by C. L. Taylor
‘Fish!’ Elise says, pointing. ‘Fish in the sea.’
‘Yes, lots of fish.’ The woman’s eyes travel the length of my daughter’s body, taking in her scuffed trainers, overly long jeans and worn sweatshirt. They linger on her hacked hair. She senses me watching and meets my gaze. ‘I remember when Robbie was that age.’ She nudges the teenager beside her. He rubs at his arm and inches away from her, without looking up from his iPad. ‘He was forever chattering away. Can’t get a word out of him these days though. What is he?’ She looks back at Elise. ‘Two? Three?’
‘Two and a half.’ I try not to show my nerves in my voice but, underneath the table, I’m digging my fingernails into my knees.
‘What’s your name, little one?’ The woman waves her hand to get Elise’s attention.
I hold my breath as my daughter studies the woman’s face. She steadfastly refused to say that her name was Ben when we played ‘let’s pretend’ before we left the caravan a few hours ago. How do I explain her appearance if she tells the woman her real name?
‘Li-Li,’ my daughter says under her breath then turns back to the view.
‘Lee,’ the woman repeats. ‘Nice to meet you, Lee. I’m Mel. And Mum?’ She looks back at me.
‘Helen,’ I say softly.
‘Lovely name. George has got a sister called Helen. Haven’t you, darling?’ She reaches across the table and taps the top of her husband’s newspaper. He shakes it lightly and grunts irritably.
‘We’re taking the kids to Galway,’ Mel says. ‘To see some of George’s relatives. Lovely place. Have you been?’
‘No.’ I shift in my seat. I should have bought a newspaper like George but I haven’t got so much as a book to hide behind and Mel’s obviously in a chatty mood. The last thing I need is to be grilled about where we’re going and why. I glance at my mobile. Only 4 per cent charged. We’re three hours into our journey and only an hour from Ireland. Turning it on is a risk but I haven’t spoken to Mum since yesterday and I need to check whether dad’s OK. I don’t know whether the police will be able to trace me if I quickly text her then turn the phone off again. Even if they could there’s no way they could get to Rosslare in the next hour. Or could they? They might ring the Gardaí and tell them to meet me when the ferry docks.
‘Do I know you?’ Mel tilts her head to one side and narrows her eyes. ‘The more I look at you the more familiar you seem.’ She taps the top of her husband’s newspaper again. ‘Do we know Helen?’
‘I … I don’t think so. I just have one of those faces.’ I stand up abruptly and reach for Elise’s hand. ‘Do you want a wee?’
My daughter shakes her head.
‘We could go to the play area afterwards. They might have a slide.’
Her face lights up and she scrambles across the plastic chairs towards me. Mel watches her, a frown creasing her forehead. I lower my daughter to the ground then reach for her hand.
‘Come on then, darling. Lovely to meet you,’ I say to Mel. Her husband twists in his chair and nods at me then folds his newspaper and lays it on the Formica table in front of him.
‘Anyone want another coffee?’ He waves a hand in front of the faces of his teenaged children and mouths the word ‘drink’. As he does, my gaze falls to the black and white photograph on his folded newspaper. It’s a photo of me and Elise, crouched in front of the tree last Christmas. Above it is the headline:
Bristol mum on the run with her two-year-old daughter.
Chapter 36
‘Brigid, hello, so lovely to see you.’ Max opens his arms wide and steps forward for a hug. His mother-in-law steps backwards, into the safety of her kitchen. She was openly shocked when she opened the door to him but in a single step she’s reined in her emotions. Now she’s giving him a cold hard look.
‘I’m sorry, I know I should have called.’ He thrusts the bouquet of service-station lilies at her. ‘But I didn’t think you’d agree to see me.’
‘You’d have thought right.’
It’s like staring at a lined, grey-haired version of his wife, but unlike Jo, who wears her heart on her sleeve, Brigid is a closed book. Eleven years he’s known her and yet he’s never had a conversation that didn’t go beyond the superficial or mundane. Whenever he’d tried to delve deeper, to enquire about Brigid’s life back in Ireland, she’d change the subject or make an excuse to do something in another room. Jo had warned him, told him that her mother would refuse to discuss anything before 1983 when they’d moved to England, but he was a journalist, for God’s sake. He’d got information out of local councillors whose job it was to deflect awkward questions. But Brigid was impenetrable. He was pretty sure that even if she was waterboarded, she’d still hang onto her secrets. But even the most closed of people had their Achilles heels and hers was Jo. If he could just work out which buttons to press he was pretty sure she’d let something slip eventually.
‘Please, Brigid.’ He puts a hand on the door frame but doesn’t step inside the house. ‘I can imagine what Jo’s told you and how you probably feel about me but you’ve only heard one side of the story. There’s a lot you don’t know.’
‘I’ve heard enough.’ Brigid reaches for the door handle and takes a step forward. She’s going to close it in his face, he has to think fast.
‘She hurt Elise.’
Brigid freezes at the mention of her granddaughter’s name.
‘She was covered in bruises.’ Max’s voice cracks as he remembers the conversation with the social worker. Lorraine Hooper had called him shortly after he’d returned to his hotel, asking if he knew where his wife and daughter were. She told him that Jo had taken Elise to the doctor because she’d discovered some suspect bruising. But she’d run off rather than accompany the doctor to the hospital.
Elise, covered in bruises. He feels sick just thinking about it.
‘Please, Brigid, I wouldn’t have driven all this way if I wasn’t worried sick. You have to help me.’
His mother-in-law tightens her grip on the door and, for a second, he thinks that it’s over. His attempt to get her onside has failed, but then the door swings all the way open.
‘You’d better come inside,’ she says. ‘But you can’t stay long. Andy’s nurse will be here shortly.’
‘I don’t know how much Jo has told you,’ Max says. He is sitting across the kitchen table from Brigid, gripping the mug of tea she silently made and then passed to him. ‘But she’s really not well. Mentally, I mean.’
‘Mmm huh.’ His mother-in-law continues to gaze at him, her blue eyes bright but unreadable behind her tortoiseshell glasses. She hasn’t said a word since she invited him into the kitchen.
Max isn’t perturbed. Brigid’s eyes might be steely but he can tell by her body language that she’s absorbing every word he’s saying. She continues to listen as he tells her about Jo’s mood swings, her anxiety, her fearfulness and her secretive behaviour.
‘I know she was planning on moving up here,’ he says. ‘And that she wants a divorce. Did she mention either of those things to you?’ Brigid glances away, just for a split second, but it’s enough to confirm his suspicions. Of course she knew. And she knows where Jo is too.
He decides not to talk to Brigid about Jo’s drug problem, particularly as she was the one who gave her the pain medication. Nor does he mention Paula, or Jo’s erratic behaviour at the nursery. What he needs to stress is the fact that his wife is vulnerable and unwell and she needs help.
‘That’s why it’s so important that we find her,’ he says, stressing the word ‘we’. ‘The police rang me earlier to tell me that someone spotted her on the ferry to Ireland. Do you know where she’s gone?’
Brigid shakes her head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I think you do. Brigid, I know she’s your daughter and you’re trying to protect her but keeping quiet is only going to make things worse for her. By running away, not only is Jo risking Elise’s safety but there’s a very real possibility that she might end up in jail.’
He pauses and waits for his words to sink in.
‘Jail,’ his mother-in-law repeats. An emotion he can’t read passes over her face like a cloud.
‘Jo is in very, very serious trouble, Brigid. The court has issued a search and find order. Which means that, when she’s found, she’ll be arrested.’
He can sense that he’s found her weak spot. Her hands resting on the cotton tablecloth are shaking, and the skin at the base of her neck is flushed red. The rash appeared almost as soon as he said the word ‘arrested’.
‘Do you …’ He pauses. This question will either break her or she’ll shut down. It’s a risk but it’s one he has to take. He’s already asked her several times where she used to live in Ireland and she answered him with silence. ‘Do you know anyone in jail, Brigid?’
His mother-in-law jolts back in her seat and stares at him, her eyes wide and her lips parted. He’s cracked her. She’s about to tell him where Jo’s gone.
‘Will you have another cup of tea?’
It takes all of his self-control not to swear. Instead he forces a tight smile and nods, not trusting himself to speak.
Chapter 37
When I think of Ireland I don’t think of cramped B&B rooms with fuzzy televisions fixed high on the wall, bathroom fans that sound like jumbo jets taking off, and windows that don’t open. I think of cold, windswept beaches. I think of picnics in brown paper bags. Of oranges, red lemonade, Tayto crisps and ham sandwiches – or Heinz sandwich spread for a treat. I think of Mum, laying out a tartan blanket, then sipping from a flask of hot tea. I think of baby oil being rubbed into my skin ‘to put a bit of colour in those cheeks’. Of treat days when we wouldn’t bother with picnics and we’d warm our hands on brown paper bags filled with chips instead, the scent of vinegar mingling with the salty sea air.
Dad never came to the beach with us. If he wasn’t at work he was at the horses, the pub or the Gaelic Athletic Association clubhouse. Sometimes he’d take me to the horses with him on a Sunday, to give Mum a break. I’d sit in the car with a bottle of fizzy drink, a book and a packet of crisps whilst he spent hours by the track. I’d grow bored with my book finished and no one to talk to and I’d go in search of him.
‘I’ll be wit’ ya in a minute.’
I don’t remember much about my dad but I remember him saying that. It was his Sunday-afternoon mantra, washed down with six pints of beer and a couple of whisky chasers.
I’d lose track of the number of times I’d climb in and out of the car and how many ‘minutes’ it would take before we finally set off for home with Dad swinging round the lanes and me gripping the door handle in the passenger seat. Neither of us wore seat belts. Dad said there was no need. He was a good driver, he said. He’d been driving those same lanes since he was seventeen. He could get us home blindfolded if he needed to.
I had no reason to disbelieve him. He was my big, strong da. Not tall, and certainly not the broadest of men, but there was a solidity to him that made me feel safe. He wasn’t affectionate, but sometimes he’d bring me a quarter of sweets when he came back from a week on a building site somewhere or other, or he’d ruffle my hair when he got back from the match and he’d tell me what a good girl I was. And it was enough. He was enough.
And then, all of a sudden, he was gone.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stand up, taking care not to disturb Elise who’s curled up on the duvet with Effie Elephant in her arms. She fell asleep in the car. She didn’t even stir as I carried her up the stairs of the B&B and laid her down on the double bed. Before we even left the ferry I’d decided against spending the night in Rosslare. There were too many Brits everywhere and, with our photo splashed across every newspaper I saw, I wanted to get as far away from the port as I could, so I headed for Wexford instead. It was 7 p.m. by the time I spotted a B&B with a vacancy sign in the window. The landlady, a small, thin woman with dyed black hair, glasses and hollows under her cheekbones, was polite but cool as she answered the door. Yes, she had a room. Yes, we could stay one night but she’d need paying in advance. I silently thanked God for the money exchange on the ferry and counted out €50 into her outstretched palm.
I pull the curtains closed. In the morning I’ll take Elise for a walk to find a payphone. I need to let Mum know that we’re OK. Helen too, if there’s time. I’ve watched enough police dramas to know that they often tap phones to try and trace missing people or serial killers. If the call is kept short they don’t have enough time to locate the caller but I don’t know how true that is. It might be safer to ring in the morning, before we set off up the coast.
I step into the bathroom and use the toilet. As I stand back up again, black spots dance in front of my eyes and I have to grip the sink to steady myself. I’ve barely slept in God knows how many days. I didn’t sleep at all in the caravan. Every time my eyes would close there’d be a clunk or a clang from outside and they’d fly open again. But I feel less exposed up here in the eaves of the B&B. There’s only one escape route, straight down the stairs, but there’s a flat roof about twenty feet below our window. If there was a fire or an emergency I’d lower Elise down in a sheet and then find my own way down. But I can’t think about that now. I need to sleep.
I sit up with a start, hands flailing in the darkness. My right hand hits the wall. As I snatch my fingers to my chest the blackness fades to grey and objects loom out of the shadows – a wardrobe, a small table, a closed door, a lamp lying on its side. Elise is curled up beside me on the bed, snuffling in her sleep. She stirs as I touch her shoulder but she doesn’t wake. I glance at my watch to see what time it is but it’s too dark to make out.
I shuffle off the bed and open the bedroom door, just enough that a slim stream of light enters the room and illuminates the face of my watch. 9.12 p.m. I reach for the door handle to close it again, then pause. The sound of voices drifts up the stairs towards me: the low rumble of a man’s voice and the higher pitch of a woman’s. I step onto the narrow landing and hold my breath as I listen. Logically I know it’s the landlady talking to her husband or another guest, but logic is overruled by fear. The voices are still too muffled for me to be able to hear what they’re saying so I take a step down the stairs. It creaks under my weight. I freeze, and listen again. The conversation below continues unabated. I glance back at the door to our room. Beyond it my daughter is still asleep. She’s safe. But she could wake up at any second. I take another step down the stairs, slotting my foot into the gap between the carpet and wall. This time it doesn’t creak. I step again and again, pressing myself up against the wall. I’m on the first floor now. There are four bedrooms here. All the doors are shut. As I inch my way around them and approach the top of the flight of stairs that leads down to the ground floor I catch something the landlady says, ‘That’s just terrible. I’ll keep an eye out. Thank you for letting me know.’
But I still can’t make out what the man she’s talking to says in reply. His voice is too deep, his Irish accent too thick. I take slow, shallow breaths as I reach for the banister. I’m so close now that the slightest noise would attract their attention. A glimpse, that’s all I want. My fingers fold around the white glossed wood. Slowly, slowly, inch by inch, I bend at the waist and lean over the banister.
Peaked hat. Labels. Pale-blue shirt. Navy stab vest.
A split-second view, but it was all I needed to confirm my worst fears. A member of the Gardaí – the Irish police – is standing in the hallway with his arms folded across his chest. My first instinct is to run, to pound back up the stairs as fast as I can, but he’ll be after me like a shot. What then? What do I do? My skin prickles with fear. The landlady can’t have recognised me from the Garda’s description. Why else would she say she’d keep an eye out? But what if she’d pretended she hadn’t seen me because she knew I was standing at the top of the stairs? What if she’d signalled to the Garda with her eyes – she’s actually up there – in the hope they’d catch me unawares?
I press a han
d to my face, muffling the short, sharp breaths I’m taking in through my nose, and sidestep to my left. I take another step. Then I climb the stairs, back to the wall, moving sideways. Quiet. I must be quiet. It takes for ever to get to the attic but then I’m back in the room. I push the door too, as silently as I can, and the key trembles in the lock as I turn it. Elise, still curled up on the bed, mumbles in her sleep and rolls over. She’s so small, so helpless. She’ll be terrified if she’s separated from me. This place, these people, they’re utterly foreign to her. If she’s taken from me, I need to make sure that she’s cared for by someone she loves. I need to ring Mum.
I lift my handbag from beside the bed and carry it into the bathroom. I sit on the edge of the toilet, my heart thumping in my ears as I rummage around inside it. Where’s my phone?
Finally my fingers close over the faux leather case. I jab at the button on the side.
‘C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.’ It takes for ever for the phone to come to life and the photo of Elise to appear.
I wrap my phone in the folds of my jumper as it flashes to life and plays a loud, twinkling tune. I tense, and listen for Elise’s confused cry, but the only sound in the room is the muted call of the phone.
It falls silent and I look at the screen. Only got 2 per cent battery life left. I need to be quick. Fifteen missed calls, multiple voicemails and twenty text messages. I scroll through the missed calls first – Max, Max, Max, Mr Harrison, Mr Harrison, Lorraine Hooper, Mum, Mum, Helen, Diane – the list goes on and on. I feel sick each time Max’s name appears. He’ll jump on the first plane to Dublin when he finds out that I’ve been caught. I’ve got no hope of getting Mum over here first. Even if she could leave Dad. And Helen won’t be able to leave Ben.
The phone hangs limply in my hands as all the adrenalin that surged through me as I ran up the stairs drains away. Whatever I do, whatever I say, it’s over. When the Garda comes upstairs I need to stay as calm as possible for Elise’s sake. If I’m scared, she’ll be scared too. I’ll wake her gently, give her one last cuddle and reassure her that everything is going to be OK. I’ll tell her that I’ll never stop loving her, no matter what.
