by Alex Lake
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It was the fourth letter. There had been one every year, all posted from different locations, except for the third year. Wynne didn’t know why the kidnapper had missed a year. She did know there was no forensic evidence on any of them.
And she knew she hated them. Hated the prim little colon after her name. Hated the ‘here’s to another year’. Hated the formal ‘yours sincerely’ and hated the stupid question marks.
Most of all she hated the feeling of powerlessness. She was losing this game and there was nothing she could do about it.
And what did he mean, the first of July was an important day? For us? Who was us? Maggie?
She was being toyed with, and she hated it.
Then she saw him. The one person guaranteed to make her day worse.
Best. Standing in front of the freezer cabinet, putting a box of fish fingers into his basket. Two boxes. That was a lot of fish fingers for a single man, but then again, they were frozen. They didn’t go off.
Funny to see him, this day of all days. He’d been a suspect for a while when Maggie Cooper had gone, although there was never any evidence against him. Not that the lack of evidence had made Wynne any less certain he was involved.
She’d got carried away back then because she didn’t like him, and as she looked at him those feelings came flooding back. She walked down the aisle towards him.
‘Mr Best,’ she said.
He looked up, startled. ‘Yes? Who? – Oh. You.’ His eyes narrowed. There was real dislike in his expression.
She pointed at the fish fingers, remembered seeing him eating them at his house. ‘Shopping?’
‘Yes. As I am allowed to do.’
‘Of course. I’ll be on my way. Enjoy your meal.’
He smiled at her. For a second there was something sly, something secret in his smile, then it vanished.
‘You too, Detective Inspector Wynne.’
She chose her pizza and walked towards the checkout. She had a feeling there was something she should have noticed, something unusual.
It came to her as she paid.
He remembered her name. Rank and name. Surely that was something he would have forgotten by now?
But no.
Clearly, Best had a good memory.
Why did that disturb her? What was it she was missing?
She couldn’t find an answer. On her way home she stopped at the off-licence and picked up a bottle of red wine.
Then she picked up another. One wasn’t going to be enough.
Eight Years Earlier: Thursday, 1 July 2010
1
She heard the scraping sound. She took a deep breath. Seb’s third birthday was coming up. She wasn’t sure of the exact date – there were some gaps in the calendar – but it was close and she wanted to celebrate it. He didn’t have any of the things he should have had. No presents, no party with his friends, no cake. The only saving grace was that he didn’t know what he was missing. Seb was only three, so he had no idea what birthdays were. He would, though, as he got older, and so Maggie was determined to make the day as special as she could.
So she was going to ask the man for a few things. Candles. A cake. Maybe a toy. She would beg him if she had to.
It’s your birthday soon, she told him, when they woke up. You’ll be three. You’re getting to be such a big boy. I’m so proud of you.
What’s a birthday? he said.
The day you were born. You came out of Mummy’s tummy.
He looked at her stomach. I was in your tummy?
I grew you in there.
Oh. Why did I come out?
You had to. And the day you did was your birthday. Three years ago. She paused. On birthdays you get presents. And I have a present for you.
What is it?
A wish.
What’s a wish?
It’s when you ask for something and you get it. You might get it. What would you like, most of all?
He thought for a while.
To stay here with you, Mummy.
She had been worried about giving him a wish, since it would almost certainly not be granted. She could not provide toys or sunshine or a swim in a lake. It was a bitter irony that he had wished for the one thing that would actually come true.
Anyway, now she wanted to get him something more tangible. A real present.
The door opened, and the man came in. Seb was sitting on the end of the mattress.
‘I want to ask something,’ Maggie said.
He frowned. ‘Go ahead.’
‘It’s Seb’s birthday soon. He’ll be three, and—’
‘It’s today.’
‘Today?’
‘Yes. That’s why I’m here.’
Maggie stopped. What did he mean, that’s why he was here? To celebrate? Give Seb a gift? Surely not. She was surprised he knew it was Seb’s birthday, never mind bringing him a present.
‘You have something for him?’
He shook his head and held up his hands to show they were empty.
‘No. I’ve come for him.’
‘What do you mean, you’ve come for him?’
‘He’s three now. It’s time he left.’
Her mouth dried up. ‘Left what?’
‘Left here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The time has come.’
Maggie stared at him. ‘You’re letting us go?’
‘No.’ He licked his lips. ‘I’m letting him go.’
‘What about me? He can’t leave without me.’
‘He can. You’re staying here.’
Maggie tensed. She reached for Seb and held him in her lap.
‘No. You’re not taking him.’
‘I am. It’s time. Don’t you want him to be out of here? To be free?’
Maggie pulled Seb tighter. She did want him to be out of there, she wanted it more than anything.
The thought of him living a normal life, surrounded by people who loved him – even without her – was intoxicating.
But that was not on offer. The man was not going to provide that.
How could he? How could he explain the sudden appearance of a little boy in his life? People would ask questions, social services would get involved, the police would show up.
‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re not taking him from me. Never.’
‘He has to leave. It’s time.’
‘What do you mean it’s time? You keep saying that.’
The man shook his head. His mouth was a thin line, his brow furrowed. She’d seen the expression before, when she didn’t do what he wanted.
‘Give him to me.’
‘Mummy,’ Seb said. ‘I want to stay with you.’
‘You can,’ Maggie replied. ‘You can stay right here.’
‘I don’t want to go.’ Seb started to cry. ‘He’s scary.’
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ the man said. His frown deepened. ‘You’ve made this difficult. I don’t know why you have to make it so fucking difficult.’
He moved with surprising speed, uncoiling across the room. As he reached her, he raised his right fist and slammed it into the side of her head. She fell backwards on to the bed, then felt his hand around her throat. His other hand clamped over her mouth and nose. He squeezed, hard, until her breathing was shallow.
‘You made this difficult, you stupid bitch,’ he said. His voice was strained and angry, almost as though he was on the verge of tears, and, as he shook his head at her his grip tightened.
‘Please,’ she gasped. ‘Please. Don’t take him.’
‘Too late.’ He grabbed Seb in his right hand and picked him up, holding him under his arm. Seb was screaming, but his screams were fading as she struggled to breathe. ‘Too late.’
‘Please.’ Her vision was blurring, Seb coming in and out of focus. ‘Please. Don’t take him.’
But the blackness at the edge of her vision thickened and closed in, and Seb was gone.
2
When
she came round she had no idea who or what or where she was. She felt disembodied; the closest thing she could compare it to was waking from a very deep sleep and being confused, blinking away the slumber as your surroundings came into focus and you remembered where you were.
It was like that, multiplied by ten. She was no more than an observer of facts. There was a room. She was in it. She was alone.
None of them meant anything. At least, not at first.
And then what they meant came back to her. She was a prisoner. She had a calendar, and it told her she had been here for four years. She had parents and a brother.
She had a son.
A son called Seb.
The memories hit her in a rush. The man, choking her, grabbing Seb. Her crying out. The darkness bleeding into her vision and taking over.
Her son, gone.
She sat upright. Her throat hurt and she pressed her fingers to it. It was bruised and tender.
She didn’t care.
‘Seb!’ she shouted. ‘Seb! Are you there? Seb!’
The only answer was silence.
She wrapped her arms around herself, her eyes wide in horror. The man had taken him. He had taken her son.
And he would not be bringing him back. She would beg, of course she would, but it would make no difference. She knew that already.
Seb was gone, and she would never see him again. The boy she had given birth to, cradled and fed, kissed, read to, played with. The boy for whom she had dreamed of a future out of here, a future with friends and love and family. The boy she had loved, in a way she had never known was possible.
That boy was gone. It was as though someone had ripped away a part of her, the best and most important part, and left behind half a person, a shell, a worthless, pointless husk.
How could she live without him? How would it be possible?
She didn’t know, and she didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to live, not without her son.
But the man would make her. He would force her to carry on.
She let out a low, keening moan and lay on her side, her knees hugged to her chest. This was worse than she had ever imagined possible, and it was never going to end.
Eight Years Earlier: Wednesday, 18 August 2010
1
It’s fine, Sandra had said. You go. Colin can bring me home. I don’t mind at all.
It was her umpteenth chemo session. Martin had a meeting with a difficult client and he could not be sure he would be able to get away in time to bring her home. If she was honest, she would have liked him there, but they couldn’t put their whole lives on hold because of her treatment.
And Colin Best had made it clear he would help whenever he could, which was why he was sitting by her hospital bed, reading a book. It wasn’t the first time he’d helped out, either. He’d brought meals early on, fetched library books for her, come for a cup of tea when she was on her own.
The book was The Collector by John Fowles. It was a bit of an inappropriate choice, given what might have happened to Maggie, but she couldn’t take offence at that. People could read what they wanted; it probably never crossed his mind that she might link it to her daughter. As with the treatment, life went on.
‘Good book?’ she said.
He nodded. ‘I read it years ago. Made a real impression on me.’ He turned the book over and looked at the cover. ‘I found this in a second-hand book shop and thought I’d read it again.’ He closed it and placed it on the table.
‘I think I might go and get some tea. Would you like anything?’
‘No thanks. No appetite.’
‘Of course. I’ll be back soon.’
By the time he returned she was ready to leave. She steadied herself against him while they walked down the corridor. At the exit, he paused.
‘You wait here. I’ll fetch the car.’
‘That’s fine. I can walk.’ She looked up at the sky; it was blue and cloudless. It was always a relief to leave the hospital. It felt like a return to normal life.
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘It’ll only take a minute or two.’
She waited by the door until he pulled up. He opened the door for her.
‘It’s very kind of you to help,’ she said. ‘What do I owe you for the parking?’
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I won’t accept a penny. I already have the most precious thing you can give.’ He put his hand on hers. His grip was surprisingly firm. ‘Your friendship and trust. Now, let’s get you home.’
2
‘London,’ Vicki said.
‘London?’ James watched a duck swim past on the canal. It was mid-afternoon and they had been drinking for a while already. He had started at Warwick but was spending a lot of time at home – with the blessing of the university – because of his mum. ‘Why London?’
‘Streets are paved with gold,’ Vicki said.
‘Right.’ James closed his eyes. She was leaving. Moving to the capital. That was fine. She wasn’t his girlfriend.
She was his friend, though.
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘The streets are normal. But I’ve got a mate down there. And so why not?’
‘Yeah,’ James said. ‘Why not?’
‘Are you OK?’
He realized, now she had asked the question, that he wasn’t, but since when had that mattered? Since when had the universe given a flying fuck whether James Cooper was OK or not? Maggie was gone, his mum might be next, and now this. It was the latest in a long line of shithouse treatment that he didn’t deserve.
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘I’ll miss you.’
When he got home Best’s car was parked on the road outside the house. Not again. Why would that fucker not leave them alone? He was a lonely old man, sure, but that didn’t give him the right to show up at the house all the time. Besides, he was creepy. There was something in the way he looked at his mum that turned James’s stomach.
She was blind to it, though. She saw him as a harmless pensioner who wanted to be helpful, and if she needed a lift somewhere and he was free, why not?
He opened the front door and went into the hall. He could hear people talking in the living room; when he closed the door they stopped.
‘James?’ his dad called. ‘Is that you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Come and say hello. Mr Best is here.’
That was the last thing he was going to do. ‘I’m tired.’
He went upstairs and lay on his bed. A few seconds later he heard someone coming upstairs.
His door opened and his dad came in. He stood for a second in the doorway, then came and sat next to him on the bed.
‘That was a bit rude, James.’
‘I don’t care. I don’t like him.’
‘He’s been very good to us. He doesn’t have to ferry your mum around.’
‘Whatever.’
‘James.’ His dad folded his arms. ‘Have you been drinking? Do you think you’re drinking a bit much at the moment?’
‘No.’
‘I think you might be.’
‘I’m not.’
He knew his dad was right; he was drinking too much, and for the wrong reasons. It was one of the things that made the pain go away. No – it was the only thing that made the pain go away.
Anyway, he could stop anytime he wanted. One day he wouldn’t need it. But not today.
‘OK,’ his dad said, his voice quiet. ‘If you feel like it later, come down and say hello.’
Friday, 22 June 2018
One Day to Go
1
Max coughed in his sleep. Maggie watched. She had barely slept, unable to waste any of her last moments with her son. After a moment, he coughed again, and his eyes opened. They were watery. He looked at Maggie and sneezed.
‘Poor baby,’ Maggie said. ‘You’re getting a cold.’
On this of all days. Tomorrow he turned three. Tomorrow, the man came. She had marked it on the calendar, struck through his last day.
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She had held him against her all night, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, listening to him breathe in and out, in and out. She alternated between feeling paralysed by anguish and bouts of heart-racing panic. Sometimes she wanted to curl up into a ball with him and disappear; others she wanted to jump up and tear at the walls of the room and rip them down in her rage.
But she did the only thing she could. She lay there, arms around her son, feeling the seconds and minutes and hours slip past her, the end looming larger and larger.
At some point she’d fallen asleep for a few minutes and dreamed of a remote control with a pause button that could stop time. She’d be OK with that, OK if she and Max were frozen in one moment, as long as they were together. It wouldn’t be perfect, but it would be better than the alternative.
Better than what awaited her tomorrow. She could hardly imagine it. It was too painful; the thought of being alone in this room, her three sons taken from her, caused her an anguish so intense it was a physical pain.
How much longer would she be here? How long until he let her out? Would he ever let her out?
She knew the answer to that. He would leave her here until he died, and then she’d die too.
So why wait? If that was the end of this, why wait? She wouldn’t. If he came tomorrow and took Max, she would kill herself. She would bash her brains out or dehydrate herself or drink the bleach she had hidden under the bottom of the bath. Maybe she would drink that first and then hammer her head on the floor until she passed out.