The Good Mother

by A. L. Bird

  He steps back.

  ‘Goodnight, then,’ he says. ‘Enjoy your cupcake.’

  When he’s left the room I fling the cupcake at the door.

  Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Just count.

  (One plus twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two …)

  I can’t help staring at the cupcake though. It lies in the centre of the floor, where its shop-bought rubberiness sent it bouncing. (One plus thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three …) I can’t figure it out, what it means. I reject him, I spit in his face, and he tells me to enjoy my cake? (One plus thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine …)

  Maybe it’s poisoned. (Forty-four, forty-five, forty-six …) Maybe he’s moved on from doping me. Maybe he just wants to kill me, but he’s too conniving, too cruel just to strangle me or beat me to death. (Sixty. Two plus one, two, three …) The sick fuck wants me to die by the very thing I’ve made my profession. (Two plus fourteen, fifteen, sixteen …) Or does it contain a sedative? If I eat it, will he rape me? Is that what he means about getting what he wants without me getting hurt? I’m not taking the chance. The cupcake can go in the pillowcase, along with the letter stash, and he can think I’ve eaten his drugged offering, and then he won’t suspect we’re about to escape. (Two plus twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four …) I scoop it up from by the door.

  What time am I on? Must keep counting. Three minutes now? Yes, it must be. Just keep feeling the pulse. (Three plus one, two, three …)

  I start to slide the cake into the pillowcase. It will go mouldy. Smell. Alert him. Or poison me another way. Maggots in my ear. Perhaps there’s a better way. Yes, I know! The girl! Not Cara, the other girl. The outside girl. I can tempt her with the cake. It doesn’t matter if it’s poisoned because she’ll never get it. I can put it on the window ledge, next to the skipping sign. Climb the chair and there, done, it’s on the windowsill! Progress! (Three plus twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two …)

  But only up to a point. What is Cara doing? Why hasn’t she replied yet, about our escape? It was too much, wasn’t it, me asking her to run down that corridor she fears? Too pushy. (Four plus thirteen, fourteen, fifteen …)

  Or maybe she’s just having her supper. Building her strength for tomorrow. She probably assumes that I assume she’ll go along with my plan – her plan, really, with my simple revisions. I should eat too. Because look at the rest of the food on the tray. It looks so unappetising that it must be safe. Who would poison an overripe avocado? Or a grizzled pork chop. And, do you know, I might even treat myself to eating the whole thing for once. The cupcake was the danger zone. This must be safe.

  And it feels good. It feels good to eat this full meal. I actually start to feel normal. (Four plus forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine …) My hunger is starting to be sated. Would be nice if there was a glass of wine to with it, Chablis perhaps, to celebrate my last meal in captivity. Because tomorrow will go well. Tomorrow we will escape. (Four plus fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty – or are we on five already? I must continue counting. Yes, I must. Eyes drooping a bit, but I must, I must, five plus one, two, three …) And we can find out who this sod is, this sod who would take my daughter away from me, only to give me poisoned (five plus one, two, three …) food. Yes, tomorrow, tomorrow. I’ll just rest my head on the pillow a bit, now it’s not poisoned, and I’ll be closer to Cara’s letter stash. Yes, there we go. That’s really – oh gosh, these yawns! – nice. (Five plus two, three … Plus three plus four …)

  Chapter 23

  Alice looks over her shoulder as she hurries along the pavement towards school. Night has become day, but it feels like she’s still in a nightmare, a crazy chase dream. Another two streets to go. He’s still following her. The bright green car is leaping along the road towards her like an overzealous frog. Why won’t he stop this? She keeps telling him that she’s told him all she knows. She’s done her bit. Described exactly the place he asked for.

  Suddenly, the car is level with her.

  ‘Hop in, Alice,’ he says, like he knows he’s driving in a frog.

  She shakes her head and carries on walking.

  ‘Come on, get in,’ he says again.

  Doesn’t he understand? You don’t get into cars with strangers. Who brought him up? Besides, she’ll miss registration, and she doesn’t want a black mark.

  She starts to run. She stops looking where she’s going and runs as fast as she can. She’s told him about Cara, everything she knows.

  But it was like he wasn’t listening to what she said. He was only interested in his own questions: ‘So did her mum usually drop her at school?’ ‘Have you seen her mum recently?’ ‘Did you ever see her with her mum and her mum’s husband together?’ ‘What were they like?’ ‘What did they have for supper when you went round?’ ‘Did they ever have alcohol?’ ‘Did they drive you home afterwards?’ And before she’d even answered one question, he’d start on another. Weird. Totally weird.

  As she runs, she wishes she had told Mrs Cavendish. Mr Belvoir said he’d told Mrs Cavendish that they were meeting outside school, and that she’d said it was OK, because it wouldn’t distract her from lessons. But that it was best to keep the content of their discussions secret, because he didn’t want to prejudice the investigations. It sounded very grand at the time. But now she bets, she just bets that Mrs Cavendish didn’t know about it, and that she shouldn’t be keeping anything to do with this man secret. That’s what Cara did and look what happened to Cara.

  Look! Here’s the street with bollards at the end, so cars can’t get through. If she runs down here, he can’t catch her. Turn in! Run a little bit more. Then stop. Catch up on breath. Phew.

  But no! What’s this? In the opposite direction, from the end of the street without the bollards, the green frog car. Coming closer and closer towards her. Until it’s almost touching her. Engine still running. Window wound down.

  ‘Why are you running, Alice?’

  Should she stay anything, or keep quiet? Even if he didn’t make Cara disappear, there’s something not quite right about him. Maybe if she tells him she doesn’t like him, he’ll go away. That works at school.

  ‘I don’t like you,’ Alice says.

  The corners of his mouth turn down. ‘I don’t think little girls do like me.’

  ‘Cara said she didn’t like you. She said you were weird. I know she was on her way to see you. And I’ve never seen her again. So no, I don’t like you.’

  And then he’s getting out of the car. He’s taking hold of her arm. She’s struggling. Surely someone must see her. He pulls her into the car. Help! Help! The door is shut and there are those stupid child locks that mean she can’t get out. She bangs her hands against the window. He’s going to drive off! He’s going to vanish her like he vanished Cara! Even though … Oh, even though nothing. He’s somehow to blame. She knows he is.

  But the engine stops. The car doesn’t go anywhere.

  ‘Alice,’ says Mr Belvoir. ‘Calm down. You can trust me. Let me tell you what I know. Then you can see who you think the villain is. You’ve described where he lives. Now you can take me to find him.’

  Chapter 24

  The other side of the door

  It’s nearly time.

  Just over half an hour to go. Breakfasts done, trays delivered – even to still sleeping recipients. No distraction there. Perhaps I should have shaken her awake. Used some of that force, that tension, that is building and building. That I must do something with. Before it explodes. Because we know where that can end up. The danger it can cause.

  I pace back and forth, like the pendulum of a clock. Keep the adrenaline up. Come 11 a.m., I must be out of this door. I must be cool, composed and in control of the situation. And there’s no reason why I shouldn’t be. I know I’m in the right. Because I’m trying to help. I really am. I’m trying to keep us together under this roof. That’s where we’re meant to be. I know that’s what Suze wants, if only she could see that.

  Perhaps she will, soon, now. That’s t
he hope. What with the other delivery I took yesterday. It’s got to work, hasn’t it?

  Which is why I’m not going to let him, this man, pry into our affairs. None of this has anything to do with him. This is my sanctuary, and I have a right to treat the people here as I see fit. And I’m doing well. Very well. I have to meet him. To hear what he has to say. Because otherwise he might start to talk to others, if he hasn’t already. Start a process. Blue flashing lights. As if I’m doing something wrong. But I’m not. I have right on my side. And, as for the money angle, well, I know what I need. What we need. But it looks like he doesn’t agree that’s the necessary sum. He’s greedy, that’s what it is. Wants to hang on to everything, keep it to himself. That doesn’t work. It doesn’t work. He must see that. He must do. Otherwise …

  I must keep my head. Must keep calm. Keep the overall objective in mind. Don’t let him get into my head, twisting a little scalpel around, seeing what my trigger points are. Exploiting them. I do enough of that to myself. At night. In the dark. Replaying all the images, the decisions, the choices. Reminding myself about consequences.

  I go over to the window and flick the curtain. Perhaps he’s early? No. No car parked on the corner. That is, there are cars, of course there are, here in the not-quite-suburbia-because-it’s-London-so-it’s-a-‘village’ belt. Just not his car. I wonder if he’ll actually be in the car, or whether it’s all a trap. Whether it will be full of police. Or just threats.

  Perhaps it will be a nice exchange. He tells me what works for him. I tell him that’s no good. We agree to differ. Then we part due to artistic differences.

  Unlikely.

  I check my watch again. Nearer and nearer draws the time.

  Maybe I’ll just see if all is in order down the corridor. It’s quiet. Too quiet. Suze was breathing, I think, when I deposited the tray. I’m pretty sure I got the dosage right, last night. That I haven’t over overdosed her. There’s not even any knocking, though, this morning. All that knocking, on the wall, between Suze and Cara’s room. I’m not stupid. I know what it means. It’s what they do, isn’t it, in this situation, when they think they’ve learnt something important? But it won’t do any good. Almost breaks your heart, such futile behaviour. Almost. If something else hadn’t broken it already. ‘Something else’! Hah! Me. Me. I was the one who shouldn’t have done what I did. But I didn’t know that when I did it. You never do. It’s only with hindsight. Hindsight screaming at you from the road up ahead, ‘Stop! This will end badly. Choose some other route, quit this journey now, while you can.’

  Perhaps my heart is not quite broken though. Just very badly fractured. And with a little assistance from the other end of the corridor – voluntary or not – perhaps that heart would heal. And so he, that other man, that man outside this spectacular heist I am attempting, must not be allowed to spoil my chances of recovery. I must show him that. At 11 a.m.

  Because if I can’t make that work, I’m going to have to create a new plan. In a hurry. And I don’t like to think about what I might have to do.

  Chapter 25

  ‘Susan! Susan! Breakfast!’

  I fling my eyes open.

  There’s a tray. Sunlight. Day.

  Before that, night.

  I’ve been sleeping. Which means I haven’t been counting. Which means 10.30 a.m., 11 a.m., could have come and gone. Our plans destroyed by my neglect.

  ‘What time is it?’ I cry, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. As my feet hit the floor, full awakeness hits me and I want to claw my question back. Who arouses suspicion on escape day?

  The Captor stands back and looks at me.

  ‘Why, you due somewhere?’ he asks.

  I shake my head. Damn, damn, damn. Think!

  ‘No. I just want to keep a body clock. For when I get out of here. Because I will get out, you know.’

  ‘Sure.’ Is that a smirk? Is he laughing at me, the bastard, for the thought of being out of here? Well, let him laugh. He doesn’t know what we have planned.

  ‘So?’ I ask. ‘The time?’

  He looks at that watch again, the pretty yet masculine one. I wish I could smash its face against his, both of them destroyed.

  ‘Quarter to eleven.’

  Damn. How could you, Susan? Indulging yourself – sleeping – when Cara needs you! Bad mother. Bad, bad mother. I want to hit myself, but manage not to. It might seem odd. I pinch away the guilt instead. But look – stop regretting too early. We could still push on with the plan. I’ll need to take a risk. It’s only fifteen minutes out.

  ‘How’s the shower this morning?’ I ask.

  ‘You’re not usually keen for a wash,’ he says, with an eyebrow raised in surprise.

  ‘I didn’t say I wanted a shower. I just asked how it was. If the water’s warm. Been tested yet today?’

  ‘Not by me,’ he says.

  Damn it. Does he know? Is he playing with me, with such an equivocal answer? I want to shout Has my daughter used the shower today?

  But I can’t, of course.

  I flick my eyes as fast as I can to and from the grate. Nothing there. Still no reply to my letter. Is she down with the plan or not? Can we even carry on?

  I’m going to assume yes. We have to go for it.

  ‘Why?’ he asks me.

  Ah yes, of course. Why.

  And I don’t have an answer. So I shrug, and take a sip of the orange juice on my tray. It’s like being at one of those baking ‘master class’ functions again, drinking cheap juice out of plastic cups. Or more likely, Chardonnay. He looks at his watch. Is that the slightest tap of a foot? Yes, it is. So, he’s still in a hurry. Agitated. Our plan can still work.

  ‘Don’t let me keep you,’ I say. ‘I’m sure I can manage breakfast without killing myself.’

  I’ve got to plant that, you see. That seed of doubt. Make him wonder if, when I scream, that’s what’s happening. That I’m trying to kill myself. That there is something worth coming running for.

  He frowns.

  I look at him full square. I do open and honest but slightly troubled eyes.

  He keeps frowning. Like he’s not going to leave. Like one of his two prized possessions has suddenly developed a fatal flaw, and he wants to safeguard them.

  ‘Figure of speech,’ I tell him.

  He nods, still frowning. I’ve reassured him enough for him to leave the room. But it should be enough to make him reappear once I start my screams. How easy it is to manipulate him – how well you come to know a stranger in these surroundings.

  Door closed, I put down my orange juice and run to the grate. I rattle it as per my letter. Has she heard? I don’t know. I’ll have to risk a gentle tap on the wall. Still nothing. But then – yes, what’s that! Do I hear a knocking from next door? Yes, yes, I think I do! Not on the wall, but on the door. Then I hear music – Cara’s voice, I mean, my version of music – as Cara demands a shower.

  This is it then. Will he come? He must. He must. There’s the banging again. And that’s her door being unlocked, is it? I can hear his voice. So unless he’s talking to himself, he must be talking to Cara. I hear footsteps outside the door, heading in the direction of the shower.

  Right. Give enough time for her to get into the shower room. For her to take off her clothes. To begin a long, leisurely rinse. For him to get increasingly agitated as he looks at his watch again and again. And then …

  ‘AHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!’

  Everything goes into the scream. All the pain, the worry, the fear of being here.

  Again.

  ‘AHHHHHHHH!’

  Black dots in front of my eyes. My hands on the sides of my head. The room swinging away from me.

  The Captor standing in front of me.

  ‘What? What’s wrong?’

  ‘AHHHHHHHHH!’

  Spiralling now, the room is. And I’m physically sinking, I can feel myself, to the floor. The scream becomes a groan. I can’t stay up. I have to lie down. My legs buckle. I c
rawl to the bed.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks again, standing over me. Or at least I think he must be standing over me. He might have moved into the doorway. He sounds very far away. Someone’s hands are on me, shaking me, though.

  I manage to look up.

  Then I pull back. Yes, there he is. Leaning down, right next to me. They must have been his hands. In fact, yes, they are still on me. I look at them. He moves them away. For a second, I feel like putting them back again.

  ‘Why were you screaming? Susan, what is it?’

  Because I’m here, of course. Because I’m not where I’m meant to be. Because of what you’ve done to me. Because I want to be with my little girl. Because I can’t bear, I cannot bear, the thought of not seeing her. Because I want to see her again now, now, now and forever and—

  Oh. Yes. That’s right. I’m screaming so that Cara can run.

  Pragmatic.

  The room rights itself again.

  Even now, she must be running out of the house! Even now, running down the corridor, away, away, to freedom! Or is she still standing on the threshold of the shower room, hesitant, unsure whether she should run? Has he even left the door unlocked? Or is she trapped in there now, away from me?

  I need to think positive. And I need to buy her some more time.

  ‘Oh, it was just so awful, I was …’ I trail off. Story half-untold, but more for the telling.

  ‘What, Susan?’

  ‘No, no. I can’t say.’

  ‘Yes, you can. You can trust me, Susan.’

  I look at him. I try to imagine a world in which I can trust this man who I hate, this man who brought me here. Or a world in which someone who has kidnapped you and your daughter can hold himself out as a figure of trust. It is only a warped world, a madman’s world. Which is what I am dealing with.

  I shake my head. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Try me.’

  I shake my head. And I keep on shaking my head. Then I pull my knees up to my chest and continue, just sitting there on the floor, shaking.