The Good Mother

by A. L. Bird

  Maybe just sit here. Don’t answer the phone. Have a drink. Large glass of wine, maybe? Hah. No. I got rid of all that, didn’t I? Tea then. But just sit here, ignoring him? I can. For now. He doesn’t know where I am, where this place is. I think. I pray. I’ve done my best to hide this sanctuary from him. But maybe he’ll find it. He found me, after all, out in the world, tracked me down. For the time being, his resources have failed him. Maybe someone’s advised him against it, tracking down the postcode. More harm than good, perhaps he’s been told. Doesn’t want to put himself in jeopardy, when it comes down to it.

  But he’s bound to track us down eventually, if he’s frustrated. Which would never do.

  So I answer.

  ‘Hello?’ comes a voice at the other end. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s me.’ Because who else would it be?

  ‘I’ll come over then, shall I?’ says the man.

  ‘You know I’m not going to agree to that.’

  ‘I just want to talk,’ he says.

  Yeah, right.

  ‘We can talk now,’ I retort.

  ‘Face to face.’

  I don’t say anything. If we were face to face, as he wants, I might not be able to conceal fear within hostility. I’m not sure I’m managing it now.

  He continues to push.

  ‘Where can we meet?’

  ‘So that I leave the house empty? I don’t think so.’ I know his game.

  ‘You’re not helping yourself,’ he tells me.

  I don’t need any help, from myself or anyone else, so I hang up.

  Just imagine he found out where I live – he’d turn up on the doorstep immediately. In darkness, I can leave, if I go out the back entrance. Like this morning. No evidence of anyone staking the place out, at least not from the back. Maybe he hasn’t told anyone what he knows. Maybe the big guns aren’t out to get me. I can reach the woods easily from the back, take a shortcut to where I need to be. Because I have to go there, to that spot. That mound of earth so carefully packed into place. Remind myself why I’m doing it all. What’s gone before. What’s still to come. And keep my resolve. Because I’ve got to do this. I’ve got to stay strong. So I move away from the phone, back to the trays. And perfect the feeding time offering.

  Chapter 12

  It’s all very well lying to your mum, but lying to the headmistress takes extra skills, Alice thinks, as she exits the interrogation room aka the headmistress’s study. With your mum, you know all the levers and buttons to pull and press. All the points to cry. And you know that she loves you. The headmistress doesn’t love you. The headmistress pretends to love you, but really she is that very rude word that Daddy uses sometimes. And she can see into your soul.

  So how was Alice supposed to resist? It was Mr Wilson’s fault anyway, not hers. He shouldn’t have read her English homework so suspiciously. Just because a few characters in a composition have a conversation about truth and secrets and best friends, it doesn’t mean that she was talking about her own truth, secrets and best friends. Doesn’t he know what fiction is? OK, so, in this case, it wasn’t totally fiction, but it was so out of order for him to report her to the headmistress. Mrs Wilson. That’s what she and Cara would have gigglingly called him if she’d been there, his voice was so high-pitched. But she wasn’t there, was she? That was the whole problem.

  So Mrs Cavendish had called Alice into her study and talked in very airy-fairy terms about truth and how helping a friend isn’t always by doing what they ask you to do. Sometimes you have to tell people everything you know about a friend in order to be the best friend you can. Mrs Cavendish’s eyes did not stray from Alice’s for one syllable. By the end of the lecture, Alice was sure that Mrs Cavendish could hear her brain, and that there was little point in keeping the secret because Mrs Cavendish must already know it.

  ‘OK,’ said Alice, nodding bravely. ‘I’ll tell.’

  Then in came Mr Belvoir with his questions. What had she seen? What had she heard, smelled, believed? What had Cara told her? Would she swear on that in court? Did she know where the man could be found?

  All these questions, she’d understood. They reminded her of Monsieur Poirot and Mr Holmes, whose stories she’d listened to on Audible.com with her parents in the evening when homework was over. Non-police male detectives asked odd, detailed questions and achieved miraculous results, often changing the world with the results – reappearing the missing, making dead people live. But then there were questions that she didn’t understand at all, even in the Poirot/ Holmes world. Questions that left her a little uneasy. Questions about Cara’s mum. About Cara’s mum’s husband. Personal, private questions, about habits, ways of living, that left her feeling dirty. And perhaps Mrs Cavendish felt dirty too. Because, after a while, she asked Mr Belvoir if he was quite done, as she felt sure Alice must have classes to attend.

  And so Alice left. Now, on the way to History, which was hopefully all about Francis Drake and the Armada, and not about best friends and cars and peculiar gentlemen, Alice thinks she might have made the wrong decision. Perhaps she shouldn’t have told. Although she didn’t quite tell, did she? Because she didn’t have the address. Of where to find the man Mr Belvoir seemed to be so keen to find. She just had the mental picture. From when Cara had taken her there. Because that was Cara. She shared everything. So Mr Belvoir can’t really use the information, because he doesn’t have Alice’s mental map. Although she thinks she described it pretty well.

  This isn’t all Alice is thinking though. She also thinks something else. She thinks that on a second meeting this man, this Mr Belvoir, is very like the secret man that Cara had described to her. The man Cara used to meet. And who she’d gone to meet that day.

  Chapter 13

  Dearest Cara

  So, so wonderful to be communicating with you. Not in ideal conditions. I know. And I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry. But such a relief, such a comfort, to know you are through there.

  Yes, I am hoping Dad will come and rescue us. I’m hoping that even now there is a police sniper outside with the Captor in his sights.

  But, in case not, we need a plan B. And I’ve got one. I don’t know about your room, but in mine there’s a small window. Don’t get your hopes up – I didn’t mean we can climb out of it. It’s high, locked, small and unsmashable. BUT there’s a girl who uses the grass outside to skip on. So it is possible that I might be seen. And so I’ve made a sign, telling the world that we’re in here. It’s not much, but it’s a start.

  I put the pencil down. It’s so not much that it feels almost futile. I’m counting on a small girl (a) maintaining skipping as a hobby, and not discovering skating or TV or even books (b) keeping up the discipline to practise regularly (c) practising in the same spot (d) looking at her surroundings (e) caring about them (f) seeing the sign (g) distinguishing it enough from her own play world to think it worth telling her parents about it (h) not seeing a small pony or an ice-cream truck on the way home, which makes her forget about the sign entirely and (i) her parents believing and caring about what she said.

  So yes. A lot to rely on. Or not. And a lot to ask Cara to put her faith in. So we probably need a plan C as well, at least. I force myself to continue writing.

  How about you? Do you have any windows? Could you do a sign too? Or perhaps there is a chance of getting through your windows. If you have them. Tell me. And tell me if you have any other ideas too.

  Please let her have ideas. Please let her be able to escape whether she can take me with her or not. But please let her not forget me when she leaves. I won’t be able to manage this without her.

  I think he goes out occasionally, the Captor. So we can make use of that, maybe? I don’t know how?

  I want to go over again how you got here. Anything we know about the Captor could be useful. You said you remember a car. Try getting your brain back to that place. The model of car even. Who was driving? Was it him?

  It means nothing, asking these qu
estions. Why play detective? How will it possibly get us out of here? But at the same time, it means everything. If we have knowledge, we have the tiniest bit of power. Power to analyse our adversary. Manipulate him maybe. Or at least we shake off that horrible ignorance of such a fundamental part of our lives.

  But will I damage her? Cause her to revisit something her brain is saying should be firmly cordoned off? She can only be what she is, remember what she can. The pencil doesn’t have an eraser though. I would have to start again, which would waste precious paper, or I would have to cross out in thick strokes what I’d written, which would make me look indecisive. And Cara doesn’t need an indecisive parent right now. She needs someone strong and positive.

  Like Paul. We both need Paul. I wonder what he is doing now. Thinking of me, for sure. And of Cara. How he can get us back. I wonder where he is. Outside, in a stake-out? Or on our sofa at home, wrapped under one of the grey fake-cashmere throws, exhausted and emotionally drained by his search, by his anger, by his staved-off grief, catching a compulsive hour of sleep? I shake my head. That would not be like Paul. Paul is strong, emotionally and physically. Strong, proactive and capable. Look at how he helped me bring up Cara. Always there in a crisis – not that there’ve been many – to keep us safe. Even though she’s someone else’s daughter.

  Anyway, focus. Must finish the letter. Otherwise Cara might think she has been forsaken. That I don’t have a plan. That she should escape by herself – oh joy – and leave me still trapped – oh horror. I need to say something nice, something that will make her smile.

  Remember when we went shopping that time, about a year ago, and for a joke we were trying on matching mother–daughter dresses? When we came out of the changing room to parade and after we’d twirled round in the mirror out front, you came face to face with that guy – Benny wasn’t it? You thought you wanted to hide behind the mirror – I was only too aware how muttony I must look to him compared with your dazzling youth! But we managed to escape back into the changing room. Even if your escape was short-lived and you ended up in a McDonald’s having a milkshake with him. But that ended well, you see, and we managed it together. We’ll manage this together too. You’ll see.

  I sign off the letter with love and kisses, a nostalgic smile on my face. Tears in my eyes but not on my face. Because they’re happy tears. Tears of love for my daughter. Who I will see again soon. Please God. Please Paul.

  I sit and wait for a response. I wait and I wait and I wait.

  Is there something wrong with my letter? Have I missed the mark? Is my treasured memory of our shopping trip an irrelevance for her? Have I over-glossed it? Was I the one who pulled her into the shop, picked out the dresses and dragged her into the changing room? She doesn’t even like high street stores, always customises her own clothes. When she went for that milkshake with that boy, was she just desperate to get away from me, and spent the whole time bitching about how embarrassing I am?

  Is she even here, still, the daughter that I know? Is she safe? We haven’t communicated since last night. A lot can happen, overnight, in the dark.

  I wait some more. I can’t hear anything at all from next door. Maybe she really isn’t there? Maybe I need to find out, and do something to save her? Act now, quickly, before it’s too late.

  I’ll give it one more minute then I’ll knock. No, maybe that will be too late.

  Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap, I go.

  Nothing. No response.

  Where is she? What’s going on? Please, come on, knock back.

  Nothing. Nothing nothing nothing.

  I need to get out of this room.

  I need to see the hallway, her door, see if there’s anything unusual. Just to know. Just to see. Even if I can’t help.

  ‘Hey!’ I shout out. I pummel the door of my room, louder than the knocks. ‘Hey!’

  And there it is. The key in the lock. I’ve done it. He’s coming. I’ll get out of the room somehow. A shower! That’s it. I’ll say I need a shower!

  He stands in the doorway. As ever, between me and freedom. Between me and knowledge of Cara.

  ‘Shower time,’ I say. I try to make it sound natural. Not so urgent that he’ll suspect it’s a ruse.

  He looks me up and down.

  I shiver. I’d forgotten, in my hurry, what the shower would involve. Him looking at me. Like that. At the very least. And me with my clothes off.

  It’s for Cara. It’s for Cara. It’s for Cara.

  ‘Fine by me,’ he says.

  He gestures to the open door. I take a step towards it.

  And then comes the tap-tap. On the wall. From Cara.

  I freeze mid-footstep. Has he heard it? Has he noticed me hearing it? If I had that moment again, I wouldn’t freeze. Of course I wouldn’t freeze. It highlights the noise, gives it a significance. But it was my daughter, communicating with me – how could I not react. Even though her knock, which I solicited, puts our whole communication in jeopardy. Maybe even herself. Stupid, stupid me, selfishly checking up on her, not being strong enough. Again.

  He’s looking at me, the Captor. Questioningly? Or desirously, looking forward to seeing me naked?

  I don’t know. I feel sick. At least Cara is safe. At least she is there.

  She knocks again.

  What? Is she expecting a return knock?

  Stop it, I whisper to her in my head. Stop it! Find that earlier caution. It’s lovely, wonderful, glorious to know you’re alive and safe, but keep quiet, just now!

  I look at the Captor. What has he noticed? What has he heard? I would smile at him but then he would know something was wrong. Plus I’m not sure I can bring myself to smile at the man who has separated me from my family.

  Can I change my mind about the shower? Or will that look suspicious? Yes, probably. It will. I have to go through with it. I have to distract him from the sound of Cara. Of our communication. Our knowledge.

  ‘Well, let’s go and have this shower then!’ I say. And I try to lead the way out of the room. Suddenly there’s a scent of escape. But no. He’s too sharp for that. He’s in front of me again, clamping my arms by my side. I’m led out of the room. Past Cara’s closed door – behind which, for now, she is safe, thank God – down the meaningless corridor. What if one day her door was open? Would that be a good thing or a bad thing? Right now, she is in there, reading my letter. But maybe one day I will be ushered past and the door will be open. She will be gone. Spirited away somewhere by the Captor. How absurd, how cruel, to keep mother and daughter so close but not let them see each other. Psychological warfare? Or does he want us both? Think we won’t possibly yield with each other in the room? Needs us to feel isolated, alone. Well, we have a hidden strength, a unity, that he doesn’t know about. I hope. Unless he has worked out the knocking.

  I try not to think about what will await me in the bathroom. Not a long hot soak in the bath, like I used to enjoy, when I could find a quiet moment. No. The quicker option. But not quick enough. A very public shower. The toilet visits are bad enough. I’ve counted them – I need something to do other than write to Cara and stare out of the window for the little girl – and crosschecked them with the sunsets. Twenty-one toilets. Even given my current levels of dehydration – I can’t drink all the drugged drinks all the time – I must be going three times a day. Six sunsets. But I may have missed some. Sometimes I wake up and have no idea where time has gone, or where I am. I have to remember all over again. That I am not with my Cara, except I am.

  But at least the toilet visits must be almost as grim for him as for me; him watching over me while I do my business is a security issue more than anything else. I hope. And at least I am partially clothed. A shower though. That is different. I will be naked. Slippery. Defenceless. I’ll be worried every time I bend over. I will not come out feeling clean.

  I try to keep that strength up as he orders me to take off my clothes. When I refuse, he moves towards me and rips them off for me. Or maybe, to be fair, it is more gentle
than that. Slides and teases them off me. I think I’d prefer if he ripped. Less like he was trying to seduce me. Less sinister. Now I feel not only naked but coveted. Has my bare flesh always been this bare, this vulnerable? It shames and sickens me, with the knowledge of what he wants. I become a true Eve outside the garden – an ashamed hand over the breasts and one over the genitals. He is not going to get the view he wants out here.

  ‘Get in,’ he says, nodding his head at the shower cubicle.

  ‘Aren’t you going to open the door for me?’ I ask, playing the coquette. Anything to put off turning around.

  He doesn’t reply. He just gestures again with his head. Of course he isn’t going to move forward to open the cubicle – to do that would leave the exit to the bathroom unguarded. I could try to flit naked from captivity.

  So, slowly, with as much posterior dignity as I can muster, I turn. I catch sight of myself in the mirror as I do. I look away again. I’m thinner than ever, but not good thin. Ribcage and thigh-gap thin. If only he wouldn’t drug my food and I could eat it all. Or if I could have one of my own cupcakes. Or Paul’s peppercorn steaks.

  I pull open the door of the shower then shut it tight behind me. I turn the temperature up as high as I can to generate steam. I have my back turned to the door but – or maybe so – I know he will be watching me.

  ‘Go on, love. Have a shower. Wash it all away.’ It? Her. They mean her.

  As the heat and steam build, and infuse my skin and my hair, I feel myself start to relax slightly. Does Cara use this shower? I wonder. Am I sharing her space? Is this another link we have forged in captivity? I will ask in my next letter. Eyes closed, I reach my hand out for some soap. Instead, I feel flesh.

  I scream and open my eyes. It is the Captor’s hand. Above the noise of the water he opened the shower door without my hearing. What does he want? Is this it? Is this the rape scene? Does he murder me in the shower now, à la ‘Psycho’? I cower into the corner.