by Suzy K Quinn
We’re nearing the ferry port.
Olly is beside me, gripping the steering wheel like a life buoy. Whenever I hear the word ‘distraught’ from now on, I will think of Olly’s face and know that most people misuse the word.
The petrol-gauge needle hovers over the big E for empty.
‘We need petrol,’ I say.
‘We’ll make it,’ says Olly.
‘But—’
‘The petrol doesn’t just run out when you hit empty,’ says Olly. ‘They make allowances for people who refuel at the last minute. You can get twenty miles out of the reserve. The ferry leaves in five minutes, Kate.’
‘Four minutes.’
Olly plants his foot more firmly on the accelerator and tailgates a big, swaying lorry that has planted itself in the fast lane.
‘Come on, come on!’ Olly beeps the horn and flashes his lights.
I grip my seat. ‘What if we run out of petrol?’
‘We won’t,’ says Olly, as we roar past the swaying tanker. ‘The port is three miles away. The fuel tank has only just hit empty. Believe it or not, I have a logical brain on my shoulders.’ He glances at me. ‘I know Lizzie painted a different picture. Highly competitive. Reckless. A womaniser. I read the court papers.’
I think back to the case notes about Olly. How Lizzie seamlessly conveyed Olly as a competitive alpha male, psychotic when provoked, without ever saying those words.
‘I’ve never even had a one-night stand,’ says Olly. ‘Elizabeth twisted everything, and I walked right into it. Ignored all the warning signs. I didn’t see what she was doing until it was too late. What a gullible idiot.’
‘She’s a manipulator, Olly,’ I say. ‘She’s probably been fooling people since childhood. Maybe she even believes it herself. Delusion is a big part of all this.’
I hear the faint sound of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, ‘Give It Away’.
Olly whips an iPhone from his back pocket. The van swerves on the road as he holds the phone against the steering wheel.
‘Mum!’ Olly shouts. ‘We’re nearly there.’
‘Put the phone down!’ I shout, gripping my seat with renewed vigour. ‘It’s illegal to hold a phone with the engine on. Not to mention dangerous. They’ve done studies. Phones affect your reaction times as much as five units of alcohol.’
Mrs Kinnock’s worried, wobbly voice comes through the speaker. ‘Don’t use your phone in the van, Olly. It’s as dangerous as drink-driving.’
‘Yes it is, Mrs Kinnock,’ I call out.
‘We’re nearly at the port, Mum.’
‘Oh God, don’t do anything stupid,’ his mother gabbles. ‘You know how Lizzie works. Don’t walk into it and make yourself look like the villain again.’
The van veers again.
‘Put the phone away, Mr Kinnock!’ I shout.
‘Gotta-go-Mum-bye.’ Olly drops the phone onto his lap. ‘Kate, she’s sixty-five years old. If I hadn’t picked up, she’d have thought something bad had happened.’
‘Would she prefer you died at the roadside?’
We reach a roundabout, but Olly barely slows down, zooming around and off at the ferry port exit. My eyes return to the petrol gauge.
‘Ferry port,’ says Olly, glancing at a sign. ‘Two miles.’
The van starts to splutter.
‘We have to make it,’ says Olly. ‘Say a prayer for us.’
‘I don’t think even God can sidestep the scientific laws of petrol consumption.’
‘Kate, I’m in hell every second of every day. Awful, gut-wrenching, nauseating pain. Indescribable. Screaming in the wind, begging people to believe me, having doors slammed in my face. And I’m one of the good guys. I recycle. God owes me big time.’
‘Have faith, Olly.’
I say a silent prayer.
We pass a sign. One mile until the port.
The spluttering is getting louder and every few seconds it sounds like the engine is cutting out.
‘It’s okay,’ Olly insists. ‘It’s okay. We’ll make it.’
But it’s not okay. I think we’re running out of petrol.
As the engine stops and starts, we pass blue freight lorries lined up in a port-side car park.
‘Please, God,’ I say. ‘Please let us make it.’
Olly drives the van straight across a mini roundabout and now we can see the blue and white ferry at the end of the road.
It is moving, slowly, slowly.
Olly roars the van down the road. He must be doing 50 mph in a 30 mph zone but I don’t challenge him.
Men appear from somewhere, shouting and waving as Olly screeches the van to a halt.
We leap out of the car, but I know it’s too late. A metre of churning green-brown water lies between the ferry and the boarding platform. The car ramp has been cranked up and the ferry is powering up its engines, blasting through the water.
‘You have to stop that ferry!’ Olly shouts at the men. ‘My son is on-board!’
When he doesn’t get a response, Olly begins stripping off, apparently about to jump into the water.
‘Don’t do anything stupid, mate.’ One of the men, short, fat and bald, hurries forward. ‘Calm down.’
‘My son!’ Olly shouts, face contorted in pain and anger.
‘You’ll drown before you catch the boat,’ I say. ‘And then you’ll be no good to anyone.’
Olly sinks to the floor, sobbing and howling, one trainer in his hand.
‘Tom might not even be on that ferry,’ I say. ‘We don’t know for certain. Maybe the police found him. Tessa was going to search through the London records. Look at other options.’
Although it’s just as likely Tessa gave up and went to bed. Getting the London records at 11 p.m. … well, that’s tricky, if not impossible.
‘The police would have called you, wouldn’t they?’ says Olly. ‘If they’d found him.’
The last tiny bit of hope drains from my body. I’ve never known failure like this – total, overwhelming failure. I don’t want to do this job any more. When we get back to England, I’m handing in my notice. Tessa’s warnings were right. You can’t care too much in this job or it tears you apart.
I’m burned out and it’s time to go.
Lizzie
‘Are you okay, Tommo?’ I put an arm around my son, holding him close.
We’re on the ferry, watching the water spill and chug around us.
This is the sort of ferry I remember going on as a child. Stressful, awkward holidays to the Hebrides with Mum and Dad. It has a café selling Scottish toffee and shortbread and bad cups of tea, with a good view.
Neither Tom nor I slept on the overnight train. Tom lay on the seat with his eyes closed, but I could tell by his breathing that he was pretending.
When we arrived at the ferry port, I made a big fuss about buying Tom a croissant. It’s so easy to be the loving mother when I have an audience.
Tom didn’t eat the croissant and I ended up throwing it in the bin. ‘Never mind, darling. You’re probably travel-sick.’
Then I dragged Tom on foot over the passenger bridge and onto the ferry.
Now we’re on the deck watching the water.
‘I’m cold,’ says Tom, teeth chattering.
Water swells and churns as the ferry sways and there’s a fine mist in the air. It’s made Tom’s face damp, I think. Or maybe he’s crying.
‘It’ll be a fresh start, okay?’ I say. ‘We’ll be safer now. Maybe we can go without medication for a bit. Things might be different.’
Tom doesn’t reply – just stares.
‘I won’t let them take you away from me, Tom,’ I say. ‘I would kill myself first. Don’t you understand that? You’re my whole world.’
‘I want to stay,’ says Tom.
‘Hush now, Tom. It’s for the best. You can’t stay here – who would take care of you?’
‘Dad.’
‘He hurt you, Tom. You’re mine, not his. I won’t ever let you leave me. N
ot ever.’
Tom goes silent then, sensing in his childlike way that I’m wandering into a place there’s no way out of.
I look up, meaning to appreciate the clear sky, the gleaming white boat, our lucky escape. But instead, I see two police officers in yellow high-vis jackets.
I put on a forced, bright voice and look down at Tom. ‘Ready for an adventure, sweetheart?’
Smile. Don’t look so frightened.
But I am frightened. The ferry hasn’t left yet – passengers are still getting on.
I didn’t take the Aberdeen ferry in the end. The port is too well-known. Someone might have guessed where we were going. Instead, Tom and I have boarded the Scrabster ferry. It’s more of a round-about route, but less traceable.
‘Mrs Kinnock?’ One of the police officers steps forward.
My grip on Tom’s hand tightens.
The police officers have the ring of Laurel and Hardy about them – one tall and skinny, the other short and fat. The short, fat one is female, her bright jacket pulled tight over a large bust.
‘Mrs Kinnock.’ A bright yellow high-visibility jacket blocks my path.
I’m a rat caught in a trap. ‘I’m not Mrs Kinnock.’ I look between the officers. One of them – the woman – has her fists clenched.
‘We’ve come to talk to you, Mrs Kinnock,’ the male police officer announces. ‘You have to get off the boat. Would you come with us, please?’
‘I’m not Mrs Kinnock.’
‘We know it’s you,’ says the policeman. ‘Tessa Warwick from Child Services traced your ticket purchase through the ferry company. If you could just come with us.’
I grasp Tom’s shoulder. ‘The police need to talk to us for a minute, okay? Nothing to worry about. And then we’ll be on our way to the Shetlands. Fresh air. Beautiful scenery. Sheep. All of that.’
‘You won’t be going anywhere, Mrs Kinnock,’ says the policeman. ‘We’re here to arrest you and take Tom into protective custody.’
I grab Tom, holding him to my body. ‘You won’t take him. This is my son. He’s part of me. I love him more than life.’
It’s a good show, and I feel the onlookers responding with pity, wondering what the police are doing to this poor, kind mother.
The short, fat policewoman steps forward, angry tears in her eyes. ‘I’ve given birth to three kids, Mrs Kinnock. Three of them. I love all of them more than life. But I’ve never given any of them medicine to make them sick.’
The man puts a hand on Tom’s shoulder. ‘It’s okay, Tom. It’s all okay. You’ll see your dad soon.’
I look between the officers, wondering if I can outrun them.
No. Not with Tom. And what am I without Tom? Nobody. Invisible.
‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ I insist.
‘Come with us, please,’ the male officer says. ‘Alison, you take Tom.’
The policewoman kneels down to Tom. ‘We’re taking you somewhere safe. All right, Tom? And then we’ll get you reunited with your dad.’
Tom’s face lights up, and I want to claw the smile back.
My feet become unsteady and I feel the hard metal gangway against my hip. ‘You can’t take him away from me,’ I say. ‘He’s my son. My son. He belongs to me!’
‘Mrs Kinnock, we have an emergency protection order,’ says the policeman.
Now I’m shouting: ‘You won’t take him away from me. You won’t take him away from me!’
The short police officer’s hand goes to the handcuffs on her belt. ‘If you could just come with us.’
There are high-pitched, animalistic screams.
Mine.
Somewhere, amid the noise, there’s a struggle. My head is pushed down, more forcibly than necessary, and I watch brown water churn under the criss-crossed metal gangway.
Olly
When the call came through, I couldn’t believe it.
‘It’s the police,’ said Kate. ‘They have Tom. Lizzie took him to a different ferry port. Scrabster. My manager, Tessa, worked it out. She’s been up all night going over all the London records. And this morning, she shouted at the ferry company until they gave her Lizzie’s travel details.’
I said, ‘Are you sure?’
‘Am I sure that my manager could bully a ferry company into divulging confidential information?’ Kate replied. ‘Positive. We need to get to Scrabster now. They’re waiting for us.’
Everything after that was a blur.
One of the ferry terminal men must have filled the tank with petrol, because Kate drove us there in my van. Totally illegal, of course, Kate driving uninsured, but I think she made a judgement call – I was in no fit state.
On the way, paranoia took over. This was all a ploy to arrest me again. Lizzie would be at the port, pretending to be afraid, garnering everyone’s sympathy.
But now he’s here. Tom is here.
I’m running, tarmac rushing under my feet.
My son.
My boy.
Tom is tiny, walking beside a short, female police officer. He looks tired. Frightened. But he’s safe.
I’m blubbing like an idiot.
‘Tommo. Tommo.’ Now I’m on my knees, pulling him into my arms, clutching him tight. ‘I never stopped looking, Tom. I never gave up. We’ll always be together now, Tommo. Always.’
We’re both crying now. Sadness for time lost. But also relief. Happiness. Smiling through the tears.
‘I didn’t know, Tom,’ I tell him. ‘I didn’t know what she was doing. I fought tooth and nail to get you back. They didn’t believe me. I never stopped looking.’
Tom’s crying too. ‘I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry for what I said.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ I shake my head. ‘She did the same thing to me. Told me things until I believed her. I’ve been searching for you every minute, Tom. I would have done anything to get you back. Smash down doors. Kidnap you. Anything. I was about to jump into the water and swim to the Shetland Islands.’
‘Steady on,’ says the tall policeman. ‘Let’s not champion law-breaking.’
I lift Tom into my arms, drawing myself to full height. ‘When your child is stolen by an abusive partner and everyone says you’re the crazy one, you tell me what you’d want to do.’
‘He’s got a point there, Darren,’ the policewoman says.
Kate
9.17 a.m.
‘Have you been drinking my Nespressos?’ Tessa accuses, cheeks even redder than usual. ‘I’ve only got three left. There were five when I last looked.’
I don’t look up from my computer screen, but I nod. ‘I needed some caffeine or I would have fallen asleep at my desk. I’ll buy you a new box at lunchtime.’
‘I should think you will,’ says Tessa. ‘They’re expensive. I knew you’d be on the coffee, sooner or later. It’ll be wine at lunch next, mark my words.’
And I believe her. The nervous breakdown is in the post.
‘Did you come straight here after the drive back from Scotland?’ Tessa asks.
‘Yes.’
‘And Tom Kinnock made a full statement? A video interview?’
‘Not yet, but he will,’ I say. ‘We don’t need it, anyway. The police found medication in the mother’s bag. Heart medication. Malaria tablets.’
‘There’ll be a court case, then. A lot of work.’
‘I know.’
‘Just make sure you don’t leave anything out,’ says Tessa. ‘I’ve known parents to walk away from a prison sentence before. And some of them even get custody of the child again.’
‘Yes. Yes, I know. I’ll make sure it’s locked up tight.’ I look up at her. ‘Thank you. For going above and beyond. We’d never have got Tom back if you hadn’t made that phone call.’
I feel Tessa’s heavy, slightly awkward hand on my shoulder. ‘You went above and beyond too. More than above and beyond. Listen, well done you. We see a lot in this job, but medical child abuse … well, I mean, it’s very unusual. I had two journalists on the p
hone this morning, wanting me to explain it. I told them I didn’t understand it myself. I’ve never come across real-life Munchausen syndrome by proxy.’
‘They call it Fabricated or Induced Illness these days.’
Tessa waves the comment away. ‘Makes no sense to me whatsoever.’
‘She liked being in control,’ I say. ‘The power and the attention. It’s a personality disorder. A type of psychopath. She probably had an awful childhood herself.’
‘Shocking that so many social workers missed this,’ says Tessa, fiddling with her Nespresso machine.
‘Not really. Who had time to look into it properly?’
‘You did. Ignored the paperwork and did your job properly. How many nights’ sleep have you missed now? Look, do you want another one of these Nespressos, then? I’m just making a cup.’
Tessa has never offered to make me a hot drink before, let alone from her precious Nespresso machine.
I see this as a breakthrough in our working relationship.
I manage a worn-out smile. ‘Yes, that would be great.’
‘Don’t worry about getting me some more – I’ve got an emergency stash under my desk.’ Tessa winks. ‘I imagine the newspapers will be mounting a furious attack on social services. Demanding to know how this could have been missed for so long. I mean, it was all there. The constant hospital visits. Unexplained seizures. Physical injuries.’
‘Lizzie was a very good liar. She sold a better, more believable story – that she was the angelic mother, obsessed with Tom’s health and wellbeing. And she manipulated a confession out of Tom – don’t forget that.’
‘But surely someone should have noticed something fishy about her.’
‘I don’t blame the other social workers,’ I say. ‘We barely have time for a cup of tea. Not enough funding. Not enough staff. If Tom hadn’t had a moment of courage—’
‘You did a decent job.’ Tessa gives me another clumsy pat on the shoulder. ‘Listen, maybe all the court business won’t be as bad as you think. Getting the kids to stop protecting their parents – that’s the hard part. And you’ve done that, haven’t you?’
‘Yes. It looks that way.’
