The Good Mother

by A. L. Bird

  There’s a sniff from a blonde girl at the outer reaches of the semicircle. The headmistress advances to her and puts a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘I don’t want to upset you by going through the details again. We’ve all heard what the police had to say, and of course it’s been all over the news. But we’ve been asked to help a little more.’

  The headmistress resumes her seat at the head of the semicircle.

  ‘I’d like to introduce you to Mr Belvoir, a private investigator,’ she tells the girls. ‘He wants—well, Mr Belvoir, why don’t you explain?’

  ‘Thank you,’ the man says. He stands up. Then, perhaps realising he towers over the girls, he sits down again.

  ‘Sometimes, when the police are looking at these things, their approach can be … limited. Now, I’m not doing them down, it’s a bit delicate, but … well, I explained to your headmistress that I’ve got a private instruction to look at what’s happened. Cara’s family, you know. Got to ask my own questions. Make discreet enquiries, with close friends. I hope that’s OK with you?’

  Five heads bob in the room. The ginger head doesn’t bob.

  ‘Alice?’ prompts the headmistress.

  After a moment, Alice, the ginger girl, nods her head.

  But she excuses herself almost immediately. He must ask his questions later, she says. She has English homework to do, she says. But, as she runs from the room, ignoring the headmistress’s calls that the homework can wait, it’s not thoughts of poetry composition that are spurring her on. It’s the thought – or maybe the question – about secrets. Namely this: if your friend – your best friend, who’s been your best friend since day one of reception – tells you something and makes you swear in confidence never ever to tell anyone, do you tell a man who is investigating something bad that’s happened to that friend? When that man, after all, isn’t even the police? And if it isn’t even directly relevant? Or is it? Cara told her a secret and then—Oh Cara.

  So Alice doesn’t know what she should do. Cara would know what to do. She would just decide and have done with it. Impulsive and bold, that’s Cara. Perhaps that’s the problem. But Cara isn’t here. Another problem. So, for once, Alice has to make up her own mind. The school hasn’t prepared her for this sort of dilemma. Why don’t they teach anything useful once in a while? Everyone knows it’s friendships that count. Not books and sums and facts.

  But she’s stuck with those. And she’ll just have to use them. And so she runs to the library, where she hides behind her textbooks. And until she has decided, she will avoid this Mr Belvoir. Even though she knows what she knows.

  Chapter 3

  Biting my nails. Putting my head in my hands. Walking about. Sitting down.

  I can’t do this.

  I jump to my feet.

  I shout. ‘Let me out! Let me out! Let me out!’

  Why am I here? Why aren’t you at least in the room with me? He can’t be scared of a woman and a girl uniting, can he? Not with all that muscle.

  Do I just fuck him and hope for the best? That he’ll let me out without killing me, and we can all be a happy family again?

  Or am I meant to just stay in here and finish that piece of fish? Is he fattening me up? Does he have a fat fetish? Did he think that the proprietor of a cupcake store and studio would be all doughy? That she wouldn’t be a salad-eating Pilates junky who would have to close the store if she put on a pound? Because the yummy mummies of leafy North London don’t want to associate cupcakes with saturated fats and weight gain, do they? That’s not the lifestyle. No. Perhaps they’re bulimic. I don’t care. That’s not my lookout. It’s important to watch what you eat. Of course. But not for their reasons. So, when I see them running round Alexandra Park, I nod and smile and remind them of the ‘how to do deluxe frosting’ session but I don’t follow them when they go to the bathroom.

  Which is a good point. Bathroom.

  I bang the door of my room from the inside. I have a question. Or at least, a ruse to bring that bastard in here.

  I keep banging until I hear footsteps along the corridor.

  ‘Yes?’ says the Captor from outside.

  ‘What if I need to pee?’ I ask.

  There’s a silence.

  ‘Do you?’ he says.

  I don’t, but I want to know what happens if I do. If it gives me a way out. Some hope of escape. Or at least seeing if Cara is out there.

  ‘Really badly,’ I say.

  There’s a pause, then a key in the lock. I expect to be handed a bucket when the door opens.

  But no. He is empty-handed.

  ‘Turn round,’ he says.

  I do as he asks.

  Once I’ve turned, he takes hold of both of my arms from behind, clamps them together with one of his paw-like hands. I feel like my wrists will snap if I struggle.

  He twists me round and pulls me out of the room.

  We’re in a short corridor. Look about, quickly. Nothing I recognise. It’s as blank and beige as the room. Like it’s been deliberately stripped. Or like he has no life at all, apart from ruining other people’s. We pass one closed door next to mine. My stomach jumps closer to my heart. Cara? Is Cara in there?

  Baby in one room, mummy in the other. Let me see her, I need to see her!

  ‘Hello? Cara?’

  He pulls me faster along the corridor. We stop in front of an open door. I see a toilet and bath and a shower enclosure in the corner. White tiling. Clean. Probably forensically bleached before and after each visit.

  He pushes me into the room.

  And follows me.

  What have I done?

  ‘There we go, then,’ he says, nodding at the toilet. He releases me from the arm hold and nudges me towards the toilet. He stands at the door, arms folded, facing into the room. Like he has no intention of leaving.

  ‘Are you going to give me some privacy?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head. Apologetically?

  ‘The door doesn’t have a lock,’ he says.

  ‘You’re going to stand here watching me?’

  He doesn’t respond.

  ‘You could at least turn your back,’ I tell him. Then I could at least try to jump you, I think, even if it is with my trousers round my ankles.

  He still doesn’t say anything. Just keeps looking at me.

  So. I’ll have to carry on. But I’m not going to let him degrade me. I’m not going to let him see how vulnerable I feel as I pull down my pyjama shorts. I’m not going to let him know how my flesh creeps, how my insides clench and my legs tremble. I keep eye contact as I lower myself to the seat. I expect his gaze to drift downwards, to drink me in while I urinate. But he keeps his gaze level with my eyes. I make a show of squatting up fully to wipe myself. Still his gaze stays at my eyes. At first. And then he allows himself a quick flick down, towards my exposed parts. I pull up my shorts in a hurry.

  I move to the sink to wash my hands. I struggle with the taps; my hands are shaking. The Captor helps me out.

  ‘Careful,’ he says. ‘The water is very hot.’

  As he leans in, I catch sight of the two of us in the mirror over the sink. I almost gasp. I’m not who I remember myself to be. My eyes have purple patches under them – tiredness beyond black circles. Or maybe he has punched me? My skin is so pale it is almost translucent. My lips are dry and cracked. My hair, unbrushed, but in a ponytail, sticks up wildly. And if I thought he was twice the size of me, I was wrong. He looks at least four times the size of me. And about four times as human – pink skin (neatly stubbled), hair combed, lips moist.

  Steam covers the mirror and the comparison is lost.

  I notice my hands are burning and I pull them out from under the tap.

  Then I present my wrists meekly to the Captor. He takes hold of them and escorts me back to my room.

  When he leaves I’m sick on the floor.

  I try not to think what will happen when I need to shower.

  When Cara needs to shower. If she’s here.
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  All I want to do is hide in the bed in a foetal position. But I must be strong, for Cara. I must show him that it’s not enough to leave me locked in here. Like I’ve had my bit of outside and now I’m stuck.

  So I take a big breath and unleash the banshee. I cry and I scream and I shout. Maybe we are in the middle of a housing estate. Maybe I’ll alert the neighbours.

  The door opens before I even hear the key in the lock.

  ‘What’s wrong now?’ he asks.

  What’s wrong? I want to shout back. What’s wrong? You’ve fucking kidnapped me, that’s what’s wrong. And done something, maybe, I don’t know, to my daughter. But I carry on with the wordless screaming. He moves towards me, closer and closer and closer, until—ow!

  Stinging, on my cheek.

  He’s slapped me.

  So I scream again. Louder.

  He slaps me again, harder.

  It brings tears to my eyes.

  And there’s a wet glittering in his.

  ‘I didn’t bring you here for this,’ he says. There’s a crack in his voice.

  ‘Then why did you bring me here?’ I hear my voice, high, wavering.

  He shakes his head and moves back towards the door. I start screaming again.

  He turns to me. This time his hand is in a fist. I flinch. He lowers his hand. But the warning is clear. No screaming. I lie down on the bed and face the wall. I can sense him standing there, watching me.

  Eventually, I hear the door close. He’s gone.

  I fling myself over on the bed so that I’m facing the door that he’s just exited.

  Who is this man? I swear I hadn’t seen him before I was abducted. What does he want? Can’t he just tell me everything, like some kind of super villain confessing his evil plans? At least tell me he’s got his cock out every night at the thought of me but he’s just biding his time; tell me we had a chance encounter in a newsagent/ restaurant/ supermarket; tell me he has my daughter strapped inside a wheelie bin somewhere ready to be landfill unless I have sex with him. Just don’t leave me here, not knowing.

  I need to know what’s happening. Why is no one telling me what’s happening to my baby?

  I need Cara. I need Paul. I need a hug, some tea, some air, some knowledge, some hope. I just need. Give me something. Please.

  Chapter 4

  The other side of the door

  I could just have let her scream. Of course I could. I’m prepared. Tough love, isn’t it called? I’ve experience of that. I’ve hardened myself for more. Had to. Grit your teeth, get on with it, think of the greater purpose. The purpose she’ll realise in due course. Once that natural obsession with her daughter has abated. Of course, she wants to know. And maybe I should tell her. But not now. Not yet. Little by little we’ll get there. Together. That’s the important bit. We’ll always be together. I’ve succeeded in that much. However difficult it might be, treating a woman like that when all you want to do is hug her and kiss her and … all the rest. The groundwork is done. We’re together. Now I just need to carry on. Day in, day out, as long as it takes.

  Oh, she’s resisting. Of course she is. Wants to be in and out of that room like a jack-in-the-box. And it bothers me. Of course it bothers me. In an ideal world, she’d take one look at me, one morning, and she’d love me like I know she can. She’d thank me for the delicious fish supper. Thank me for the warm bedding. Thank me for taking care of her. But it’s not an ideal world. Don’t we know it. All of us, under this roof.

  So until that happens, she’s got to stay there. Locked in that room. And sometimes I may need to use force. Judge me, you up there, if you want to. But just like you have your plans and work in mysterious ways, so do I. I didn’t like slapping her. Of course I didn’t. Yes, there was an element of me that liked the touch of her skin. So soft. English rose. Just like Cara. You want to caress skin like that, not hurt it. Needs must though. Even if she was more stunned than hurt. She’ll forgive me in the end. She has to.

  Slapping her, stopping her screaming, was the right thing to do. Selfish, partly. We need to communicate. We need to have a dialogue, even if for now it’s full of hate from her. And I want to be able to hear her voice. Not just gaze at her from afar. If she’s hoarse, we can’t do that, can we? I’ve thought so much about her speaking to me nicely, silkily, calling me by name, that I don’t want to ruin my chances by making her croak.

  And there’s the noise, of course. Screaming. I think we’re safe. But I’m not big on attracting attention. Not now.

  Of course, if she won’t communicate as she should, however long she’s in there, I’ll need to come up with another plan. Perhaps I’ll need to force her to understand. Something with more impact. Pierce that little bubble she thinks she can hide in, away from me, for ever. But for now I have to continue with what I’ve started. A new phase of life for us all.

  Chapter 5

  ‘Mum? Mum!’

  It’s just a whisper but it stirs me. My brain fumbles out of the half-doze it has been in.

  Cara!

  But where?

  ‘Cara?’ I call.

  ‘Shh! He’ll hear you,’ comes the whispered response. That’s my daughter: ever practical, ever critical.

  That’s my daughter. I was right. She is here. The maternal instinct hasn’t let me down.

  I flick on the light switch, hoping that the glow won’t reach the Captor, or if it does that it won’t alarm him.

  ‘Cara,’ I whisper. ‘Where are you?’

  There’s a banging sound from the wall opposite the bed. She must be in the next room. I rush over; caress the plaster.

  ‘Are you really through there?’ I ask. ‘But how can I hear you, through a wall?’

  ‘Lean down,’ she says. ‘There’s a grate.’

  I do as she says, and she is, of course, right. My wonderful, wonderful daughter. You’re alive! You’re here! And you have found a vent between our walls! I lie right down on the floor to see if I can see her. Think perhaps we can join little fingers – our ‘mother and daughter for ever’ hook.

  Her hand is so fragile, so tender. If I squeeze it, will she squeeze back?

  But no. Hearing will have to be enough.

  ‘How did you know I was here?’ I ask her.

  ‘You weren’t exactly quiet,’ she says.

  No. I wasn’t, was I?

  ‘You’re all right?’ I ask her. ‘He hasn’t touched you, or hurt you, or … anything, has he?’

  Silence.

  ‘Cara?’ I start to panic. ‘He hasn’t, he didn’t—’

  ‘I guess you can’t hear when I shake my head,’ comes her response.

  I close my eyes with relief. ‘Thank God,’ I murmur.

  There’s a pause. Then we both start talking together.

  ‘Do you know where we are?’ I ask, as she says ‘Do you think Dad will find us?’

  Then, from her, ‘I don’t know,’ as I say, ‘I’m sure he will, sweetheart.’ And at the same time I think, I hope so. Please, let him find us.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here, Mum,’ she says. ‘I mean, it’s awful that he got you, when I understood what was happening I …’ She sounds like she’s holding back tears. Or maybe letting them flow. My poor darling Cara. ‘But I’m just glad, glad I’m not alone.’

  I nod. ‘I know,’ I say. I hope she can hear that I’m hugging her voice with mine. Because I know what she means. I’m overjoyed she’s here. She’s here and she’s safe and she’s with me. I’d much rather she were at home, safer, with Paul, but at least I have this comfort. She would be my desert island luxury, as I’ve often told her. I’ll never let her go.

  Such a beautiful baby. An item to treasure. Can’t I keep her with me?

  ‘What do you think he wants to do to us?’ she asks. ‘Just, like, keep us here? Or do you think he’s got, you know, plans?’

  Can I use the maternal cloak of little white lies to conceal the world from her? In theory, for one more year, until she is sixteen. But she is sa
vvy. That’s what growing up in London does to you. And she watches TV. We both know what she means.

  ‘Let’s hope he would have done that by now, if he was going to,’ I say.

  As if on cue, there is the sound of footsteps, and a door opening along the corridor.

  ‘He’s heard us!’ I whisper. ‘Quick, back into your bed! Don’t tell him you know I’m here. He’ll move us!’

  ‘Mum!’

  I hear the pain of separation in her voice. It rips through my heart. Worse, almost, than when they took her way from me, bundled up, in hospital, all that time ago.

  ‘I’ll think of something. Don’t worry,’ I say. Then I add, ‘There’s a window.’

  But I have to scramble back to my bed because there’s a key in the lock.

  The Captor’s face appears in the door frame.

  ‘Did you call me?’ he asks.

  I shake my head.

  He looks at the floor. ‘Shame,’ he says. Then I see his gaze has shifted to my bed. Where I haven’t quite pulled the cover over my exposed leg. I adjust the duvet quickly.

  ‘I must have been having a nightmare,’ I say. ‘Thank you for that.’

  He just continues to look at me. I feel tremors start in my hands. He must have plans, looking at me like that. Is it how he looks at Cara too? My Cara, just next door. Who I must protect, keep safe, now that she is here. That is my role, my calling, my mothering duty at its starkest. I grasp my hands, holding them both together to stop the shaking. I must not show him I am afraid. That makes me vulnerable.

  I raise my chin and meet the Captor’s stare. He looks away.

  ‘Would you like some hot chocolate?’ he asks.

  ‘What, so you can drug it?’ I ask.

  He blinks at me. I knew it. He didn’t realise he had such a clever captive.

  ‘I don’t want your drugged hot chocolate,’ I say, more loudly than normal, so Cara can hear. Keep her safe, don’t let her succumb. We don’t want another generation started here in nine months’ time.

  ‘I’ll go back to bed then,’ he says. ‘Unless …’