Stolen Girl

by Sarah A. Denzil

  There’s tension running along Aiden’s jaw as he grits his teeth. But nevertheless, he stands up and smiles.

  ‘You don’t have to,’ I say, wanting to shove this girl away from my child. The memory of him in the hospital room flashes through my mind. The first meeting with the doctor, and the wretched, slopping sound as I vomited in response to what he told me about Aiden’s injuries. The first time I saw Aiden’s brown eyes staring up at me when he came home, so small for his age. My heart quickens again.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Aiden says, before swallowing nervously.

  ‘Thank you so much!’ The girl takes her mobile phone and gets uncomfortably close to my boy. Thankfully, she doesn’t put an arm around him. I watch the pained expression on my son’s face with a sense of hopelessness. This is his life and there’s nothing I can do to change that.

  It’s over in a moment and the girl retreats back to wherever she came from, but the incident only draws attention to us, because a second person approaches. A woman around my age this time, perhaps a little older, asking for an autograph on a beer mat. Aiden smiles politely as he signs it. I watch them both, my body still clenched. When will this stop?

  ‘Could I have a quick photo, too?’ she asks.

  ‘OK.’ He glances at me, lost, overwhelmed.

  ‘We’re actually trying to –’ I start.

  ‘Mum, it’s OK,’ he says, taking the picture using her phone.

  This happens more than I’d like. It’s the new normal, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t imagine ever getting used to his celebrity status, and all I can think is how dangerous it might become unless I can control it.

  Chapter Two

  THE CHAPEL

  The wind blew out the window again, which means it needs boarding up. My fingers catch on the nails while rummaging through the toolbox. I place one between my teeth as I hold the wood in position. It’s strong MDF that I found in someone’s skip. Heavy enough to make my arms ache as I keep it in place. At night, I scurry around the village roads, like a rat in the shadows. Sometimes I turn off my headlights, so no one knows I’m there. If you asked me why, I wouldn’t know. It doesn’t matter so much if they see me, I just don’t want to be seen.

  When the wood drops an inch underneath my grip I instinctively bite down on the nail and let out a curse through throbbing teeth and a cut lip. The pain strengthens my resolve. I shove my shoulder against the wood, banging in the nail as hard as I can. The second one secures it enough to allow me to get in a third. And then a fourth.

  Today is a hot day, and my clothes are drenched through by the time the job is over. On a day like this I miss showers and electric fans. But I make do by removing my top and working in my underwear. Next, I move the mattress to underneath the hole in the roof, lie down, and let the breeze cool my hot skin.

  This is a lonely place, but I don’t care. When I speak, which is rarely, my voice echoes around the rafters. It frightens the spiders back into their corners. But I don’t care.

  It was a chapel once, before nature covered it. Now that it’s abandoned, I’m the evil thing that lurks in this once-holy place. But I. Don’t. Care.

  There was a rich family who lived somewhere close to here who built this private chapel on their woodland. It ended up in disrepair after they sold their properties, along with an old mansion that was demolished to make way for a new road. Now their old chapel is haunted. I’m the thing lurking in the shadows.

  There’s no cooling down on a day like today. The high winds that blew out the window at the front of the building have gone, and I’m still as hot as I was before. I wouldn’t have bothered with the boards but I didn’t want any nosy trespassers to lean in and see me here. The covered windows tell them to keep walking. Leave the ghost well alone or you’ll be sorry.

  My lip stings a little, and I allow my tongue to trail the length of it, tasting the blood. I sit up from the old mattress and stretch, feeling the aching deep down in my bones.

  Outside the chapel, I make my way to the vegetable patch I’ve been cultivating. Lettuce, strawberries, tomatoes. The tomatoes are the hardest because I need to buy plant food for them, and I don’t like going out into the world. I don’t like the noise or the faces.

  I’m pleased to see that there’s a squirrel in my trap today. I unclip the trap and take it back to the chapel. I have a knife there along with wood for a fire, though I’ll have to wait until nightfall for the fire. The last thing I need is some nosy do-gooder seeing the smoke and calling the emergency services.

  I can’t have any attention drawn to me now. This is my time to hunker down and work things out in my mind. There are tasks to complete before I put my plan in motion.

  I put the squirrel down on one of the old pews with the veg, which will need washing. Luckily, purification tablets help me when I don’t have running water. Before doing any of that, I kneel down by the mattress and retrieve a tin box from near the old altar. It squeaks as I remove the lid. Good. It’s still there: the last of my money, withdrawn from my bank before I came here.

  No matter how hard I try, I can’t escape society. I still need that money because it’s essential for what I intend to do next.

  With a sigh, I sit back down on the mattress and push the lid back on the tin wondering if what I want to do is worth it. I stare up at the cracked stained glass above the altar. I’m not sure who it depicts, but I think it might be Mary. I remember learning the nativity story. Back when I hid myself behind masks. Like how I hid my feelings deep down, down, down where no one could touch them. Mary was this woman with a destiny to bring a great good into the world. She still is the female ideal for the world, the virgin mother, the woman the world wants all women to be. A vessel waiting to be filled with purpose.

  And I am who I am. Empty.

  Alone.

  But I don’t care, because I have work to do.

  Chapter Three

  EMMA

  When I say that I’m fine, I’m lying. I’m saying the words people want to hear. No one wants the truth when they ask you how you are; they want to go through the motions of checking in, to prove to themselves that they care, when they don’t. The word fine is part of the dance we perform with each other. I’m not fine at all, but I am better.

  It’s a slow process that comes from within myself and extends out to my family. Each night, the nightmare fades away more than the night before. The picture of Jake’s face dwindles away like an insignificant, unloved relative. The image of Hugh’s dead body is obfuscated by time. The mental images slowly drift away.

  But whether I’m healing with each day, or whether I’m simply forgetting the details, is a question I can’t answer.

  What I do know is that we’ve found some peace here. We don’t like it in Bishoptown-on-Ouse anymore. We live in a three-bedroom apartment in the suburbs of Manchester overlooking a park. The selling point for me was the garage we open up in the afternoon sun. A good place to paint.

  After the court cases ended and it was decided that what I did was in self-defence, I inherited Jake’s house as his widow. But I immediately sold it in order to buy back my parents’ cottage. No matter how I feel about Bishoptown, I know I can’t quite let it go.

  In our Manchester apartment, we wake, eat together and run errands. I spend a lot of the day taking Aiden to his appointments because he hasn’t learned to drive yet. Aiden still has weekly therapy sessions, speech therapy and physiotherapy. He has regular check-ups, too. I have a calendar with them all written down. When we’re not going to Aiden’s appointments, we read and learn together. Aiden missed ten years of school, but he’s bright and eager to learn.

  As much as I hate to admit it – I have to because it’s a fact – while Aiden was in the bunker, Hugh bought books for him. Hugh was the one who helped to advance his reading and writing. He gave him history books, world maps, the occasional science textbook. While Aiden lost many, many things in that bunker, he never lost his desire to learn about the wor
ld.

  It’s early on Saturday morning and both Gina and Aiden are asleep. I have my hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, though the day is warm enough already that I don’t need to hold it so close. I just like the comfort.

  By the time I’ve finished my drink, Gina wanders into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and in her teddy pyjamas. She clutches Walnut the Dragon, a gift from Aiden.

  ‘Mummy, I had another accident,’ she says, rubbing her eyes.

  Sure enough, the crotch of the teddy pyjamas is darker in colour.

  ‘That’s OK, sweetheart.’ I brush a lock of her hair away from her face and gently pinch her in the part of her belly that usually makes her squeal. Today she silently wriggles away from me. No matter how hard I try to make sure she doesn’t feel shame when she’s wet the bed, somehow kids always sense that they’ve done something wrong.

  ‘Where’s Denny?’ she asks, as I begin stripping her for the bath.

  ‘Still asleep.’

  ‘Can I wake him?’ she asks.

  ‘No, sweetheart. You know we talked about that.’

  ‘Denny doesn’t like it when I jump on the bed.’

  No, he does not. Though I wish it was for a normal young man reason, and not because being woken abruptly pulls him out of his nightmares.

  It doesn’t take long to get Gina washed, dried and in clothes. She’s a relaxed child who tends to go with the flow rather than fight me at every turn, very unlike Aiden as a boy. As I’m putting her bed linen into the washing machine, Aiden comes down the stairs.

  ‘Denny!’ Gina cries.

  I glance up at my son. This is my morning routine. I need to gauge how well Aiden slept to know how to handle him for that day. If he has dark circles and is holding himself tightly, I know I need to make sure Gina gives him some space. If he doesn’t have his hands balled into fists and there are no dark circles, then he’s OK with conversation straight away. Today, he’s tensed.

  ‘Tuck into your breakfast, Ginny, before it goes cold.’

  Obediently, she dunks a soldier in her egg and tucks in, smearing yolk around her mouth. Food tends to be a winning distraction for Gina.

  Aiden sits down at the table and silently gazes out of the window. This kind of behaviour doesn’t worry me as much anymore – I know that he retreats within himself when he’s feeling overwhelmed. It has only been four days since the bunker was destroyed and he’s still recovering from that change.

  ‘What would you like for breakfast?’ I ask, quietly.

  ‘Can I have a glass of water please?’

  ‘You can get that, remember?’ I remind him.

  He nods, and I sense a part of him coming back. Sometimes he needs to be reminded that he can do things for himself. Something simple like getting some water or making a meal is important for him. I’ve also been teaching him how to cook, since he never got to watch me cook for him as he grew up.

  ‘Did you decide about the school?’ he asks.

  For a moment I’m not sure what he’s referring to, because I’m so surprised to hear him talk without me asking a question. And then I realise he means Gina.

  ‘I think it’s best to school Gina at home.’

  Aiden turns on the tap and the water comes gushing out. With his back to me I can’t see his facial expression, but I know he’ll be annoyed because we’ve had this chat before. Aiden thinks Gina should go to school. He doesn’t want his abduction to be responsible for her not having a normal life. But I can’t bear the thought of her out there in the world without my protection. It was a schoolteacher who gave my son to a paedophile. Amy Perry, one of the people I trusted most in this world, called her paedo boyfriend Hugh and told him where to kidnap my son, and how to make it look like an accidental death. Unfortunately, Amy is still out there, in the world.

  Who knows who else might be waiting to do us harm? I can’t help the way I feel about the darkness in people, and there’s a chance I’m allowing that to seep into my parenting style. Gina already knows how to call the police because we’ve role-played it together. She never gets the opportunity to talk to strangers because I’m with her all the time. I know deep down that most people in the world are fundamentally good, but I can’t stop thinking about the bad ones, and what they’ve done to me and my family. I’d keep Gina away from them forever if I could, but perhaps I’ll have to settle for the next few years as a start.

  Aiden walks over to the table with his water. ‘It’s not right, Mum. She should go.’

  ‘Go where?’ Gina says. ‘The park?’

  ‘Yes, we can go to the park.’ I stroke her hair and she smiles.

  ‘I’m going to paint.’ Aiden pushes his water away and stands. His hands are balled into fists again. He’s angry with me. A pained expression travels across his face, one that I’m familiar with and understand to mean he’s keeping his temper in check. A technique he’s been working on with his psychologist, Dr Anderton, for the last four years.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I ask.

  He nods.

  ‘It’s for the best, you know that.’ But as I say the words, I’m not sure whether I’m trying to persuade myself. I glance down at Gina. She’s so small. I can’t bear the thought of her being away from me for hours at a time. My heart tugs, and an aching pain opens up in my belly. Scar tissue from my grief.

  The doorbell sends a jolt down my spine. Because I’m so close to Gina it also makes her jump and then she giggles.

  ‘It’s just the bell, Mummy. Silly.’

  My four-year-old is comforting me. But of course she is. I’m forever blown away by how self-possessed she is for her age.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ I say, hurrying to catch up to Aiden. I know he hates answering the door. Small talk is not something Aiden excels in, and we have a chatty postman.

  I press the buzzer, establish that it’s a delivery, and let the man into the apartment block. My heart always beats a little harder in these situations. Who am I allowing in?

  It isn’t the chatty postman, but a private courier who needs a signature for a heavy box. I heave it into the flat and see that the box is addressed to Aiden, not me.

  ‘Can I open it?’ he asks.

  ‘Did you order something?’

  ‘No, but I know what it is,’ he says.

  I stand back so that he can tear away the tape, realising what he means. He pulls the cardboard open and reaches inside. For the briefest of moments, I think it’s going to be a bomb or some kind of airborne poison, until I force my thoughts to come back to reality. That kind of thinking is what I incurred in the moment I killed Jake.

  Aiden is smiling as he pulls the first book out of the box. I lean closer for a better view.

  ‘It’s heavy,’ he says, holding it with both hands. The bright colours catch the hallway light, making the glossy exterior shine.

  ‘Bring it to the table so Ginny can see it,’ I suggest.

  He does, but she’s more interested in her eggs.

  ‘Your first book,’ I say to Aiden, daring to rub his shoulder.

  He nods and opens the pages, flicking through to check the quality.

  Since Aiden escaped from the bunker, he’s taken up painting again. We often paint together. My work is OK, and I love doing it, but I don’t possess the talent that Aiden does, and with his ‘celebrity’ status after the bunker, Aiden found an agent and sold some pieces. Since then, a publisher contacted him, asking if he would like to release a coffee-table book filled with his art. These are the advance copies.

  The pages are thick and smooth. The art jumps from the page in swirls and strong geometric shapes. Lots of primary colours mixed with a darker, gloomier aesthetic. They are his interpretations of the bunker. I like to think of the lighter, brighter pieces as interpretations of us, his family. But Aiden never explains his art. He puts it out into the world for others to take whatever meaning they want from it. Somehow feedback, good or bad, doesn’t affect him at all.

  ‘I need to tell you something, Mum,’ Aiden says
, lifting his face from the pages of the book.

  ‘What is it?’ My skin cools as unstoppable panic seizes my heart. Those are not words I often hear from my son.

  ‘My agent called yesterday. She wants me to go on a chat show to talk about the book.’

  I almost laugh out loud. ‘A chat show?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says.

  You’re not chatty, Aiden. I want to reply, but I don’t because I don’t like to discourage him.

  ‘I want to do it,’ he says. ‘I think it’ll help sell a few copies.’

  I take a seat in the chair next to him. ‘They’ll ask you questions about the bunker.’

  ‘I know,’ he says.

  ‘How do you feel about that?’

  He shrugs. ‘I guess I’ll find out when I get there.’

  ‘Is it going to be live?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But there’ll be a studio audience. They’ve suggested you do it too.’

  The idea of talking about what we went through as a family makes my stomach churn. I’m suddenly filled with energy. I stand up and begin clearing Gina’s breakfast plate.

  ‘Egg!’ she shouts.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I reply, creating noise with the plates, scraping eggshell into the bin. ‘I’m not sure this is a good idea.’

  Out of the corner of my eye I notice Aiden’s fingers grip tightly around the hard cover of his book. ‘What isn’t a good idea? Me moving on with my life?’

  ‘This isn’t moving on. It’s rehashing the past with an audience there watching.’ I stop piling up the breakfast plates and sigh. ‘I’m worried . . . I’m concerned that they might take advantage of you. That they’ll want you to talk about the bunker rather than promote your book.’

  ‘I can look after myself,’ he says. He gives me a defiant look; one I’ve never seen on his face before. One that takes me aback and makes me realise that I’m not going to win this argument.