by Tony Salter
I do sometimes feel there's an evil spirit inside me doing these things, but I think it's just me trying to explain what's going on.
Your situation sounds terrible. Good luck.
'Come on Sam,' I said. 'Let's get you in the car and we can go and look at the ducks.'
I'd been back at work for a two and a half weeks and was beginning to settle in to what was not a particularly challenging job. It was one rung down from my previous role as Senior Assistant Editor in London, and the pace of life at Oxford University Press was a bit more 'measured' than it had been at my old publisher. Perfect for now, and there would be time enough to move into roles with more responsibility in the future.
Chatting on the forums seemed to help as well; maybe Dr Mayhew was more on the case than I'd given her credit for. It was a great release to be able to talk anonymously about my fears.
I texted Rupert to let him know where we were going. He'd asked me to promise to tell him my plans whenever I was going out with Sam. I wasn't comfortable with the idea, but agreed on the proviso that it was only for a few weeks.
Rupert wanted us to give his mother a present to thank her for all of the help she'd been giving us, and I'd agreed to go up to the Aga shop in Woodstock to buy her a stupidly expensive cast-iron frying pan.
I felt good as we left the house. Sam was smiling and happy and I allowed myself to imagine things might be coming good after all. Dangerous thoughts and very premature. Speaking too soon could easily jinx things and I reflexively crossed my fingers and made the sign of the horns to ward off the evil eye.
Growing up, my mother had been a firm believer in il malocchio and always wore a gold horn around her neck to ward off the bad luck. Perhaps I should have taken those superstitions more seriously?
It was only a short drive to Woodstock – I would get the frying pan and then Sam and I were going for a long walk in the grounds of Blenheim Palace. Blenheim is one of those glorious stately homes with beautiful, landscaped parkland sloping gently down to a huge lake. Sam loved ducks, or kak-kaks as he called them.
Parking in Woodstock was always tight, but I was lucky and found a place straight away. Once Sam was tucked up nice and warm in his pushchair, I bought a parking ticket, put it in the car and took a photo of it on the dashboard for good measure.
We were only a few yards away from the car when the alarm started, the over-loud, incessant scream tearing apart the tranquillity of the town and setting my teeth on edge. I fumbled the key out of my handbag, unlocked the car, locked it again, and waited a few seconds. It seemed to be OK.
But, after only a couple more paces, the bloody thing went off again. I couldn't believe it. There always seemed to be something going wrong. Maybe I'd left one of the windows open. I checked carefully, opened and closed the boot and locked it again. Hopefully that would solve it.
I turned back to Sam, ready to get on with the day, but the pavement was empty.
The pushchair wasn't there.
'No, no, noooo ...' I wailed as I ran towards the spot where he'd been – not more than ten feet away – and looked frantically up and down the street. Nothing.
There was nobody in sight and I didn't know which way to go. He had to be somewhere nearby.
I ran into Barclays bank, pushed aside the customer at the counter and put my face to the teller's window.
'Have you seen a black pushchair with a little boy? Just a few moments ago,' I said, begging and praying with all of my heart.
'I'm afraid not,' said the woman behind the glass. 'Is there a problem, do you want me to call the ...'
I was already out of the door and running back down the street.
The Post Office was only a few yards away and I barged in just as I had at Barclays, pushing in front of an elderly lady who was being served by a young, serious-looking man behind the counter.
I looked at the man, panting and probably looking like a crazy woman. 'Excuse me. Have you seen a black pushchair with a two-year-old?'
'Yes, I have. He's in the back,' he said. 'I'm so pleased to see you.'
My heart leapt like a young salmon and the breath left my lungs in a whoosh. 'Really! Oh my God, I'm so relieved. How did he get here?'
'Someone brought him in a few minutes ago. They said they'd found him abandoned on the street. I've just called the police.'
'Can you get him please.'
'Of course,' said the man.
Sam was still strapped into the pushchair, confused and sobbing. Luckily, he hadn't had time to get into a proper state. He saw me, lifted his arms and shouted 'Mama'. I picked him up and squeezed him as tightly as I could. 'Oh, Sammy. I was so frightened. I didn't know where you were.'
The man coughed theatrically. 'Excuse me. How do I actually know you're the baby's mother? This is all a little unusual.'
'Of course I'm his bloody mother,' I said. 'Isn't it obvious?'
'Well, you do look like you might be, but maybe it would be better if we wait for the police to come anyway? Just in case.'
I didn't have time for this jobs-worth idiocy. I only wanted to hold my little boy. 'Whatever,' I said, holding Sam out in front of me and smothering him with wet kisses as he wriggled and giggled. 'Do whatever you need to do.'
By the time the police arrived, Sam was calmly tucking into a packet of banana biscotti, but I had worked myself up into quite a state. This was too much. I knew I hadn't imagined it. Someone had grabbed Sam while my back was turned and wheeled him into the post office. I couldn't think why, but something was going on, and this time I'd be able to prove it.
The policewoman couldn't have been much more than twenty-one – policegirl would have been more like it – but she seemed competent enough.
Having established the basic facts, she turned to the clerk. 'So, what exactly is the problem?' she said, clearly still confused.
'I didn't want to hand over the baby to this lady without some sort of proof that she was his real mother,' he said.
'Don't be so bloody ridiculous,' I said.
She turned to me. 'Please calm down and watch your language, madam. Are you the boy's mother?'
I took a deep breath. 'Yes, of course I am. Look there must be a way I can prove it. I have my driving license.'
She took it from me and wrote down my name and address carefully with precise, pianist's fingers. 'Thank you, but you see, that doesn't actually prove that ...'
The elderly lady was still there. She stepped between us and looked at me. 'Do you have any photographs, dear? Ones with you both together?' she said.
'Of course. I've got hundreds on my phone. Look ...'
The policewoman took the phone and scrolled though the photos, smiling at the cutest ones. 'That all seems in order,' she said. 'That's proof enough for me.' She turned to leave.
'Hang on,' I said. 'Someone grabbed my baby from the street while my back was turned. And that's it? That's all you're going to do?'
I must have been shouting as all three of them took a step backwards.
The policewoman turned back to me with a weary expression on her face. She'd clearly met people like me before. 'I see,' she said. 'You're saying that someone grabbed your baby, wheeled him ten yards into the post office and left him? Why would anyone do that?'
'I don't know why,' I said. 'But it wasn't me. Surely there must be CCTV that can show who brought him in?'
The policewoman turned to the clerk with a questioning eyebrow raised.
'Of course there is,' he said. 'But we don't need it.'
'Why not?' I snapped, fed up with being pushed around and not taken seriously.
'Because I can tell you who brought the pushchair in,' said the clerk. 'It was Trevor Eames, the landlord at the Lamb and Flag. He said he found it just outside the door.'
Cry for help
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year) and a staggering 95% of people use three passwords or less (unchanged for over two years). By breaking the security of the weakest sites used by the victim, a hacker will normally gain full access to the most secure.
"How much is your Life Worth? Protecting your Identity in a Digital World." JJ Martin, Insight Business Press 2015
'What the fuck is this?' Rupert was waving his phone at me like a crazy man as he stomped into the house.
'Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.' Sam had heard the door open and was piling down the hallway like a train, arms stretched up and forward. He crashed into Rupert who scooped him up and threw him into the air. 'Daddy, come see what I make. Come see.'
'OK Sammy, I'm coming.' He put Sam down and allowed himself to be dragged through into the living room. 'Let's go and see what you've made.' As he passed me, he handed me his phone with a scowl. 'I really don't know what you're trying to do, Fabi. One of my mother's friends saw this first and shared it with her. What's wrong with you?'
I had no idea what he was talking about and stood there, shocked, for a few seconds before looking at the phone. It was open to my Facebook page and a posting which I'd apparently made earlier that afternoon.
'Anyone interested in joining a local support group in the Oxford area for anxiety and depression?
I need a place where I can talk to like-minded people who know what I'm going through – to share our thoughts and feelings and help each other to cope.
I've set up a members-only group at https://www.facebook.com/ADSG-Oxford. If it's not for you, please share with anyone you think might want to join.'
It was on my page but I'd not been on Facebook for a couple of days. I'd thought about setting up a local group, but I hadn't done anything about it.
My finger hovered over the link. Whatever was behind it must be terrible.
There was only one post:
Admin 17-05-2016 14:47
Welcome to the Oxford Anxiety and Depression Support Group. I am hoping this will be a place where people with similar issues can share their thoughts and feelings openly and confidentially.
From a personal perspective, I need to talk to someone. I've been ill for almost two years now. I thought I was better, but I was wrong.
My husband tries his hardest, but he doesn't understand what I'm going through, and my mother-in-law is an interfering bitch who hates me. She's almost convinced my husband he shouldn't be leaving me alone with our son. How awful is that?
And I don't know whether I actually can be trusted with my son any more. I thought I'd lost him today. He was missing for fifteen minutes and I don't understand how it happened.
I don't only want to talk to doctors - I want to talk to people who actually UNDERSTAND!
I was still standing there minutes later when Rupert came back carrying Sam. 'It's way past your bedtime young man. Say goodnight to Mummy and give her a kiss.'
'Nigh-nigh Mummy,' said Sam, stretching forward to plant a wet slobber on my cheek. He thrust the book he was carrying at me. 'Toot-toot.'
'Nighty-night, little one,' I said. 'Is Daddy going to read Thomas for you?'
'Yeah, toot-toot,' he replied, and disappeared into his room.
Rupert must have been reading to Sam for at least twenty minutes but it was all a blank to me. When he came back, I still hadn't moved, hadn't thought; for all I knew, I hadn't taken a single breath while he was away.
He was good at compartmentalising. I guess it came with working in sales. He'd been calm and gentle as he dealt with Sam but was instantly just as furious as he'd been half an hour earlier. Maybe more so.
'Are you telling me you didn't do this?' His red, angry face pushing into my personal space snapped me out of my trance quickly enough. I'd never seen him like this.
'Of course I didn't fucking do it. I'm not fucking crazy.'
'Well, you've had your moments ...'
'You bastard, what's that supposed to mean?'
'I mean you've got a lot of history, this is your Facebook page and the group is registered to your account.'
'But I didn't ...'
'... And you can't stand my mother and, let's face it, this is exactly the sort of thing you would write if you thought no-one would see it ... And what's this about almost losing Sam?'
'I was going to tell you about that tonight. I just haven't had a chance because you've been shouting at me since you came through the door.'
'So it's true then,' he said, shoulders slumped and arms hanging lifeless by his sides. 'And I have to find out on Facebook?'
'If you give me a chance I can explain. It turned out not to be a problem. Everything's fine. You know I'd never let anything happen to him.'
'I don't know what the hell I know and don't know any more,' he said, looking like he was about to burst into tears. 'And I certainly don't know why I should trust you about anything.'
'You can trust me. This wasn't me. Someone is out to get me.'
'Don't start with that ridiculous, paranoid crap,' said Rupert. 'I thought this was all in the past but now it's much worse than before. You know what my mother's like. She'll see it as a direct personal attack and she's already worried about Sam.'
'What the fuck has he got to do with her,' I screamed. 'He's our son, for Christ's sake ... But, anyway, it wasn't me.' I was crying now, proper Oscar-winner tears running down my cheeks. 'If you don't believe me, then I haven't got anybody who will.'
'I want to believe you, but I'm struggling and I've already got two missed calls from Mummy.'
'Mummy? For Christ's sake, Rupert, you're not six years old. Can't you call her Mum like a normal person? She's still got her claws in up to the quick hasn't she?'
'You're upset, and I'm not rising to that. And keep your bloody voice down or you'll wake Sam. Look, it's easy enough to find out.'
He reached over, picked up my phone and held it in front of me so I could see what he was doing. He then started selecting options, giving me a running commentary in a slow voice as if he was talking to Sam. 'If you go to Facebook and pick Settings from the main menu, then Security Settings, you can select Active Sessions. This tells you which devices have logged on to your account, when and where. When was the post made?'
I still had Rupert's phone in my hand, open at the offending post. 'It was at 15:15 today.'
'OK, let's see,' said Rupert. 'Facebook for iPhone on iPhone5 ... that matches your phone ... last posting at 15:15 at ... give me a sec, I just need to put this into Maps ... here we go. It says that the session was active somewhere on the Banbury Road, right here ...'
He showed me the phone with the map location and he must have seen how my shoulders sagged. He definitely noticed when his phone slipped through my numb fingers and clattered onto the hard tiles.
'Jeezus. That's a bloody new phone. What's wrong with you?' he shouted, bending to pick it up. 'So, you were there?'
'Well, it looks like the cafe I go to, and yes, I was there this afternoon. But I didn't ... You've got to believe me. It must have been someone else.'
'So, someone else went there at the same time and made the posts pretending to be you, did they?' He slammed his phone down on the counter, walked to the French windows and stood facing out into the garden. I could see his shoulders rising and falling and his angry exhalations misting the glass. He turned around slowly, staring at me with red, swollen eyes. 'Do you have any idea how crazy you're sounding? Apart from anything else, how would anyone know you were going to be there?'
'I don't know and I don't bloody care Rupert. I didn't sit in the cafe, enjoying my machiatto and quietly creating a stupid Facebook group which will most probably ruin my life.'
It was only then that I noticed Sam, standing by the door, bottom lip quivering 'Mummy,' he said. 'I scared.'
The rest of the evening passed in the kind of fuzzy blur which anyone who has had an exceptionally high fever, or dabbled in the wrong sort of drugs, would probably understand. Although aware of everything going on around me, I had become disengaged
, distant and doll-like in my passive compliance.
Rupert put Sam back to bed and then started to work on deleting the post – which was continuing to attract comments, shares and likes – and closing the group, which already had over a hundred member requests.
I almost didn't recognise my husband as I watched him tap away, his frowning face twitching with frustration and anger while he struggled with impenetrable menus and options. Meanwhile I sat in a bubble of defensive disbelief, having lost the will and energy to defend myself or argue my case. I was increasingly feeling like a bit-part player in my own life.
Apparently, closing a group in Facebook is not easy and even removing a post can be tricky. The history always stays and, if you're not careful, the original post resurfaces after a while.
Rupert did the best he could as a first step and then poured himself a large whisky before calling his mother. I only heard one end of the call, but it wasn't difficult to fill in the gaps.
'Mummy, it's me ...'
'...'
'Yes, I know you've called five times. I needed to speak to Fabiola, put Sam to bed and get that awful post deleted from Facebook first. I'm sorry ...'
'...'
'No, Fabiola says it wasn't her. She didn't do it ...'
'...'
'Yes, I know it was on her Facebook account, but she says someone must have hacked it. And it's not true that she doesn't like you ...'
'...'
'Yes, apparently there was some incident with Sam today. I'm trying to find out what actually happened ...'
It went on for half an hour and got worse and worse. I was hoping Rupert would continue to defend me and take my side but, in the face of what was bound to have been a biblical onslaught, his resistance crumbled and I heard my future unfold in half-heard, half-imagined snippets.
History was being written for me and, even protected by my bubble, my heart sank down and down as I realised no-one else was ever going to believe me and, even worse, they might all have a point.