by C. L. Taylor
‘Sorry,’ he mutters as he shoulders a lamp post. He presses a hand to the icy metal and launches himself back towards the centre of the pavement. ‘Sorry.’
He continues onwards, autopilot taking over as he heads for his hotel. He only meant to drink enough to numb his emotions but he’s had one whisky too many and his vision is as cloudy as his brain. The pavement looms up at him, a grey tombstone littered with fag butts and flattened chewing gum. He reaches out his right hand, touches the cool red brick of an office building and tries to steady himself, but the motion of cars flashing by makes him feel sick. He closes his eyes, blinks several times and looks back at the road but still the cars come, the beam of their headlights so intense he feels like he is on stage. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, please welcome Max Blackmore – shit journalist, crap husband, terrible father.
‘Fuck you!’ he shouts at the cars, only vaguely aware of a young woman crossing the road to avoid passing him. ‘You don’t know … you don’t know what …’
He shakes his head and launches himself forward again. Screw them. He’s not a bad man. Everything he’s done he’s done for his child. He thinks fleetingly of his own father, a man who walked out on his family in search of his next hit and died destitute and alone in a dirty squat in East London with a needle in his arm, and he makes a promise to himself. He won’t get drunk again. Only a weak man turns to drugs or drink as a crutch to get through life and he’s not a weak man. He’s a—
He smiles to himself as he spots a familiar sign at the end of the street. It’s blurred and illegible but, even in his inebriated state, he recognises it as the name of his hotel. He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, in search of his key card, and feels a jolt of panic when his fingers don’t close over his wallet. He pats himself frantically then grunts with satisfaction as he finally locates it, along with his phone. He fumbles both out of his pocket, but his grip has gone and they drop to the pavement. He bends to reach for them.
He grasps his phone but, as his fingers graze the leather of his wallet, the air is knocked from his lungs. It is as though a car has mounted the pavement and run straight into him. But it’s not a car that bundles him into a side street, hurls him at a skip, then hauls him up by the throat and smacks him in the face.
‘Where’s the money?’
Max’s ears are ringing and he can’t open his right eye. He shakes his head in confusion and is rewarded with another punch.
‘Where’s the money?’
He holds out his right hand, his wallet and phone still, miraculously, in his grasp. ‘Here,’ he grunts. ‘Take it.’
His hand is slapped away and the wallet falls to the ground. ‘No, you arsehole. The money. Paula’s money.’
‘I don’t know.’ He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Pain shoots up his jaw and into his ear as his phone is ripped from his fingers and he’s thumped again, then everything goes black.
Chapter 24
It is 11 p.m. Elise is tucked up in bed, still snuffly with cold but fast asleep. I envy her ability to drop off to sleep the moment her eyelids close. I don’t think I’ve had a decent night’s sleep in weeks and God knows what time I’ll pass out tonight.
I haven’t heard from Max since I saw him earlier. It wasn’t my husband who traipsed down the stairs of the Bristol News building, his eyes trained on his feet until he had no choice but to look me in the eye. He looked like Max. He sounded like Max. But he was so cold, so detached, so utterly lacking in warmth and understanding that I barely recognised him. He wasn’t my husband. He wasn’t the man I’d fallen in love with, laughed with, slept with and built a life with. He wasn’t the Max who held me as I sobbed myself to sleep after we lost Henry. He wasn’t the man who held my hand and told me that we weren’t going to lose another baby as I pushed Elise into the world.
When I hit him today it was partly through anger and partly to shock him back into himself.
It didn’t work.
I managed to hold myself together until I got to the café where I’d agreed to meet Helen and then promptly burst into tears. She ushered me out and back to the car where she sat beside me and held my hand as I cried. When I finally stopped crying and all I could feel was a numb, heavy sensation in my chest, she drove me to the nursery to collect Elise, then took us both home and helped me clear away all the rubbish from the hallway, living room and kitchen.
She went to bed at half past nine but I can’t sleep. For the last hour and a half I’ve been sitting up in bed, with a hardback notepad on my lap, writing a list of all the ways I can offer Elise a stable, happy life, and all the reasons Max can’t. The shock I felt when Mr Harrison read out Max’s statement has faded. I won’t let him take my daughter from me. I will do anything I have to to keep her safe.
Elise cries out – loud, angry, desperate – and I wake with a start. The only light in the bedroom is the red neon glow of the alarm clock beside the bed. 2.57 a.m.
My notebook lies open on the floor beside the bed. I must have fallen asleep as I was writing. But why is the lamp off? I reach out and click the switch. Nothing. Either there’s been a power cut or the bulb’s gone. My mobile’s not on the bedside table. I must have left it downstairs. I swing my legs out of bed, cross the bedroom and reach for the door handle. All the lights are off on the upstairs landing but Elise’s door is ajar. Inside, a battery-powered night light casts a dim yellow glow over her bookshelf. I push at the door and slip inside the room. A floorboard creaks under my weight and Elise sits up in her cot, staring blindly in my direction.
‘It’s OK, darling.’ I crouch at the side of her cot and stroke the hair from her face. Her brow is hot and sweaty, her cheeks wet with tears. ‘It’s just me.’
‘Daddy?’ she says and my heart twists in my chest. She’s got no idea why Max has vanished from our lives. He claims he wants the best for our daughter but how is this good for her? We could have come to a visitation arrangement without involving the courts. I wouldn’t have stopped him seeing her. That was only ever an empty threat.
‘No, sweetheart,’ I say softly. ‘It’s Mummy. Come on, lie back down. It’s still dark.’
‘I want Daddy!’ she says, but she doesn’t protest as I lift her slightly and lay her back down on the mattress so her head’s on the pillow.
She closes her eyes as I stroke her hair. ‘Ssssh. Ssssh. Go to sleep. Mummy’s here.’
As her breathing steadies and slows I step back out of the room, taking care to miss the creaky floorboard at the foot of the cot. When we sleep-trained Elise as a baby, Max and I would take it in turns to shush and pat her to sleep. Crippled by sleep exhaustion, and terrified that she’d wake up again, we’d creep back out of the room, tentatively testing our weight on each floorboard, as though crossing a minefield.
I exhale softly as I leave the room, then stiffen at a noise from downstairs. It’s a high-pitched squeak, like the sound of a trainer stopping abruptly on a tile.
‘Helen?’ I whisper. ‘Is that you?’
I take a tentative step across the landing and reach for the banister.
‘Helen?’
I don’t want to look over the banister. What if Paula’s down there, standing at the foot of the stairs, looking back up at me through the darkness?
It’s not a power cut, says a little voice in my head. She’s flipped the switch in the fuse box. And my mobile’s downstairs. I can’t call for help.
My heart’s beating so hard I feel sick.
You need to look, Jo.
But I can’t move. I can’t even unfurl my fingers from the banister. All I can do is stare at the pale magnolia wall in front of me and listen.
There are no footsteps, no squeaks, no noise at all coming from downstairs.
The house is silent, save the faint snuffling sound coming from my daughter’s bedroom and the drum-drum-drum of my own heartbeat in my ears.
Whoever is downstairs is listening too. And the
y’re watching. They can see my fingers, curled over the banister. They know I’m up here. They’re waiting to see what I do next.
I snatch my fingers away from the white, glossy rail and sprint across the landing. I don’t stop to knock at Helen’s bedroom door. Instead I burst straight in.
And there she is. Lying on her back, spreadeagled on the spare bed, the duvet down by her waist, her right hand hanging limply over the edge of the bed.
‘Helen!’ I tug on his wrist. ‘Helen, wake up!’
She groans in response and tries to pull her hand away from me. As she does, I hear another noise – a crashing sound from downstairs.
‘Helen!’ I yank on her arm again. ‘Helen, wake up! There’s someone downstairs.’
Her eyes fly open and she stares at me in confusion and shock.
‘Jo?’ Her voice is thick with sleep.
‘I think someone’s broken in.’
‘Shit!’ In a heartbeat she is up and out of the bed, looking frantically around the room. ‘I left my phone downstairs. Have you got yours?’
I shake my head. ‘No.’
We share a look.
‘Fuck,’ she says under her breath.
‘What do we do?’
‘I don’t know. Have you got …’ She scans the room again. ‘Have you got a … I don’t know … a cricket bat or something?’
I shake my head. ‘No, nothing.’ I clutch my friend’s arm. It feels clammy under my palm. ‘I need to get back to Elise’s room. What if Paula …’
‘Go!’ She reaches for the door and shoves me out of the room.
‘We’ve called the police!’ she shouts as we sprint across the landing. ‘They’ll be here soon. You’d better get the fuck out of—’
‘Helen, no!’ I grab her by the wrist and yank her into Elise’s room. ‘Help me!’ I gesture at Elise’s chest of drawers and between us we tug and push it until it’s wedged up against the bedroom door. Elise stirs in her sleep, and pushes away the duvet I laid over her just five minutes ago. Miraculously she doesn’t wake up.
‘What now?’ Helen whispers. ‘Should we open the window and shout for help? Bang on the walls and try and wake up the neighbours?’
‘I don’t know.’ I’m trying to think clearly but my heart is beating so rapidly in my chest I feel sick. If Paula is alone downstairs we could potentially overpower her. But not if she’s armed. Why has she come back? She’s had two opportunities now to search for whatever it is she thinks Max took from her. But he didn’t take anything – he swore on Elise’s life he doesn’t know who she is. So either Max is lying or Paula is mentally unhinged. I’m not sure which possibility terrifies me most.
‘Jo?’ Helen says. ‘What do you want to do?’
‘There’s nothing we can do,’ I whisper. ‘The window doesn’t open. It’s been painted shut since we moved in. I’ve asked Max to sort it a hundred times but—’
‘Bang on the wall then?’
I shake my head. ‘They’ve gone on holiday.’
‘Fuck.’ Helen swears softly.
Chapter 25
I have never been so glad to see the sun rise. For the last four hours I’ve been lying on the floor beside Elise’s cot with one of her teddies propped beneath my head as a pillow and a sheet from her chest of drawers as a blanket. Helen fell asleep beside me about an hour ago. Elise is asleep too, but I haven’t slept a wink.
‘Helen.’ I gently shake her by the shoulder. ‘Helen, you need to wake up. It’s six thirty. You need to get back to Cardiff to collect Ben.’
She groans softly as she twists from her back onto her side. There’s confusion in her eyes as they flicker open and she looks up at me.
‘Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.’ She sits up abruptly. ‘Are you OK? Have you heard anything from downstairs?’
‘Nothing since we came in here.’
‘Should we go down? Or I can go if you want to stay up here with Elise?’
‘I’ll go.’
‘No, Jo, you can’t.’
‘It’s OK. Honestly. I’ll go.’
‘Well, I’ll stand at the top of the stairs then.’
‘All right.’
‘Well?’ Helen asks as I climb back up the stairs.
I shake my head. ‘Nothing’s broken. Nothing’s missing. The TV, the DVD player, Elise’s iPad, they’re still in the living room. And both our mobiles.’
‘How did she get in?’
‘She must have the spare key. It isn’t on the hook by the front door any more.’
‘When did you last see it?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t remember. I’ll have to get the locks changed.’
‘What? You can’t stay here!’
‘Mr Harrison said I have to. He said it would strengthen my case against Max. Anyway, where else can I go? I can’t stay at Mum and Dad’s, not when he’s so poorly.’
‘Stay at mine.’
‘Are you sure?’ She doesn’t need to ask me twice.
‘Oh my God. Of course.’ She glances at her watch. ‘Shit. I really need to get changed and go. Can you bundle Elise into the car in her pyjamas?’
‘I need to tell Max what happened. And the police.’
‘Ring them from my house.’
‘What if the police want to come round? I need to be here to let them in and tell them what happened.’
‘OK,’ she says. ‘But I want you to text me every hour to let me know that you’re safe. I’ll be back at home from ten o’clock. Turn up whenever you want.’
‘I will. And Helen?’
‘Yes?’
‘Thank you. For everything.’
‘This.’ Elise reaches into her chest of drawers and pulls out a scratchy blue Elsa dress and throws it on the floor. ‘And this.’ A pair of rainbow-coloured tights appear next to it.
‘How about a nice cardigan?’ I suggest.
‘No.’
‘OK.’ I gesture for her to come closer so I can undress her. Now is not the time for an argument about appropriate clothing for the winter. I’ll wrestle her into a coat when we leave for the police station. I’m going to ask to speak to DS Merriott. And I won’t leave until I do.
‘OK then, sweetheart.’ I tug down Elise’s pyjama bottoms, remove her nappy and put it in the bin in her room, then reach into her chest of drawers for a pair of pants. I put them on then tug the end of one of her pyjama sleeves. ‘Let’s get this off too.’
She raises her arms obediently and I lift the hem of her pyjama top. I’ve almost raised it as high as her head when I spot them – dark bruises on both sides of her back, each one the size and shape of a penny. There are four bruises on each side.
I turn her towards me. There are two small bruises on her ribs. They’re the size of thumbs.
Chapter 26
The locum couldn’t be more different from my normal GP. Old Dr Fullerton always looks exhausted and speeds through my appointments like she can’t wait to be rid of me. Dr McGrath, on the other hand, must be in her mid-twenties, and listens intently as I tell her about the marks that have appeared on Elise’s back overnight. My eyes fill with tears as I tell her that I think the person who broke into my house did so deliberately to harm my daughter.
The doctor’s pale-brown eyes widen with shock as she looks from me to Elise. ‘Have you told the police?’
‘Not yet. I wanted to get Elise checked over first.’
She looks me up and down. ‘And you’re OK? You weren’t hurt?’
‘No. I didn’t see them. I woke up in the night and checked on Elise. I thought she was OK but Paula … Paula …’ My throat is so tight I choke on her name. ‘She’d already got to her.’
‘It’s OK.’ She pushes a box of tissues to me and then swings side to side on her chair as though she’s unsure what to say or do next. I don’t imagine this is the sort of situation they’re trained for at medical school.
‘Um …’ She clears her throat. ‘Any other symptoms? Is Elise on any medication?
’
‘She’s had a cold for a while. I’ve treated it with Calpol but other than that she’s been well.’
‘Right, let’s have a little look at her, shall we?’
She wheels her chair around her desk so she’s almost knee to knee with me. She tilts her head to one side and smiles at my daughter. ‘I hear you’re not feeling too well.’
Elise, suddenly shy, wraps her arms around my neck and buries her face in my armpit.
‘Do you know what this is?’ Dr McGrath continues, holding out her stethoscope. ‘It’s magic. It lets us listen to heartbeats. Would you like to listen to your heartbeat, Elise?’
My daughter shakes her head.
‘What about Mummy’s heartbeat?’
Elise peers at the doctor from beneath her long curls and she reaches out a hand for the stethoscope. Dr McGrath carefully places the earbuds in my daughter’s ear then gives me an enquiring look. I nod and force a smile as the doctor helps my daughter press the cold circular disc to my skin. A confused look appears on Elise’s face, swiftly followed by delight.
‘I hear your heart, Mummy.’
Dr McGrath lets her play for a few more seconds then asks Elise if she can listen to her heart. As my daughter happily lifts up her top, Dr McGrath’s gaze falls to the penny-shaped bruises on her ribs. ‘Could you breathe in and out for me, please, Elise. Big, big breaths in and out.’
My daughter sighs dramatically.
‘OK.’ The doctor nods at me. ‘Could you turn her around so I can listen to her back?’
I feel sick with worry as I manoeuvre Elise into position and Dr McGrath gently lifts her top. Her gaze flicks towards the bruises on either side of my daughter’s back but she doesn’t comment. Instead she places the stethoscope on Elise’s soft skin and asks her to breathe in and out as deeply as she can and then cough. When she’s finished she takes Elise’s temperature, looks into and behind her ears, at her eyes and inside her mouth. She lifts Elise’s hair and looks at her neck. I’ve brought my daughter to see the GP countless times since she was born but she’s never been checked over as thoroughly as this before.
