Trust Me

by T. M. Logan

  Further behind me there are shouts, loud and angry, male voices full of protest. Some kind of row breaking out back on the platform. I glance over my shoulder to see the red-and-white shirted football fans held up at the barrier, arguing with the guards – something about tickets – their faces contorted with anger, swigging from cans of lager. The fans shouting, swearing to let them through, their mates joining in the protest, yellow-jacketed platform staff gravitating towards the commotion to calm it by sheer force of numbers.

  ‘Stand back!’

  ‘Open the bastard gate then!’

  I walk faster, the shouts from the ticket barrier cutting through the air behind me. Another group of young men approach in a loose group from the opposite direction, a dozen of them in their twenties, jeans and tattoos, blue football shirts. Fists aloft as they shout their songs, belligerent voices echoing off the roof of the station. A shouted challenge as they see the opposition fans held up at the ticket barrier, other passengers skittering to the side, backing off to clear a path between the two sets of fans. Gestures and taunts and more swearing, a hurled can arcing through the air, landing with a flat smack and a spray of lager on the platform.

  Mia whimpers at the sudden noise. I obey my instincts. I quicken my pace away from the confrontation, avoiding eye contact and shifting my path away from the men, my whole body tensing against the noise and aggression. With a ferocity I haven’t felt in years, I feel my right hand curling into a fist in the certainty that I will flatten the first one who dares to lay a finger on Mia.

  The football fans pass by, a fug of beer breath and sweat and pungent aftershave in their wake.

  I check my reflection in another shop window. The thin guy is still following me.

  At the far end of the concourse is the sign for the exit: the remainder of the journey that awaits me. A five-minute walk down to Edgware Road tube, Circle line to Notting Hill, change to the Central line then eight stops to South Greenford and the walk up the main road, through the park to my cold, empty house. I’ve done the return trip to the specialist so many times these past five years, I can do it in my sleep now. And until half an hour ago, I thought of little beyond taking that last leg of my journey back from the clinic, sitting on the Tube on autopilot, knowing my own stop without even having to look up. It would be easy to let my feet take me there now, following that familiar route.

  Easy, but wrong.

  Finally, I spot a pair of police uniforms. A couple of armed policemen stand guard, their backs to a tall column in the centre of the concourse. They wear body armour and are bulky with equipment, black straps and pouches and radios, pistols on their thighs and rifles across their chests, index fingers resting against trigger guards. Instead of feeling relief, though, I find myself repulsed by them, by the closeness of these weapons to the tiny life in my arms. I’m no stranger to guns, but this is different.

  Still, I’m going to have to talk to them, tell them what’s happened. We’ll all go to a back office, and I’ll give a statement and fill in some forms, and they’ll take the baby away from me. I’ll hand Mia over and that will be that. Hand her over to these men with their guns, these men equipped for war on the streets.

  The thought gives me a cold, empty sensation, a pinch of unease in my stomach.

  Today, here, now, I see threats everywhere. I have a powerful urge to take Mia as far away from these guns as possible. And I can’t stop thinking about the note in the baby’s bag. Don’t trust the police. But what option do I have? I think we could have been followed off the train, and it seems clear that Kathryn, wherever she is, is in some kind of trouble. I head for the two armed officers, preparing what I will say. This baby? She’s not mine. She was given to me . . . But as I approach, one of them touches his earpiece, speaks briefly into his radio, and then both hurry off towards the platforms without giving me a second glance.

  I turn and watch them go, their equipment jingling as they jog towards the confrontation between the two sets of football fans, which is getting louder all the time. I can’t see any other police on the concourse. Maybe the ticket office? But this station isn’t a safe place. Guns, shouting, drunks, noise, crowds. Anger. Hooligans. Police on the lookout for knife-wielding terrorists and suicide bombers. I glance over my shoulder: the weirdo from the train is still following me. But it’s not just him, this whole place makes me uneasy. There’s danger everywhere and I feel exposed – it isn’t a safe environment for Mia. Thousands of people coming and going, packed together but oblivious to each other amid the hurry and the rush and the noise. There is a reason why train stations are a favourite target for terrorists.

  Not here.

  Don’t trust anyone.

  Kathryn trusted me. She chose me.

  If I have even a shadow of a doubt, even a flicker, I should trust that instinct to protect the baby. I have to make that decision for her.

  I feel the weight of it, having to be responsible for others again.

  I scan the station one more time for any other police officers, but see none.

  Behind me, the shouting kicks up a notch.

  Get away from them, all of them. Put distance between them and you, between them and Mia.

  There has to be a smarter, safer way of doing this. I should find somewhere quieter and more controlled. I switch Mia to my other arm and she stares at me, on the edge of tears now, her little body rigid with alarm at the shouting and the noise.

  ‘We’re nearly there, Mia,’ I say. ‘Not long now until you’re back with your mum.’

  But first I need to put some space between me and the strange man who’s followed us off the train, whether it’s me or the baby in my arms that he’s following. It’ll only take a minute to break contact, but I need a helping hand. I approach a stocky fortyish man in a yellow high-vis tabard with ‘Station Security’ printed on the back, while he’s encouraging a homeless man to move away from the cash machines.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I say.

  The security guard turns, his broad face impassive. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I’m really sorry to bother you but a man’s followed me off the train and he’s been taking pictures of my baby.’ I turn and point at the thin man. ‘He’s making me really uncomfortable and I just want him to leave us alone.’

  ‘That gentleman?’ He points a thick finger, his face darkening into a frown. ‘In the black jacket?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Are you both OK?’

  ‘I think so,’ I give Mia’s hand a protective pat. ‘Just a bit freaked out.’

  ‘Wait here, madam, I’ll have a word with him.’

  He turns and approaches him with his palms up in calming gesture, speaking quietly.

  I register the look of surprise on the thin man’s face, but I don’t wait to see what happens next. I turn away, smile down at Mia and walk towards the big archways that lead out of the station onto Melcombe Place, where the mid-afternoon sun is fighting its way through thinning clouds. I want to lose myself in the bustle of passengers coming and going, to get away from everyone who could be a threat.

  I’ll do the right thing for Mia, but first we have to go somewhere safe; in the meantime I’ll take care of her for just a little while longer.

  I walk quickly out of the station and head for the taxi rank without looking back.

  5

  Melcombe Place is busy with afternoon traffic and there’s a short queue at the taxi rank. I join the line, heart thrumming in my chest, keeping my eyes on the station exit in case the thin man emerges before I can get into a cab. There’s no sign so far but I know there is a side entrance too – he might go that way instead. Mia squirms a little and I jig her gently in my arm, the muscles already starting to ache from carrying her.

  The taxi queue moves with painful slowness, a line of black cabs rolling slowly forward, engines rumbling as passengers get in and then pull away towards the junction with Great Central Street.

  Come on, come on.

  I�
��m queuing behind a white-haired couple in their seventies who I recognise from the train, the man in a jacket and tie and his wife in a dress and good shoes, dressed for a London day out, maybe a show. The woman turns around and sees me for the first time, her face softening at the sight of Mia.

  ‘Oh, she is gorgeous.’ She squeezes Mia’s pink-shoed foot. ‘Aren’t you?’

  Mia gives her a wide-eyed smile.

  ‘Come on Mike, let this lady go first.’

  ‘What?’ her husband says. ‘Oh. Yes, of course.’

  He stands aside and gestures for me to go ahead of them.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  A cab pulls up and the white-haired man opens the door for us, allowing me to clamber in. I slam the door shut and check the station exit again: still no sign of the weirdo from the platform.

  ‘Hi,’ I say to the taxi driver. ‘Where’s the nearest police station?’

  ‘Which one do you mean?’

  ‘Whichever’s nearest?’

  The driver, a heavy man in his early forties, pushes a button to start the meter running. ‘West End Central, probably.’ He turns slightly in his seat to look at me, his eyes flicking to Mia and then back again. ‘Is everything all right, love?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You sure? Is the nipper OK?’

  ‘We’re both fine,’ I say, shrugging off the rucksack and settling back into the seat. The cab smells of old leather and a sickly vanilla air freshener. ‘Thanks for asking.’

  He grunts and puts the cab in gear, the door locks clicking shut as he pulls out into the traffic. I’ve been in a million black cabs before but never with a baby, and can’t work out how to put the seat belt on in a way that would protect both me and her so I just leave it, curling my right hand around Mia’s small head instead. The driver is fast, swooping in and out of gaps in the traffic, and I wish he would slow down.

  I turn to look through the rear window twice as the taxi makes its way towards Marylebone Road, looking for any signs that the man is still following me. I don’t see him, or any black cab he might have flagged down. Switching Mia back to my left side to give my right arm a rest, I let myself relax into the worn back seat as the shops and offices pass by on each side. For the first time, it hits me how surreal the situation is: it’s a Tuesday afternoon and I’m in a cab holding a stranger’s child, on my way to a police station. Forty minutes ago I had never met this baby, this little person, and now – for the next few minutes at least – Mia is completely and utterly reliant on me in a way that no one has ever been before. Her life is literally in my hands, and it’s wonderful, a joy – terrifying but somehow the greatest privilege, all at the same time.

  It’s a little like I imagined it would be to be pregnant and showing, people holding doors open and even giving up their seat for you on the Tube. None of my own pregnancies made it beyond the first trimester. Unexplained infertility, the specialist calls it. A shorthand term for when they’ve done all their tests, and tried all the treatments, and still can’t give a reason.

  Perhaps today will be the closest I ever get.

  It’s best not to let my mind linger on that for too long.

  After half a mile in stop-start traffic, my heartbeat has slowed to something near normal, the adrenaline wearing off as the taxi winds its way along Edgware Road. I think about Kathryn for a moment, go back over what she had said on the train. Her note asked me not to contact the police. No, that wasn’t it. She’d said don’t trust the police. But that makes no sense. If she’s running from him, from her abusive partner, why avoid police involvement? I take the crumpled note from my handbag again.

  Please protect Mia

  Don’t trust the police

  Don’t trust anyone

  Unless her partner’s a police officer himself – could that be what Kathryn meant? The one who kept ringing her, or the guy on the train? Perhaps one’s the ex-husband and the other a new partner. Or maybe they’re both exes. Kathryn’s an attractive woman. But even if one of them is a policeman, I don’t see what other options I have. It’s not as if I can just take Mia home. Not even for a single night, not even for the afternoon, just to make sure she’s safe, just to—

  No. I’m not going to do that, however much I might want to.

  I need to work out what to say to the police, how to frame it. Just tell the truth, that’s all I have to do. It’s all I can do. No need to add or change anything. I’ll go into West End Central police station, go to the front desk and find someone in charge, tell them exactly what happened.

  I got on at Aylesbury. I was on my way back from the fertility unit at Stoke Mandeville. Kathryn came and sat down at some point after that. I don’t know for sure whether that’s where she got on. But she got off at Seer Green and left the baby with me. I only realised she’d got off as the train was about to pull away. Then I found this note in the baby’s bag. Why didn’t I call someone immediately? I didn’t think it was an emergency. I was going to talk to armed officers at Marylebone but they were called away, so I thought it would be better to take her to the nearest police station.

  I rock the baby and straighten her little jacket, Mia fidgeting and squirming. Her dummy falls out onto the floor of the taxi and when I pick it up there’s dirt and dust on it. I’ve seen Tara’s normal response to this – put it in your own mouth to give it a quick suck to ‘clean’ it, then give it back to baby – but I don’t particularly fancy that considering the likely state of the taxi floor. I drop it in a side pocket of my handbag instead and jig the baby in what I hope is a soothing way.

  ‘Shh, it’s OK,’ I say gently. ‘You’ll be back with your mum soon. Shh.’

  I’ll tell the police everything that’s happened, sign the forms and hand Mia over. That’s what I’ll do.

  I gaze down into her little face, the steady sway of the taxi rocking her gently this way and that. Will I ever see her again after today? Ever hold her like this again, like a mother? Probably not. My throat tightens at the thought of it.

  The baby is grizzling and fretting now, her smile replaced by red cheeks and a little frown. I open the rucksack next to her and dig around one-handed until I find the packet of dummies, extract one from the packet and pop it into Mia’s open mouth. Almost immediately the dummy comes out and I catch it in my hand this time. Mia’s cries start to grow in volume, the pitch rising.

  I rock her gently in my arms, shifting her up to my shoulder and rubbing her back.

  ‘What’s the matter, Mia?’

  The baby’s cry is sharp and high-pitched, an angry yowl that fills the back of the taxi. I catch the driver looking at me in the rearview mirror, and wonder briefly whether he thinks I’m a bad mother who can’t cope. I lift Mia up, turn her wriggling body slightly, sniff her sleepsuit. Clean cotton and the faintest hint of nappy cream. Doesn’t smell like she needs changing.

  ‘What do you want, Mia? We’re going to be there soon, not long now.’

  I present the dummy again and for a moment she calms, sucking furiously, before she opens her mouth to cry again, the dummy falling out once more. I shake my head, shushing her with a gentle voice, frustrated with myself. I always thought I’d be better than this. Better at figuring things out. But this feels like an exam I haven’t revised for, an interview where I don’t even know what the job involves. But I’m not an absolute beginner. I’ve spent enough time with Tara’s kids to figure out the answer. I stroke Mia’s downy cheek with a fingertip and the baby’s mouth moves towards it, seeking it out, her lips forming a desperate little ‘o’.

  Ah. I remember the other handwritten note I’d found in the backpack. I check my watch – almost 3 p.m. – and scan the street, check behind again, but can’t see anyone. No other taxi has followed us from the station.

  I can do this. Mia needs to be safe but she also needs to be fed. Cared for properly.

  Her cries intensify as she works herself up into a frenzy, a high-pitched wailing that makes every muscle in my body tense. I spo
t a Caffè Nero coming up on the right-hand side and lean forward towards the driver.

  ‘Actually,’ I say through the hole in the clear plastic barrier between me and the front seats, ‘could we pull over here, please?’

  I know, in my head, that we shouldn’t stop. I’ve already strung this out longer than I should. Screaming baby or not, I should go straight on to the police station and hand her over to the authorities, someone in uniform, social services, some faceless arm of the local council. But the baby in my arms is hungry. I’ll feed her, just once, before giving her up. It doesn’t seem like too much to ask. I will be a mother to her for just a little bit longer.

  It will only be a few extra minutes. That’s all.

  6

  The taxi driver indicates and pulls to the side of the road.

  ‘You sure you want to stop here?’ he says. ‘Cop shop is a bit further.’

  ‘This is fine, thanks.’

  He half-turns in his seat to look at me.

  ‘Do you want a hand with your bags, love?’

  ‘No,’ I say, opening the door awkwardly and pushing it wide with my left foot. ‘I’m fine, thank you though.’

  I pay him and get out, stepping down onto the pavement, careful not to overbalance with baby and backpack.

  Thankfully the café is not too busy and I find a table against the back wall next to a willowy blonde woman with a curly-haired boy of around three years old. The boy’s playing on her phone while she nurses a large coffee with cream on top. Mia is still fretting and squirming, her little arms and legs pulsing in frustration. I go to the table and unsling the rucksack, pulling out my phone and sending Tara a quick message.

  Random question: if at a café, how long do you heat a 200ml bottle of formula milk in the microwave for? X

  I picture my friend, at home with her two youngest sons, probably getting ready for the short drive to pick up her eldest from school. She always keeps her phone to hand – stops me from going fully baby-mental, she says – and true to form her replies are almost immediate, three messages dropping in one after the other.