. He won’t start worrying until at least midnight.’
‘And when he does he’ll call the police and you’ll be arrested for kidnap and assault.’
This time I see her hand in time and I jerk my head away, catching a glancing blow. Keep her talking. ‘What is it you want from me?’
‘Just your baby.’ She disappears into the shadows. Her voice is muffled as she talks over her shoulder. ‘We’re going to have the baby here. Everything’s ready.’
She reappears, holding two large Waitrose bags. One contains towels. A packet of newborn Pampers is sticking out of the top of the second.
‘Are you mad? I can’t have my baby in a cellar!’
‘You’ll be fine. You’re fit and healthy. It’s amazing what you can learn on YouTube. I prepared for every eventuality. C-section was my first choice.’
I gape at her.
‘I wanted to dictate where and when the birth was going to take place, but I knew I had to read up on natural delivery too, in case you suddenly went into labour.’
‘I need to go to hospital! I’m forty-one and this is my first baby. What if something goes wrong?’
‘Have a bit of faith. I’ve spent months watching birthing videos. I’ll be your very own doula.’
I shake my head in disbelief. Roz rummages around in the second bag and pulls out a cornflower-blue fleece blanket. To my astonishment she puts her thumb in her mouth and rubs the blanket against her top lip. She looks at once absurd and intensely vulnerable. She takes her thumb out and eyes me with a steely gaze. ‘Once he’s born I need you out of the picture.’
Fear prickles my skin as if a thousand ants are crawling over me. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Matt, the baby and I can hardly be a happy family if you’re still on the scene, like the spectre at the feast. Which would you prefer - an overdose, a broken neck from falling down the cellar steps or electrocution from Geoff’s old electric fire?’ She doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘Electrocution would be fitting. Not unlike ECT.’
She puts her thumb in her mouth again, cradles the blanket and rocks back and forth, her eyes fixed on a point in the ceiling.
ECT. Electroconvulsive therapy. Used to treat serious mental health problems such as schizophrenia or psychosis.
‘Did you have ECT in the psychiatric ward?’
She shakes her head without looking at me, then takes her thumb out to say, ‘Not that time.’ The thumb goes back in and she continues rocking.
‘When did you have it, Roz? You can tell me.’
‘When I was seventeen.’
The same age I had the abortion.
Her thumb drops from her mouth and she draws her knees to her chest and hugs them tightly. ‘Procedure. That’s what they call it. Such an inoffensive word for such an invasive act, don’t you think? Four hundred volts of electricity pumped into my brain and they call it a procedure?’ She spits the words out.
‘I had to have a general anaesthetic and a muscle relaxant to stop the physical convulsions. I was strapped on my back to a table, for fuck’s sake. “Don’t worry,”’ she mimics in a falsetto voice, ‘“the table can be pivoted if you’re sick”. Oh well, that’s alright then.’ She gives a short bark of laughter. ‘It was only later I realised I should never have had it. ECT might help manic depressives and schizophrenics, but it doesn’t help people like me.’
‘What do you mean, people like you?’
Roz rakes her nails across her forehead, leaving a row of red weals. ‘People with borderline personality disorder. So, it does fuck all to improve my BPD and instead I’m left with memory loss, anxiety and difficulty concentrating, just to add insult to injury. And do you know the funny thing?’
I shake my head.
‘It was my decision to go through with it. I thought it would give me a fresh start, a new beginning. I truly believed it would wipe the slate clean and I would be all sparkly and new. I thought it was the right thing to do. You have no idea how fucking angry that makes me.’
She jumps to her feet again and paces from one side of the cellar to the other, her hands balled in fists at her sides. As she passes me the scent of stale sweat fills my nostrils and I turn my head to avoid it.
‘The system swallowed me up and spat me out. I didn’t deserve it. But I’m going to have my happy ending. Thanks to you and the baby.’
I feel another contraction coming and brace my legs. Roz drops to the floor like a stone and counts the seconds until it passes.
‘Over a minute,’ she says with satisfaction. ‘Not long now.’
‘One thing I don’t understand,’ I say slowly. ‘You’ve already got your own little family. What about Pete and Caitlyn?’
Laughter, shrill and piercing, echoes around the cellar.
‘They don’t exist, you silly bitch. I made them up so we’d have something in common. I needed to win your trust.’
Lou was right after all. Why didn’t I believe her, my oldest friend, over someone I barely knew?
‘You were very convincing.’
She smiles. ‘I was, wasn’t I? But you made it so easy. Poor, gullible Sophie. You fell for it hook, line and sinker.’
‘How did you know Matt lived in Canterbury?’
‘I followed him home from work one Friday night. And once he was back in Brighton the following week I posted my flyer through your door. I retrained as a hairdresser when I was released from hospital.’
All of a sudden everything is clear. ‘It was you who set Angela’s house on fire, wasn’t it?’
‘I did it for you. Angela’s a bully, and you should always stand up to bullies,’ she chants in a sing-song voice.
‘Stand up to them, not burn their bloody house down!’
‘She was sending your blood pressure through the roof. Who knows what risk that could have caused to the pregnancy. I was looking after you.’
So you could concoct a crazy plan to steal my baby. What kind of warped mind must Roz have to be able to justify setting someone’s house on fire while they are asleep upstairs? Angela could so easily have died. And it would have been my fault. If I hadn’t sounded off to Roz about my boss it would never have happened.
I remember the lighter I found on our dew-soaked lawn. ‘Were you planning to burn our house down as well?’
She snorts. ‘Why would I do that? I needed to keep the baby safe, ergo I needed to keep you safe, too. Until he was born anyway.’
‘But I found a lighter in the garden.’
‘Not just any lighter, Sophie. The lighter. That really was inspired, even though I say so myself. Because I knew I needed to cover all bases.’
‘What do you mean?’
Roz sits back on her heels. ‘It was the lighter I used to start the fire at Angela’s. I wanted a contingency plan in case I missed the birth.’
My mind is whirring. ‘You were framing me for arson?’
‘Only as a last resort. You had motive and opportunity, after all. An anonymous tip-off to the police should have been enough to have you arrested and then, when they found the lighter at your house, charged. You’d have been banged up for five years for arson with intent.’
‘And I suppose you were planning to worm your way back into Matt’s life while I was in prison.’ I shake my head in disbelief.
‘As I said, it was a last resort. I needed to think of everything. That’s why the cat had to go.’
My jaw clenches as I remember DC Bennett’s warning that people who torture or kill animals are often perpetrators of violent crimes against people. Of course Roz killed him. Who else?
‘What did Mr Pickles ever do to you?’
‘Nothing. It’s what he could have done to the baby that mattered. I had no idea how much shit there was in the garden. Disgusting. Didn’t you know cat faeces can contain a parasite that causes toxoplasmosis? If you get infected while you’re pregnant it can cause miscarriage or stillbirth and damage your unborn baby.’
She sounds as though she’s reciting straight from a medical textbook.
‘I always wear gardening gloves.’
She shakes her head sorrowfully. ‘Not good enough. Sometimes I think you don’t even want this baby. You show a wanton disregard for his safety. It’s a good job you’re giving him to me. We both know I’ll do a better job looking after him.’
I gulp down the tears that are forming a hard mass at the back of my throat. Keep her talking. ‘Was it you who trashed the garden?’
She looks sidelong at me. ‘Might have been.’
‘You can’t pretend that was to protect me. I’d spent weeks working towards the open day. Why did you do it?’