Deliver Me

by Karen Cole

  ‘Have you made it clear that you don’t want him to contact you?’

  ‘I did.’ She shows him the message she sent when she was at Alex’s flat.

  ‘Good. That’s good. Though I would avoid incendiary language like “freak”, and getting into a conversation with him is a bad idea. He may take that as encouragement.’ He sighs. ‘So, the first thing I suggest is that you change your phone number. And then you give the new number back out, one person at a time, to the people closest to you first. Don’t tell anyone why you’re doing it, not even your closest friends. That way, when or if the messages start again, we’ll be able to work out who your stalker is. The second thing you should do is keep anything you receive from this guy and keep a record of when and where you receive it. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ Abby nods.

  He smiles kindly. ‘So, do you want me to contact RASSO?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry, the Rape and Serious Sexual Offences Unit.’

  Abby imagines a sceptical detective, lots of intrusive questions, and a terrifying physical examination. She can’t bear the idea of someone prodding and poking her, asking her more questions, judging her. And, as PC Whittaker says, it will probably all be for nothing as it happened so long ago and there are no witnesses.

  ‘No, thanks,’ she says. ‘I’d rather wait and see if we can find out who sent me the messages first.’ When she finds her stalker, she’ll have her rapist, and the police can do a DNA test to prove it.

  PC Whittaker frowns. ‘We can send someone round to your house if you don’t feel comfortable going to the unit.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Abby repeats firmly.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure . . . Would you like me to put you in contact with a counsellor?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’ So now he thinks she’s crazy. Great. He probably thinks she’s making this whole thing up.

  He sighs and hands her a card. ‘Well, this is my number. Don’t hesitate to contact me any time if you’re worried or if you receive any more messages.’ He stands up and ushers her out of the office, his hand resting lightly on her back. ‘Leave it with me – I’ll see what I can do.’

  Abby walks out through the car park and onto the high street. She feels strangely discouraged by the whole interview. PC Whittaker was polite and sympathetic, and he went through the motions because he has to, she thinks, but she’s not sure how seriously he took her about the rape. He probably thinks she’s some slut who got drunk and knocked up at a party.

  She heads through the town square. All the market stalls are set up and there are too many people milling around for Abby’s liking. The thought that her stalker could be somewhere amongst them makes her feel dizzy with fear. She pushes her way through the jostling crowd and emerges on the other side as if she’s coming up for air. At least PC Whittaker made a show of taking her seriously, she thinks. And his advice about only giving out her number to a few people wasn’t such a bad one.

  She stops at the corner. There’s no time like the present. Turning around, she heads back towards the phone shop.

  Twenty-Two

  ‘I can’t find any record of your previous scans . . .’ The sonographer shuffles some papers, frowning. She looks flustered. A strand of her grey-brown hair has come loose from her ponytail and is falling across her face; her tanned weather-beaten cheeks are flushed.

  ‘That’s because I haven’t had any,’ says Abby.

  It’s been a week since she went to the police, and Abby has come with Ellie to the hospital. She’s lying on the couch with her maternity trousers rolled down over her hips and her shirt lifted, her stomach protruding in the air like a mountain, while Ellie sits in a chair by her side, her hands clasped as if she’s praying. Abby’s hoping to get this over with quickly. The whole thing is making her very uncomfortable and filling her with a sense of unease she can’t really articulate.

  ‘Oh? Okay . . .’ The sonographer looks surprised. ‘Your doctor should have offered you a scan at fourteen weeks. Well, anyway, better late than never.’ She tucks her hair behind her ear. ‘This will feel a little cold,’ she says. She rubs gel on Abby’s stomach, then picks up her probe and runs it over Abby’s round, taut skin. Like magic, a grainy black and white image appears on the monitor next to the bed. At first, it’s hard to make out because the image shifts and morphs like a picture in the sand, but after a few seconds Abby can make out ribs and a hand, and Abby draws in her breath as the whole image comes into sharp focus.

  ‘Wow,’ says Ellie, clapping her hand to her mouth. ‘That’s your baby, Abby.’ Tears are already welling up in her eyes and the sonographer laughs and hands her some tissues. ‘It should be the mother crying, not her sister.’

  For just a second, Abby feels the excitement too. It’s hard not to be excited when confronted by the miracle of life. For a second she forgets everything, and she’s a normal mother with a normal baby. Then the reality of her situation comes crashing back. This baby is an invader – a Trojan horse put there by her enemy. She doesn’t want it. She turns away, tears welling up in her eyes.

  ‘Now it’s Mum’s turn.’ The sonographer smiles, misinterpreting the reason for her tears. ‘It’s an emotional moment, isn’t it?’

  She moves the probe around, pressing hard in places and clicking on the computer. ‘Everything seem to be in order,’ she says at last.

  ‘Are you sure?’ asks Ellie anxiously.

  ‘Yes, as sure as I can be.’ The sonographer smiles at Abby. ‘Would you like to know the sex of your baby?’

  ‘Why not?’ Abby shrugs. What does it matter, boy or girl? It’s all the same to her. She’s not going to keep it.

  The sonographer moves the probe around some more, then fixes it in one spot. ‘Well,’ she says. ‘We can never be a hundred per cent sure, but I’m fairly certain you’re expecting a baby girl.’

  Ellie squeezes Abby’s hand. ‘A baby girl,’ she whispers, ‘A perfect little baby girl – a little Abigail.’

  Abby tries to smile for Ellie’s sake, but inside she feels numb.

  ‘Girls are great,’ says the sonographer. ‘I should know – I’ve had three of them. Though they can be a nightmare when they’re teenagers.’

  ‘There’s one other thing,’ she says as Abby pulls down her top and sits up. ‘Your due date is the twenty-third of September, right?’

  ‘Er . . . yes.’ Abby has memorized the date of her delivery. It’s her delivery in more ways than one. The date she will finally be free again.

  ‘How sure are you about that date?’

  ‘Fairly sure,’ Abby says, surprised. ‘Why?’

  ‘From the size and development of the baby, I would have estimated a bit earlier.’ The sonographer laughs and shrugs. ‘But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Scans in the third trimester are not that accurate for dating. And besides, only five per cent of women actually give birth on their due date.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ says Abby. She stands up and picks up her bag. Ellie and the sonographer are both beaming at her as if she’s just won the lottery or run a marathon, and all she wants to do is scream.

  *

  ‘A girl!’ exclaims Ellie as they drive back from the hospital. ‘Now we can begin some serious shopping. Let’s stop off in town. There’s a cute little baby boutique just opened next to the coffee shop.’

  ‘I can’t afford a baby boutique,’ says Abby. ‘Let’s just go home.’

  ‘I’ll treat you,’ says Ellie. ‘Please let me, Abby.’

  Abby hasn’t seen Ellie this happy in a long time, and she finds herself agreeing, even though she’s never going to need baby clothes.

  Little Me is a small boutique at the far end of town, the kind of shop Abby normally avoids: small, and ridiculously expensive, with overzealous shop assistants who watch you like a hawk. But Ellie is on a mission and Abby find
s herself in there, unfolding babygrows and pretending to examine them while Ellie happily rifles through racks of tiny dresses.

  Afterwards, they go for a coffee in the Swan Yard and sit outside at wooden tables in the sunshine. The café is full of people, and the tables haven’t been cleaned. Abby waits at the one free table while Ellie goes to the counter and orders them coffee. She looks around self-consciously. She’s become suspicious of crowds. The messages have stopped since she changed her phone number and she hasn’t received any flowers, but she can’t shake the feeling that he’s still there, somewhere, watching her.

  ‘I got you a latte – hope that’s okay,’ says Ellie plonking down the tray on the table. She picks up the dress she has bought out of the paper bag. It’s wrapped in tissue paper – cream-coloured silk with pink and green embroidered flowers around the collar.

  ‘Isn’t this adorable?’

  Abby smiles faintly.

  ‘You know, Abby, I’ve been thinking about your situation,’ says Ellie, with forced brightness. She folds the dress reverently and places it back in the bag. ‘I know it’s not going to be easy for you to manage by yourself, but we’re here for you. I don’t want you to worry about anything. If you want to have a break from work to look after the baby, that will be fine. Rob and I will support you financially, and with the money from Dad . . .’

  ‘That’s very kind of you but—’

  ‘We can redo the spare room, make it into a nursery, or you can move in there and we can use your room as a nursery . . . We can . . .’

  Ellie carries on, tripping over her words in her enthusiasm. Each word seems like a strand in a web that’s going to trap Abby inside. She can’t let Ellie carry on talking. She can’t stand it anymore. She has to let her know the truth.

  ‘I’m not keeping the baby,’ she blurts.

  Ellie doesn’t answer immediately. Her hand freezes on the coffee cup just before it reaches her lips.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m going to give it up for adoption.’

  Ellie takes a slow, careful sip of coffee. Her expression is suddenly watchful, as if Abby is a wild creature she mustn’t startle. ‘What? Why?’

  Abby sighs and picks up her coffee cup ‘Isn’t it obvious? I’m just not ready to look after a baby. I’ve only just learned how look after myself. I mean, I didn’t ask for this baby. I don’t want it. I don’t even know who the father is. He raped me. It makes me feel sick just to think about it.’

  ‘Abby, you don’t seriously think you were raped, do you? You didn’t even know you’d had sex, so how could you possibly know that you’ve been raped?’

  ‘I know but . . .’

  Ellie smiles. She’s not really listening to Abby. ‘You’ll change your mind, I know you will, as soon as you see her sweet little face . . .’

  Abby doesn’t answer, swallowing her annoyance. How can she tell her that she hates the baby – that she feels nothing but resentment for this little parasite inside her?

  Twenty-Three

  It doesn’t matter what Ellie says, Abby is not going to change her mind about giving the baby up for adoption. To prove this to herself, she’s booked an appointment with an Adoption Counsellor, and she arranges for her to come to the house on a Saturday when Rob and Ellie are out, visiting Rob’s family in Devon. They’ll have to know about it sooner or later of course, but right now Abby can do without having to explain her decision.

  All morning it’s been dark and stormy, and Abby stands by the window watching the lightning and the driving rain as the counsellor pulls into the driveway in a small red Mini. She stands shaking her umbrella and laughing loudly on the doorstep as Abby opens the door.

  ‘Oh, Lordy what a day! Hi, you must be Abigail. My name is Christine, but you can call me Chrissie.’ She steps out of the rain and hands Abby her coat. She’s comfortably plump and dark-skinned, with wiry greying hair, an easy, professional warmth and a loud belly laugh that Abby finds disarming.

  ‘You look well,’ she says with a chuckle as Abby shows her into the living room. ‘When I was pregnant I looked like a whale, but you’ve got a neat little bump.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Abby doesn’t feel ‘neat’ – she feels heavy and cumbersome – but it’s nice of Chrissie to say so. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’

  *

  ‘So, Abigail, you’re interested in adoption?’ says Chrissie, after Abby has brought her a cup of herbal tea. She perches on the edge of the sofa, smoothing her skirt.

  ‘Yes,’ Abby says firmly. ‘I’m not just interested, I know that it’s what I want.’

  ‘Do you mind me asking why?’

  Abby does mind her asking, but can’t very well say so. ‘The father is out of the picture,’ she says. ‘And I’m not really in a position to look after a baby.’

  ‘I see.’ Chrissie nods, and gives her a sympathetic but shrewd look which makes Abby wonder if the laughter and bustle is all a bit of an act.

  ‘So where do we start?’ she asks, impatient to get on. ‘Do I have to sign any papers?’

  Chrissie laughs. ‘Not yet,’ she says. ‘Slow down. You have several different options to consider. Perhaps it’s best I run through the process and all your different options first.’ She starts to outline the procedure, which seems surprisingly complicated. Abby listens impatiently at first but then drifts off, staring out the window at the rain until something Chrissie says catches her attention.

  ‘You can choose to have some contact with the child or none at all . . .’

  ‘Oh, I don’t want any contact,’ Abby says quickly. Too quickly. Chrissie gives a little sharp look. ‘I see,’ she says evenly. ‘Then there’s the adoptive family. You can usually have a say about the type of family that adopts your baby.’

  Abby hasn’t even considered this. ‘What do you mean exactly?’

  ‘Well . . . religion, race, education, hobbies. That kind of thing. Usually people want the adoptive family to be as similar to them as possible.’

  Abby shrugs. She hasn’t even thought beyond handing the baby over. ‘I don’t really care. I just want a family that’s loving and kind. That’s all.’

  Chrissie smiles. ‘Good answer. That’s the most important thing, isn’t it? You can rest assured, all the families on our books have gone through a rigorous screening process. The vast majority have an awful lot of love to give. When you’re ready, we can send you video profiles of families we think are suitable.’

  ‘I’m ready now,’ says Abby. ‘Can you show me some profiles now?’

  Chrissie hesitates. ‘Well, I suppose there’s no harm in taking a look.’ She takes a tablet out of her bag, switches it on and clicks on the first clip. It’s entitled ‘Joel and Maria’ and shows a happy-looking couple walking hand-in-hand up a garden path into an elegant-looking house. It shows Maria cooking with her six-year-old nephew, and then Joel and Maria walking hand-in-hand through autumn leaves. They talk about their sadness at not being able to share their life with a child of their own. The overall impression is of a wholesome, loving couple. But for Abby, their trump card is that they live in Yorkshire. Far enough away to make bumping into them once the baby is born unlikely.

  ‘I like them,’ says Abby, when the clip is finished. ‘I want them to adopt my baby.’

  Chrissie seems taken aback. ‘Well . . . Joel and Maria are a lovely couple, but don’t you want to look at some of the other profiles before you make a decision?’

  ‘No, they’re perfect,’ Abby insists. She just wants to get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible.

  ‘Well . . .’ Chrissie looks doubtful. ‘I suppose a meeting can be arranged. Nothing you decide now is final. You can change your mind after the baby is born, and up until it has lived with its adoptive parents for up to thirteen weeks.’

  ‘I’m not going to change my mind.’ Abby says firmly. ‘I alread
y know I want to give it away. Can’t we sort this out now?’

  Chrissie smiles. ‘That’s not the way it works, I’m afraid.’

  She carries on talking in her easy, comfortable way, and Abby listens, feeling increasingly frustrated. It seems as if the whole process is set up to discourage her from giving up her baby.

  ‘I can put you in touch with someone who’s been through it all, if you like,’ Chrissie says as she’s leaving. She scribbles down a name and number on the back of her card. ‘And don’t forget you can call me if you have any questions.’

  Abby stands in the doorway watching Chrissie drive off. She’d hoped to get this sorted, but it’s clearly going to be a long process.

  It’s only when she’s out of sight that Abby realizes Chrissie has left her umbrella.

  She’s reading through some of the information leaflets Chrissie has left her when the doorbell rings. Thinking it’s Chrissie back again for the umbrella she opens the door.

  ‘You forgot your . . .’

  But it’s not Chrissie.

  ‘Alex!’ exclaims Abby. ‘What are you doing here?’

  He’s standing on the doorstep, swaying. His beautiful green eyes are bloodshot and unfocused, and he looks even more dishevelled than usual, his black hair is wet and plastered to his scalp. Abby wonders if he’s been drinking or taking drugs.

  ‘Well, that’s nice, I must say,’ he slurs. ‘Do I need a reason to visit my girlfriend?’

  Abby winces slightly at the word ‘girlfriend’. Whoever said she was his girlfriend? But she lets it go. He looks in the mood for an argument and she doesn’t want to start one. ‘Of course not,’ she says evenly, taking his coat. ‘Come in.’

  As he brushes past her into the living room, she catches a definite whiff of alcohol. ‘Have you been drinking?’ she asks.

  ‘I may have. What of it?’ He looks around the room and picks up a photograph of Ellie and Rob on their wedding day. ‘This your sister?’ he asks. ‘She doesn’t look much like you, does she?’