by Mick Bose
“Dad!” I shout as I nudge the door. It falls open on its well-oiled hinges. “Molly!”
The silence is deafening. The hallway is well lit. I can see the sideboard against one wall, the staircase, and the lounge door. Beyond it, the kitchen lights are on, and only part of it is visible. I race inside, my palpitations drumming against my skull.
The kitchen is empty. No Molly. I race into the pantry, its empty, too. I shriek Molly’s name. Then I hear a groan. It’s coming from the floor. Dad is sprawled out on the grey stones, a pool of blood collecting around his head. By his feet, rests Daisy. She seems fast asleep, and if she is breathing, it’s very slowly.
I rush to Dad’s side, and with an effort, turn him over. His face is turning pale white, and his eyes are closed. Blood smears my hands as I cradle his head.
“Dad!” My voice breaks. I hear a sound and see Suzy. She’s just poked her head inside and her eyes widen.
“Oh my God. Where’s Molly?”
“I don’t know,” I gasp. “Please have a look upstairs.” In my heart, I know the answer.
“Dad,” I shake him again. He doesn’t open his eyes, but his lips mumble something. I get my ears close to his face.
“Get him…not far…” Dad croaks.
“Get who, Dad?” I ask but I know the answer. Dad stops mumbling and his body sags in my hands. I take his pulse at the neck – it’s fast and thready. I put his head back down, then ring 999.
I give them my details, and it takes an impossibly long time. While speaking, I dash upstairs. Suzy is looking in Dad’s room, and I search mine and every other. My heart shatters when I don’t find Molly. I put the phone down and sink against the wall, sobs catching at my throat.
Then I think of what Dad just said. Not far. Which means this must’ve just happened. He’s still around. My mind races. Clive couldn’t take an eight-year-old out in the cold and rain and hope to get very far. He must have transport. He was waiting for this opportunity.
I make my mind up. The ambulance is on its way. I have to leave Dad and Daisy here. The paramedics will take Daisy as well, they assured me. I need to get my daughter back.
I tell Suzy, “He’s close by, I know. I’ll understand if you don’t want to come, it’s dangerous. Just give me your keys.”
She shakes her head. “No, I’m coming with you. Is the ambulance on its way?”
I nod. Then I run downstairs, and get the gun out from the cupboard. Suzy and I race back to the car. She takes the gun from my hands.
“Leave it in the back seat. You might set it off by accident. No one’s going to nick it from there.”
She’s right. I get in the car, and the headlights illuminate nothing but incessant raindrops. She starts to drive. I’m shivering in the cold, my hands are bone-white with patches of purple.
“Have you got a torch?” I say. I have one in my jacket pocket already but we need a backup.
“Not sure,” she says. “Look in the glovebox.”
I open the glovebox drawer. There’s a mess of papers and stuff in there. I see a lighter, and I didn’t know Suzy was a smoker.
Then I see a sheet of paper, and my heart stills. In the light inside the drawer, I can read it clearly.
It’s a birth certificate with my daughter’s name on it.
CHAPTER 55
It only lasts a few seconds, but time seems to slow down. Images and sounds collide in my brain, jerking my mind from side to side. Like a domino chain collapsing, a chain of thoughts trigger in my head.
Suzy lost her baby. She knew where I would be when I found baby Margaret abandoned in the park. The black Nissan Micra. The shape of the driver was always small, and I now realise it must have been a woman. Suzy knew about the dinner at Mandarin Oriental, because I borrowed the shoes from her. She also knew where, and when, I was going to meet Tim Burton-Smyth.
Nausea churns in my gut and my head feels dizzy. But I can’t sit here, immobile. She has planned this, down to the last detail. Even my gun is in the back seat of this big car, far out of reach. Slowly, I close the dashboard drawer door. Then I lean back in the seat, watching the beams of the headlights illuminate only the pelting sheets of rain, and nothing else.
Another thing hits me. This is the car that sits in Suzy’s drive. A Volvo four by four. This isn’t a rental car, it’s her own car. That explains why I found Molly’s birth certificate in the glove compartment.
“Find anything?” Suzy asks. She doesn’t turn to look at me, but I do. Her face is lit up in a green and orange glow, making it look unnatural. Her nose is sharper in the light, and her cheekbones seem to jut out. All of a sudden, her face seems hard and craggy.
“No,” I say.
My mind is a whirlpool. She’s got me in the car, so the plan must be to drive me to Clive. Molly must be there as well. She’s their bargaining chip. They’ll use her to get me to kill Jeremy.
My only priority is to get Molly safe. Suzy knows where she is, or she wouldn’t be driving down this country road so confidently. If she can get me there, should I just let her? But what if she’s taking me somewhere else, where Clive is waiting for me alone?
I reject that idea. They need me to see Molly, and I need to know for certain that they have her. That’s their whole game plan. There’s no point in me just seeing Clive. I’ve already said I’m not doing what Clive proposed, so they want to show me that Molly is their captive. Even when I think of Molly being held somewhere, rage, sorrow and panic claw at my throat, scratch at my heart.
I close my eyes and try to check my breathing. My fingers curl around something metallic. My phone. I can send a message to Rockford. My phone GPS is on, after I deleted that Third Party tracker. If Rockford gets, and acts on the message, I have a faint hope of getting out of this alive with my daughter.
I sneak a look towards Suzy, but her eyes are fixed on the road. I bend my left elbow slightly, and take the phone half out of the pocket. I can see the screen, just. I tap on messages, not keeping my face down for more than a few seconds at a time. I see Rockford’s name and tap on it.
Using my thumb, and trying to keep my face as straight as possible, I type:
SOS. IN DANGER. HELP
I’m about to press send when the car lurches suddenly and my fingers slip. I don’t know if I pressed the right button, and the phone has slipped down my pocket again. I don’t know why Suzy suddenly swerved but it becomes clear with her next question.
“What are you doing?” This time, she looks over at me, and her eyes are black, like a shark’s.
“I thought there was something pressing on me,” I say lamely. She’s leaning forward now, white knuckles clutching the steering wheel tightly.
“Where are we going?” I ask. I know we have gone past old Johnson’s deserted farm by now. The pitch-black road is swallowed up in the darkness ahead. A thin white line separates one lane from another. I haven’t seen a single car from the opposite lane so far.
In reply, I see a sick grin come across Suzy’s lips, then her teeth bare. It’s a feral, primitive snarl and it makes my blood go cold. In my right pocket, I can feel the torchlight. I can whip it out and hit Suzy on the head with it. But if she is driving me to where Molly is, that would be mistake.
I repeat my question. “Where are we going?”
She smiles in that way again and I decide to put my foot down. I unbuckle my seat belt and an alarm starts to ping. I jerk the door handle but she’s locked it. I unwind the window and cold air blasts into my face.
“Tell me or I’ll throw myself out of the car.”
“Put the window back up,” Suzy says calmly. The alarm continues to ping. I meant what I said. My feet are coiled, and I have a hand on the window, ready to vault over. We are going past a field, and I can roll over on the wet grass. She’ll have to stop the car and come for me, which gives me an advantage in the darkness.
“Do you want to see Molly alive?” Suzy says with that infuriating calmness. Her words are hard to hear in the w
ind, but they chill my bones to numbness. My hand comes off the window, and I slowly raise the glass up.
“Where is my daughter? What have you done with her?!” I scream.
“Your daughter?” Suzy laughs. It’s an evil, cackling sound. Her voice has an accent now, and I realise she’s tried to hide it in the past. But her words sink into the pit of my stomach, sending barbs of poison inside me.
I can barely speak, but somehow the words creep out. “What do you mean?”
“She’s not your daughter, Emma. You know that very well.”
Her words sting. The poison is released inside me, flooding my blood with venom. “She is my daughter. What do you know?”
CHAPTER 56
Suzy doesn’t reply. I keep staring at her face, maniacal in the artificial light. The car swerves again, at speed, and I am thrust against the side of the car. My back rattles the door, and I bounce back up to watch the road. A log outhouse flashes past, and the black fields start again. But up ahead, I can now see a light. The wooden slats of a fence on the sides of the road are lit up by the headlights. We have taken a sharp left and are driving uphill. The place seems familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it. The rain is now a deluge, and the wipers are struggling to keep up with the cascading water.
Suzy drives up to the light source. As we get clearer, I see it’s a log cabin, with a light on inside. When she parks, the door opens and a figure steps out. It’s Clive, and he’s holding a shotgun in his hand. He steps out into the rain, boots splashing in the mud. Thunder flickers above, fracturing the sky in a fissure of white light. Momentarily, it shows Clive’s face, a satisfied smirk on his face, pointing the gun straight at me.
“Open the door, you bitch,” Suzy snarls at me. I look at her, fuming. Rage is boiling inside me, and I want to scratch her face to shreds. But my priority now is to see Molly.
I step out, and the rain splatters over my face and head. I pull my hoodie up, and lift my hands in surrender.
“This way!” shouts Clive, to make his voice heard above the downpour.
They fall in behind me as I climb the steps up to the porch of the log cabin. The door is open, and it creaks as I enter. Molly is inside, and my heart twists when I see her tied to a chair.
“Mummy!”
Before I can reach for her, a strong pair of hands grab me from behind and throw me on the floor. When I look up, it’s at the muzzle of a double-barrelled gun.
“Get up, slowly,” Clive says. He’s standing between me and Molly, with Suzy to his side. Suzy’s face is a mask of hatred. She goes to move towards me, but Clive holds her back.
“Let her go,” I whisper. “For God’s sake, don’t hurt her.”
“Until you do what I want, she stays here.” He takes out a phone and throws it to me. I manage to catch it.
“It has Jeremy’s number on it. Call him. Tell him you need to see him up here, right now.”
I glance at the phone, then at Clive. I can only see Molly partially, but she is sobbing, and it breaks my heart. I know Jeremy will come if I call him. My eyes close for a few seconds, then open. How can I do this?
“Don’t wait for too long,” Clive sneers. “Or we can start on her.” He takes a step backwards.
“No,” I say. I need to do something, play for time. Did my text to Rockford go through?
“How did the two of you get together on this?” I ask.
Suzy cackles again. “Clive and I have always been together. Yes, he cheated on you with Eva. But you never even knew me. I was his wife, while women like Eva and you were his victims.”
“Victims?”
“He got money out of you, didn’t he?”
My eyes shift from Clive to Suzy. Both of them have malevolent sneers on their faces. So this is what Clive did. A conman who ripped off gullible women. Only with me, he ripped off a lot more than just my bank balance.
“Let my daughter go,” I say.
“You know she’s not yours.” Suzy’s eyes are blazing, and she steps forward. “Stop lying.”
My mind goes blank for a while, then memories rage upon it like raindrops on a windscreen.
CHAPTER 57
Eight years ago
I followed Clive to the house in Mitcham, where he had taken his suitcase full of drugs. I had seen the dealers go in, then come out with small packets bulging in their pockets. When Clive left, closing the door behind him, I sneaked in by opening one of the windows at the back.
The place was a pigsty, carpets torn, rubbish bins overflowing, walls covered in graffiti.
I found the empty suitcase in one corner of a bedroom. The mattress was on the floor, and used condoms and needles littered the place. The corridor was dark, and I went into the kitchen. Mice ran around my feet, gnawing at the decomposing food on the floor. Revolted, I turned to leave. When I was at the window, to crawl out into the disused garden, I heard a sound. I froze. I heard it again.
A baby’s cry.
It was soft, weak, like the little voice had hardly any strength in it.
My heart hammered against ribs. Mouth dry, I retraced my steps into the hallway. The faint cries were coming from the room with the closed door, the only door I hadn’t opened in this ground-floor flat. I opened it and my hand fumbled for a light switch. When the yellow bulb came on, I gasped in shock. On a white rug, a baby lay on the floor. Its skin was wrinkled, pink, mottled. The umbilical cord had been cut, but was still attached to her. Dried blood pooled around her feet. I knelt by her. Her eyes were screwed shut, and the little mouth was opening and shutting. The fists were balled, tiny knuckles of rage shaking in the air.
Something broke and gave way inside me. Tears blurred my eyes and I wiped them away quickly.
“Shh,” I whispered, and lifted up her wet body, pressing her against me gently to give her some warmth. Her breathing was fast and ragged. The rug looked clean apart from the blood so I swaddled her in it. Her snub nose rested against the nape of my neck, and the fists tucked under my chin.
Like she belonged there.
I looked around the room. Apart from some more blood on the floor, it was empty. No memento for the discarded baby. What sort of mother would leave a newborn like this? I couldn’t leave the baby here. If I did, she would die, I knew that for certain.
In case the mother came back, I rummaged around till I found a piece of paper in the bedroom. I had a pen in my pocket and I scribbled out a note saying which hospital I had taken the baby to. I didn’t sign my name. If the mother did come back, then she would find the note.
I managed to crawl out the window with the baby held tightly against me. A passing cab took pity on me and stopped. I directed him to the hospital.
A nurse from Accident and Emergency took us up immediately to Paediatrics. They put her in a heated plastic cot that looked like an incubator. A mask was strapped to her face, and wires were stuck with tape onto her tiny fingers. I could barely breathe as I watched.
She cried when her heel was pricked for a blood test. I was at her side instantly, stroking her. Another nurse made her a bottle-feed, and gave it to me.
“You haven’t set a feeding routine yet, have you?” she asked me.
“Sorry?” I asked.
“She’s not more than a day old. Have you started breastfeeding, or are you expressing into a bottle?”
“Bottle,” I said after a moment’s thought. I took the bottle from her. The nurse lifted the green mask, and I tried to feed her. It was amazing when her little mouth opened and she sucked the teat into her mouth. My hand shook as she gulped the milk down greedily. There wasn’t much in it, and she finished it quickly. I removed the teat, but she didn’t want to let it go.
“She wants more,” I told the nurse.
She shook her head. “No. She’s suffering from hypothermia. She needs small feeds regularly.” She fixed with a steely gaze. “How did baby get so cold?”
My mouth ran dry. “I didn’t have money to pay for the heating. It’s sorted now, but the
last two days have been bad. I’m a single mum.”
“Are you coping?”
I nodded, and looked away, feeling the nurse’s eyes on me.
Eventually, the doctor who had taken the blood test came back. He had a grave look on his face.
“Her arterial blood gases show hypoxia. She needs oxygen, and warmth.” He pointed to the mask, from which a tube sneaked into a yellow hole in the wall. “The oxygen will be for 24 hours at least. We will check her blood gases every two hours tonight. If all is well, she can go home in two days.”
“Thank you,” I said, meaning it.
“What’s her name?”
I looked at the doctor blankly. “What?”
“Have you given her a name? Or is it still Baby?”
Colour rose to my cheeks. What should I say? To distract myself, I put my hand over hers. What happened next was almost magical. Her tiny hand opened, and the little fist closed over my index finger. It was an incredible warm, snug feeling, like she hadn’t just held my finger, but wrapped her life around mine.
Someone had left her to die. I had saved her.
Why shouldn’t she have my name?
“Molly,” I whispered. “Molly Dixon.”
The doctor went over to a screen and tapped on the keyboard. “She wasn’t born at this hospital.”
“No,” I heard myself saying. “She was a home birth.”
“Ah.” The nurse and doctor exchanged a glance, and I noticed a tension leave their bodies. I understood. Home births without midwives could lead to problems with the delivery and babies.
We stayed in the hospital for two days. Molly Dixon opened her eyes on the second day, and looked at me with wonder. I tickled her chin. She opened her mouth, thinking I was about to feed her.
After two days, we left the hospital, and I didn’t go back to the miserable flat that I had shared with Clive. I got Dad to send me some money, and I took a cab straight to King’s Cross Station, with a one-way ticket to Skipton, North Yorkshire.