The greatest bond. The darkest betrayal.

Susan wakes up alone in a room she doesn’t recognise, with no memory of how she got there. She only knows that she is trapped, and her daughter is missing.

The relief that engulfs her when she hears her daughter’s voice through the wall is quickly replaced by fear.

Because the person who has imprisoned her has her daughter, too.

Devising a plan to keep her daughter safe, Susan begins to get closer to her unknown captor. And suddenly, she realises that she has met him before.

The Good Mother

A. L. Bird

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016

Copyright © A. L. Bird 2016

A. L. Bird asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9781474049566

Version date: 2018-09-20

A.L. BIRD

lives in London, where she divides her time between writing and working as a lawyer. The Good Mother is her major psychological thriller for HQ Digital, the fourth novel she’s written for the imprint. She has an MA in Creative Writing from Birkbeck, University of London, and is also an alumna of the Faber Academy ‘Writing a Novel’ course, which she studied under Richard Skinner. Amy is a member of the Crime Writers’Association. For updates on her writing follow her on Twitter, @ALBirdWriter

I am grateful to everyone who has given me the time, support and encouragement to write this novel. My wonderful editor Clio Cornish, who knows what I’m trying to write even before I’ve written it; my super-savvy agent Amanda Preston of LBA for her off-the-cuff creative brilliance and industry insight; my loyal family for the hours of childcare that enabled me to be closeted away in this new world; to Dr Abigail Crutchlow for her advice on characters (any straying from psychological truth is due to my artistic licence, not your input) and of course my readers, for coming back for more. Thank you.

And to my little one – welcome. May I be the best mother to you, always.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Endpages

About the Publisher

Prologue

The girl gets into the car that’s waiting for her. She looks over her shoulder first, like he’s told her to, to check Mummy isn’t watching. Would Mummy really mind? She can’t be sure. But he seems to think so. And he knows best, right? So she does the covert glance then slings her school bag into the back seat, like all the other times. He holds his cheek towards her for a kiss, which she dutifully bestows. Then he starts the engine with a vroom. Familiar buildings pass by. Buses on their way to places she recognises: Muswell Hill Broadway; Barnet (The Spires); North Finchley. There are a couple of kids from school. She raises her hand to wave but the man, seeing her, says, ‘Best not.’ So she lowers her hand and plays with the hem of her skirt, gazing absently out of the window.

Gradually, the territory becomes less familiar. The other man, the man they are going to meet, always insists on meeting outside of her home area. Says it’s safer that way. She hopes he’ll buy her a hot chocolate again. That was nice. Lots of whipped cream. Mummy always says whipped cream is bad: ‘You’ll end up big-boned. No one wants to be big-boned.’ The girl commented that the women at Mummy’s cupcake studio don’t seem big-boned. And they have lots of cream. ‘That’s because they spend a lot of time in the bathroom after each session,’ Mummy explained. That didn’t make much sense. But still, after the last visit, she hung round in the bathroom for a good ten minutes, so that the cream didn’t invade her bones and make them puff up.

And if there is hot chocolate, the girl thinks, it will be something to keep me busy. Because there’s not a lot of talking on these trips, so far. The other man doesn’t seem to know what to say. He looks at her a lot. Taking her in, from top to toe. She can feel his gaze travel down then up, up then down. Sometimes he gives a little smile. Other times a frown. She wants to please him, of course. She wants to please everyone. But when she tells him about the usual stuff – school, Mummy, music, boys even – he doesn’t say much back. And the two men glare at each other whenever they’re not looking at her. She can’t figure out why they keep hanging around together. Or what they want her to do on these occasions. So perhaps better just to concentrate on pushing the little wooden stirrer stick up and down in the hot chocolate to make holes, revealing the hot chocolate below. You have to get it to just the right meltiness to drink it. Then it’s delicious. She licks her lips in anticipation. Last time, the other man, the man they’re going to visit, looked like he was anticipating hot chocolate the whole time. Kept licking his lips. If he wanted some of her drink, he should just have said.

This might be the last time at this place, though. Because the previous time the other man, the man they’re going to see, had suggested they meet at his home. More relaxing. They could learn more about each other. He’d even given directions.

‘I just want us to be close, Cara,’ he’d said. ‘You’ll be quite safe. You’ll have your chaperone there throughout.’ He said ‘chaperone’ in a funny way. Like he was making a joke. Perhaps he only used that word because he didn’t know what to call the man who brought her. She didn’t, either, not really. Not once they’d had the little chat that evening in the car, his hand on her knee. Everything changed after that. She couldn’t be herself around him, couldn’t think of anything to say to him at all, never mind his name. She’d settled into the pattern after a while. But it was still odd. Of course it was odd. She would have asked Mummy. If Mummy were allowed to know.

Anyway, whatever he was called, the chaperon didn’t seem to like the idea of going to the other man’s home. So here they were, driving fast to the usual café. A bit faster than usual, maybe? Were they late? She looks at her watch, then realises she doesn’t know what time they’re meant to be there. And she doesn’t really know where ‘there’ is.

So there is nothing to do but sink into the seat. It’s out of her hands. But she’s perfectly safe. Of course she is. It would be like all the other times. See the men. Then go home to Mummy. She looks across at the chaperone to smile, to show him she still trusts him after everything. But he doesn’t smile back. He looks ahead and he frowns.

Chapter 1

My eyes flash open.

There’s a bed, a room and a blankness.

I leap off the bed, a strange bed, a single bed, and collapse straight onto the floor.

Where am I? What’s going on? Why am I so weak?

I put my hands over my eyes. Remove my hands again. But nothing becomes right. I’ve still no idea where I am. Why am I in this alien room? In pyjamas? Is it day, is it night, how long have I been here?

And, oh God.

Where’s Cara? Where’s my daughter?

Look round the room again. It looms and distorts weirdly before me. I don’t trust my eyes.

I try to pull myself to my feet but black spots and nausea get in the way.

OK, Susan. Stop trembling. Try to remember.

A hallway. At home. The doorbell ringing. Delivery expected. Chain not on.

Going to answer the door.

Yes, that’s it. A door. I see a door now, in this room. Maybe Cara is on the other side?

Crawl over the floor. One hand in front of the other. Grunt with the effort. Feel like I’m Cara when she was learning. Past a tray of partially eaten food. White fish. The smell makes me want to vomit.

Approach the door, in this room. Lean my hands against it, inch them higher and higher, climbing with my hands. Finally at the handle. Pull and pull. Handle up, handle down. Please! Open!

Nothing. It stays firmly shut.

In my mind, in my memories, the front door of my house opens. I’ve answered the door. Then blackness, blankness. Nothing but: Cara, my Cara, I must see Cara!

I’m shouting it now, out loud. Screaming it. Black dots back again before my eyes.

Come on. Comprehend. Don’t panic.

Slide down from the door. Look around the room. It’s clean, too clean, apart from the half-eaten fish. White walls. A pine chest of drawers. Potpourri on a dresser. Beige carpets. All normal. My hands ball in and out of fists. It is not normal to me.

And you are not here.

But why, Susan, why would she be here? Was she even at home when that doorbell rang? She’s fifteen, why would she be there, at home, with Mum? She might be safe, somewhere else, happy, even now.

I shake my head. Wrong. It feels wrong. I need to know where you are. Something is telling me, the deep-rooted maternal instinct, that you’re not safe. I need to see you.

Footsteps! From the other side of the door.

A key in the lock. I watch the handle turn. Slowly, the door pushes open.

Him.

How could I have forgotten about him?

We face each other, him standing, me on the floor. Bile rises in my throat.

So.

This is the now-known stranger who has locked me in here. Wherever ‘here’ is. It’s been what – two … three days? He must have drugged the fish. That’s why it took me a while, for any recollection to return.

He’s holding a beaker of water.

‘Thought you might like something to drink, Susan.’

He knows my name. A researched, not random, snatching then. Watching, from afar? For how long?

I stare at him.

‘Where is she?’ I manage. Not my usual voice. My throat is dry. The words are cracked, splitting each syllable in two.

‘You mustn’t hate me, Susan,’ he says.

I wait for more. Some explanation. Nothing.

Could I jump him? Could I run past him, out of the door? I must try, mustn’t I? Even if there is no ‘past him’. He fills the whole doorway.

Stop thinking. Act! Forget the shaking legs. Go, go, go! Storm him, surprise him!

But he is too quick. He slips out. The door closes. The lock turns.

‘They’ll come looking!’ I shout, slamming my hands against the door.

Because they will, won’t they? Paul, even now, must be working with the police, following up trails, looking at traffic cameras, talking to witnesses. Find my wife, he’ll be shouting to anyone who’ll listen. Neighbours, dog-walkers, Mrs Smith from number thirty-nine with that blessed curtain twitching. My afternoon clients, they must have raised the alarm, when I wasn’t there. Right? I must be a missing person by now. Please, whoever has lost me, come and find me.

And, please, let Cara be with you. Let my daughter be safe.

Images of Cara frightened, hunched, bound, dying.

No!

Just focus. Look at the room. How to get out of the room.

Look, a window! High up, narrow, darkness beyond it, but possible maybe?

There’s a kind of ledge. I can pull myself up. Hands over the edge, like that, then come on – jump up, then hang on. Manage to stay there for a moment, before my weak arms fail me. Long enough to judge the window isn’t glass. It’s PCV. Unsmashable. And, of course, there is a window lock. And no key. Locked, I bet, but if I just stretch a hand – but no. I fall.

OK, so I need to put something under the window. That chair. Heavy. I push and pull it to under the window. Placing my hands on the back of the chair, I climb up onto the seat. With my new height, I stretch my arm to the window, then to the window latch.

Locked.

Still. A window is a window. People can see in, as well as out. When it’s day again, I can wave, mouth a distress signal.

So do I sit and wait in the dark until morning? Until I can see the light again?

Or does this man, this man out there, have night-time plans for me? Because you don’t just kidnap a woman and leave her in a room. You want to look at her, presumably, your toy, your little caged bird. Maybe he’s looking at me even now. A camera, somewhere? I draw my legs up close to me and hug them. I stare at the ceiling, every corner. No. No. No. No. I can’t see one.

Which means he must have another agenda.

I shudder.

Think of Cara. Be strong. What’s your best memory of Cara? Proudest mummy moment?

Apart from every morning when I see that beautiful face. I will have that moment again. I will. Just as I’ve had that moment every day since I first held you.

Little baby girl wrapped in a blanket. So precious. Be safe, be warm, always.

But apart from that.

The concert!

Yes, the concert.

All the mums and dads and siblings and assorted hangers-on filing into the school hall. The stage set up ready, music stands, empty chairs. Hustle, bustle, glasses of wine. Me chatting to Alice’s mum – Paul working late – about nothing and everything. Then, the gradual hush of anticipation spreads round the room. The lights dim. On comes the orchestra! And there’s Cara. Her beautiful blonde hair hanging loose, masking her face. She’ll tuck it behind her ear in a minute, I think. And she does. Then the whole audience can see that lovely rose tint to her cheeks, the lips so perfectly cherub-bowed to play the flute that she holds. I want to stand up and say, ‘that’s my daughter!’ Instead I just nudge Alice’s mum and we have a grin. Then there’s the customary fuss and flap as the kids take their seats. All trying to look professional, but someone drops their music, and someone else plucks a stray string of a violin. Not Cara, though. She is sitting straight, flicking stray glances out to the crowd, holding the flute tight on her lap. Come on, Cara, I say to her in my head. Just do it like you’ve practised. All those nights at home, performing to me sometimes so that you have an ‘audience’. You’ll be fine.

And she is fine. When the orchestra starts to play, it’s like she has a solo. You can see the musicianship. All nervousness gone. Head bobbing and darting, fingers flying, like a true flautist. No pretention. Just perfection. Then her actual solo. The flute shining out, beautiful, clear. Wonderful phrasing, beautiful passion. Then she’s frowning slightly – was that a wrong note? Just keep on, keep on, no one will notice. And she does, she keeps going, right to the end.

But what makes me proudest, happiest, is, when her solo is over, she has this magnificent pinky-red flush over the whole of her face, and she gives this quick smile of sheer joy at her accomplishment, a brief look into the audience, before she bows her head and gets back to playing with the rest of the orchestra. Oh, my beautiful bold-shy Cara. How I adore you!

And then.

The memory is spent.

I’m just here again.

In silence.

Waiting.

Alone.

Hoping, praying, that my daughter is safe.

Chapter 2

The headmistress of Cara’s school is occupied with a small handful of girls she has brought together in her study. They’re sitting on chairs in a semicircle surrounding her desk, sipping the tea that she’s given them. Patterned china cups usually reserved for the governors are balanced precariously on saucers. The girls are too busy to worry if they are spilling their tea. Their attention is focused on the man next to the headmistress. He’s a rarity in a school that only has two male teachers. And neither of them have beards. Or wear leather jackets and open-necked shirts. It’s clean-shaven and smart suits or the door for Mrs Cavendish’s staff.

‘Who do you think he is?’ whispers one girl, skinny, ginger, to her companion, slightly rounder, brunette.

Her companion shrugs. ‘New teacher? A friend for Mr Adams and Mr Wilson?’

The skinny ginger girl shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so. I think it’s about Cara.’

‘Everything’s about Cara,’ whispers back the brunette, rolling her eyes.

And it is true. The police cordons. The letters home to parents. The visit from a special psychiatrist. The thoughts, the prayers they have been asked to give her and her family in her conspicuous absence. The anxiety they have shared.

The headmistress clears her throat.

‘Girls, thank you for coming,’ she says, as though there is a choice to disobey the headmistress’s edict. ‘As you will have guessed, this is about Cara.’

The brunette shoots a ‘see what I mean?’ glance at her ginger friend.

‘I’ve asked you bunch here in particular because of your friendship with Cara. I know you must be very upset right now. You’re doing really well. I’m proud of you.’

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.

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 savvy. 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 …’

He stares again into my bed. I think he is going to ask if he can get into mine.

Instead, he says, ‘Just tell me tomorrow if you want anything.’

‘What do you want?’ I hurl at him as he closes the door.

There’s a pause in the door shutting.

‘You,’ he says.

Then the door shuts. And no one can see the tremors that have restarted. Because I know what that ‘You’ must mean. What it is building up to.

I’m pleased that Cara and I aren’t face to face. That she can’t see my fear. And I have her face in my mind anyway. Of course I do – any mother does. All her faces. From when she was born, that crinkly tiny tiny face, the shock of dark hair.

She’s so small. So, so small. Could be crushed in just the palm of a hand.

Yes, that face, all her faces, right up to her now-face. That lovely blonde hair, about a thousand different shades, from gold to oaten, shorter now that she’s older. Cool Cara. Beautifully smooth. Not for my Cara the acne and pockmarks of the mid-teens. Flawless.

‘Cara?’ I whisper. That same reverent tone as when I called her by name that first time, in the hospital.

‘Shh, it’s not safe,’ she hisses, quietly. ‘We need to find another way to communicate. And then we need to get out of here.’

She is right, of course. If he hears us talking, he will punish us. Separate us. Bring forward his plans. Whatever they are. But, for now, I need something.

‘Cara,’ I whisper again. She doesn’t reply. Frightened, I suppose, of being overheard. Just this one thing then I’ll heed her. ‘When I tap, like this, on the wall—’ I tap, twice, very lightly ‘—it means I love you, OK? And you tap back to tell me you’re safe. OK?’

Nothing.

I know she’s safe, as safe as anyone can be when they are kidnapped, I’ve just spoken to her. But still my heart pounds at her silence.

Then, there it is. Tap tap.

I feel my soul relax, my shoulders unhunch, at her sound.

But it’s only a temporary release. I must get her out of here. I must get her properly safe.

I look at the window again. If I could just escape, I could come back for Cara. Or maybe, now that we’re both here, there’s double the chance that someone will have seen something, reported something? One of Cara’s school friends maybe? They’re always together and, when they’re not, they’re calling or messaging or Instagramming or whatever it is that they do on those devices of theirs. I don’t know. She just helped me spruce up my website. ‘It needs more jazz, Mum!’ she said. ‘And a picture of you! You’re selling yourself, just as much as you’re selling the cupcakes!’ So perceptive, Cara. Such a good business head. Maybe she won’t go to university. Maybe she can help expand the studio into a cupcake empire. And how lovely to have a daughter who’s so proud of you that she insists on her favourite photo of you on your website. And that the photo is one of the two of you together – both with hair down, heads resting together, eyeliner on, black leggings showing off slim legs, big cheery smiles saying life is great, eat cupcakes.

Should I have been more careful, putting up photos of my daughter? Maybe. Maybe not. But she’s probably all over social media of her own accord. She’s fifteen. It’s what they do.

Oh, to be back in that studio with you now, Cara!

I bend my head against the wall to Cara’s room, as if I’m leaning against her head like on that website photo. Oh my darling. Please let that window help us escape. Please let one of your school friends have seen something. Please.

Chapter 6

She won’t tell. She won’t tell. Alice repeats the mantra of silence. Cara had entrusted her with a secret. What good would it do to tell anyone about it? ‘La, la, la, I’m not listening’, she says to the little voice inside her head that insists telling might do some good. I’m doing my English homework, she tells the voice sternly. And I am not telling that man what I know. That’s a secret.

Alice’s eyes wander to the passport-sized picture of her and Cara on her wall. They’re wearing crazy red wigs, silver star-shaped sunglasses and moustaches. Both of them grinning madly. You can almost see the giggles. It was a party at school, and the teachers had laid on some ‘fun’ dress-up photo booths. And they were fun. What the teachers didn’t know was that Cara had held on to the sunglasses and customised them – just in case they weren’t tacky enough – with some glitter-glue cardboard rainbows. ‘You’re such a rebel!’ Alice had told her. And they’d giggled some more. It seems hard to believe in now, the laughter.

‘Alice! Come down here, please,’ calls a voice. A parental voice.

‘I’m doing my homework,’ she shouts back.

‘Now, please,’ the voice calls.

Fine. Alice closes her exercise book in a huff. On the front is a picture of Mr Wilson that Cara drew for her. It accentuates his big ears and has a funny caption coming out of his mouth. Well, it’s only funny if you know Mr Wilson. He has a silly high-pitched voice like a parrot. So him saying, ‘Good morning, class’, while a parrot flaps round in the background, is a very funny picture indeed. All the funnier for being drawn in class by her best friend. Alice turns the exercise book over. I’m not telling, she says again.

Downstairs, her mum is sitting on the sofa holding a piece of paper.

‘What’s all this about you helping a detective?’ Alice’s mum asks her.

Alice stands next to her mother and peers at the piece of paper.

Oh. Stupid school. Of course they’ve sent a letter about Mr Belvoir. They send letters about everything. And if they don’t send them, they hand them out, and Alice is supposed to give them to her mum. All such boring letters. And so much to remember. Cara always said she never told her mum about the boring stuff. But then, Cara never told her mum about the interesting stuff either. That, she kept for Alice. That was the blessing and curse of having a best friend.

Alice stands back from the piece of paper again. ‘Oh, that.’ She feigns nonchalance. She puts her hands on the arm of the sofa and does little stretches of her legs to either side. ‘Just some man trying to find stuff out about Cara. No big deal.’ Alice hopes her mum can’t hear her heart beating. Or even see it beating. Great big red bangs out of her chest – boom, boom, boom.

Her mum puts the letter down and regards Alice.

‘How can you say that, Alice? Don’t be so fickle. If it’s about Cara, it’s important. You must tell him anything you know. Quite what he thinks he’s going to add, I’m not sure. But you must help, do you hear me?’

Alice stares at the floor and nods.

‘Otherwise I don’t know how you can call yourself Cara’s best friend.’

Alice keeps nodding. A single tear falls down her cheek. Her mum rises from the sofa.

‘Oh, come here, love. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.’ Alice finds herself enveloped in a big perfumey hug. ‘I know it’s difficult for you. You’re being so brave.’

Alice sniffs. ‘I just keep thinking about how much I want to see her. Why did it have to be Cara? It’s so unfair.’

‘I know, love. I know.’

‘And I just keep thinking about the last time I saw her, when—’

She stops herself. She’s said too much. The secret risks slipping out without her choosing it to.

‘When what, love?’

Alice shakes her head. ‘When I try to go to sleep. I just keep thinking about that last time, when I go to sleep.’

Alice feels her hair being ruffled by her mum. Usually, she’d say she’s too old for that, but today it feels nice.

‘It’s natural to feel like that, love. But if you talk to this man, who knows – you might make it all a lot better. You know I can’t tell you that you’ll see Cara again but, well, you never know, it might help.’

Alice nods. She knows all this. She is practically a grown-up – her birthday is coming up soon and then she’ll be even older.

‘Can I go and do my homework now, Mum?’

Another head ruffle.

‘Of course you can, love.’

Alice leaves the room and strides up the stairs, almost managing two at a time. That was a close-run thing. It was bad having to lie to Mum. Because it wasn’t so much thinking about the last time she saw Cara that was bothering her. It was the fact that she knew where Cara was going.

Chapter 7

Maybe there’s a ransom. Maybe that’s what this is about. Maybe the Captor wants money for our lives. Or our body parts. Maybe I’ll lose lock by lock of my hair, or finger by finger of my hand. He can take every limb from my body before he touches one strand of Cara’s hair.

Will Paul pay? We’ve had the debate while watching late-night hostage thrillers. Me and Paul curled up on the sofa, Cara sitting on the floor between us (if we’ve quietly ‘forgotten’ it’s a school night for the pleasure of her company). Is it ever right to pay a ransom? To give money to criminals? We’ve agreed that whether it’s right depends on the circumstances. Do they have a wife and family? Because it’s always the men, in these films, that go adventuring. All I did was stay safe at home. I even based the studio there. I hardly ever went out, not really, apart from to ferry Cara around – orchestra practice, concerts, parties, design classes, fashion shows … We deserve the safety we thought that gave us. I want to shout to him: ‘Paul, it’s always right to pay the ransom, if it’s you and me and Cara. However much money you have to raise’.

How much money could he raise, and how soon? Sell the house. The loft must have added a bit. Mine and Paul’s domain. Had there been a sibling it could have been her room. But no. So anyway, with the loft, with our Crouch End postcode – no Tube but lots of North London leafiness – we could be looking at £800,000? But the Captor might think it’s more. This might be a rented place I’m held in. He might not be a Londoner. He might believe the press, think we all live in garages worth two million pounds. And he might think that Paul being an ‘IT consultant’ means something, something lucrative. A desk in a corner office in a City building, rather than a desk in the corner of our living room and, whenever his mobile rings, a jump in the car to some industrial estate company that’s too broke to have a permanent IT team. The Captor might also think that because cupcakes are so popular, my company has been raking it in. That I’m doing corporate events or something. That millionaires come to my training sessions, not clever mums bored out of their wits by their decision to stay at home. He won’t realise it’s part inheritance, part being remortaged up to the hilt that keeps us there.

So, all in all, I bet the Captor is asking for a million.

A lot of money.

It’s nice he thinks we’re worth it, Cara and me.

But why take both of us? Cara is the more valuable one and with both me and Paul outside we could raise much more money.

A thought strikes me.

Would Paul be willing to pay for Cara? Considering?

But yes. He must be. He can’t negotiate over her. He can’t say ‘Nah, one million pounds? You don’t know who you’re talking to, mate. I’ll just take the one. Five hundred thousand plus another twenty for your trouble.’ Because he must know that if he gets me back, but not her, he won’t have me at all.

Why isn’t it light yet? Where is the sun when you need it?

The police might tell him not to pay of course. Friends and remaining family might benevolently but wrongly advise that I would not want all our hard-won money given up without a fight. But what’s money? I would live in a caravan, overlooking the ocean. All I need is family and freedom.

So pay it, Paul. Release what equity we have. Scrabble round beneath proverbial sofas to find the funds. Call in old favours. Phone your sister. Crowd-fund. Or find us, and shoot the place out (not us) with the police.

Find us.

I get out of bed, clasping the duvet to me, and go over to the wall. Cara’s wall. I nestle down there, close to her. The separation of the wall is not enough to break the bond. I tap-tap my goodnight kiss onto the wall. The tap-tap comes back. I can breathe again.

My baby so close I can almost hear her breathe. Almost. Not quite.

I awake to beams of sunlight coming through the window.

Morning.

The window.

I jump up.

There’s the chair, waiting for me. I clamber onto it, peering over the ledge. It looks so beautiful outside, so crisp. Unlike the air in here, already turning stale. Fully oxygenated out there – look at all those trees!

And not many people to clutter the atmosphere up with exhaled carbon dioxide, unfortunately.

I can see just one person. A girl. About eight. Scrawny, her brown hair in uneven bunches. Takes me back to when Cara was little. Except Cara’s hair was always blonde. And her bunches were never uneven. The girl is skipping. Quite well. She must be concentrating hard, no risk of tripping on the rope. No risk of her seeing me, the Captor must think. I wave. I wave again. I try banging on the glass. Nothing. Just one-two-three-jump-two-three and the bunches bobbing up and down.

See me! I will her. See me, understand me, and run back to your parents’ house – whether that’s the other side of those trees or just round the corner, slightly outside my view – and bring them, so they can rescue Cara and me.

But she moves on to a more complicated skip, turning herself and the rope round in a circle while she jumps. I never taught Cara that one. Would never want Cara to have her back to her mother. Like the girl now has her back to me.

I come down from the window and slump in the chair. The window is not a solution yet. But I can make it one. If I just had a pen and paper, I could write up a big sign. ‘Mother and daughter kidnapped – rescue us!’ Or just ‘Trapped – help!’ Although whoever saw that would probably just think it was the wry joke of an angsty teenager, smile slightly and walk on by. If anyone were to see it. If the girl is observant when the rope is down. If anyone comes through the trees.

And if I had a pen and paper, I could do something else too – I could write to Cara! I go back over to the grate and examine it. Yes, a letter would go through there, easily! I want to call through my plan, but I daren’t, after last night. He will separate us, I know he will, or punish us. Punish her. Which I can’t allow. And, anyway, I can call out to him, tell him I want paper. Cara will hear, and she’ll know I have some kind of plan. She’ll be on the lookout for something new, something different, and she’ll see it through the grate.

He told me, didn’t he, that I was to call if I wanted anything? Well, I’ll tell him I want to write a diary. That he’ll be torturing me if he doesn’t let me. That I’ll scream again (although I won’t).

So I bang on the door of my new prison.

‘Hey!’ I shout.

Silence.

‘You!’ I shout. ‘Come here!’

Still silence. What’s this? Is he sleeping? Has he topped himself? Will Cara and I starve? Has he left us alone?

Is he out collecting the ransom?

Is he just torturing me with denial?

Why doesn’t he understand I must have my paper!

I search the room. I need the paper and pen now, now I have thought of it, this plan. I need to communicate with my Cara. I need to put up a sign to the outside world. I need the pen and paper.

I open the drawers. Nothing. No drawer-liner that I could write on with potpourri. What kind of uncivilised place is this? I open the wardrobe, hoping for those tissue paper covers the dry cleaner puts on coat hangers. No. None. No clothes either. Just a lavender clothes freshener. What does this guy have against natural smells? Am I in some kind of abattoir? Is this the killing room, recently cleansed?

And the walls, of course, are paint, not wallpaper. So I can’t rip them down, write on them with the scent of flowers. No.

Somewhere outside the room there is a sound of slamming.

‘Hello!’ I shout again. ‘Are you there?’

Footsteps now. He is coming. The key in the lock.

He is wearing a coat. So. I was right. He has been out. If I had a watch, some way of telling the time, I could record whether it’s a habitual outing. Whether it gives me time to speak to Cara. Whether we can use it to break the doors down. Or if it’s just a one-off, to collect ransom money. But perhaps he would have come back in something nicer than an anorak if he’d just got one million pounds.

I want to say a bitchy ‘Nice day out?’ but I don’t. Better to pretend I haven’t noticed the coat. In case I need to exploit it later.

Instead, I say, ‘You told me to ask you if I wanted something.’

His eyes become more alive. ‘Well?’

‘I’d like a pen and some paper, please. To write a diary.’

‘A diary?’ His tone is curious.

‘Of my captivity. Not,’ I add, ‘that I expect it to go on for long.’

He nods his head. He seems to approve of my request. I don’t want your approval, I want to scream, I want you to let me and my daughter out.

But. short of that, give me a fucking pen and paper.

‘Anything else?’ he asks. There seems to be hope in his voice, encouragement. Like I’m suddenly going to ask for him, himself.

Something to keep in mind for an escape.

But I’m not ready to go down that route yet.

For now, I just want to communicate with Cara, and the girl outside.

I shake my head. ‘Just the pen and paper.’

The door closes, the lock turns. A few minutes later, he comes back with a notebook and a couple of pencils. The pencils are blunt, I notice. Maybe he thinks I would stab him with a sharp one. Maybe I would. But these will at least do for my first letter to Cara. I wait until he is out of the door again and the lock seals me in. Then I begin to write.

Chapter 8

The other side of the door

Well, you have to give them what they want, don’t you? Builds up trust, for when you need it. Means they no longer want to escape. Bit of tit for tat – I give you a pencil, you give me … Well. What I want. But slowly does it. I’m playing the long game here. Not that I won’t take drastic measures if I need to. Haven’t I already been drastic enough?

But can anyone blame me? I look at the photos again, lining the walls. So beautiful. That golden hair. Like mother, like daughter. Suze and Cara. Inseparable. What it would be like to touch it, for real. I sit back in my chair and let my fantasies run wild. I’m at the threshold of Suze’s room. She stands there, hips jutting at a provocative angle, twirling one strand of hair in her finger. Slowly, she starts undoing her blouse (or, OK, that pyjama top I’ve got her in – the best fantasies are based on reality). Then just when the buttons have got tantalisingly low, she stops, leans forward, and grabs my belt. She pulls me towards her. Then she kisses me. It’s a kiss that means I’m yours, I surrender, you can stop trying. It’s a kiss that ends up with me on top of her, on the bed. Loving her, hard. As hard as she’ll let me. Maybe harder.

I take a couple of deep breaths. Come on, cool it down. I know some men in my position would just go now and burst through the door, take what they want, and sod the emotional side. But that’s not enough for me. I want her to want me. I will use what tools I have available. Perhaps Cara will be one of them, when it’s appropriate. The diary is a good sign. It’s like an acceptance that she’s staying here. That’s what I need. Acceptance is what I’m after. A step closer to recognition, forgiveness, to moving on to what should be our lives together.

Oh, that life together. It’s like I can see it in a mirror but someone has steamed it over. Little by little, that steam will evaporate and there we’ll be, clear as day. I’ve just got to keep everything fixed in front of the mirror until that moment. Help that steam on its way. And no, everything will not end up back to front, inverted in its mirrored image. It will be perfect. Well, one imperfection. But I can’t do anything about that. Not now.

I’ve still got some little tokens of that life. Suze’s phone. She had it on her, when I locked her in. I confiscated it when she was sleeping. Switched off, of course. Good luck contacting her, anyone. And I have Cara’s cherished instrument. She had it with her when she got in the car. Must just recently have had her lips against this very hole that I now lay my mouth on. Must have fingered its length to make her own melodious sound. Like I saw her do before. Oh yes. I’ve been there, to the school concert hall. I’ve stood at the back, in the dark, watching her. They stop monitoring the doors once all the parents have sat down and the lights have dimmed. Anyone could walk in.

I should take this to Cara’s room. How I’d love to see her play, my own private performance. But I can hardly make her do that. I’m not deluded. Cara’s not going to do anything to my bidding, any more than Suze is (yet). And it’s Suze I’ve got to work on. Suze that holds the key to our happiness.

I get up and close the curtains. There’s no room in the mirror picture for intruders. I can’t risk answering the door and, if I’m clearly visible, there’s no excuse not to. I’ve been out; that’s enough. No reason to let them indoors wander free. I’ll choose what from this house goes into the world. And what comes in.

Chapter 9

Dearest Cara,

It’s me! I’m writing to you! I got him to bring paper and pencils (you might have heard). So we can communicate without risk of being overheard. But you must make sure he doesn’t find this letter, or future letters, or the pencil or paper that I’m enclosing. Look for a hiding place. And then write back.

If I can’t write again, for any reason, then remember this: I love you. And Dad loves you. And between us, somehow, we will keep you safe.

Mum

xxxx

I rip the letter from the notebook and tear out some other pages. I fold up the missive and wrap the other pages around it. Then I change my mind and put the letter on the outside, facing outwards, in case she otherwise doesn’t see my writing. I place the pencil in the centre. Then I advance to the grate and begin shoving it through. The grate is small – each vent only the length of a finger, and narrow too. I have to reduce the amount of paper I send through and refold the package. The pencil itself, the essential tool of reply, I wriggle through.

I put my head to the wall and listen for rustling. Nothing. I stay pressed like that. Maybe she is asleep. Or worse. Not there. Maybe when the Captor left the house earlier, he took Cara with him. Maybe he is ransoming us or disposing of us or … whatever-elsing us one by one.

Shall I tap-tap on the wall? Or is that too much? Do I need to limit myself, not show by my desperation for her safety, how vulnerable we are? I raise my hand, lower it again. Don’t alarm her. Don’t keep knocking. Don’t put the Captor on to us.

But please be there, Cara. If you are there and reply to my letter, I know you at least are still with me. Only in peril in the same way as me. Not in some dangerous outside place. Although there’s a wall between us, a daughter is safest nearer her mother, isn’t she? Please be there. Please let him not have taken you someplace else. I can’t bear for you not to be there.

You’ll always be this little one’s mummy. No one can take that way from you.

Tears well. I let them fall. I rock back on my heels and wait. And wait. What is taking you so long, Cara? Why don’t you reply? Should I risk a knock on the wall? A whisper? But no. That might endanger everything. I must have a little patience. Must breathe. Yes. Important to remember. And fill my time wisely. The window!

Yes, of course, the window. My sign. It will be poxy in small notebook paper and a pencil but I will do the best I can.

What to write?

Keep it simple. Something like:

‘Please help. Mother and daughter, Susan and Cara Bright, held hostage in here. Call 999.’

We must be all over the news – Paul will have done his bit insisting the media and police will be on the case. Right? Paul won’t just think I’ve taken Cara on a trip? No. We were due to be at home, to eat together. The Captor snatched me from home and must have snatched Cara from school.

And Paul will find us. Then everything will go back to normal. I’ll resurrect the cupcake business. Cara will go back to school – once I’ve spoken to the Head about security – and we’ll all dine out on this trauma for the rest of our lives.

I sketch out the words for the sign lightly first. They cover six sheets of paper. Then I start pressing hard. Deep grey shading, to make it visible outside. But not too dark so as to destroy the pencil. It’s all I have.

I’m so absorbed in my task that it’s not until I hear the key in the lock that I know the Captor is coming.

Quick! Hide the sign! Why didn’t I take my own advice to Cara and look for a hiding place? The door is opening, where can I put the sign?

I shove it under duvet, just in time. By the time the Captor’s face appears, I am posing with the notebook, pencil in hand.

He bends down to place a tray down on the floor. Granola, yoghurt, orange juice, a cup of tea. An inch at the back of his neck is exposed. If the pencil were sharper, I could bring it down, now, spear it through the skin, force him to the floor. Or could I? He’s a big guy. I’m not so huge. Maybe I need more than a pencil.

He stands up again. Moment or non-moment of potential escape gone.

He looks at me. ‘Writing in your diary then?’ he asks.

I shrug. ‘I can’t think of anything to write. Not much happens in here.’

‘Let me help with that,’ he says. And he sits down on the bed. Right on top of the part of the duvet that hides the sign.

If he pushes the duvet back, I am finished. He is too close to me. I can smell him. He smells of mould. Not in a way that makes me retch. More that fragrant mould, released in forests after the rain. Fine for forests. Not so nice on a man.

He takes the diary and pencil from me. I want to resist, want to claw them back, but we know who has the power here.

He writes in the diary. Seeing as he is so close to me, I try to lean in, see what he is writing, but he hides it from me. He is concentrating. I couldn’t, could I, stand up and make a run for the door? He sees my head move and follows my eye line. He puts one leg firmly across mine. He is wearing big, heavy boots. I stay where I am.

Then I notice that when he moved, the duvet moved with him. The edge of the sign I drew is now visible.

Shit.

I hold my breath, waiting for him to pull back all the duvet, find out what is underneath. Punish me.

He is still focusing the notebook. For now.

I resist the urge to look at the sign again. He is observant. He will follow my eyes. Instead, I force myself to stare at him, while he looks at the notebook. I scrutinise the hair in his ear, the little lines around the edge of his eyes. This is a villain who has smiled more than he has frowned then. Not a good sign. Potentially sociopathic.

‘There,’ he says. ‘Done.’ He hands me back the diary.

I look at what he has written.

‘Today is the day that I shared my bed. Sitting this time. But it’s a sign of closeness. A sign of more to come. I will give that man what he wants – what I want, really – in time.’

I shiver. I look up at him. He smiles.

So. That is the plan then. He does, as he says, want me. But, apparently, I have to give myself to him.

He stands up. I want to break eye contact, let him know his plans revolt me. But I daren’t, lest his eyes search out the paper sign instead. Holding his gaze, I shift along the bed, putting one hand behind me. I call feel the rough edge of the paper under my hand. I hope it is covered. I hope he doesn’t think the gesture is an invitation.

He stays in the room, staring at me. A smile – or is it a smirk – crosses over his lips. He adds to the creases round his eyes. Then he turns his back and opens the door, and goes out. And locks me in again.

Chapter 10

There it is – under the grate! A letter from Cara!

I was so busy trying to fend off, distract, comprehend the Captor that I must have missed it coming through. At least, I hope it’s a letter. Not just a bundle of papers. I rush to pick up the pages. They shake in my hands like leaves.

And yes! Thank goodness. Here is Cara’s wonderful handwriting. That beautiful, self-conscious, teenage script, with the dots of ‘i’s done in circles, the ‘z’s struck through, and all letters bulbous and round. That relief as real as when I used to look at you in your little bed, holding my own breath until your chest rose again. I clutch the paper to myself before I begin to read, inhaling it. Cara. Then I pull it away and study it.

Dear Mum,

Amazing. SO well done getting the paper and pencil. Totally get what you say about a hiding place. The room has a … actually, no, better not write where the hiding place is in case your place isn’t as good as mine .

So. What’s the plan? How are we getting out of here? We will get out of here, won’t we? Dad must be coming, right? I reckon give him another few hours and he’ll be here. Definitely.

How did you end up in here? I remember being by the school gates, then in a car, but not much else. Then … here.

I just wish we could get a message out. Let people know where we are. That we’re alive. And so far, safe.

That first night, I think it was night, that was the worst. I just sat up in this horrible bed in the dark holding the duvet and shaking. I couldn’t believe it was happening. I thought I’d never see you or Dad again. I would have given anything to know you were here. And now you are.

I love you Mum. I know you’ll get us out of this.

You will, right?

Cara xxx.

I read the letter again and again. And again. I trace the loops with my eyes and then with my fingers. Cara. At once so strong and so vulnerable. So independent and yet still my little girl. I’d give anything to hug her. Kiss that beautiful face. To take her home, reunite her with the pink biro that I know this letter would be written in, had she the choice. She’d maybe cover it with some pink hearts, for extra measure, like the hearts she draws on the magazine articles and clippings that adorn her bedroom walls. Perfume ads, fashion pictures, cute animals – she’s a real girl’s girl. Then she recreates that physical space online, Pinterest and everything. I know. She showed me a picture of one of my cupcake ads she’d ‘pinned’ on her virtual board. I felt so proud that she should be proud of me.

Much as I would love to write back immediately with outpourings of love, I can’t write back until there is a plan. You can tell from the letter that she needs me to think of one, to keep her happy. What energetic and traumatised fifteen-year-old wants simply to hang round waiting for Dad to do something? I’m surprised I can’t hear her ricocheting off the walls with pent-up frustration.

No. I must provide an alternative.

The window sign.

I tuck her note into my pillowcase and pull the sign from the bed. Quickly, I finish emboldening the letters that I had loosely pencilled in. There. That sign should be readable by the little girl outside, if she is still there.

I clamber up my chair ladder to the window and look out. No little girl today. But she must come back. Or somebody else must. And see the sign. I lean the pieces of paper against the window, facing out. They take up almost all of the window, leaving me just a small chink to look out of. The paper seems flimsy, like it could fall down at any moment. And however visible it is from the outside, it feels painfully visible from the inside. The Captor may see it. And, with it, my knowledge of Cara. Then he’ll take down perhaps my only means of escape, and deny me my lifeline with my daughter.

So what I need is a prop. Something to keep the sign in position and also conceal it. But not arouse suspicion. From my chair, I look round the room. What would work?

The only contender seems to be a pillow. I have two. One should squidge up nicely to fit in the gap. I clamber down from the chair, seize the pillow and spring back up to the chair. Success. The pillow fits. It takes away most of the light and my room takes on a dungeon feel. But it’s for a greater good. Our greater good. Mine, Cara’s, Paul’s. If the Captor asks, I’ll say the light was stopping me sleeping. I can still move the pillow if I need to, when I’m alone, to look out. For the girl. Or for anyone else.

And the other pillow – well, its case can hide the letters from Cara. Two missions accomplished.

Escape plan A put in train, I can now face Cara again. I pick up her letter and reread it. Why wasn’t I there at the school gates to pick her up? The Captor must have already got me. Did he do it in two journeys then? Or was one of us in the boot? Or was there an accomplice? I want to tell her I’m sorry I wasn’t there. But it wasn’t my fault.

As I pick up the pencil, my stomach rumbles. I look over at the granola. Healthy, nutritious. Not that I need to watch what I eat so much these days. With the yoghurt it would be delicious. And give me energy to fight for Cara. Can I eat it? Who would drug granola? Surely if you were going to drug breakfast, you’d make scrambled eggs, or porridge, or something else sloppy and indistinct. Not granola. But I’m not dealing with a logical person here. I’m dealing with a kidnapper. So he might have drugged it. Best not to risk it.

I turn back to the pencil and paper.

‘Dearest Cara,’ I write.

Cara. Beloved. I remember choosing that name, with her father.

People asking whether we’re giving her a name, just now. Of course we need a name. Look at her. She’s beautiful.

I wanted to call her all the names that summed up just how glorious she was to me: Cara Joy Aimee Hope Star Rose. In the end, I was persuaded just to go for Cara Joy. A name cannot sum up that much love anyway. The love that came just holding her in that little bundle, staring into her eyes, feeling her little lips at my breast, one finger wrapped up in her tiny hand. A magical day. I wonder if her father still remembers it. Remembers her. Fourteen years is a long time with no contact.

My stomach rumbles again. Love does not conquer hunger apparently.

I look at the breakfast tray. I could just eat half of everything. That way, if it really is drugged, it won’t hit me with its full strength. I might just be caused to flutter my eyelashes a bit, not invite him into my bed. And I would have the strength to give my letter to Cara the full attention it needs. Plus me starving isn’t going to help. I need the strength for a fight, if it comes.

I put down the paper and move to the tray. Cutlery this time, although plastic. Does he trust me a little bit then? To arm me with two (blunt) pencils and a plastic spoon? Or has he just risk assessed the situation – a happy well-nourished kidnappee is less likely to attack than a soul-starved hungry one?

If so, he’s made a miscalculation. Because if my window sign doesn’t get me and Cara safely out of here, then something else will.

Chapter 11

The other side of the door

I make two identical lunches, on two identical trays. I add the ground-up powder. Perhaps I should feel guilty. Perhaps I do. But, in the bigger scheme of things, it’s nothing, is it? And it will get us where we need to be. They don’t always realise it, do they, when they most need your help? That your goal is their goal. That they should eat up and await dessert.

My mobile rings in the next room. Should I answer it? I know who it will be. Him. There used to be lots of calls, from other people, but now I always know who it will be. He’s been phoning every day since … Well, obviously. Since then. I knew he’d read about it. I read about it. Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe it’s not healthy. But there’s something about seeing the names of people you love in the papers. And more photos. I devour the photos – add them to the ones round the wall. But he couldn’t be satisfied with that, could he? He has to phone. Demanding an audience. But why should I give him one? If Suze had wanted him, she would have asked for him, wouldn’t she? Says it’s about the girl, of course, not about Suze. And not about the money. That the money is just an extra concern. But I know what they’re like, how these negotiations work. He’ll wheedle his way in on the pretext of the girl, and suddenly it will be about Suze. I’ll lose them both. And the money, which I need for our perfect future life. I can’t let that happen.

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.

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