by A J McDine
This time her eyes flickered open, and she looked at me blearily for the briefest moment before they fluttered closed again. I lifted her hand. It felt heavy in mine. I threaded my fingers through hers and squeezed. She didn’t squeeze back. Had Sheila drugged Immy to keep her quiet and compliant? With a sinking feeling I realised I was going to have to carry her from this house of horrors because there was no way she could run.
I glanced over my shoulder to check the coast was clear before I pulled off the bedspread and scooped Immy up. She was a dead weight, all floppy arms and legs, and I was reminded of the first time I bathed her when she was a couple of days old. She was as slippery as an eel, and I felt a tremendous weight of responsibility as I ever-so-carefully sponged water over her. Niamh watched from the doorway with an expression on her face that at the time I couldn’t read. I think I understood it now. It was a messy jumble of longing and disgust, fascination and shame, love and loathing. Bloody Bill. He had no inkling of the damage he’d wreaked for a moment’s gratification.
I carried Immy into the hallway, but instead of heading right towards the front door, I turned left to the box room. The door was still locked, so I shifted Immy onto my left hip and felt along the top of the door frame for the key. My fingers closed around it and I unlocked the door and let myself in.
Thing was, I wanted my phone. Logically, I knew it was out of charge and was completely useless to me, but I felt bereft without it. It was a comfort blanket, my adult pacifier, giving me a feeling of safety, a sense that I could summon help at the touch of a button if I needed to. I should have picked it up before I’d climbed out of the window, but anger had made me careless.
The last time I’d seen it, the phone had been screen-side down on the grey carpet tiles next to the pine television unit. Now the floor was covered in shards of glass from the broken window. I hitched Immy higher on my hip and toed through the glass, looking for the phone. It wasn’t there.
Perhaps I’d accidentally kicked it under the unit when I’d climbed out. I laid Immy on the sofa, kissed her forehead and whispered, ‘Won’t be a minute, sweetheart.’
I dragged my foot in an arc to clear a space on the floor, knelt down and peered under the pine unit. But wherever my phone was, it wasn’t there. I glanced under the pine table then inspected under the sofa, too, finding an empty box of travel sickness pills but no iPhone.
Leave the sodding phone, said my pragmatic inner voice, and for once I listened, gathering Immy in my arms and heading back down the hallway. Phones could be replaced. Daughters couldn’t. My arms tightened around Immy as we passed the closed door to Sheila’s mother’s room. I felt a prickle of unease. I’d left the door open… hadn’t I?
Think, Cleo, think.
I had, because I hadn’t had a spare hand to close it behind me. Which meant…
Stop catastrophising, said the voice. A draught of air has blown it shut.
And the voice was probably right, but I had to check, so I turned the handle and opened the door and gazed inside and my heart missed a beat, because although the room was empty, someone had straightened the rumpled bed quilt, and if my arms hadn’t been trembling under the weight of my sleeping daughter, I might have doubted she’d ever been there.
Chapter Forty-Seven
For a moment fear rooted me to the spot, then Immy stirred and sighed, and it was enough to bring me to my senses. I ran along the hallway towards the front door, Immy’s legs flapping against my thighs. I skirted the piles of boxes, my eyes fixed on the door. A couple of metres lay between us and freedom. And I thought I’d made it, was about to reach out to grab the door handle, when Sheila stepped out from the front room, a length of metal glinting in her hand.
I stepped backwards, crashing into a stack of boxes, and they tumbled to the floor behind us. Immy stirred again and mumbled something in my ear, her breath warm on my neck.
Sheila brandished the kitchen knife in front of her. ‘Give her to me,’ she instructed.
It wasn’t the cruel tone of her voice that filled me with dread, nor the hatred in her eyes. It was the fact that she held the knife with such a steady hand she could have been holding a cup of tea.
‘I said, give her to me.’
‘Over my dead body,’ I hissed.
Sheila’s face contorted with fury, and she took a step towards us. The tip of her knife was inches away from Immy’s red tresses. I cupped my hand around the back of Immy’s head, even though it offered about as much protection as a cardboard shield.
‘You’d never use it,’ I said, my eyes on the blade.
‘You want to take that chance? She should be with me, and if I can’t have her, why should you?’
Christ. She was like one of those men who killed their ex-wives and kids in a jealous rage. The “If I can’t have you, no one can” brigade. I didn’t know if she would carry out her threat, but I couldn’t take the chance. I needed to negotiate our way out of this.
‘Look, can we sit down for a minute? My arms are killing me,’ I said. I looked down at Immy. ‘I don’t want to drop her.’
Sheila narrowed her eyes, then waved the knife towards the front room. ‘You first.’
I jumped as the knife pricked the back of my neck.
‘Put Imogen down and sit in the armchair,’ Sheila barked.
I did as I was told, settling Immy on the sofa with her head resting on a cushion. She was still out for the count, her breathing regular but shallow, only just discernible above the softly ticking marble carriage clock on the mantelpiece.
‘What the hell have you given her?’ I asked.
‘Temazepam, mainly. With the odd travel sickness pill. Until she settles in.’ Sheila held the knife over me. ‘Sit down.’
I perched on the edge of the armchair, which was, frustratingly, at the farthermost point in the room. ‘Jesus, you could have killed her.’
Her chest puffed out. ‘I was careful. Which is more than can be said for you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Getting drunk in the garden with your friends on Sunday, completely oblivious to the danger your three-year-old daughter was in.’
‘Danger?’
‘Immy had fallen and grazed her knee. She was crying her eyes out, the poor little love, but when I asked her where her mummy was, she said she didn’t know.’
‘You snatched her from our garden.’ A statement, not a question, because I now understood that Sheila must have let herself into the garden by the faulty side gate on Sunday afternoon and lured Immy away. And of course Immy would have happily gone with her, because while she might have been wary of strangers, she knew Sheila. She trusted her. I thought of all the times I’d taken Immy to the office while Stuart had freelance work on, and Sheila had minded her while I met with suppliers or caught up with paperwork. All the times Immy had played in Sheila’s swivel chair, or watched CBeebies on Sheila’s computer, or sat on Sheila’s bony knee drawing on copier paper with Sheila’s perfectly sharpened pencils. Sheila always had a bag of chocolate buttons or a packet of Smarties in her handbag in case Immy dropped by. All that time she’d been inveigling her way into my daughter’s life, preparing for the day she would steal her from me. The thought made me want to vomit.
‘I was dropping off the accounts. At your behest, if you remember,’ Sheila said bitterly. She gazed at Immy’s sleeping form and her expression softened. ‘She looks so like her dad, the little poppet.’
‘You told me you couldn’t drop them off because you were in hospital with your mother. Your dead mother.’
Sheila had been pacing the length of the room, but she stopped and turned to face me. ‘Who told you Mother was dead?’
‘Your neighbour, Joyce. She said she died six years ago.’
‘Joyce is a meddlesome old battle-axe who should learn to keep her mouth shut.’
I was about to retaliate when it occurred to me that establishing a rapport with Sheila could work to my advantage. I angled my head to one side. ‘Yo
u must have been devastated.’
‘Not especially. Mother was… difficult.’
‘And while you were still grieving, Bill offered you a job at FoodWrapped. It must have seemed like fate.’
‘He was my knight in shining armour.’ Sheila’s face crumpled. ‘We were going to be together one day. He promised me. And now he’s dead.’
I couldn’t help myself. ‘You think he was going to leave Melanie for you?’
‘No need to take that sarcastic tone. He didn’t need to leave her. She was about to leave him. For Stuart,’ she added, with a sly smile. ‘Did you know they were having an affair?’
‘Sorry to disappoint you, but I did. And they’re welcome to each other. From now on it’ll be me and the kids and that suits me fine.’
The words had an electrifying effect on Sheila. Her eyes became slits and her lips thinned. ‘You’re not fit to be a mother.’
‘What?’
‘I was the one who was there for Imogen on Sunday, not you. I was the one who kissed her knee better and dried her tears, while you were getting sozzled.’
‘You took her from under our noses and made it look as though she’d fallen into the river.’ I paused. ‘Was it you who unlocked the gate?’
She looked evasive.
‘And you threw one of Immy’s sandals into the water. You let us think she was dead. How could you?’
Sheila found her voice. ‘It was no more than you deserved. You’re never there for those poor children. Stuart has to do everything.’
I bristled. ‘I’m the breadwinner and he’s a stay-at-home dad. Of course he does more at home than me. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love them.’
‘The company means more to you than they ever could. Whereas Imogen means the world to me. I would do anything for her. Anything.’ Sheila rotated the kitchen knife in her hand before touching the tip with her index finger. She smiled at me, her eyes hard as flints. ‘Face facts, Cleo. I’m going to be a much better mother than you could ever be. You don’t deserve her.’
‘She’s not yours to take.’
‘Pot and kettle. You took her from the Irish slut.’
‘Niamh wanted us to look after Immy.’
Sheila shrugged. ‘So you say.’
‘I say it because it’s true!’ I said, hitting the arm of the chair with my fist. ‘And what are you planning to do next? The whole county is looking for Immy. Do you think you can keep her drugged and hidden here forever?’
‘I have a plan which I won’t be divulging to you,’ she said primly.
‘And what are you going to do with me?’ I looked at the knife. ‘Chop me up into pieces and stick me in the freezer?’
Sheila’s flinty eyes flashed. ‘I don’t think you’re in any position to mock me, do you?’
But I was beyond caring. ‘What happens when Immy realises you’ve murdered me? Do you want my blood on your hands?’
‘I’ll only be carrying out Bill’s wishes.’
‘What?’
She let out an exasperated breath. ‘Bill sent me a text before he died asking me to take care of you.’
For a moment I was nonplussed, then I laughed. ‘My God, you really are mad. He meant look after me, not kill me!’
A flicker of doubt crossed her face, then she rolled her shoulders back. ‘There was no mistaking what he meant. He wanted you dead.’
‘Show me,’ I said, playing for time. ‘Show me the text and I’ll believe you.’
Her eyes darted from me to the door. ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘You can lock it. I won’t try to escape, I promise.’
She hesitated for a moment and then, with a slight shake of her head, turned and hurried to the door, locking it behind her. The urge to prove me wrong had been too much to resist. It was her Achilles heel, as I’d hoped it would be.
Now I needed to work out how to use her weakness to my advantage.
Chapter Forty-Eight
I was kneeling beside the sofa, my cheek next to Immy’s, when Sheila returned, holding the knife in one hand and an ancient Nokia phone in the other. She waved the knife at the armchair and yelled at me to sit down.
I turned to her, tears streaming down my face. ‘It’s Immy.’
‘What about her?’
‘She’s not… she’s not breathing.’
‘Don’t lie to me!’
‘Why would I lie about something like that? You’ve given her too many pills and you’ve killed her, you monster!’ I jumped up and lunged at her, not caring about the kitchen knife, my fingers curling in anticipation as I imagined them tightening around Sheila’s neck.
She jabbed the blade at me. As I ducked out of the way, the tip caught my cheek. For a second I felt nothing, then a searing pain hit me, and my hand flew to my face. Warm wetness oozed through my fingers, mingling with the tears.
‘You bitch!’ I howled.
But Sheila’s eyes were fixed on Immy’s lifeless body and she was muttering under her breath as she crossed the room.
‘Don’t you dare touch her!’ I yelled.
Sheila’s knees clicked as she crouched beside Immy. Kneeling would have been better, would have taken her longer to get to her feet if I missed, but there was nothing I could do about that. You know the answer. Don’t miss. I steadied my breathing and watched Sheila smooth Immy’s hair out of the way so she could feel her carotid artery for a pulse. I bounced on the balls of my feet. If I was going to do this, it had to be now. I picked up the onyx carriage clock from where I’d left it beside the sofa, raised it above me and smashed it against Sheila’s temple.
She crumpled to the floor with a groan, the knife and phone sliding from her grasp as she lost consciousness. I slipped the phone into my pocket, kicked the knife under the sofa and scooped Immy into my arms and sprinted from the room.
Broken glass crunched under my feet as I opened the front door. My tears had dried - what was the point of crying now? - and it wasn’t until I saw blood dripping onto Immy’s face that I realised I was still bleeding. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except fleeing this house.
I scurried across the overgrown lawn, Immy’s dead weight growing heavier with every step. Heading for the private road that ran along the back of the houses, I passed a prefab garage outside which Sheila’s Fiat 500 was parked. I scooted over and peered inside, on the off-chance she’d left the keys in the ignition.
She hadn’t.
I shifted Immy in my arms and glanced back at the house. The front door was closed. I blinked. This time I was certain I’d left it open. What if I’d only caught Sheila a glancing blow, and she’d regained consciousness and followed me out of the house? My gaze slid to the lounge window, and I stiffened as a curtain twitched. A brown shape appeared, and I exhaled. Not Sheila, but Bill, her inscrutable tabby cat.
A rough gravel path led past the garage before widening into a driveway with a five-bar gate at the end. I locked my fingers under Immy and half-ran, half-stumbled towards the gate. To my relief it wasn’t padlocked, and I lurched through it, finding myself on a potholed track.
I staggered along the track towards the main road, biting back tears as Immy’s blood-splattered head rolled from side to side on my shoulder. My arms felt as though they were being torn out of their sockets and my cheek was throbbing, but the thrum of distant traffic kept me putting one foot in front of the other.
At last, I reached the road, stepping straight out in front of a car, which screeched to a stop metres from me, its tyres leaving a trail of burning rubber on the asphalt. The white-faced driver jumped out and yelled, ‘Jesus. I nearly hit you!’
‘I’m sorry,’ I cried. ‘But you need to help me. It’s my daughter. She’s…’
I was interrupted by another car, which slewed to a halt behind me. The driver, clocking the blood pouring from my cheek, switched on her hazard lights and ran over.
‘Oh my God!’ she shouted. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m OK, but my little girl…’ I ran out
of words.
The woman nodded, and yelled at the first driver, ‘Call 999! Can’t you see they’ve been attacked?’
He pulled a phone from his jacket pocket. The woman touched my shoulder. She had straggly grey hair and a kind face. ‘It’s all right, you’re safe now,’ she soothed.
As my legs threatened to buckle, she grabbed my arm to steady me.
‘Who did this to you?’ she said, looking down the lane behind me. ‘Your husband?’ She must have seen my confusion, because she gave a glimmer of a smile and said, ‘My old man battered me for years until I had the balls to walk out.’
‘It wasn’t…’ I began, but she had turned back to the other driver and was demanding to know if the police were on their way.
He nodded. ‘They’re sending an ambulance, too. They asked about injuries.’ He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes looking everywhere except at Immy’s leaden body. ‘I didn’t know what to say.’
The woman gave a dismissive shake of her head and muttered, ‘Useless tosser.’ She glanced down the track again, as if she was expecting to see my knife-wielding husband charging towards us. ‘Come and sit in my car while we wait,’ she said. ‘You and your daughter will be safer there.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, following her to her ancient Volvo. She opened the back passenger door and ushered me in. ‘I’ll be right here if you need anything.’
I smiled my thanks and sank into the Volvo’s worn leather seat. Emotion threatened to overwhelm me as I gazed at my daughter’s perfect face. There’d been times this last week that I thought I’d never see her again. I bent my head and breathed in her scent, the scent that had clung so faintly to the yellow duvet cover in Sheila’s box room. I’d recognised the smell but had struggled to place it because it was such an intrinsic part of me. I inhaled it now, like a drowning man sucks in air. And I drank in her features. Her alabaster cheeks and rosebud mouth. Those long, long lashes.
