by Lee Isserow
“You had it last!” the woman spat back. “Are you going to answer it or what?”
“I can't fucking answer it, that gives her the power!” he said.
“What power? We have her wife!”
“She'll be calling the shots, won't she!”
“Oh fuck off, what shots can she call?”
~
The call was accepted, but no voice spoke out. Silence on the line, dead air. I hit speaker phone and could make out muffled conversation in the background, a man and woman arguing, then the line went dead.
I stared at the handset, the screen dimming, then going dark, a black mirror reflecting my exhausted eyes. The phone burst to life, a call ringing out. I accepted it and waited for them to respond.
“Got our money?” the man asked, his voice cleaner, less gruff, and no hand in the way, no longer adopting the fake cockney accent. He was off guard.
“I want to speak to my wife.” I said, trying to remain calm, taking deep breaths, not letting the anger take over and make me say something stupid.
There was the scuffle of a hand or sleeve being pulled over the microphone, as if he just remembered he had been disguising his voice in previous calls.
“Y'aint in a position to ask for nofin'.” the man said, putting on the fake voice again. I wanted to call him a moron, but knew better.
“Yes I am. You have fifty thousand pounds, you want another fifty. That's fine, but I need...” I trailed off, trying to remember what the term was. “... Proof of life.” I said, hating myself for having a Russell Crowe movie as a reference point for something so important. “I need to know she's still alive and okay.”
The phone was taken away from his mouth, covered over again as he had a conversation with the woman. A discussion that sounded like it was turning into an argument fairly swiftly.
“She's asleep.” he finally said.
“Wake her up.”
“Pregnant women need their sleep.”
“Wake her the fuck up.” I insisted, then taking a deep breath. “Please” I said, trying to take the order and expletive back. “Please wake her up.”
Another scuffle of sleeve over the phone, a muffled voice talking to someone, saying something like;
“Your bitch is on the phone.”
The sleeve was pulled from the phone again and I heard a sigh.
It was the sigh I heard in morning whenever I woke Lisa up. The same sigh I had heard each and every day for the last fifteen years. “Nina?”
Her voice was tired, weak, a quiver that sounded somewhere between fearful and exhausted. But it was unmistakeably Lisa.
I didn't have words. A lump in my throat wouldn't let them out, I didn't know what to say, even if I could talk.
“Nina? Is that you?”
“Yes.” I croaked, forcing the words out.
“Nina. You remember that decision we made?”
“Lisa, I'm going to find you, I'm going to pay whatever they want and get you back.”
“Listen to me.” she said, insistent. The tone she used when she thought I was being dumb. “You remember that decision, where we almost did something really stupid.” she said.
“It doesn't matter.” I said, trying to calm her down. “It's all going to be ok, you just hang in there.”
“You're not fucking listening.” she said, using that tone again. “You remember that decision...”
“Yes, Dammit, I remember it.” I snapped.
A silence. She was pausing for dramatic effect, like she always did when she wanted to get a point across. One year at drama school when she was twelve and she thought she was Harold fucking Pinter.
“It's them.” she said.
The phone was pulled away from her, shouting in the background between the man and the woman, and suddenly, I could place the voices, the tone. Knew they sounded familiar.
“Time's up.” the man said.
“Your time's fucking up.” I said, killing the call.
12
Two months previous, we had a crisis of confidence. It was unanimous and synchronous. Lisa and I had both taken months to voice our concerns to one another. Neither of us knowing how to approach wording our fears, or put them into a context that wouldn't risk ripping the other to shreds.
It had taken us over two years to get to the point where we felt we were ready to have a child. Well, a year and a half of debating, going back and forth, working out the timing between her job and mine.
It was never a question of who would carry the baby to term. I always wanted a child, but very much didn't want to have to go through the indignity of insemination and the responsibility of a living thing growing inside me, whilst Lisa could think of nothing better. That part was perfect.
We spent six months discussing who the donor should be. Whether it should be someone we knew, who's 'stock' would be good, or pick someone from a sperm bank, leaf through a catalogue of genes until we find the perfect match. There were too many options; an Oxford graduate who was artistic and literate; a self-educated musical prodigy who was a multi-instrumentalist; a former astronaut fluent in six languages and competent in another five, who had a detailed understanding of physics, chemistry and maths.
Each read like they were too good to be true, and we finally decided that we'd go for a tall blonde who had once been an athlete until he turned on his training and became an author of children's books.
They wouldn't tell us what books he had written, but Lisa liked the notion that we might, by pure chance, read one of the donor's books to our child one day. Even though we wouldn't want or need the man in our lives, his spirit would live through the words of a book we might happen upon.
The first three months of the pregnancy were fine. Perfect. Both of us invested one hundred percent in the life growing in Lisa's belly. As time went on I found myself at work more than I would have liked. The fear started to kick in, and then the obligatory anger at how fearful I was.
Lisa always calmed me down, reminded me how much we loved each other and would love the child. But the fear was always there. I didn't want to abandon the baby, or abandon her because my priorities wouldn't change. I promised that I would always put them first, but kept from her that I didn't know if I could. Part of me blamed Lisa, and her enabler attitude, but I knew she couldn't be blamed for the way my mind worked.
Seven months in, we finally talked about it. I sat her down and told her my fears. She burst into tears and confessed fears of her own, not about my dedication to her and the child, but to her ability as a mother. Her parents were never great role models. She had always said television was a tertiary parent, but I didn't realise how much that glib statement was a genuine worry on her part.
We took two weeks to go over our mutual thoughts, took our time over a decision that neither of us wanted to take lightly, but in the end, knew that the right thing to do would be to give the baby up for adoption.
The agency we chose seemed friendly, the woman we met with was sweet, but seemed to have a strict vibe, like a school-ma'am from an old movie. She knew that the decision we were making wasn't easy, and took us through the procedure they'd go down to find potential parents that we'd approve of. The whole thing reminded Lisa of the 'Perfect Nanny' song from Mary Poppins;
Must be kind, must be witty.
Very sweet, and fairly pretty.
Take us on outings, give us treats.
Sing songs, bring sweets.
In reality, we couldn't be that specific. As we met with each couple, I couldn't help but think of them as prospective replacements for ourselves. We went though maybe four or five of them, and each set of replacements felt like they were hiding pent-up sadness, regret, fear or worry. They couldn't have children of their own, and we seemed like their last, desperate hope.
Neither Lisa nor I felt comfortable with the idea of leaving our daughter, the child we wanted so badly, but couldn't trust ourselves to bring up, with people who were that desperate. Then we met the Campbells.
<
br /> They were a nice couple. Had been together for ten years, and were everything Lisa listed in the song. John was a carpenter or a joiner, I can't remember which, but he did something with wood. His wife Karen was a kindergarten teacher. She loved children. Spent her days surrounded by them, obviously, and they had none of the sadness or melancholy that the previous couples we met were trying to hide.
Lisa and I took our time with the decision, but in the end, they were the best, if not only, fit for the type of parents we wanted our daughter to have. We met up with them once or twice a week as we entered the last month of the pregnancy, gave them updates and sonogram print-outs. When we got an updated due date, we decided to call round. The midwife told us that there might be a complication, and we wanted to explain it to them in person. Walking up the path to their house, we knew something wasn't right. It felt like a cloud was hanging over the place, and from behind the door we could hear arguments, shouting through tears. There was something very bad happening inside, but before we could turn back, the door burst open, Karen walking straight into me.
“I'm sorry...” she said, walking down the path, not even registering who we were.
“Don't you fucking walk away from me!” John shouted at her from within the house, his thundering footsteps coming towards the door.
Lisa stepped out of the way as he hurried down the path after his wife, grabbing her by the back of her jumper.
“I told you not to fucking walk away from me!”
Karen turned and saw us, the fear of her own husband shed instantly, as she read on our faces how appalled we were. John turned and stared at us.
“This isn't what it looks like...” he said, the scent of stale beer and cigarettes wafting on the air behind him.
It was exactly what it looked like. The tears in Karen's eyes said it all. The way his fat fingers clutched her told us everything we needed to know. He was a vicious brute, and she was a victim, trapped in an abusive relationship, no way out as far as she could see.
The two of them begged us to come in, talk about it, let them explain, but we had no interest in hearing their story. We returned home with renewed confidence that whatever we might be as parents, no matter how much we each worried about how competent we would be, or whether our priorities were set right, we couldn't be any worse than the Campbells would have been.
We'd love the child, our daughter, more than anything in the world, and could never dream of causing the kind of fear we saw on Karen's face to one another or the beautiful creature growing inside of Lisa. We called the agency and told them that we would be keeping the child. Told them we were happy to go through whatever court proceeding would insure the baby stayed with us, warning the woman about the behaviour we saw John display.
Her tone was sharp, abrupt, made it felt like we were telling tales. But the tales needed to be told. The Campbells were well practised at putting on a facade in public of being a happy, well-balanced couple. And we were truly disturbed when we saw what they were like behind closed doors.
13
“How does she know who we are?” John shouted at his wife.
Karen was cowering in the corner, holding her cheek, where John had slapped her across the face.
“I don't know...” she whimpered.
“Don't fucking lie to me, woman!” he said, raising the back of his hand.
“It was an accident!”
“For fuck's sake...” he said, punching the wall.
“It'll be ok, it doesn't matter...”
“How will it be o-fucking-kay? If that bitch knows who we are, she'll be right over here, probably bringing fucking police with her!”
“We have the money, we can go anywhere, we can find another --”
“-- do you want to have to start a new fucking life? Do this all over again? You fucked up, you fucked up and now I have to clean up your fucking mess.”
He grabbed Lisa's arm and pulled her upright.
“Get her fucking feet.” he said.
“Let me open the car first...” she said, picking herself up and scuttling out the door.
“Nina's coming right here, you fuck.” Lisa said.
John slapped her round the face with the back of his hand. “Such a big strong man, hitting a pregnant woman. You'll make a great fucking father.” she scoffed, his grip on her arm tightened.
He shoved the gag back in, his knuckles grazing against her teeth, slapped her again and pulled the cotton tied around her face back down across her mouth to keep the gag in place.
“Car's ready.” Karen said from the door.
“Go on then, get her fucking feet!.”
Lisa kicked at Karen as she tried to grab her, resulting in another back-handed slap from John.
“Don't fucking struggle, bitch.” he whispered in her ear, stale beer breath lingering in the air.
The couple lifted her up and struggled down the stairs, taking her to the car and pushing her into the back seat. Karen got in with her, John slamming the door on them before getting into the driver's seat.
“We can still get the money...” Karen said.
“You fucking think she's going to hand over another fifty-thou, just like that?”
“She will. She'll do anything for the woman she loves... that's what people in love do.”
“Don't fucking tell me what people in love do.” he spat back as he put the keys in the ignition.
“Well it's true.” she mumbled.
John reached in his pocket for Lisa's phone. He knew Karen was right. Finding another fifty thousand might distract Nina for hours, maybe a day, and that would hopefully be all they needed.
14
After I hung up on the Campbells, I was straight out the door and in the car, driving in the vague direction I remembered heading with Lisa when we visited them. One eye on the road, the other on the phone in the dock, going through previous addresses I had typed into the GPS, until the Campbell's popped up. I tapped their address, and the phone started conversing with satellites, coming up with a solution for the most direct path. I knew it was somewhere in Enfield, and took the North Circular, the same route I laboured along to get to my father's house, but continuing on rather than taking the off-ramp that was drilled into my mind.
By the time I got to Southgate, the GPS finally kicked in, and sent me deep into suburbia, through tree-lined streets to a quiet neighbourhood. The roads all looked the same, but they felt familiar. I was getting closer with every passing moment, but had no idea what I was going to do when I came to the house.
Part of me knew I should have called the police. But another part, the autopilot in control, wanted to do this alone. All that anger channelling through my body, coursing through every vein, every iota of suppressed rage I had breathed away and tried to bury. It was now in control and behind the wheel.
The phone rang, the GPS screen minimising as the caller ID told me Lisa was calling. I declined the call, the GPS popping back up just as I had to take a left, swerving across the road to tuneless honks from drivers all around.
Another call, declined again, I wasn't going to waste time speaking to them. I was going to get my Goddamn wife back, get my baby back, and nothing they could say would distract me.
The GPS told me the house was just up ahead. I pulled up and was out the car, up the path, kicking at the door, which swung open wide.
Left unlocked.
Abandoned.
“Lisa!” I shouted as I ran though the house, checking all the rooms for her or the Campbells. They weren't on the ground floor, but I found a set of golf clubs in a closet. Pulling one out, I threw the sock to the ground, brandishing the club like a baseball bat. Ready to strike, should John appear round a corner.
“Lisa?” I shouted again.
There was no response, no sounds in the house apart from my own footsteps.
I went up the stairs and looked around the landing, pushing open the doors one by one, ready to strike, until I found the bedroom. My grip on the club wea
kened. It fell to the floor. I was overcome with terror. The sheets were stained red.
It wasn't just on the bed. In my haste to come up the stairs, I didn't see the trail of blood, dots like crimson breadcrumbs, leading out the bedroom, spotting the landing carpet, going all the way down the stairs.
Grabbing the club, I followed the trail back out to the car. I had parked up right where the bloodstains stopped. There was a patch of moisture on the pavement. Splashes out from the road, as if it had dripped out the door of a car that had been parked there previously.
Her water had broken.
A ringing from the car. My phone still in the dock, piping through the speakers. Accepted the call as I climbed back into the driver's seat, bringing the engine to life, but not knowing which direction to head.
“You need to find another fifty-thou.” he said.
“John, you stupid fuck, I'm at your house. You think you're going to get away with this? I know who you are, you're not exactly a master criminal.” There were screams in the background. “You've got to get her to a hospital right fucking now!” I said, pulling up a browser on the phone and logging into Lisa's Prey account. As long as the phone was on, I'd be able to track it. I knew they didn't drive down the road I came in on, so hit the accelerator and sped down the road in the opposite direction, towards The Ridgeway.
“Are you by Chase Farm Hospital?” I asked, consulting the GPS as I waited for the Prey website to track the phone. “She needs a doctor, the baby isn't going to survive without a doctor!”
“Fuck off. Get us our money.” John grunted.
“You're not listening, you stupid prick. You see how much blood she's losing? Is Karen with her? Can you see the baby coming, Karen? Lisa has placenta praevia. Do you know what that means, John? Do you even know how a vagina works?” He didn't respond, but I didn't care. The site had given me coordinates for the phone, and I was heading in the right direction. “It means the placenta's in the way of the cervix, the baby can't get out, can't be born without a caesarian. Are you or Karen qualified to do a C-section?”
