by Ricki Thomas
I was still chewing, but now I could allow myself a smile. I reached across the table and took the forgotten handbag from the back of the chair that Sophie had just deserted. I stuffed it into my overfull shoulder bag, pushed the plate of half-eaten carrot cake away, finished the dregs of my coffee, and shrugged my cardigan over my shoulders. Now I knew I’d see Sophie again.
PC Taylor had been unable to get Sophie Delaney out of his mind for the past couple of months. He’d considered researching her a little, find out where she worked, maybe, to check that all was well with her, but realised how unethical such a move would be. As he sipped his cocoa, welcome after the freezing foot patrol through the streets of Coalville, he had to concede that no news was probably good news. She’d not gone back to hospital, that he knew, and she couldn’t have been severely attacked by that violent man or she would have dialled the emergency services. He knew the most professional thing he could do would be to lose his preoccupation with her and move on. But she was firmly rooted in his mind. The compulsion to see her was intense.
Off duty that evening, not that he intended the owners of the house to know that, he knocked on the door of Iris Cottage, still handsome in his uniform. Bewildered when she saw who the visitor was, Sophie stepped aside to let him enter, closing the door rapidly behind him to keep the heat in the room. “I just a thought I’d give you a follow up call to check that you and Mr Delaney have both recovered, and to make sure there’s been no more vandalism.”
Sophie, intelligent yet weary, knew the explanation didn’t ring true, but was too tired to dispute anything. “We’re fine, everything’s fine.”
Taylor had removed his cap, holding it childishly in front of him, fidgeting. “Good. Good.”
She had no idea why she felt the need to elaborate, but the silence was awkward, and she wanted to fill in the gaps. “In fact,” she patted her belly, “we’ve found that I didn’t lose the baby after all, I’m going to be a mum.” The words cut through Taylor like a knife, an invisible hand reaching inside his body and scraping out his heart. “Oh, and we’ve decided to move to Mallorca once the house sells. Darren’s parents are going to help us out.”
Taylor couldn’t breathe, the air had become too dense, his chest too constricted. He had to get out of there, get away. Go to the pub, find some girl to shag. Something, anything, to drag him away from this futile obsession with a married woman. He couldn’t even muster a polite goodbye, just tugging at the door, grunting instead of speaking, to get out of that house. As he slammed the door behind him, Sophie was motionless, wide eyed with confusion at his odd behaviour.
She hadn’t noticed Darren standing in the doorway. “What do you mean you didn’t lose the baby after all?”
She turned, filled with consternation; the tone of his voice brought back memories from less happy days. “Darren, I…”
The anger in his words frightened her, she wondered whether to run, get in the car, get away: she couldn’t risk taking another beating with such a precious miracle inside her. “Answer me.” The demand shuddered through her.
“Okay! Okay!” Flee or stay? Flee or stay? “The day I had the accident I’d had a positive pregnancy test, but the doctors told me I’d lost the baby. Anyway, Mrs Miller said I was still pregnant…”
“Who’s Mrs Miller?” He was angry and impatient.
“Oh, she’s just some weird biddy who seems to think she can tell the future, or something. I asked them to scan me again, they did, and found I hadn’t lost the baby after all.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant when you found out?” He was getting angrier, the words he spat were indignant.
“I was going to, but…” The crack across her cheek knocked her into the door, tearing the edge of the curtain, hung for warmth, from the rail. His hands grappled for her neck and he threw her on the floor, she could taste her own blood on her tongue. “Darren! The baby!”
As instantly as the attack had started, it was finished. He strode off towards the kitchen, dusting off his hands. “Dinner’s nearly ready, put the telly on.” Sophie was desperate to stop herself from crying, prior experience had taught her that they just made matters worse, and she wished she could have a brandy to block out the unexpected emotional pain. She swallowed hard, over and over, choking the tears away, before pulling herself up and switching on the News at Six.
Chapter 7
Lucky for Some?
Beryl came over that evening for her fortnightly session, and I did the humdrum fake reading for her, and when it was finished, she didn’t get up to leave like she normally did. I asked if everything was alright, and she appeared more timid than she usually was. “Actually, I wanted to ask you a bit of a favour.”
I nodded, tidying up the cards and replacing them in their blue silk sheath. “Go on.”
“Well, you know Harold usually picks me up, it’s just, well, he’s going to be delayed this evening, he’s at a meeting. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but can I stay here for an hour or so?”
It was such a silly request to be all embarrassed about, I couldn’t help but smile as I told her it was no problem and offered her a mug of tea, which she gratefully accepted. We began to talk, and I asked her if she was still not seeing Sophie, even though I knew she wasn’t from the lady herself. She agreed she was keeping a distance, but did admit to letting Steve update her with her affairs as often as possible.
“I take it Darren’s been behaving himself recently.”
She nodded, sipping the tea. “It appears so, I think the pregnancy’s making quite a difference. Steve says he’s being very attentive to Sophie now, and that they seem to be happy. Maybe trying for a baby was getting to him and that’s why he was behaving like that.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Beryl was wilting and I intended to stop that, “a leopard doesn’t change its spots, as they say.”
“I hear what you’re saying, but, to be honest with you, it’s so hard not to see her. Not just for me, but for Harold too. We miss her, and it’d be so nice to see her. I mean, she turned thirty one a few weeks ago, and we sat at home all evening, wishing we could be with her, give her presents, cards. A cake. The world just seems so empty without my little girl.” I knew that feeling only too well as I mentally pictured the tatty photo of my two babies. “I might go and see her, see how she’s getting on.”
It wasn’t until Beryl had gone and Mary was lying in bed, mulling the woman’s words as she waited for sleep to swamp her, that a horrifying thought occurred to her. Eyes wide, she sprang out of bed and ran through to the living room. Grabbing Sophie’s diary, she scoured each page for the second time, her heart beating wildly in her chest, adrenaline flowing. The words she was looking for glared up at her, swiftly fading as her head plunged into darkness, and her cumbersome body fell heavily to the floor.
The extreme tiredness of being pregnant had begun to slow Sophie down, and she was in a hurry, the extra ten minutes in bed had left her running late. She took her coat and shrugged it over her smart suit, the button of her skirt straining now the baby bump had begun to appear. Grabbing her briefcase, she glanced around for her handbag. “Shit!” She realised she must have left it at the café.
With a quick glance at her new diary, she had no idea what had happened to the last one, she noted that her first appointment wasn’t until mid morning, and that gave her enough time to return there in the hope that an honest person had handed it in.
The young girl at the till was indifferent to Sophie, she sneered miserably and took a brief look under the counter. “Nope. Nothing.”
Sophie was beginning to panic. She pretty much expected the cash in her purse to be gone, but cancelling the debit and credit cards was going to be a pain. “Are you sure?”
The girl huffed, rolled her eyes, and had another look, rooting about. “Nope. As I said.”
Sophie swore inwardly, not bothering to thank the girl as she walked away, muttering under her breath, “Well, you wouldn’t get ten out
of ten for manners!”
As she pulled open the door to leave, a strongly accented cockney voice caught her attention. “’S’cuse me. Miss.” Sophie turned to see the woman who had served her and Mary the previous day waving frantically at her, and she headed back to the counter as the waitress came round from the other side. She held out a scrap of paper. “Woman you was sat with yesterday said she was takin’ your bag for safe-keepin’. Said to give you this.”
Unfolding the note to expose Mrs Miller’s address Sophie bristled at her stupidity in forgetting her belongings. If only she hadn’t left so quickly she would never have had to see the dreaded Mrs Miller again. It briefly occurred to her not to bother getting the bag, but common sense told her it just wasn’t worth the hassle not to. Bridling with annoyance, she knew she was going to have to forget the paperwork that she called ‘housekeeping’ for today and visit Mrs Miller on her way home.
The building was run down, appearing even shoddier underneath the dark clouds and gloomy drizzle. The paintwork on the windowsills was flaking to expose rotting wood, and black bags of dumped rubbish spilled out across the entrance. Although an entry system was in place, it had been vandalised and the door was propped open by a wedge made from an old tin can. Sophie, well dressed and fully made-up, didn’t fit the area at all, and she felt conspicuous. A twinge of fear ran the length of her spine. Tentatively, she stepped into the hall and followed the concrete steps to the fourth level, pushing through a graffiti covered blue door to the lengthy balcony. She passed the first four doors before reaching number thirteen. A swift glance around, she tapped lightly on the knocker that was attached to the letterbox.
I pulled the turquoise door aside without even checking who the caller was, I already knew it was Sophie. I welcomed her inside. “You’ve come for your handbag.” It was a statement, not a question, yet she answered me with a simple nod. I motioned for her to go through to the living room, and Sophie uncomfortably followed the directions, standing awkwardly once inside as she surveyed my clutter and junk, which covered every piece of furniture and most of the threadbare carpet. I was hoping to keep her here for a while. “Cup of tea?”
She shook her head, a little too harshly to be polite. “No. Thank you. I’ll just take my bag and go, thanks.”
I bristled, annoyed. “If you’re sure.” I followed her into the room and rummaged behind the door, eventually ‘finding’ it, trying to buy time. Sophie snatched it, rudely, before pausing to give me a weak smile in apology for her curtness, and before I could stop her, she’d let herself out. Through the bathroom window I could see her holding the bag at arms length with a sneer of distaste, she rummaged through her briefcase, producing a crinkled carrier bag to place the item she clearly thought of as filthy inside. The realisation that she found me repulsive hurt like a dagger. Especially now I’d seen her beautiful face again. I glanced at my watch. The bus into town was due in ten minutes, so I had to get moving. I’d seen what I needed to see.
This time it wasn’t important to wear my smart clothes, not that they were holding out too well with me being such a messy eater, timing mattered more. I grabbed my spare cardigan, a drab, olive affair bought second hand from Oxfam that had seen better years, and my trusty fingerless gloves, and trotted down the concrete steps as fast as my bulk would allow, ready to catch the bus to the town centre.
The visit to Royal Oak House in the Market Place, albeit long drawn out, the necessity for several phone calls by the staff holding up the process, supplied me with the information, or should I say lack of information, that confirmed my suspicions.
It was late afternoon as I approached Hodgekinson, Neville and Barton’s offices, and I debated whether the go inside and ask for Sophie directly, or to wait until she’d finished working and was on her way home. The choice was made easy for me as Sophie stepped through the door, briefcase in one hand, and handbag in the other. I didn’t call out, as I knew it would be detrimental to my cause, so I followed discreetly at a distance.
Not far from the offices Sophie strolled purposefully into a small car park, and strode to the space allocated to her by the firm. She rooted for the keys in her pocket and unlocked the car, climbing in and throwing her bags onto the passenger seat. Turning the ignition, she checked in her rear view mirror ready to reverse out, and I could see her shock in the mirror, almost sensing her feeling of trepidation as it pulsed through her veins. But I wasn’t about to move from my stronghold behind the car.
I guessed that Sophie’s immediate reaction would be to reverse into me, to be done with me for good, but she restrained herself, and I let out my baited breath as the reverse lights went off. Slowly, aware Sophie could drive off if I moved too far, I began to inch towards the passenger side. Sophie revved the engine, hoping it would scare me, but the only purpose it served was to send me scuttling back to the centre of the rear, firmly blocking her exit again.
Sophie sat for what seemed like hours, hoping boredom would send me away, but it didn’t work, and, checking her watch, I guessed she was eager not to anger her husband by being late, she finally gave up, killed the engine, and got out of the car, leaving the door wide open as a precaution. “What do you want this time?” Her voice was strained with anger, the words issued through gritted teeth.
“I need to talk to you, Anna.” Sophie’s brow furrowed, confused. She debated questioning her, but chose not to, not wishing to prolong the unfortunate experience of seeing the crazy woman again. “Your birth name is Anna Sophia Bryce. Sophie, I am your mother. You must know from your birth certificate that you were adopted.” She stared at me, incomprehensive. “I’ve been to the registry office, Sophie. There is no birth certificate for your so-called birth name on your date of birth. I had a child I named Anna Sophia Bryce on the day you were born.”
Sophie’s face twisted with rage, I guess she was totally sick and tired of me following her about, and now I’d dropped this bombshell on her. But I had to, I had to find a way to make her listen. But my revelation didn’t have the desired effect, because she jumped back in the car, restarted the engine, and slammed the car into reverse. Knocking me to the ground with force, she thrust the car into first gear and wheel-spun out of the car park, leaving me struggling to drag myself up from the cold, wet tarmac.
Although I was in shock as I dusted off my clothes, giving my bruised thighs a stern rub to repel the bruising, and although I was sad to have spilled such sensitive news without planning it beforehand, at least I now had the registration number and make of Sophie’s car, and I knew where she parked it. Tomorrow, or whenever, it didn’t matter how long it took, I would be waiting in a taxi to follow Sophie home to see where she lived. In my mind I was doing what I thought best, I had no idea how much my words would upset her.
Her car hurtled through the familiar back streets and country lanes, speeding at every opportunity, but still the journey seemed to take an eternity. As she threw the car around the corner and through the open gates into her gravel drive, Sophie was massively relieved to see Darren’s replacement BMW parked in front of the cottage. They may have been distant recently, physical affection having taken a back seat to the pregnancy, but she needed him more than ever right now.
Not even considering her bags, Sophie jumped from the car and ran to the door, fumbling with the key in her haste, desperate to be inside with her familiar walls, her familiar furniture: her comfort zone. “Darren?” There was a slight edge of terror in her tone.
Sophie’s heart fell when no response came, she knew he was either at the local or drunkenly asleep on the bed. She crept up the stairs desperate not to wake him if he was there, that always made him angry, and her latter consideration had been right: under the covers, snoring loudly, he was in an inebriated coma, the dregs of his poison sitting in the tumbler beside the bed. She sighed deeply, not sure if she was strong enough to deal with this latest problem on her own.
In the kitchen she filled the kettle and switched it on, throwing a teabag into a m
ug she took from the draining board. Her mind was in chaos trying to decide what the next step should be, she felt like crying with frustration but the tears stayed buried away, her anger locking them firmly inside. As the noise of the boiling water reached a crescendo, Sophie’s resolve faltered. She took the bottle of cooking brandy from a wall cupboard, poured a large measure, and downed it in one, shuddering with the sharp aftertaste. Patting her tummy with both remorse and relief. “Sorry, baby, I need this today.”
Acutely aware that getting drunk would be detrimental to the child inside her, the child who was almost fully formed, whose heart was already beating, she poured another drink and replaced the bottle, resolute this would be her last. Carrying it through to the living room, Sophie sat heavily on the sofa, grasping the cordless phone and staring at it. As far as she could reason she had two choices. She could either call her parents and tell them what had happened, the parents who had once again told her at the hospital that they weren’t prepared to have contact with her unless she left her husband. Or she could call the police.
The phone lay in her lap, the minutes ticking away, and the only sound in the house was Darren’s regular snoring, a distant rumble with the door closed. Sophie ran through the latest altercation with that damned woman. Of course she wasn’t her mother! Beryl Waller was. It had been a cruel thing to say. Or was it just desperate? The woman was clearly crazy, she should be locked away in an asylum, not a crummy council flat.
