by C. L. Taylor
‘Sure.’ His uncle fumbles in his inside pocket then snaps open a glasses case.
Gareth puts on the specs then looks back down at the photo. He blinks, his brain struggling to process what he’s seeing. There’s a girl sitting cross-legged on the grass playing with a doll, but that’s not the child he can’t stop staring at. He’s transfixed by the taller girl with the blonde hair, pushing a wheelbarrow holding a dark-haired little boy.
‘Georgia?’
He hears the creak of Tony’s chair as he stands up, then feels the weight of his uncle’s body pressing into him as he looks over his shoulder at the photo.
‘Who’s Georgia? That’s your mum there, with the dolly.’ Tony traces a bitten fingernail over the glass. ‘And that’s me in the wheelbarrow. And that tall one with the long blonde hair, that’s our Ruth.’
As Gareth stares at the photo he hears DC Forbes’s voice ringing in his ears: ‘Not via the front door, anyway.’
The second postcard wasn’t posted through the letter box. It came through the unlocked back door.
‘Gareth!’ Kath calls as he jogs down the path to the school gates where she’s waiting for him. ‘Gareth what’s going on?’
He touches a hand to her elbow and angles her towards the reception of Pero’s Academy. The playground is deserted and his voice rings out on the quiet South Bristol street. ‘We need to find Georgia.’
She shakes him off. ‘Not until you tell me what’s going on.’
He stares at her, trying to work out why she’s so angry. All he said when he rang was, ‘Where’s Georgia?’ After she told him she was at drama club at school he stuttered, ‘I’ll meet you there,’ and hung up. Maybe it’s because he didn’t answer the phone when she rang him back. He could hear his mobile ringing in his coat pocket as he sprinted down the corridors of the hospital and out into the car park, but he didn’t stop to answer it. He didn’t have time to talk; he had to get across town.
‘Gareth!’ Kath says again. ‘What’s going on? I thought Georgia had been in an accident or something. You scared me half to death. She’s fine by the way. She sent me a text.’
‘I need to talk to her.’
‘Why? What’s going on?’
‘I worked it out,’ he gasps. ‘When you came round with the lasagne yesterday, Georgia knew where our toilet was without asking but she’s never been in our house before. At least that’s what I thought.’
‘What?’
‘I think she’s been coming round to see Mum after school, climbing over your fence and going in the back door. Georgia looks just like my auntie Ruth when she was a little girl and … Kath, we need to find your daughter. I think she knows where Mum’s gone.’
‘Could you sit down please and let me speak to Georgia’s mum.’
Jane, the woman behind the counter in the school office shoots Gareth daggers and points to three royal-blue padded chairs on the other side of the room. Reluctantly, Gareth does as he’s told. He’s already tried twice to explain why it’s imperative that Georgia Curwen is taken out of drama club immediately. And twice he’s been told to sit down.
He sits forward in his seat, forearms on his knees, all his attention focused on Kath in her black beautician’s tunic and white slacks, but he can’t hear a word she’s saying. As he watches, Kath gestures several times towards the door to their right, a door that leads into the school, and to Georgia. Only one person – a teacher probably, from the lanyard around her neck – has walked through it in the last five minutes.
The school office woman shakes her head and points a finger at her screen. Whatever Kath just asked her, the answer is no. Gareth takes his phone out of his pocket. No texts or emails from Sgt Read and no update about his mum on the Avon and Somerset Constabulary Facebook page either. His thumb hovers over Sgt Read’s contact number. If the police turned up he’s pretty certain they’d get him into the school.
He turns his head as the locked door opens and a woman and a small figure in an oversized navy uniform walk into reception. But the girl, chin down, fingers fiddling with the hem of her blazer, isn’t Georgia. He’s never seen her before.
He moves to stand up, then slumps back as Kath shoots him a look. She speaks to the woman for several minutes, then crouches so her eyeline is the same as the girl’s and asks her a question. Gareth strains to listen but Jane is banging away at her keyboard, making it hard for him to hear.
‘What?’ Kath’s sharp tone cut through the noise. ‘She’s gone where?’
As the girl shrinks even further into herself, Kath stands up and glares at the women in the school office. ‘If anything’s happened to my daughter … This is a school, for God’s sake. You’re supposed to keep her safe!’
Chapter 46
Ursula
Ursula stares at her belongings, piled up against one wall of her bedroom. She’s not thinking about how many trips up and down the stairs it will take her to load them into her van or where she’ll go once she’s all packed up. She’s thinking about Nicki, sitting on the hard plastic chair in the curtain-lined hospital cubicle with Bess on her knee. She’s thinking about the grave face of the doctor as she removed the blanket from the child’s shoulders. She’s thinking about the way Nicki crumpled when Bess was taken out of her arms and the tears that squeezed through her blue-black eyes.
‘Please don’t take her off me. Please, please.’
Ursula crouched beside her, one arm round her shoulder, as the doctor gently explained that she wasn’t taking Bess anywhere, she just needed to examine her.
‘I should have … I should have …’ Nicki didn’t take her eyes off her daughter for one second as the doctor laid her on the bed and ran her fingers over the child’s arms, legs and spine. ‘He could have killed her and I … I …’
Ursula squeezed Nicki’s hand as she rocked back and forth on the chair. ‘It wasn’t your fault. Nicki, look at me. It wasn’t your fault. She’s safe now. They’re going to look after her. It’s over. You’re both safe.’
She stayed with Nicki and Bess until a uniformed police officer and a woman called Laura from Social Services turned up. Ursula spoke to them outside the curtained cubicle and told them all she knew. All the while, her mobile was buzzing in her pocket. When she finally checked it, when Laura was talking to Nicki alone, there were five text messages from Ed:
Please don’t leave any food stuff in the kitchen.
Please ensure you take your possessions only.
Any theft or additional damage done to the property will be reported to the police.
After you leave, lock the front door and post the keys through the letter box.
I want you out by the time I get back at 7p.m. If you’re not out by then you’ll find your stuff in the front garden.
Seven o’clock. That was in less than two hours’ time. She didn’t know what to do. She wanted to stay with Nicki but everything she owned was in the back bedroom of number fifteen William Street and she knew Ed would make good on his threat. She was going to have to go. When she broke the news to Nicki she braced herself for tears, or worse, but Nicki simply nodded.
‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘for everything.’
A look passed between the two women. No more words were needed. Nicki’s soft smile said more than enough.
Now, Ursula wipes the tears from her cheeks with the heels of her hands and forces herself up and off her bed. Nicki’s safe. Bess is safe. Now she’s got to look after herself. She reaches for one of the black bags lying against the wall and hauls it over her shoulder, then grabs a suitcase with her free hand. She makes it halfway across the room when the doorbell rings.
‘Bollocks.’ She drops her things and hurries down the stairs. The postman hasn’t delivered a single thing for her since she moved in and if a charity collector is expecting her to give them money she’ll laugh in their face.
‘Hel—’ The second half of the word catches in her throat as she opens the door and Paul Wilson stares back.
&nb
sp; ‘Where is she?’
One moment Ursula is standing by the front door, the next she’s stumbling backwards down the hall as she’s shoved hard in the chest. She puts a hand out to the wall to stop herself from falling and feels a sharp pain in her ring finger as her fingernail catches and rips clean off.
‘Where are they?’ Paul kicks the door shut behind him. ‘Where’s Nicki? Where’s my kid?’
‘They’re not here.’ Her heel catches against the bottom step of the stairs and she falls, her cocyx grazing the hard wooden step. In a heartbeat she’s moving again, frantically scrabbling backwards, socks slipping against the carpet as she tries to get back on her feet. As she half-runs, half-crawls up the stairs she can hear Paul behind her, breathing heavily, each step a weighty creak.
She makes it through the door of her bedroom, then something – a hand or a fist – hits her squarely between the shoulder blades and she’s knocked clean off her feet. Her fingertips graze her mattress, then her knees hit the carpet with a thud.
‘Where is she, Ursula?’ His hand wraps around her face and something papery is pressed into her eyes and her nose. ‘I found your little note by the phone.’
His hand releases her and she opens her eyes. The piece of paper she gave Nicki with her name, phone number and address is lying crumpled on top of the mattress. Less than six inches away from it is her mobile.
‘Oh no you don’t.’ Her head jerks back as Paul yanks at her hair and when she glances back at the mattress her phone is gone. ‘Where’s … my … fucking … family?’
He shoves the back of her head so she’s bent over the bed, her face pressed into the rough, dusty mattress. She twists and she flails, palms pressed against the bed as she tries to lever herself away from him, to get her head from under his hand, but his fingers are threaded through her hair and no matter which way she moves, she can’t escape.
‘Where’d you take them? The police station? Her mum’s? To a fucking shelter?’
Ursula tries to think of something, anything, she can say to stop him from repeatedly bashing her face into the mattress but the waves of pain coursing from her scalp to her shoulders have paralysed her brain and all she can do is screw her eyes tightly shut and wait for it to end.
‘Or are they here?’
His fingers loosen in her hair and the pressure on the back of her head suddenly lifts.
‘Is that why you’re not talking? Have you hidden them away?’
She hears the creak of a floorboard but she remains bent over the bed, her nose pressed into the grubby cotton. He’s playing with her. If she speaks or turns or moves, he’ll attack her again. She begins to count in her head:
One.
Two.
Three.
She hears another creak, then another, then the clack of a leather-soled shoe hitting wooden boards. He’s left the bedroom. He’s walking along the landing, whistling softly to himself.
She jumps at the sound of a door slamming open. He’s reached the bathroom. He’s looking inside.
She slowly lifts her face from the mattress, her skin pulsing and throbbing. She’s got two options: lock herself in the bedroom, or run for it. But the padlock is on the other side of the door and she’s doesn’t trust the thin safety catch to keep her safe. Run, then. If Paul’s passed the bathroom she could make it. She could slip out of her room before he can catch her, peg it down the stairs and out the front door. She needs to go now, while she still can.
She grips the mattress and slowly, slowly rocks back from her knees to her feet. She eases herself up, teeth gritted as she pulls herself up to her full height. She listens, all the muscles in her body tight, primed, ready to run.
Silence.
She pivots slowly so she’s facing the open bedroom door.
Why has Paul stopped walking? Where is he? She holds herself very still, listening, trying to work out where he is. She can feel him, sense him in the shallow air she’s sucking into her lungs. He’s still on the top floor of the house, he’s not far away.
The muscles in the back of her knees loosen as she stares through the open doorway to the top of the stairs and she feels herself sag. What if she doesn’t get away? What if he grabs her as she leaves the room? What if he pushes her down the stairs? She looks back at the window. She could get there before him. She might even be able to open it and scream. But then what? He could kill her before anyone had time to get help.
‘You.’ She turns sharply to find Paul in the doorway with a knife in his right hand. He crooks the index finger of his other hand. ‘Come with me.’
‘Last chance,’ Paul says as Ursula crouches down where she’s been told to sit, in the small gap between the doorway to Edward’s room and the banister that runs along the landing. ‘Where’s the key?’
She shakes her head. ‘It’s not my room, I told you.’
He takes a step back, hands raised. ‘We’ll see.’
Ursula squeezes her elbows closer to her waist, presses her chin into her chest and cradles her head in her hands. She braces herself for impact.
SMACK!
Paul’s foot makes contact with Ed’s bedroom door. She feels the wall shake behind her, but the door holds.
SMACK!
Paul kicks it again.
SMACK!
SMACK!
SMACK!
She hears the sound of wood splintering and wonders if the noise is carrying out to the street. Even if it does, she can’t imagine anyone calling the police.
As Paul continues to kick at Ed’s bedroom door she tries to work out what to do. Once he’s in he’ll realise that Nicki and Bess aren’t there and he’ll turn his attention back to her. There’s no way she’s going to tell him that she took them to the hospital. Should she lie? Tell him she took them to a shelter? No, he’d want her to take him there. The police, she decides, she should tell him she took them to a police station instead.
SMACK!
SMACK!
SMACK!
She sees one of Paul’s black shoes move towards her through the crook of her elbow. He’s stopped kicking and he’s breathing heavily, puffing through his nose. When he grunts she looks up sharply and her arms fall away from her knees as she prepares to defend herself. But Paul’s not interested in her. He’s pressed up against the door, one arm reaching through a gap in the splintered wood, the other hand hanging loosely by his side, still clutching the knife. It’s close enough that Ursula could reach up and grab it. But then what? Even if she could get it out from his fingers she’s pinned between the banister and his legs.
‘Fucking yes.’ There’s the clicking sound of a lock being turned and Ursula puts her hands on the floorboards, ready to scrabble to her feet.
Paul steps away from her as he pushes open the door to Ed’s room. There’s one second, two seconds, three seconds of silence then.
‘What the fucking hell is that?’
As Paul steps inside Edward’s bedroom, Ursula slowly uncurls. She could run. If she takes off now she might be able to make it down the stairs and to the front door before he caught up with her, but she might not. And he’s still got the knife. The door to her bedroom is ajar. She might be able to cross the landing to her room before Paul caught up with her, but then what? Even if she put the safety chain across he’d kick his way in. She stands up slowly, tensing as the floorboards creak under her weight, then risks a glance to her right, into Ed’s room. She can see a window, a chest of drawers and Paul, standing in the centre of the room with the knife hanging limp in his right hand. He’s staring, mouth agape, at something on the wall. Something she can’t see.
Paul senses her watching and turns his head sharply. Ursula tenses, preparing to run, but then she sees the expression on his face. His eyes flick back towards the wall, but not for more than a split second before his gaze returns to her face. Whatever is on that wall has unnerved him.
‘Who are you?’ he asks.
When Ursula doesn’t immediately reply, Paul wipes his palm
s on his suit trousers then drags his gaze away from her and turns on the spot, slowly surveying Ed’s room.
‘What is it?’ he asks. ‘Some kind of undercover operation? Surveillance?’
The urge to step into the room and discover for herself what’s on the wall is more than Ursula can bear but she doesn’t move a muscle. She doesn’t trust what she’s seeing, this sudden emotional switch. He’s faking fear. He’s trying to lure her into Edward’s room so he can hurt her. There’s no way he’s going to leave the house until she’s told him where Nikki and Bess are.
‘Is it all a ruse?’ Paul asks. ‘The courier thing?’
A small frown buries itself between Ursula’s eyebrows as she tries to follow his line of thought. What does he think is going on in Edward’s bedroom and who does he think she is?
‘Why aren’t you saying anything?’ Paul says. He moves over to the window and looks outside. ‘You got backup coming or something? The rest of your team?’
And then Ursula understands. He thinks the house is a front for an undercover operation. That’s why he’s sweating and rubbing his hands together. He thinks he just assaulted a police officer. He’s absolutely shitting himself. Things could go two ways now. He’ll either kill her – if she’s dead she can’t ‘report him’ – or he’ll run. Her gut instinct tells her that he’ll run – he’s a coward at heart – but what if she’s wrong?
She doesn’t give herself time for second guesses. Instead she pulls up to her full six foot three and takes a step into the room, her heart thundering in her chest. As she does she catches a glimpse of the wall and a gasp catches in her throat. She smothers it with a cough and Paul, still at the window, turns.
‘Paul Wilson,’ Ursula says, ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of actual bodily harm. You do not have to say anything but—’
She doesn’t get to finish the rest of the sentence. As Paul rushes towards her she takes a step to her left, giving him just enough space to get through the doorway, then she turns and watches as he sprints across the landing, down the stairs and through the open front door.
