The Stolen Child

by Sanjida Kay

  ‘Car!’ Ben yells.

  It’s on the road below us, cherry-red, small and boxy. I’m astonished at the coincidence – that it’s Harris who’s rescued us – and relieved, but almost immediately I start to feel guilty. Will he be thinking of our drunken kiss? Does he expect more? Will he talk about it? I have to tell him it is over, whatever it is we are doing. My family mean everything to me. How could I ever consider breaking up our home and ruining the security Evie and Ben have? It doesn’t matter how I feel about Harris; nothing is worth risking my children’s happiness. I can’t say anything now though, not right this minute, not when he’s saved us from pneumonia, when he has Ben in his arms. Once we’re in the car, he wraps a blanket around us and turns the heater on full blast.

  ‘I can take you home. Or you can come back to my house. I live nearby. On the moor. Get yourself warmed up. Have a cup of tea. I can make hot chocolate for the lad.’

  He has his hands on the steering wheel as he says this. He flexes his fingers and stares straight ahead. I hold my breath. It’s like it was in the gallery. He’s waiting for my answer as if everything rests upon it. I want to go home and have a hot bath. I want to get Ben into warm, clean, dry clothes. I want to see more of Harris. I want to know where he lives, to have some insight into his life. And I need to tell him it’s over.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, and he knows what I mean.

  He drives a short way, I can’t tell how far, I can barely see through the fogged windscreen. There’s a black disc hanging from the rear-view mirror with gold Arabic writing.

  ‘What does it say?’ I ask, pointing to it.

  ‘“Peace”. A souvenir from the Hunza Valley.’

  I hug Ben to me and kiss him and hope we don’t crash when he’s not in a child seat. What would Ollie say about what I’ve done today? I check my phone – still no signal. At some point Harris turns off the road and we drive directly into the moor down a rocky track; the car bucks and tilts, the disc swings and twists, the gold calligraphy flashing dully. I look at him in surprise. I didn’t know you were allowed to do this.

  ‘It’s the old Keighley Road,’ he says. ‘People used to drove their cattle and sheep along it.’

  He’s hunched, a big man in a small car, peering through a smudged gap in the clouded windscreen. It feels as if we drive for a long way through the moor.

  When we finally stop, he comes round to my side and opens the door. He takes Ben and my bag again, and puts the blanket round my shoulders and runs with us to his house. I can’t take it in, where we are, what it looks like; it’s raining so hard. I have a sense of space around us, of emptiness and isolation, and then he’s pushing me inside. The three of us stand in his hall, dripping.

  ‘Take your wet clothes off. You’ll catch your death. I’ll run a bath. And get you something dry to wear.’

  I don’t question him. My fingers are so numb with cold I can barely peel Ben’s clothes from him. My son is blue around his lips and shaking. Harris ushers us into the bathroom, where there’s an old bath on lion’s feet, with an inch or two of warm, bubbly water and clean towels. A couple of minutes later he comes back with a pile of clothes and then he leaves us. I soak Ben in the water and dry and dress him. The nappies in my bag are damp, but they’ll have to do. There are even bath toys, which I give him to play with on the mat, and then I add more hot water and submerge myself. Why does Harris have children’s toys and a set of clothes a woman and a small boy could wear? Is he married? Was he in a relationship? I’ve become involved with someone I don’t know the slightest detail about. I have to extricate myself. As soon as I’m dry, I’ll do it.

  As I’m towelling my hair, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. It’s unlikely Harris would still find me attractive. He’s seen me, mascara streaked down my face, my hair plastered to my skull, and now I’m as rosy as a boiled lobster. I bundle our wet clothes into a heap. I’m wearing the clothes Harris left out for me: faded jeans and a striped, long-sleeved T-shirt with a grey cardigan. They fit well and are similar to the ones I’ve discarded. I shiver. Could they be his wife’s?

  Ben and I emerge. We’re in what was once a peasant cottage, maybe a farming croft. It’s small, the walls are thick and the stone floor is uneven. Indian rugs are scattered across the flags. Or – more likely – they’re from Pakistan. Someone must have knocked down the internal walls for it’s open plan: the kitchen is on one side; there are large armchairs and a sofa with orange and red cotton throws slung over them; garlands of dried marigolds hang from the beams. There’s a fire in the hearth and a tiny, spiral stone staircase, which presumably leads to a bedroom in the eaves. Harris has cleared a low coffee table, sweeping piles of papers and art magazines onto the floor, and has laid out a pot of tea, scones, jam, butter and hot chocolate in a plastic cup for Ben. He looks up at me and smiles, and my stomach flips over.

  ‘My sister has a boy about your son’s age. She keeps clothes here for the two of them, so she’s less to carry when she visits,’ he says.

  I relax my shoulders slightly, less concerned about the feel of the fabric against my skin. He pours me some tea and spreads butter and jam on scones for us. Ben runs over to him and within a couple of minutes he’s sitting on Harris’s knee with a chocolate moustache and butter on his chin. I don’t quite know how to start, what to say. I’m nervous – I’ve no real idea where we are. I walk slowly round the room, letting the heat from the fire warm me. I glimpse the moor through mullioned windows: it’s a blur of brown and green and grey. On the whitewashed walls are photographs. I look more closely. They’re originals, signed by the artist – someone with an impossibly exotic name: Hajar Abyadh. Here, in this house on the heath, the colours are incongruous: azure-blue skies, snow-topped mountains, chillies ripening in the sun, trees laden with golden apricots, a girl with dark hair and almond-shaped green eyes; a tiny emerald pierces her nose. She looks uncannily like Evie.

  ‘They’re of the Hunza Valley.’

  ‘Harris,’ I say, turning to him.

  It’s as if he knows what I’m going to say. He still has Ben on his lap. He stretches out his hand to me. I’m torn. I long to take it, feel his palm, rough against mine. My legs are like milk. I feel a rush of desire. Perhaps it could work? He’d make a good father. But then Ben wipes his sticky face on his sleeve and slides to the floor. Full of sugar, he starts to shout and charge from one side of the room to the other and it’s as if the spell is broken. I remember who I am, what I stand to lose.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘about the other night. I mean, it was – wonderful. I wish— But I can’t— I’ve got a husband, Harris. Two children.’

  Harris is shaking his head. His curly hair is almost dry and he comes towards me. I back away. If he touches me I know my resolve will weaken.

  ‘Thank you. For coming to our rescue today. And for making me feel more confident about my work. But we can’t keep seeing each other. Even for coffee.’

  I think I’m going to cry. I’ll miss talking about art. I’ll miss him. I miss him already and the life I might have had. I hope he’ll try to persuade me. And I hope he doesn’t. I bundle our sopping clothes into my bag. I call Ben and hold out my hand for him. He ignores me. Harris is right in front of me. He’s too close, towering over me. His face is twisted with rage.

  ‘You can’t do this to me,’ he says.

  I step back but now I’m pressed up against the kitchen cupboards. This wasn’t what I’d imagined. I’d thought he might be upset, that he might try to talk me out of it – or that he’d say it had all been a mistake – he should never have kissed me. His raw aggression is frightening. My desire turns to fear.

  ‘I want you,’ he says quietly.

  His pupils have shrunk to pinpricks. My heart starts to beat harder, faster. The muscles in his jaw are clenched tight. I can’t breathe. I can’t swallow. His expression is glazed, as if he can no longer see me or what I meant to him. The hardness in his eyes is terrifying.

  ‘Harris?�
� It comes out in a weak croak. I stretch out my hand tentatively towards him. I’m shaking. The strength that I admired now seems dangerous.

  ‘Mummy,’ says Ben, and comes toddling over, jealously wrapping himself around my leg, pushing in between Harris and me.

  I have to get Ben out of here.

  ‘I thought better of you. I thought you were special.’

  He looks down at Ben. Please God, don’t let him hurt my child. I put my hand around Ben’s head, press him tightly against my thigh.

  ‘I thought you were different.’

  Harris is breathing hard. The handle from the drawer behind me digs into my back.

  ‘You bitch.’

  His voice is quiet but his anger is unmistakable. He moves slightly and I scoop Ben up and retrieve my bag and camera from where they’ve fallen on the floor.

  ‘I’ll drive you home.’

  ‘No,’ I say, too loudly, too sharply.

  ‘Don’t be daft. You’re miles away.’

  There’s a sneer in his voice.

  ‘I’ll call a taxi.’

  He laughs and makes a gesture to the outdoors. We’re somewhere in the middle of Ilkley Moor. I wonder if he’ll offer to let me use his phone, but maybe there’s no landline.

  When I say nothing, he says, ‘Have it your way. Get out of my house. I never want to see you again.’

  He opens the door and I stumble out. Despair comes flooding back – I’m right where I was before – in the rain, in the middle of the moor, with a small child. Harris slams the door behind us. I take a deep breath. We’re unharmed. I start to run down the road, bumping Ben on my hip and he giggles, thinking I’m doing it on purpose.

  I sing ‘It’s raining, it’s pouring’ to keep him chuckling, and he joins in.

  I keep checking my phone. On a rise in the path I stop. I can see Ilkley spread below me. The Keighley Road winds through shorn grass and bilberry bushes and I know where I am. I’ve got mobile reception! Relief surges through me. I phone Jack Mitchell.

  ‘Jack?’ I shout, deliriously happy when he answers. ‘Can you bring Evie and come and pick us up, please? We’re on the moor. And then drop us all back at my house?’

  And Jack, because he’s kind and wouldn’t remind me that the arrangement was for me to collect Evie myself, says, ‘Aye, sure. You’ve finished taking your photos then. Whereabouts are you?’

  As if it’s all completely normal.

  I tell him where to meet me. Below White Wells, I say. Drive up the moor road.

  We can walk that far together, Ben and I.

  OCTOBER, FRIDAY

  I’ve been miserable all week. Snapping at Ollie and the children. This morning is no different. I’m tired and I’ve got a searing pain in my temples. I can’t stop thinking about Harris and my lucky escape. Maybe it was my fault. Did I lead him to believe we had a future together? And what if I hadn’t said anything to him? If I’d waited to see what would happen between us instead of trying to head it off before it came to pass? I would have fallen in love with him. The rational part of me thinks how terrible that would have been: he’s unstable, aggressive and I would have destroyed my family. I realize that now.

  Ben is full of beans, running manically around, pulling a caterpillar on wheels behind him singing, ‘Raining, raining,’ while I try to chivvy Evie into getting ready. She eventually appears in the kitchen.

  ‘I want toast,’ she says, as she sits at the table.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Uhhh, please. Not brown! You know I hate brown bread!’ she shrieks when I put a couple of slices in the toaster.

  ‘You ate it last week. We don’t have any white bread.’

  ‘But I didn’t like it. I hated it. I’ve always hated it.’

  ‘So you don’t want toast?’

  ‘Yes, with chocolate spread so I can’t taste the brown.’

  ‘We don’t eat chocolate spread for breakfast,’ I say, wondering if I’ve just made that up; perhaps I’ve been eating Nutella in front of the kids and setting them a bad example? And is jam really any different? It’s full of sugar; at least chocolate spread has nuts in it.

  ‘Cheerios, then.’

  ‘We’ve got Shreddies or Weetabix.’

  ‘That’s so boring. Why can’t we have nice cereal like at Sophie’s house? Or when we went on holiday and we had Frosties.’

  ‘Evie! Shreddies, Weetabix or toast!’

  She sighs elaborately and asks for Weetabix but with warm milk. While I heat it, and spread butter on her toast for me, she starts needling Ben, pinching his knees and his elbows. I don’t think she’s deliberately trying to hurt him, but he starts crying.

  ‘Evie! Stop it! You’ll have to sit at the other end of the table if you do that again.’

  She takes her cereal bowl and flounces into the garden. I wince at the blast of cold air that funnels into the house. My mobile beeps. It’s a text from Harris. He sent me several messages at the start of the week, apologizing and asking me to ring him. He said he missed me. I didn’t reply. I click on this text. It says, ‘You fucking bitch.’

  I delete all of them and switch my phone to silent. It’s yet more proof of his temper. I start to feel nervous. What if he decides to confront me? I check the time – we’re going to be late. I go outside and find Evie by the sandpit, humming tunelessly and staring into space.

  ‘Evie! You need to go upstairs and wash your face and brush your teeth. Why are you sitting out here? You’re such a daydreamer!’

  ‘I am NOT! You need to say, “Brush my teeth and then wash my face” or I’ll get it all wrong! And then you’ll shout at me. As usual!’

  ‘You’re seven years old!’ I yell. ‘You’re old enough to get washed every morning without having to be reminded by your mummy!’

  I go back indoors, wipe Ben’s face and the table, clear up all the breakfast stuff and get both of us into our outdoor things – I even manage to find my purse and mobile without a last-minute panic – but Evie still has not reappeared. I strap Ben into the buggy and put Bella on the lead. When Evie doesn’t come, I run upstairs. She’s not in the bathroom and she clearly hasn’t washed because her facecloth and toothbrush are dry. I fling open the door to her bedroom but the room is empty. I start to feel anxious.

  Downstairs, Ben, trapped in the pushchair, starts to scream, ‘Out!’ and drum his feet against the wall. I’ve reached the point where I want to scream and bang my head against the wall myself. I’m too hot in my winter coat and I feel faint. I look in my bedroom and the studio. I find her in Ben’s room, half hidden by his bed. She’s crouching on the floor and she turns and gives me a beautiful smile.

  ‘Look, Mum, it’s a space ship called Noah. It’s going to take all the animals off the earth before the aliens destroy the planet. We’re going to start a new world called Paradise Bottom.’

  She gives a little giggle at the silliness of her stellar name. She’s made a tall, thin, skyscraper of a sculpture out of Ben’s Duplo, complete with Playmobil animals hanging onto ledges and peering out of windows.

  ‘Evie! Ben is crying downstairs, in his buggy. We are all waiting for you! Again! Why can’t you just do as you are told? For once in your life!’

  Her face clouds and the light goes out of her eyes. She stands up and kicks her sculpture in the middle. Pieces of Duplo ricochet round the room.

  ‘Evie! For God’s sake!’ I shout again.

  There’s a wail and a crash, and I turn and run down the stairs. Ben has managed to push the wall so hard, he’s upended the buggy and is now upside down, still strapped in and yelling. He’s hit his head on the hall floor, and when I right the buggy, there’s a red mark. It’s in exactly the same spot he banged his forehead on a kitchen cabinet last Friday, and right next to the bump when he fell out of the backpack.

  ‘Look what you’ve done to your brother!’

  Evie is slowly putting her coat on. Her voice is quiet and precise.

  She says, ‘He’s not my brother.’


  ‘Of course Ben is your brother!’ I kiss him but Ben continues to cry. ‘Why would you say something like that?’ I ask, as I manoeuvre him out of the front door.

  ‘Because he’s not. None of you are my real family.’

  ‘Evie, we are! We are your family.’

  ‘I hate you all,’ she says. ‘I’m going to run away and live on the moor.’

  ‘Now you’re being ridiculous,’ I say, losing patience.

  We walk to school in silence, apart from Ben, who sobs intermittently and says, ‘Ow,’ pointing to his head with one fat finger.

  I need to try to talk to her, when I’m calmer and can work out what to say. By the time we reach the playground, I start to feel like a human being instead of a bomb. My heart rate has returned to normal and I’ve stopped thinking I’ll shake her or slap her if I’m not careful.

  ‘Evie,’ I say, bending down next to her.

  I want to tell her that she needs to be grown up and to take responsibility for getting ready by herself and that I’m sorry I shouted at her, because I love her – I love her to the moon and back – but before I can say anything, she says, ‘You’re not very nice,’ and runs off to her classroom.

  I feel horrible. I look around me, cringing in case anyone else has heard her. None of the other mums are paying me any attention, but then I see Hannah, standing in the door, watching me, and my cheeks burn.

  As soon as I get home I go straight to my studio. I’ve been painting all week as if I’ve been possessed. I mix raw umber and burnt sienna together. This is my most abstract painting yet. It’s set on the plateau beyond the Twelve Apostles and I’ve poured all my feelings of despair and anxiety into it – whether Ben and I would make it off the moor last Saturday. The sky dominates the picture; the stones look skyscraper tall although, in reality, they’re small. They erupt at odd angles, like broken teeth, from dark earth. The sky, the soil, the stones, all meld into one. It’s called, ‘My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks...’