The Stolen Child

by Sanjida Kay

  He’s assuming I’m going to the preview of his show. He’s right. I am going to go. I won’t be able to keep away. I’m surprised that the work he’s showing isn’t about the Hunza Valley, but when I ask him, he says shortly, ‘No. It’s about here. This place. This is what I’ve missed,’ and he gestures to the moor surrounding us and strides ahead of me. It’s exactly how I would feel if I were him.

  We stop at the Swastika Stone. It’s a flat piece of pockmarked granite on the edge of a small cliff. It’s ringed by metal railings so that you can’t stand on it. Carved in the centre is a loose shape, vaguely like a swirly swastika. It’s thousands of years old.

  ‘It’s a symbol of peace,’ says Harris, as we perch on nearby stones. ‘You see the same ancient sign in India too.’

  I’m so at ease with him that I take out my sketch book. Harris has brought a flask of coffee. He pulls a jam jar of milk out of his rucksack, even though he doesn’t drink it, and tops up my cup. He sits with his arm round Bella, as if she’s his dog. It’s so clear I can see all the way across the valley, to the moor on the other side, the slow climb up Simon’s Seat above Bolton Abbey; a line of white wind turbines on the crest of a hill. I feel a peace that I haven’t known for years with this virtual stranger.

  After a while, he joins me, leaning over my drawing. For once, I don’t mind another person seeing my incomplete work. He looks back at the view and nods approvingly.

  ‘You’ve captured the shape of the hill perfectly. The feel of the place. I can almost hear the wind singing through them blades.’

  He’s so close to me, I can feel the heat rising from his skin, where he’s rolled his sleeves to his elbows.

  ‘I’m so pleased I found you,’ he says softly. ‘I’ve waited a right long time to meet you.’

  I blush and duck my head. But I feel as if I’m blossoming, unfurling like a flower in the warmth of his attention. The picture I’m going to paint will be good: I can already sense the atmosphere of it, the dusky pinks and burnt oranges as summer bleeds into autumn.

  That evening I heat up a goat’s cheese and spinach tart and empty a bagged salad into a bowl. I stopped at Tesco’s on the way home and picked up some olives and sun-dried tomatoes from their deli. It’s not quite proper cooking – not like the shepherd’s pies with their buttery mash and the unctuous chicken casseroles that Ollie’s mum makes and he wishes I did – but the salad looks a little more interesting now. I also bought pizza – Evie’s favourite food. She gave me a quick hug around one of my legs and said, ‘Thank you for such a nice tea,’ before she ran off to her room.

  Now, as I lay the table and even light a candle, I notice there’s a little smear of ketchup where she’d pressed her face against my hip.

  Ollie comes in with a gust of cold air and a flurry of autumn leaves.

  ‘Smells good,’ he says. I expect him to be delighted he doesn’t have to start cooking, but he peers in the oven and frowns. ‘You’ve got it on too high.’

  ‘It’s got more dials than the cockpit of a plane. You need a PhD in engineering to figure out how to use this thing!’ I try and keep my voice light.

  He adjusts the temperature and the timer and loosens his tie. It’s the colour of heather.

  ‘New tie?’ I ask, running my hand down his chest.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, turning away and reaching for the wine. ‘I’ve had back-to-back meetings all day. I’m shattered.’

  He takes a sip and makes a face.

  ‘What’s wrong? Has it been open too long?’

  That hardly seems likely in our house.

  He shakes his head. ‘It’s not that nice. Was it on special offer by any chance? There is a reason for that, you know.’

  He pours us both large glasses and sticks the bottle in recycling.

  ‘When did buying wine for four pounds ninety-nine become a crime?’

  ‘Old habits die hard,’ he says. ‘We can afford to get decent plonk, Zoe.’

  He goes upstairs to change and I sigh. My phone beeps. It’s a text from Harris. I unlock my mobile quickly, my heart skipping a beat. It makes me smile, it’s so in keeping with his character: terse but kind. It reads:

  You’ll save time if you buy prepared canvases. More expensive, but worth it. Call this guy. Tell him I told you to ring. He’ll give you a discount. Harris.

  I lean against our flashy new oven, letting the warmth seep into me. There’s a phone number and a website. Preparing canvases takes so long it would free up a lot of my time if I bought them already stretched onto a wooden frame and primed with acrylic paint. I click through to the website. You can order online. It’s so expensive, though. Should I really be spending that kind of money when I can do it myself?

  I think about Harris sitting on the moor, his arms wrapped round Bella, saying fiercely, ‘Make yourself and your work a priority… Do whatever it takes.’ There was such conviction in his voice. He believes in me. I glance towards the dark end of the house. Ollie still hasn’t reappeared. I re-read Harris’s text. My husband hasn’t asked me a single thing about my day. I wonder how much his new tie cost. Or his suit, for that matter.

  I’ll do it, I decide, I’ll get them tonight, and I feel a rush of excitement.

  FRIDAY

  I’ve been thinking about him every day. I check my mobile obsessively in case he calls or texts. I have his phone number now so I could ring him. But what would I say? I only met him four days ago. Four days. It feels as if I’ve known him forever. Yet not well enough to send him a text saying, ‘Coffee?’ without an excuse, because it is only four days since Jenny introduced us. I’m acting like a teenager. I drop Ben at nursery and Evie at school. Neither Jack nor Hannah says anything to me – hopefully that means Evie hasn’t drawn any more pictures of wicked step-parents and vengeful, sword-wielding princesses.

  As I leave the playground I have that prickling sensation again, running across the back of my neck, as if someone is watching me. I stop on the pavement and look around. Parents and toddlers flow past me. A child scoots over my foot. And there is someone watching me. He’s standing perfectly still on the other side of the road. In the hazy autumnal sunshine, I can’t see his features, only his outline. He’s tall, broad-shouldered. He holds up one hand in greeting. It’s Harris. For a second, I wonder if he’s a figment of my imagination, as if, by wishing, I’ve conjured him. I raise my hand too and step into the road without looking, as if I’m being reeled towards him. Something inside me is liquefying.

  He turns as I reach him and we fall into step. He hasn’t even said hello.

  ‘Thanks for your text about the canvases. I’ve ordered some.’

  I’m speaking too fast, gabbling my words.

  ‘I hope my friend gave you the discount,’ he says, holding the door to the cafe open for me.

  The smell of freshly ground coffee and newly baked cinnamon buns envelops me. I slide into the seat where we sat last time. Harris returns from the counter with a latte and an Americano for himself.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about you,’ he says, and I go still. ‘How are you getting on with your new piece?’ he asks, rubbing Bella behind her ears.

  He means he was thinking about my painting. I’m not sure whether I’m disappointed. I make a face.

  ‘I haven’t started yet. The walk helped,’ I add, in case he thinks I didn’t enjoy it, or it wasn’t useful.

  I take a sip of the coffee and try to breathe more slowly; my heart is racing. There is no small talk with Harris. A moment later, the waiter passes over a plate of cinnamon rolls, steaming gently. I bend my head over the plate and inhale the scent of the spices and hot bread. Harris breaks one in half and hands it to me. His fingertips, gritty with sugar, graze mine. I take a bite and the warm dough and caramelized almonds coated in maple syrup melt in my mouth. My senses are so heightened, it’s as if I haven’t tasted anything before. Harris is staring at me. I lick the sugar from my lips. The intensity of his gaze is unnerving and I drop my head. I’m drawn bac
k, hooked by a strange flaw in his right eye, a deep green fleck in his iris. His nose is long, fine; he’s unshaven; I’m struck again by his strength, the set of his jaw.

  ‘I’ve brought you some things. From the moor. I thought it might help.’

  As he reaches to one side, I look at him more frankly. He’s not dressed in black, as I’d first thought when I saw him silhouetted on the other side of the road. He’s wearing brown moleskin trousers, so soft I want to stroke them, and a thick shirt and a jumper the colour of moss. There are dark hairs at his throat. I imagine what he might be like without his shirt, and I immediately think of Ollie, whose pale skin has grown puffy, his stomach dough-like, from too little exercise and too much alcohol. I feel bad for being disloyal. I try not to stare at Harris’s chest.

  Harris opens his leather messenger bag and lays a couple of objects on the table in front of me. They’re wrapped in white tissue paper. He unfolds the first one carefully. I watch his hands, mesmerized. They’re large and strong. Did the scars come from his metal-work? Inside is a twisted branch. It’s so wind-blasted it looks like driftwood. It’s grey, burnished, as if it’s been cast of silver, with a ruff of lichen that’s equally sculptural. I pull the other parcel towards me and peel back the stiff paper to reveal a small skull. It’s thin, with a snub nose. Harris turns my hand over. His are warm; his grip is firm. He places the skull in the palm of my hand. There are four canines; the top two are so long and curved I can feel them pricking my skin. There’s a green tinge round the eye socket and in a fine line across the cranium. I’m not sure what animal it’s from.

  ‘Stoat,’ Harris says, as if I’ve spoken out loud. ‘They hunt grouse and partridge. I found it behind my house. I buried the body in the furze until it was just bone.’

  His hand is still beneath mine, supporting it. I think of him seeing the small dead creature and digging a tiny grave for it. Planning ahead for all those months just so he’d see the skeleton. Or maybe he severed the animal’s head and that was the only part he buried.

  ‘It’s been waiting for you all this time. Like I have.’

  I shiver and he releases me. I set the skull down, the white paper crinkling around it, incongruous against this ancient, primordial-looking creature’s bones. What does he mean – he’s been waiting for me? For a friend to talk to? Or does he mean something more? I try and pull myself together. All of a sudden, this feels dangerous. Harris feels dangerous. I’m married, I remind myself. I have two children. I lick my lips again and taste salt and sugar and a trace of cinnamon. Harris leans back in his seat and smiles at me and I stare at him, transfixed. Perhaps this is what the stoat’s prey feels like.

  Harris drains his coffee and slides some coins onto the table.

  ‘I can see you want to get on,’ he says. ‘You’ve work to do.’

  I nod. I can’t trust myself to speak. I haven’t thanked him or asked him about his own art, his approaching exhibition. By the time I’ve got my coat on, and Bella back on the lead, he’s gone. I wonder where he lives. I touch the crenellations swirling from a knot in the wood, run my finger down one sharp tooth. I rewrap these found objects and put them in my bag. How did he know exactly what I would need? The scene I’ve been imagining in my mind turns darker, more sombre. I’ll have to get more raw umber.

  Ollie texts to say he’s got a drinks engagement after work and not to wait up. I grit my teeth and swear under my breath. Why is he never home? We need to have a proper conversation about how seldom he’s here with me and the kids; our relationship is practically non-existent. I put the children to bed. I’m so exhausted, I follow them shortly afterwards. I must have fallen asleep straight away, because when I jolt awake, it’s after midnight. For a moment, I think Ollie is home, but his side of the bed is cool, the sheets smooth. Something must have woken me. I rise and pull my dressing gown around me. I check Ben. He feels hot when I lay my hand against his forehead. I pull the covers down a little and move his toy lion. He opens and closes one fist; fat fingers curling like a starfish. I stand at the bottom of the stairs up to the attic where Evie sleeps, but I can’t hear anything.

  Shadows play across the landing as the moon’s light is fragmented by tree branches. It’s streaming through the window in my studio, where the door is half open. I go in. I placed Harris’s gifts on the sill; now the moon picks out the contours of one empty eye socket in the stoat’s skull, gilds the gnarled driftwood. I look outside. It’s so bright I can see our garden clearly: an abandoned truck lies on its side; shadows from the table and benches are elongated across the lawn. The dark edge of the moor and the Cow and Calf rocks are crisp against the blue-black sky. I can’t see anyone outside, watching us. As I shut the door behind me, I hear a noise. It came from the hall. I feel the hairs rise on the back of my neck. If it was an intruder, surely Bella would have alerted us? The sound comes again: a low murmur as if someone is whispering.

  I creep quietly down the stairs. When I’m halfway, I pause. The next stair creaks. Bella whines and thumps her tail as she senses my presence. There’s a shape on the sofa, haloed by light from the TV. Ollie. I click on the lights and blink in the brightness. He turns round and squints at me.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask. I’m angry he frightened me.

  He gestures at the TV. He’s watching Suits with the volume turned right down. It’s his favourite show: an American series about some hot-shot lawyer who hires a college drop-out with an eidetic memory who’s never been to law school.

  ‘Trying to unwind,’ he says.

  I used to think Ollie loved the series because of its morality: the brilliant young lawyer, Mike Ross, takes on cases and clients that no one else will fight for. Now, as I watch Ross and Harvey Specter squaring up to each other, I wonder if it’s something else that attracts him: naked ambition, raw greed and the lifestyle that only the super-rich can afford.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ My voice is high and tight.

  ‘Doing what?’

  He rubs his eyes and sits up. He’s still in his suit and it’s rumpled, the tie loosened. It’s another one I haven’t seen before: chrome-yellow with a soft sheen. He can’t help glancing at the screen.

  I shake my head, my anger growing.

  ‘You’re never here.’ I sound like Evie, but it’s too late. So much for waiting for the proper time for a chat. ‘You’re out all the time. You even work every bloody Saturday. I feel like a single mother. I’m juggling my painting, two children, the dog.’

  ‘I’m doing it for us!’ he says, his voice rising. He tries to speak more quietly. ‘We’re a family of four now. I’ve got to be responsible for all of you. If I’m made partner, we’ll be financially secure. I’m working all these bloody hours for you. For us.’

  So that’s what this is all about. Partner of the firm. Behind Ollie’s head, the Suits’ CEO, Jessica Pearson, strides through her firm, graceful as a panther, in six-inch heels and a necklace that cost more than a month’s salary.

  ‘I never asked you to.’

  ‘You didn’t have to. It’s obvious. Your art is— Well, it’s brilliant, Zoe, but it doesn’t bring in much money. And it’s erratic. You have no idea when you’ll sell a painting or how much for. You’re not business-minded about it. I love that about you, I really do, but don’t you see? You doing what you want to do and not worrying about how much you’re earning puts more pressure on me.’

  I can’t believe what he’s just said. I pull my dressing gown more tightly around me.

  ‘Have you forgotten I’m raising two children, with no help from you, and my work has to fit in around them? Maybe I could earn more, be more “business-minded”, but it’s pretty bloody hard when I only have a couple of hours a day to knock out a masterpiece.’

  He sighs and interlocks his fingers behind his head, stretching. A joint in his spine cracks.

  ‘We’re not poor,’ I continue. ‘I was poor when I was growing up. I know what it feels like. We’re far from that. You don’t have to do
this, Ollie. You don’t have to work this hard. I’d rather have less money and have you at home more.’

  He pauses the DVD. A woman with a perfect cleavage and fuchsia-pink lips wavers on screen.

  He says carefully, ‘I know how tough it was for you. Don’t you realize – I don’t want that for our children? But you’ve no idea. What all this costs.’ He gestures to the smeary stainless-steel units. Presumably he means everything, not just the new kitchen, and I have a pang of guilt when I think how much I spent ordering canvases and paying for delivery.

  ‘If it’s that bad, we should downsize.’

  ‘No,’ he says, ‘it’s not that bad. We’re fine. You’re right – we’re comfortable. This is what I’ve always wanted. A big house with a garden, by the moor. You’ve got your studio. It’s what I’ve worked for. But I need more, Zoe, don’t you see? I want our kids to have the best. Not to have to scrimp and save and eat beans on bloody toast every day like you did. A private education. No student loans. For us to be secure in our old age. Maybe even have a holiday abroad when I’ve made partner. You don’t bother about these things, you never have. You’re like your dad. Happy to live in the moment. I’m the one who’s forced to think about our long-term security. Our children’s future.’

  I don’t know whether to be affronted or pleased that he thinks I’m like my dead, alcoholic dad, whom Ollie never met. Affronted, I decide.

  ‘What’s happened to you?’ I say.

  Where did the man I married go? It’s as though now Ollie’s doing the accounts for minor celebrities, he wants what they have. And then I can’t help myself; I think of Harris. I cannot picture him picking silk ties in some expensive boutique in his lunch hour, let alone wearing one. Ollie presses play and we both watch as Harvey Specter stands in his soulless apartment with the best view in New York, and tells his brilliant, ex-junkie associate, that he doesn’t care about caring, only about winning.