by Maggie James
I thought through my options when it came to where Daniel lived. My only chance of getting my boy, I thought, would be to slip unnoticed down the side passage, open the door and snatch him from his bedroom when whoever might be in the flat was elsewhere. I remembered what the nanny had told me about how his parents went out every Friday night, leaving her to babysit.
I thought about the front door. I figured if I opened it a fraction, I’d get enough of a view to see if the doors to the rooms were open, and whether I’d be able to slip undetected down the hallway. I’d go into Daniel’s room, take him and go back out again, in a couple of minutes. I’d have to hope he’d be sufficiently sleepy and familiar with my face that he wouldn’t be frightened and make a noise. The nanny would probably have the door to the front room closed if she was watching television or listening to music. Several weeks had passed since I’d copied the keys and I figured she’d have totally forgotten the incident. My ease of access to the flat would almost certainly be blamed on the front door not being shut properly. One less thing to lead back to me. The whole plan stank of risk and I’d need luck on my side to pull it off but the payoff would be worth the gamble, I told myself. My Daniel’s happiness was at stake.
I carried on making preparations. I bought a dark-coloured jacket with a hood large enough to cover most of my face and some cheap soft-soled shoes. I found a battered child’s pushchair at a car boot sale. At four, Daniel was too old for one of those but for what I had planned, I daren’t risk taking a taxi and it would be too far for him to walk. The buggy was quite big and I thought he would fit into it easily.
I bought things for my boy as well, scouring the local charity shops for cute little trousers and miniature rugby shirts as well as toys and games and anything I thought he might need. The maternal instinct in me, suppressed for so long, revelled in every minute and I filled the small closet in his soon-to-be bedroom with my purchases.
I told Kathy at work I’d be leaving, and hugged her when she told me how hard I’d be to replace. I lied about my plans – I didn’t want anyone to make the connection between me and London, and so I said I’d landed a bookkeeping job in Bath, and I’d decided to move there. I spun my landlord the same tale. I only needed to give a week’s notice, so I’d be able to leave within a few days if all went as planned. Friday night would be when I took Daniel away from his unfit parents to give him a new life, to love him and cherish him, as he had never been before.
I never thought what I intended to do was wrong. OK, few people would agree with me, if they knew what I was planning. The word kidnap echoed in my head a lot during those days, and it did sound ugly, I had to admit. I wouldn’t let myself think about it too much. I needed to do the right thing for a neglected child’s welfare, or so my reasoning went.
The next time the nanny came into the café I made casual conversation as I brought her coffee.
‘Any exciting plans for the rest of the week?’ I asked.
She shrugged. ‘Looking after Daniel on Friday evening, when his parents are at the cinema. Not much else.’
‘What are they going to see? I’ve lost track of what films are on right now.’ I had to find out what time they’d be leaving the flat. I’d be able to check the times in the Evening Post if I knew what film they’d be watching.
She named some obscure art house film playing at the Arnolfini. I made a mental note of the name.
‘Not my kind of thing,’ the nanny said.
‘Not mine either. How’s the job-hunting coming along?’
‘I’ve found a new nanny job. I start right after Daniel’s parents leave for London.’
‘I’ve got a new job as well.’ I kept my tone deliberately casual. ‘Over in Bath. This is my last week working here. So I guess,’ I said, kneeling down in front of Daniel, ‘this may be the last time I see this cutie-pie.’
I bought the Evening Post later on. The film started at seven in the evening, so I figured Daniel’s parents would have to leave by half past six at the latest. Then the nanny might take a while putting Daniel to bed. I decided I’d attempt to enter the flat just after seven.
That day was Wednesday. I had two days, two long drawn-out days, to wait.
On the Friday, after my last day at work, I walked quickly back to my shabby bedsit for the last time, nerves tearing away at me. What I was intending to pull off was risky, incredibly so.
I had to do it, though.
Because, if it worked, I’d be getting back the missing part of my life that had been gone ever since the morning I found my baby dead. The Daniel-shaped hole in my life would be filled. I never doubted I’d be able to get him to accept me as his mummy. He’d seen me enough times, after all. He obviously barely knew his real mother; and he was young enough to adapt when he had me to look after him and soon he’d call me Mummy. I couldn’t wait for the moment when my beautiful boy smiled at me and called me that for the first time.
I glanced at my watch. Time to get going.
I took one last look around my cramped bedsit, now almost empty of my possessions. The place had served its purpose for me, providing a refuge when I needed one, but I wasn’t the same girl who’d fled to Bristol four years ago.
I grabbed my rucksack from the wardrobe, and slung what few possessions I had into it; some clothes for Daniel, a warm blanket for him and the cheap shoes I’d bought.
I put on the dark-coloured jacket and pulled the hood over my face. Finally, I grabbed the pushchair and threw my rucksack into it. I was ready.
24
STRAIGHT TALKING
Daniel smashed his hand down on the alarm button, cutting off the shrillness slicing through his hangover. Pain spiked behind his eyes. Shit. He’d forgotten to turn the damn thing off, having got to bed barely four hours ago.
He’d not been able to escape the hell of last night. No getting out of the joint party his parents had organised to bid farewell to Katie and to celebrate his safe return. He'd had to be in the same room as Katie again for the first time since they'd broken up.
Up to then he’d been lucky in managing to avoid her; she'd not been over to either his parents’ house or that of his grandparents. He’d heard his mother mention how the hospital had been overburdening her with double shifts; she’d been sorting out packing, etc.
He’d started on the booze as soon as he arrived at his parents’ house. His second beer had already hit his bloodstream by the time Katie walked in, tight jeans squeezing her ass and a clingy top hugging her breasts. She wore some jewellery he’d not seen before, obviously made by his mother. The familiar waft of her perfume, all musk and memories, drifted in with her, and his stomach dropped as their eyes met. Mirrored in her face was the same hell he was going through. Then she turned away to hug her sister and her parents and the moment was over. He released the pent-up breath hammering against his ribs.
He turned away to pour himself another drink. Alcohol would serve as his crutch tonight and boy, did he need every drop of help it offered.
‘Daniel, Daniel! Katie’s here! Come and give her a hug and say sorry for cheating at hide and seek all those years ago.’
He turned around, forcing his arms around her, their bodies tense against each other. Finding out she was his aunt had done little to dampen his feelings for her; those tight jeans made her ass look smoking-hot, he thought. Christ. There was at least another three hours of this hell to go. They were both trying their best to do the right thing here, but sexual passion of the intensity that had flared between them didn't die down overnight.
Katie had been right. Her going to Australia was the only solution to this nightmare.
He found himself making some banal comment about her forthcoming departure.
‘Yes, bad timing, isn’t it?’ He detected the faked jollity, her voice too high-pitched like his own. ‘Life’s been manic at the hospital – lots of double shifts – otherwise I’d have been over before. Not every day your long-lost nephew gets found, safe and well.’ Her gaze sh
ifted to her sister. ‘You sounded ecstatic, didn’t you, Sarah, when we finally spoke on the phone and you confirmed what you’d said in your message, how Daniel had been found. I was so delighted for you and Howard.’
‘The miracle I’d been praying for the last twenty-two years,’ Sarah Cordwell said. ‘Let me get you something to eat, Katie. I’ve made those cheesy canapés you like.’ She steered her sister towards the food table.
Daniel spent the rest of the party fielding questions about his kidnap from the other partygoers, grateful for the diversion. Katie floated past from time to time, clutching an ever full wine glass as her chosen crutch. Most of her friends were there, though, meaning she had plenty of other people with whom to occupy her time. He’d not met any of them, thank God; nobody could rat on him as being Katie's former boyfriend. They’d been too wrapped up in each other during those intense first weeks.
He carried on with the beer. The alcohol took the edge off his pain, although a pang stabbed through him at the end of the party when Katie, her coat on and ready to leave, leaned towards him for a hug.
‘Be happy, Dan. Take care of Sarah for me.’ Her voice ran a forbidden caress over his cock and he’d needed to down a finger of whisky in one after the door closed behind her. At that point, the room started to swim around him.
He’d insisted on getting his father to call him a cab for the journey home, despite his mother’s pleas for him to sleep off the booze upstairs. Katie’s perfume still hung in his nostrils and he remembered the warmth of her breath against his ear. Better to suffer the inevitable hangover at home.
In bed the next morning, his head pounding, he thought how surreal the last few weeks had been. The reunion with his family had been an experience beyond words. He’d spent most time with his mother, and he’d let her spoil him and cook for him, loving her delight in doing so. He’d always hated Laura Bateman fussing over him. He’d watched his father as he sawed and planed in his workshop, getting to know the man who was as solid as the furniture he created. His grandparents had been over frequently as well. It had all been damn good, no denying that.
Only two obstacles prevented him from being happy.
One was Katie, and she was leaving the country the following week; he’d be able to move on with his life then. Her loss was raw, but he’d deal with it.
The other was the resentment that seared through him as he watched his mother turn silver and stones into jewellery and his father carve wood into furniture.
He knew he’d sounded childish when he’d mouthed off at Tim. He was human, though, with all the flaws that entailed and, God, the loss of his art pissed him off. He had no doubt he’d have done an art degree if he’d never been taken from his family.
OK, so Tim had a point; college might not have guaranteed him a successful career as an artist.
Hell, though, he’d have had a lot better chance than what he’d had in the past.
He’d not painted anything for weeks. He knew the reason; he'd never been one to lie to himself. Every time he looked at his paints, at the canvasses stacked against the wall, bitterness overwhelmed him and he couldn’t bring himself to pick up a brush. He didn't see the potential in a blank canvas anymore; he saw the barrenness of his life with Laura and Ian Bateman.
His stepfather's contemptuous voice rang in his head frequently during those weeks.
Sex, fast and rough, with any half-decent man he could find, had helped him forget. He’d not touched a woman since Katie.
He’d go out tonight and bag himself a hot lay. A good hard shag of a good hard man was what he needed. Sunday nights were quiet for pick-ups, but hey, he’d find someone. He’d been meaning to try a new bar nearby; a mixed place, so he’d heard, gay, straight and lesbian, and he was tired of his usual hard-core male meat markets. Something more low-key was called for tonight.
In the meantime, he’d sleep off his hangover.
He arrived at the bar just after ten that night; the place was almost empty when he entered. He glanced around. A couple of good-looking guys were playing pool at one end. Two women held hands on one of the sofas. An older guy, mid-thirties, dark, toned, caught his eye with an obvious come-on, but the man had dominant top written all over him, which didn’t gel with Daniel’s preference when it came to men. He turned to the bar. He’d stay for one drink and see if anyone half-decent came in; if not, well, there were plenty of other places.
‘Scotch on the rocks.’ He stared at the barmaid. Not his type at all. Early thirties. Mousy hair, decent enough eyes, nose what someone kind would call interesting and what someone who wasn't would call hooked. She had good skin, but was otherwise unremarkable.
No, she wasn’t his type.
Something about her held his interest, though. A haunted look lurked in her eyes, as if happiness hadn’t come her way in a long time. Her expression reminded him, in a way he didn’t need, of Laura Bateman during one of her depressive phases.
Shit. The last thing he wanted was a reminder of that bitch; the whole point of picking up a hot lay tonight had been to forget the crap into which she’d dragged him. He almost walked out. He didn’t, though, because the barmaid’s haunted face echoed his own bleakness, the hollow space inside him where his artistic ambitions had been.
For that, he stayed. He didn’t know how or why, but they were the same, he and this beak-nosed woman. Life had damaged both of them.
Force of habit led him to give her ass the once over as she stood with her back to him, glass held tight against the optic. Not bad, he thought, and the black trousers she wore hugged the curves underneath well. She turned with his drink, and clocked he’d been staring at her. She didn’t seem offended.
‘I guess I should ask if you come here often, but on the one hand such a question would be clichéd, and on the other, seeing as I’ve worked here all three nights since this place opened, I know you’ve not been in before.’ Her voice didn’t match the plainness of her face; low, melting and distinctive, it would have earned her a fortune on a sex chat line. Daniel thought whoever owned this place had probably turned her down for the job the minute they saw her, and seconds later changed their mind after hearing those husky tones.
She poured salted peanuts into a bowl and pushed them towards Daniel. ‘Enough ice in that Scotch for you?’
‘It’s fine.’ Daniel downed a mouthful. He decided to play along with the situation and make small talk with her. It would help pass the time until anyone promising came along. He shifted his stool in order to survey the door better. It was still early; he’d give it half an hour, or until he’d finished chatting to the barmaid. She grinned at him.
‘You've picked a good spot there. What are you after tonight? The guy in the leather trousers keeps giving you the eye. Not sure you’re his type, though.’ She laughed. ‘Think he needs someone a little more, shall we say, pliant.’
Daniel should have resented her plain speaking, but he didn’t. He drained his glass. ‘I’ll have another of those when you’re ready.’ He checked out her ass again as she refilled his glass. Yep, nice and tight. He had no intention of coming on to her, though, and he doubted whether she’d go for him anyway. Something about her haunted look told him this woman had walled herself off emotionally, although as he knew from experience, that didn’t necessarily include physically as well.
He decided to carry on the small talk. ‘So how do you like working here?’
‘It’s a job. Pays me a wage, which was what I needed. Wasn’t fussy what I did.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ll stick with it. For now.’ She had that clouded expression on her face again.
‘Going to tell me your name?’
‘Annie.’
‘My name’s Daniel.’
‘Daniel.’ She gave an approving quirk of her lips. ‘Good old-fashioned Biblical name. The way you’re sinking your Scotch makes me think you’ve spent some time in the lion’s den lately.’ She leaned towards him. ‘Am I right, Daniel?’
This woman was definitely smart
. Maybe she’d clocked the same thing about him as he had about her. Like recognising like on some underlying primitive level. He drained his second glass. ‘Yeah. Just about sums the last few weeks up.’
‘Want to share?’
‘Yes. No. Hell, I don't know. Can I buy you a drink?’
She shook her head. ‘Manager’s rule. We’re not allowed to accept drinks off the customers.’
‘Is the manager around? Is he going to find out? Go on. Join me in a lemonade and lime. I need to ease off the hard stuff, anyway. It’s not as if I’m tempting you to anything alcoholic and therefore sinful.’
‘I will, then. We’re hardly madly busy in here tonight; I’ve time to spare.’ She occupied herself pouring her drink. ‘Go on. I’m curious. Tell me about life in the lion’s den.’
‘You read the papers?’
‘I get one of the tabloids for an elderly neighbour who can’t get out. Always check the lurid headlines before I hand it in to her.’ She laughed. ‘So do I have a media celebrity sitting at my bar?’
Daniel pulled out his wallet and fished for his driving licence, handing it to her. Her expression turned into one of bemusement. ‘Daniel Cordwell. Why do I recognise that name?’
‘Kidnap case with a rare happy ending. Splashed all over the news a few weeks back.’
She whistled under her breath. ‘And you’re really him?’ She stared down at the photograph. ‘Guess you are.’
‘Definitely feels like I’ve been in the lion’s den.’
‘I'll bet. So what are your family like? I take it you’ve met them by now?’
‘They’re great. Spend as much time as I can with them. We’ve got twenty-two years to catch up on, remember.’ Daniel laughed. ‘My mother doesn’t really ever let go of me. Keeps calling me her miracle reborn.’
‘So what’s the problem?’ She leaned in towards him. ‘Because don't tell me there isn’t one. Something’s brought you in here tonight, angling for a pick-up and looking like someone pissed on your pizza.’