THE GIRL ON THE PLATFORM
Bryony Pearce

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

Copyright © Bryony Pearce 2021

Cover design © Claire Ward, HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

Cover photographs © Evelina Kremsdorf/Trevillion images (girl), Shutterstock.com (all other images)

Bryony Pearce asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of 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 ebook 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.

Source ISBN: 9780008441845

Ebook Edition © April 2021 ISBN: 9780008441852

Version: 2021-02-22

Dedication

To my husband, Andy, and to my children, Maisie and Riley.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

The girl is …

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

The girl is …

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

The food comes …

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

She’s been in …

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

‘You can’t go …

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

The room is …

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

It isn’t a …

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Sometimes the film …

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

The little girl …

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

The little girl …

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

‘What’s your name?’ …

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

The girl is curled into such a tiny space that it seems she wants to disappear. Her feet are tucked so far up that her knees touch her narrow chin. Her trembling hands are wrapped around them. She’s been shivering for a long time.

There is little light but, somehow, she has found it and it picks out her tear-stained face, cruelly highlighting the lines of her misery. One of her arms is hurt; she is wearing a bandage and cradling it carefully. The fingers of this hand do not hold her knee as tightly as those of the other. She has sock marks: ridged indents and a tan line that begins just above her ankle bone and vanishes under a pale yellow dress. She has old scabs on her knees and a fresh cut on one skinny elbow. There is a scar on her forehead, a faint smile of white skin, a little puckered. Her dark hair has been cut short but her eyes could be any colour. They are tightly closed, as if she is wishing herself away.

And she is crying. Her tears sparkle in the dusty glow and soak into the primrose material, darkening her collar and sticking it to her skin. But she is crying silently. Sniffing into her elbow, desperately keeping quiet. She is not calling for her mother. She isn’t calling for anyone.

Chapter 1

The District Line is closed, Euston impenetrable. Commuters, who know where they are going, are attempting to hustle around tourists, who don’t. They crowd the centre of the concourse, forming an obstacle course of suitcases and swinging rucksacks.

The noise is making my already aching head pound: tinny announcements, parents shouting for their kids to behave, to get back here, the raucous laughter of a hen-party wearing sashes so pink they hurt my eyes. A row breaks out on my right; someone has trodden on someone else. It is all too much. I want to be home.

My belly wobbles as I up my pace, the jelly-like, post-baby jiggle unabated despite my vows to get back into pre-maternity clothes. I resolutely refuse to buy new work outfits and now my waistband is torturing me, cutting me in half, despite two unhooked buttons. With each step the yoke pulls tight over my wobbling backside.

I keep my head down, pushing towards the escalator, too-high shoes ticking on the floor, sweat tickling my body, exhaustion hanging off me like my unseasonal winter coat. My fingers keep loosening on my bag, as if my body has decided to just shut down and stop, regardless of my location. I lift the case higher and use it to batter my way towards the stair. If I miss this train, I’m facing a half-hour wait till the next one. Midnight before I can drop into bed and another day without feeling Grace’s fingers around mine or looking into her eyes. I’ll see her in the middle of the night when she wakes for a feed, and maybe in the morning, but she is like her mum; a grumpy waker, offended to have been dragged from her dreams by the demands of her stomach.

Just the thought of dreams makes my eyes shutter closed. I groan and start past a couple with a pram, my thoughts once again turning to my own baby and the Bugaboo I won’t be using myself until the weekend.

‘Excuse me, Miss? How do we get to the Underground?’

It hurts too much to look at them. I don’t want to see their, no doubt sleeping, infant when I haven’t seen Grace since the night before. I mutter something half-formed, refuse eye contact, point vaguely behind me and hurry on.

Finally, my feet hit metal and I sway to a stop, letting the moving step sweep me upward, my eyes on a pink chunk of bubble gum fingerprinted underneath the handrail, as if someone had wanted to leave evidence of themselves behind. The pressure of humanity eases slightly, and I relax, for a brief moment, just in time to be shoulder-barged by two teenage boys who yell as they race past, as though it is my fault, as though I too should be running full tilt. I stagger into the rail and a hand from behind steadies me.

‘All right?’ An impression of kind brown eyes, a turban. I nod and drop my head again, rubbing my shoulder with one hand, staring at my scuffed shoes. God, what a day.

I turn my thoughts once more towards home as I stumble through the ticket barrier and onto the platform, taking another breath as the queue is forced into single file by the machine that counts us through. The train is already here, and I adopt a shambling run, ignoring my aching feet. A wail of a siren from beyond the fence triggers the prickle of my let-down reflex. A whistle and the doors start to slide shut. ‘No!’ I wail, hurling myself faster, off-balance, tottering.

The guard sees me and sighs. He knows me. He should; I am here every day, Monday to Friday. I’d even introduced him to Grace when I brought her into work a few months ago, her tiny wriggling body still scrawny from the birth. He puts one hand out and holds the door beside him, waving me forward. I half sob my gratitude as I reach the step. He catches me with his other hand as I stumble. ‘Careful.’

I nod, too tired to form words, my lips numb.

He tugs me on board and I almost sag into him, but he settles me on my feet and points. ‘I saw an empty window seat two carriages down.’ He winks.

I nod my thanks again, feeling a little like the Churchill dog. His eyes say he understands, and he lets me go. The train lurches and I grip the doorframe, then the top of seats as I pull myself along, fighting the sway, mumbling half-apologies as I touch greasy hair, or slip and grab a shoulder by mistake. Too much humanity. Too many people leaving bits of themselves all over the place.

Two carriages seem impossibly far. I hold my bag in one hand and try not to bump elbows with strangers as the aisle grows longer with every step. I force my way past a group who have chosen to stand in the gap between carriages, passing round a bottle of Schnapps. Someone offers it to me with a giggle, I shake my head and, eventually, I see it: the empty seat. Empty because the one beside it is occupied by a man two sizes too big for the space between the arm rests. He overflows. I don’t even consider standing. My feet can’t take it, but I can take being pressed against cool glass.

‘Excuse me,’ I have to think before verbalising; remember the shape my lips are supposed to make. I gesture towards the seat and the bristly velour that will itch even through my trousers.

The man raises his head and his brows, then sighs and makes a big deal of standing, forcing me backwards as he edges into the aisle, thick thighs making the table creak. Sweat stains the cotton of his shirt, as though even clothes cannot contain him. Opposite, a young woman looks up and then back down again, her expression unchanging. She is wearing headphones and the light from her phone cools her face, brightening her chin and dulling her eyes. Beside her a kid, with a graphic novel and acne, sniggers as the fat man flushes.

I nod my thanks yet again and inhale as I squeeze into the seat, dump my bag on the table and sigh. For one moment my whole body relaxes into the welcome chair, then the man sits back down.

I can tell he is trying to make himself smaller; the boy opposite catches my eye with a smirk, but I ignore him. How awful to know what everyone around you must think. The man pulls his elbows into his sides; even his face is pinched, his features appearing squashed into the centre of a space too large for them. His forehead wrinkles, his eyes darting from side to side as if daring me to comment. I say nothing, only lean against the window as his forearms bulge into mine and his flesh presses against me, one hairy wrist tickling my own.

I pull into myself, turtle-like, curl my hands into my lap, and make myself as small as possible. His eyes go to my breasts, by now straining and pneumatic, and remain there.

The window is cool against my forehead. I turn towards the dark glass. My reflection stares back at me as if in shock. Dark hair, frizzing out of the ponytail I hurriedly constructed with an elastic band at lunchtime, skin white, eyeshadow smudged, so that, with the bags beneath my eyes, it seems as if I’ve recently lost a fight. My lips remain full and, so Tom says, kissable, but the lipstick has long since bled away, leaving patchy colour, like sickness.

The way I’m sitting emphasises the beginnings of a double chin that I’ll have to diet away as soon as I can face it. This is my post-baby face; the stranger’s features which covered my own like a mask, after Grace. Gone the bright eyes, the healthy flush, the carefully applied make-up, the definition. Hello to a doughy, fleshy almost-me. A washed-out version of myself, like a watercolour dissolving in the rain.

I close my eyes, pushing the image away, trying to remember who I’m meant to be: Senior Manager in a London research agency, university graduate, party girl, fun wife, dutiful daughter, but my thoughts keep skittering away, to a sleeping Grace and to Tom, who’ll be watching the telly with a beer and a bag of crisps by now.

My consciousness starts to slip, so I check my phone. Fifty minutes and we’ll pull into my station. With fumbling fingers, I set an alarm: forty-five minutes. I can’t risk sleeping through my stop, not again.

Last time Tom had been forced to wake Grace and they’d both come to collect me from the end of the line. Neither of them had been happy about it. I leave the phone on the table and lay one hand over the screen, as if I am protecting it, or it is protecting me. I’m not sure. I lean my head on the window.

‘Good idea.’ The fat man meets my eyes in the black glass, and I blink at him. Is he really trying to start a conversation? My fingers twitch on my phone. I close my eyes again, but sleep doesn’t come. This has been happening more and more often. My body is so tired that I feel as if I don’t hold on tightly enough, I might float away. But I can’t stop thinking.

Always there is guilt over leaving Grace for so long, even though she is with Tom and we’d agreed that it made the most sense, financially, that I be the one to go back to work. There is the worry that she’ll always love him best, and then remorse at such a selfish thought. Why shouldn’t she? Just because I carried her, suffered unbearable backache, nausea and heartburn, endured contractions for two days, transition for over an hour, eighteen stiches, mastitis when she was first feeding, did Tom deserve her love any less?

Concerns about my most recent client bob to the surface. They keep moving the goalposts, requiring changes to the project and that will mean more late nights in my future.

I remember that I promised to have Mum over for dinner and worry about the hours I’ll have to spend tidying up before she arrives.

My mental screen flicks to an argument I had with a girl at university, who has almost certainly never thought of me again. She makes a comment about me stealing Tom from her friend Trish. The things I said and the things I should have said.

That is crowded out by memories of the mess the baker made of our wedding cake and how I should never have paid her the full amount.

And I desperately need my roots done.

And I wonder whether Tom has done the washing up or if it’ll be waiting for me again.

Then, over it all, an old Taylor Swift song which winds around and around my brain, digging its claws in until I want to scream.

My eyes flinch open, but my body remains heavy, immovable.

We are rushing by a station. One of those unidentifiable places with nothing but a platform and a dirt carpark, an unmanned ticket machine and a bench. The sign is black lettering on a dirty background, too fast to read. A sound like rushing water as the train hurtles past the platform. Opposite me, the girl opens a packet of biscuits and the fat man’s eyes tear from my breasts.

Where are we? I force a glance at my phone: twenty-five minutes in. I fire off a text to Tom: On the train. Back soon. Hope she went down okay.

The phone beeps at me. Unable to send message.

No signal.

I sigh and press my forehead against the window once more. This time I gaze beyond my reflection, peering into the murk at flashing streetlights and glowing cars. Another platform is coming up. I strain my eyes, trying not to think about lyrics and seeking to banish the bouncy tune that rattles around my brain: Everything will be all right, if we just keep dancing like we’re twenty-two …

My eyes blur.

A white van is parked by the platform, no markings, the paintwork a flag against the darkness. From a weathered concrete post, a single light glows, illuminating a little girl. She sits on a case outside the shuttered coffee booth, kicking her heels against the leather. She can’t be more than six. Where’s her mum?

The train doesn’t slow. We aren’t stopping. We are going to burn past, leaving her behind in a swirl of leaves and dust.

I blink. And men are there, two of them. They lift the squirming girl to her feet, haul her towards the van … and then we are past.

I bang my palms on the window.

‘Did you see that?’ I strain to look back, but trees are flashing by and now a row of houses, long gardens backing onto the rails. ‘Did you see?’ I turn to the young woman sitting opposite.

She barely glances up from her phone. ‘See what?’

‘The girl. You must have seen her!’ I look at the boy. He doesn’t even acknowledge that I’ve spoken, but they are both facing the wrong way anyway. I grab the fat man’s arm. ‘You saw, didn’t you? You saw the girl … and the men?’

He blinks at my hand and then lifts his eyes to my face. ‘Huh?’

‘The girl at the last platform, you saw her?’

He shakes his head. ‘It’s dark out there.’

‘I know, I—’ I grab my phone. ‘I have to call the police.’ I stare at the screen. No signal.

The train clatters on.

I drop the phone back on the table and leap to my feet, wobbling with the movement on the rails. ‘Did anyone else see? Did anyone see the girl? The van?’

People glare at me.

‘There was a girl.’ I am screaming, my voice hoarse and cracked. ‘At that last station, a kid. Come on, one of you must have seen her!’

The fat man puts his hand on my arm. ‘Are you all right?’

The young woman opposite is gaping with wide-eyed alarm.

‘We’ve got to do something. One of you must have seen her too.’ I pinpoint the woman sitting in the same seat as me, a table behind, a blonde I occasionally see doing the same morning journey. ‘You saw her, didn’t you?’ My finger lifts, trembling. ‘You must have.’

She slides slightly sideways, as if my finger is a loaded weapon, and shakes her head.

‘You then?’ I turn to the student sitting next to her. He shrugs and looks uncomfortable. He whispers something to the girl sitting opposite. She giggles.

I want to shake shoulders until someone says yes, they saw her. I am trapped in my seat.

‘Please, just speak up. We can call the police together.’

Sniggers. Mutterings. A rustle of papers as commuters tuck their eyes back into their Metros or bury their faces in books. A couple of kids lift their phones, videoing me. The lights from their cameras gleam.

‘Wasn’t anyone looking out the window?’ I plead.

‘It’s dark out,’ someone yells.

‘Sit down, you crazy cow.’ An older teen, gel in his hair, leather jacket, laughing with his mates.

‘You’re embarrassing yourself.’ The fat man’s eyes are filled with sympathy. ‘I don’t know what you saw, but no-one else was looking. Sit down.’

‘There was a little girl.’ I thump back into my seat, pulling my coat around me. ‘I–I think she was being kidnapped.’

The man shifts awkwardly in his seat. ‘Are you sure?’ he whispers.

I nod, then jump as my phone beeps: Message sent. For a long second I am unable to work out what it means. Then I grab for the slick handset, fumbling so it skids away from me.

The man stops it sliding and pushes it back towards me. ‘You’re really going to call the police?’

‘I have to.’ I clutch the phone like Grace gripping Frankie-Lion.

‘They’ll want to question the whole carriage,’ he hisses. ‘Maybe the whole train. People won’t be able to get home.’

For a shameful second, I hesitate. How awful it would be to draw all this attention, to cause all this trouble, to make all this noise. Not something that nice girls do.

I bite my lip. ‘It was a little girl,’ I murmur. ‘They’ll understand.’

Chapter 2

I stumble up the steps on trembling legs and try three times to get my key into the lock. When it finally slides in, I lean my head on the paintwork, trying to muster the energy to force the door open. The door creaks, letting out a sliver of light as I sprawl inside. Tom catches me.

‘Are you drunk?’ He glares at me with narrowed, bloodshot eyes. ‘Because if you are, you’re not going in to see Grace. She’s been up for the last fifty minutes and I’ve only just got her back to sleep.’ He scrubs at his chin, three days’ worth of stubble, and holds me at arm’s length. ‘You sent me a text three hours ago saying you were on the train. What happened?’

‘Please, Tom,’ I murmur. ‘Let me sit down.’

He sighs and helps me over the stoop. ‘Seriously, Bridge, you look awful. Are you all right? I tried calling, but your phone must have died … I even rang your mum.’

‘You didn’t!’ The expression on his face stops me from saying more. But now I have another concern: Mum will be up worrying until she hears from me. ‘I’m sorry.’ I drop my bag in the hall and wrap my arms around my chest. ‘I couldn’t call. I wanted to …’ I tail off.

His expression shifts from annoyance to concern, his blue eyes darkening. ‘What would stop you from letting us know where you were?’ His voice lowers. ‘We can’t go through this again. I mean I thought the anti-depressants were working. I mean when Doctor Lewis prescribed them, she said they would help.’

I nod. ‘It’s not that.’ I clutch at his arm, wondering how much to tell Mum. ‘I have to get off my feet – please.’

He guides me into the living room and, despite exhaustion that makes me lean my whole weight on his shoulder, I track the mess: his laptop and scriptwriting course books, two empty beer bottles, an empty packet of Tyrells crisps, a crumpled blanket, a cushion on the floor, Grace’s baby bouncer, her playmat speckled with crumbs, and a dirty nappy thrown into a corner, the smell a ripe blend of shit and spilled milk.

I close my eyes, but not before Tom has traced them to the nappy. ‘I had to change her before I put her back down.’ Defensive. ‘It’s not been there that long.’

I nod and kick off my shoes with a groan. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Obviously it does.’

I force my eyes open, make myself look at him. ‘Don’t. Please. I’ve been with the police.’

‘The police?’ Tom pales. ‘What happened? Are you hurt?’ His face hardens. ‘Has someone hurt you, Bridge?’

‘No, it isn’t that.’ I grip his hands. ‘It was horrible. And no-one else saw. Only me. But the police made everyone stay on the train until they’d taken their details. They were furious. The people on the train, I mean.’ My words stumble over one another, as clumsy as my feet. I lean over to pick up Frankie-Lion. His beanbag body sags over my palm and he smiles up at me. I put him to my cheek. He smells of Grace: baby smell and milk, and a little bit of Tom’s aftershave. Frankie must have been crushed between them at nap time.

‘What happened?’ he asks again, this time rubbing my back in small circles. ‘Can you tell me?’

‘There was a little girl.’ I look at Frankie again and choke on a sob. Did the girl have a Frankie too? Was she terrified and alone and desperate for comfort? ‘Oh, God!’

Tom looks stricken. ‘What happened, Bridge?’

I peer at him through tear-blurred eyes. ‘We went past a station – I don’t know which one. The police kept asking but we went by so fast – you know what it’s like – you can’t read the signs … but I saw a little girl.’

‘By herself?’ Tom frowns. ‘At that time of night?’

‘That’s what the police said too.’ I swallow. ‘She was sitting on a suitcase. I saw that much. I don’t know why, or where she was going or … or where her mum was. Maybe getting a ticket, I don’t know. She was about six I think, just sitting there on the suitcase.’ I frown. ‘She was wearing a school uniform, a blazer like your niece’s. It was almost like she was looking right at me, but she couldn’t have been.’ I look at my hands. Frankie’s arms and legs dangle on either side of my palm. ‘These two people grabbed her.’

‘Are you sure?’ Tom murmurs.

I nod.

‘It couldn’t have been her dad, or …?’

‘She struggled.’ I blink away tears. They had a white van. I saw her being taken, Tom, and I couldn’t even tell the police where she was taken from. It was just a platform and by the time I had a signal we’d gone by at least three more. They could be anywhere now. And they’ve got her and she’s just a little girl.’

‘Sssh.’ Tom glances at the baby monitor blinking at me from the side table and I realise I am wailing.

I drop Frankie. ‘There’s a little girl out there and someone’s hurting her.’ My cheeks are wet now, salty dampness on my lips. ‘What was the point in seeing her if I can’t tell the police anything useful?’

Tom presses my hands between his. ‘You’re freezing.’ He rubs his palms against the backs of mine. ‘Come and look in on Grace. You’ll feel better.’

I shake my head. ‘What good am I?’

‘Bridge.’ Tom puts his forehead against mine. ‘You won’t be the only one to have called the police about this. Her mum will have reported her missing. They’ll be able to work out where she was taken from. They might even have found her already. You’ve done more than most people would have. Come on. You need to get warm. Take your tablets and come to bed.’

‘I can’t,’ I groan. ‘I have to call Mum. You know she’ll be awake until I do.’

‘I’ll do it.’ Tom pulls me to my feet. ‘I’ll tell her the train was stuck; signal problems. I know you don’t like to lie but …’

I nod, my eyelids like shutters, my head heavy. ‘She’d rush over here if you told her the truth. Do you really think they’ve found her already?’

‘All the platforms have CCTV. You told them about the van, about the two men. They’re probably knocking on doors right now. It’ll be in the news tomorrow or later in the week, I guarantee it.’ Tom pulls me to my feet. ‘Come on, it’s late and you’re done. I’m switching your alarm off. I’ll get up with Grace in the morning.’

‘But it’s your turn for a lie-in,’ I groan, sagging against him as if I have beans in my own torso, but I’m already thinking about the latest train that will get me into work on time.

Tom snorts. ‘You can pay me back at the weekend.’ He guides me to the stairs. My feet are like wood and I am barely able to bend my knees. ‘Or on Neil’s stag do. I’m planning to drink like a Viking and will be mightily hungover.’

I stumble upwards and into the dark hallway. Grace’s door is a little ajar. It took us months to realise that she hated the full dark and needed a sliver of light to sleep. Like her mother.

I hesitate at the doorway and Tom pushes it further open. Inside I can hear Grace’s soft breathing: a gentle snore on every other breath. She lies on her back, one fist curled next to her cheek. Her knees are splayed outwards, frog-like in her sleeping bag. Wispy blonde hair is glued to her forehead, stuck there with tearstains and sleep-sweat.

She twitches in her sleep and, as I watch, her fists open and close, and her legs scythe back and forth. ‘It’s too hot for her pink pyjamas,’ I mutter.

Tom shrugs. ‘We spilled milk on the yellow ones. She’ll be all right. I used the lighter sleeping bag.’

I nod.

He frowns. ‘I do know what I’m doing.’

I lean against the doorframe for one more minute, counting her breaths, wishing I could hold her. ‘I should have brought Frankie up.’

‘And risk waking her?’ Tom shakes his head. ‘She’s got Dobbie, look.’

Sure enough, the little, once-white bunny is crushed beneath her armpit.

‘Come on.’ He nudges me and I nod again. ‘Don’t bother cleaning your teeth.’ Tom steers me into our bedroom and sits me on the mattress. I sink into it, already, in my mind, fast asleep.

He helps me out of my coat and jacket, undoes my blouse and trousers.

‘I’m checking you out, just so you know, sexy thing.’ He makes me lie down. ‘Hang on, I’m going to call your mum quickly, then I’ll bring you your medication.’

I pull myself up on the pillow, drag my arms out of my blouse, leave my underwear on and crawl under the duvet. I hear Tom’s voice, then the sound of running water. After a moment he appears with two pills in one hand and a glass in the other.

I struggle to focus. ‘Was she all right?’

Tom nods. ‘You’ll have to call her tomorrow.’

‘I feel gross,’ I murmur. ‘My teeth are furry.’

‘Brush them twice in the morning.’ Tom strokes my hair back from my face. ‘Take these.’

I lift my head just enough to gulp down water and the green and yellow bullets. Then I let my head fall back. Tom puts the glass on the side table next to my breast pump.

‘I thought you might need it,’ he says, nodding towards it.

‘I do.’ I roll away. ‘I can’t.’

‘Okay.’ He clambers onto the bed, lies beside me and pulls his legs up so that they cup mine.

‘Will you stroke my head?’ I whisper. ‘My brain won’t shut off.’

‘Yes, it will.’ Tom’s cool fingers find my eyebrows and begin to stroke up and down, softly, distractingly. ‘Go to sleep.’

‘I ca …’

I wake way too early because I roll onto my left breast. It’s a rock. I gasp myself into alertness as pain, like a poked bruise, shivers down my side.

‘Don’t wake Grace!’ Tom is sitting up beside me. Our daughter is lying on his chest, arms and legs dangling on either side of his ribcage, her face crumpled against his t-shirt.

‘I’ve got to express.’ I struggle to sit, trying not to rock the bed. ‘What time is it?’

‘Six-thirty,’ Tom whispers. ‘Can’t it wait?’

‘Are you joking?’ I point.

Tom goggles. ‘I guess it can’t.’

‘I’m in agony.’ I slide my legs out of the bed, watch them pimple in the autumn chill and grab the pump. ‘I’ll do it in the bathroom.’

‘Are you sure?’ Tom sits unmoving, his hands flat on the covers.

‘Do you want anything?’ I mouth. ‘A book, your phone, a bit of coursework?’

He shakes his head. ‘It’ll only wake her.’

I stagger into the bathroom, pee and set up the breast pump. I shouldn’t really be breastfeeding, not anymore, not on top of work, and maybe not while I’m on the Fluoxetine, although the doctor said it would be okay. But Grace has some kind of dairy allergy or maybe an intolerance, I’m still not clear on the difference. She hates the Nutramigen prescribed by the hospital, just spits it at us. My breast milk is at least free and, as long as I don’t eat any dairy myself, it doesn’t upset her stomach. I start to hand pump, my eyes half-closed, almost dozing, but nothing happens, my breasts are too hard. It had been stupid to risk mastitis again for the sake of a bit of sleep.

I sigh, run the hot tap, wet a face cloth and start stroking by hand. Eventually liquid dribbles down my stomach. I refit the pump and, finally, milk hisses into the plastic bottle. I close my eyes again, knowing I’ll hear when it is almost full.

As soon as my eyes drift shut, I see the little girl, as clearly as if she is sat in front of me. She has brown hair, shoulder length and a little curly. Her eyes are hooded by a thick fringe but I think perhaps they’re dark, like mine. Her face is narrow, her chin a little pointed, her nose straight and long.

She is wearing a blazer, almost as if she is going off to boarding school. Very Malory Towers. The suitcase she is sitting on is old-fashioned, leather, you don’t see those around much. Perhaps her family is poor. But then, what about the blazer? I’ll know who she is soon. Tom’s right, she’ll be on the news and I’ll get a name to go with that face.

I open my eyes and check the bottle: eight ounces in less than five minutes. It has to be a record and the breast isn’t even empty. I swap the bottle over, cap the full one and change sides.

Despite my greying maternity knickers, my flabby stomach sticks to my upper legs. ‘Sexy thing’ Tom called me. I know he loves me and he wants to help, but I’m not sexy, not anymore, so how can I trust anything he says when he lies like that to my face?

He’s a good liar too. I’d have told Mum the truth last night and been up for an hour talking her off a ledge. Tom came up with a comforting and plausible story and was off the phone in minutes. I’d never mastered the skill.

When I have two full bottles and my discomfort has eased, I face myself in the mirror. Stretch marks, cellulite, sagging where I’d once had taut skin. My muscles are knitting back together, but slowly. I run my fingers over my waistline. Seven and a half months ago I made a human, squeezed her out of me, now I am feeding that human. I’m not meant to be a stick figure right now. And yet.

‘Sexy thing,’ I mock in a whisper and then I turn my face away.

I put the bottles of milk on the bedside table and crawl back into bed, trying to be soundless, hoping the mattress won’t rock and roll with me. I turn so I am facing Tom and put a hand on his shoulder, close enough that it’s almost as though I am touching Grace. Then I let my eyes fall on my daughter’s sleeping face.

‘Are you all right?’ Tom asks.

I nod. ‘Just happy to be home.’ Then I close my eyes and drift back to sleep.

When I wake again, Tom and Grace are gone and so are the bottles. I touch my breast. I’d been hoping to hear her cry when she woke, planning to feed her myself, desperate for a moment of closeness before I went into work. The pump makes me feel like a cow hooked to a machine, wondering where its calf has gone. Breastfeeding is comfort and love and I’d needed that this morning. Anger squirms in my belly and I clench my fists.

‘Will it matter in six weeks?’ I mutter. ‘Am I being unreasonable?’ I exhale. Of course I am. Tom is letting me sleep in, knowing it means I’ll have to work late, leaving him to do bedtime alone again. He doesn’t know I’m still full after producing sixteen ounces. ‘He was being a good guy.’ I sit up. ‘And you’re being ungrateful.’

I spot my dressing gown on the back of the door and smile. I’d left it on the kitchen chair the day before so Tom must have brought it up. I check the time: it’s nine. Tom’s been looking after Grace for at least three hours. I should get up. If I hustle, I can catch the half-past train, but I crave Grace like a junkie. If I spend half an hour with her now, I can still get into work before the 11 a.m. meeting.

I slip my arms into my robe, tie it closed and find my slippers. I hesitate for a moment, wanting to go and find my baby, but my mouth tastes like yesterday’s McDonald’s and I need to clean my teeth. I do as Tom suggested and clean them twice. Then I pad downstairs.

I find Tom and Grace in the living room. Grace is in her baby bouncer and Tom is on the sofa with one arm over his face.

‘Hi,’ I whisper, suddenly hoarse, and Grace catches sight of me. Her eyes shine and she babbles wildly, lifting her arms and clutching her hands as if she can grasp me from the doorway and carry me to her.

Instantly, I’m on my knees beside her, barely aware of moving across the room. I scoop her up and hold her tightly, putting my nose against the patch of warm skin behind her ear and inhaling: Johnson & Johnson baby cream, sleep sweat and something indefinably baby, uniquely Grace. One day I’ll reach for that smell and it’ll be gone. I want to cry at the thought.

I teeter on the precipice of the anxiety that’s gripped me for months. The feeling that every moment with Grace is rushing away from me and the terror that any second, she’ll be taken: first by Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, then by other illnesses, accidents, some grasping stranger, time itself. It is all going too fast; she is changing too fast. She’ll be at preschool before I know it. I gasp.

Her hair is soft against my forehead, her skin like cream.

Grace wriggles, pushing against my chin, gurgling and babbling as she berates me for being so late, and regales me with incomprehensible tales of all the things I’ve missed.

I peer past her to see Tom grinning at me. He’s missed my moment of vertiginous terror, thank goodness. ‘She’s missed you.’

I smile.

‘She’s been annoyed all morning, desperate to go upstairs and find you. Maybe she’ll forgive me now.’ He sits up. ‘I called your office and told them you wouldn’t be in today. Is that okay?’

I nod, relief unwinding in my gut.

‘Do you want a coffee?’

I nod again. ‘Almond milk, remember.’

‘I know.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘I’m not a complete idiot.’

‘Sorry.’ I stroke Grace’s back, letting my fingers linger on her warm neck. ‘Coffee would be great.’

Tom leaves us alone together. There had been a time a few months back when he’d watched me like a spy in a Bond film, driving me crazy … crazier I suppose. But now he trusts that I won’t break; even after last night, he trusts it. Or rather he believes in the drugs. I glance at the kitchen. He isn’t peering around the door at us while the kettle boils. In fact, I can see him looking at his phone, probably checking the football scores. Trusting me.

I smile into Grace’s hair and she grabs mine and yanks it hard enough to make me wince. I detangle it from her fist.

‘Mummy’s fault. I should have tied it back.’ I push it behind one shoulder. ‘What did you tell the office?’ I call as I tickle her tummy and she squeals out a giggle.

Tom sticks his head around the door. ‘Migraine.’ He gestures. ‘Gives you a day off with no awkward questions.’

Another smooth lie told for my benefit. I can hardly object. ‘Thank you.’ I tilt my chin towards the clock. ‘I could have gone in. I was thinking about the ten o’clock train.’

He shakes his head. ‘Not today.’ He vanishes for a moment and returns with a coffee cup. ‘I’ll put it up here, so she can’t get hold of it.’

‘How would she get hold of it?’ I frown.

‘She’s starting to pull herself up.’ As if she has heard him, Grace wriggles out of my grip, reaches for the coffee table and hauls herself, wobbling, onto her pudgy little feet.

I watch, open-mouthed. ‘Is that normal? Should she be doing that already?’

Tom looks like he’s won the lottery. ‘She’s going to be a runner, like her dad.’

‘I missed the first time. Did you video it?’

Tom bites his lip. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s okay.’ I focus on Grace. She is grinning at me. Showing two front teeth and a reddened gum; teething again. I smile. ‘Yes, you’re very clever, baby.’

She thumps back onto her padded bottom and reaches for Frankie-Lion.

‘I …’ I look up at Tom and take a deep breath. ‘I know we said it made most sense for me to be the one to go back to work. I know we said you should stay at home with her and that you could do that course … but …’

‘But it’s killing you.’ Tom kneels beside me and the scent of his shower gel tickles my shrivelled libido. ‘I can see that.’

‘What can we do?’ I laugh bitterly. ‘We can barely afford the bills on my salary. Move into an even smaller place?’

Grace smacks a button on her bouncer and Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star twangs into the air.

Tom touches my shoulder. ‘Your health’s the most important thing. I’ll sign up with a recruitment agent on Monday, see what’s out there. I can do coursework in the evenings.’ He looks at Grace, his expression regretful. He doesn’t want to leave her any more than I do, and he doesn’t want to go back to office work, but one of us has to. I rest my cheek on his hand. He touches my hair. ‘I still think it’s crazy you won’t ask your mum for help. Wouldn’t she loan us enough so you can have a breather? Just a few months of mortgage payments would ease the burden. You could go back to work when you’re ready.’

I flinch. ‘She does help. She takes Grace one day a week so you can write. That saves us a fortune in nursery fees. And she’s already given us—’

‘It doesn’t have to be a gift. We could make it a loan, draw up a repayment plan. Neil will spunk legalese all over it, if we ask him.’

‘So, Neil would know we need a loan from Mum.’ I stiffen and he pulls away.

‘Just think about it?’ He focuses on me with that look, the one that says I’m his whole world. The one I’d do anything for. His eyelids crinkle. ‘Even if I go back to work tomorrow, I wouldn’t be earning as much as you.’

‘And it would be another job you hate.’ I sigh. ‘What about your parents? Wouldn’t Charlie and June—’

Tom squeezes my shoulder. ‘They would if they could. If they had any money at all, they’d give it to us.’

‘So why won’t my mum?’ I add the unspoken sentence. ‘I just don’t like to ask. She’s been on her own since Dad … you know. She needs financial security. That cushion helps her feel safe. I can’t take that away, even if it’s only borrowing it for a while.’

‘I do get it, Bridge. But at some point, you have to ask yourself which is worse: asking your mum for a loan, which she honestly can afford to give us, or going to work when all you want is to be home with Grace?’

I wipe my face, I’m leaking like a tap, more tears. ‘If she offered, I’d take it, but asking her for money … it feels wrong.’

‘Just think about it.’ Tom hands another block to Grace who bangs it on the first one and grins up at him. They’re so alike.

Tom reaches over my head and picks the remote off the table. ‘I know we don’t usually, but would it kill her to have a bit of Paw Patrol?’

Grace has already seen the remote and she knows what it means. She yells excitedly at the television until Tom pushes the button and the screen lights up.

‘I thought we’d agreed the TV doesn’t work in the mornings,’ I say, and he shrugs.

‘It doesn’t … usually.’

‘Tom …’

‘Look how happy she is.’

And she is. She crawls into Tom’s lap as she watches, mesmerised, one fist in her mouth, the other clutching Frankie. I roll my eyes and focus on the mantra Aunt Gillian gave me to help me through my teenage years. ‘Will it matter –’

‘– in six weeks’ time?’ Tom finishes and I laugh.

‘It might.’

‘It won’t, honestly. A couple of episodes of Paw Patrol won’t send her square-eyed.’

I sigh and watch for a moment, the bright colours on the screen an incomprehensible blur. My thoughts return to the night before and I pull my phone from my dressing gown pocket.

Tom frowns, ‘What are you doing?’

‘I just want to check the news.’ I look at him. ‘Is that okay?’

His face tightens. ‘Are you sure? Now? In front of Grace?’

‘I need to know.’

‘Fair enough, but it’s still early, don’t be surprised if there’s nothing.’

I lean against his shoulder and scroll through the BBC website.

Politics, which I have to avoid unless I want to spiral into further depression. An over-tired lorry driver has caused a pile-up on the M5, two dead. Another stabbing. A celebrity I’ve barely heard of has got engaged. Yet another store I like is going into administration. That footballer is being arraigned. I keep scrolling down past more celebrity news and into sport.

I frown. Tom glances at me. ‘Nothing? Told you it was too early.’

I ignore him, my fingers tapping: kidnapping, train station.

The most recent article that pops up is about a three-year-old boy taken from a platform in India in 2017. Kept for four days by a drug addict. No-one was caught. Nothing about last night.

Although my fingers itch to hit refresh and keep hitting it until I get answers, I lay the phone on the table and reach for my coffee.

The doorbell rings.

Tom looks at his watch. ‘Who could that be?’

‘Stay there.’ I struggle to my feet, leaving Tom with Grace. ‘It’ll be the postman or something. I’ll deal with it.’

I pull my dressing gown tighter as I reach the door and open it. Then I stand with my mouth slightly ajar. Tired, cold, exposed.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.