The Stranger In My Home: I thought she was my daughter. I was wrong.

by Parks, Adele

  During the journey I make a conscious effort not to allow myself to become worked up or frenzied. Undoubtedly, I can see the risks and flaws in this plan – if indeed my impulsive dart can be called a plan at all. I’m pretty confident that Tom wants me to head to Brighton, although that does not guarantee that is where I’ll find him or Katherine; it is just as possible that he’s luring me in the wrong direction. However, setting aside a lifetime of indecision and self-doubt, I stay steadily committed to my plan. I believe that they are in Brighton. I haven’t much real evidence to go on but I believe it. I realise that, even when I do arrive, I’m not sure exactly where in Brighton I might find Tom. It’s a big town. And then there is the question of whether I should have told the police. I don’t know, and it’s too late to change course. Tom said ‘come alone’. That could be a trap or my best chance.

  The only concern that continues to nag me is whether I ought to have shared my plans with Jeff. Once he realises I’ve been gone too long to simply be walking Mozart, he’ll go spare with fright as to where I might be. I see a telephone box and impulsively pull over. It’s been years since I’ve used one, but they haven’t changed. The doors are still impossibly heavy, inside it still smells awful, the only difference is it’s more expensive to make a call now. I return to the car and scrabble around for change.

  Jeff picks up after two rings. ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Hello, darling, how are you doing?’ He sounds weary, but I appreciate he’s trying to be upbeat for me.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Bearing up?’

  ‘Jeff, are you still out?’

  ‘Yes, I’m coming home soon, though.’ I imagine him cold, wet, worn out. Still, I doubt he is planning on coming home soon.

  ‘Look, I haven’t got a lot of time. I’m ringing from a phone box. When you do get back home, I won’t be there.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘There’s a note saying I’m taking the dog for a walk. If the police are with you, pretend to believe it.’

  His tone shifts. Concern is overlaid with panic. ‘Alison, what’s going on?’

  ‘I can’t tell you, Jeff.’ I lean my head against the dirty glass. There’s a silence. I suppose he’s imagining the possibilities. What am I up to? What mad risk might I be taking? What betrayal might I be planning? ‘I want you to trust me,’ I whisper. He still doesn’t say anything. The level of background noise changes. I get the impression that he’s walking away from a crowd. Is he protecting me, finding some privacy? Or is he about to blow off? ‘You do trust me, don’t you, Jeff?’ I battle to keep my voice steady, I want him to believe that I’m in control. ‘I must do something, and you have to trust me. I’m only calling you so you didn’t find me gone and think he has me, too.’

  ‘Are you safe?’

  ‘At the moment.’

  ‘Has he made contact?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know where she is?’

  ‘No, but I know where he wants me to go.’

  ‘Alison,’ he whispers urgently, ‘You know all this rain we’ve been having? Well, it reminded me of that story I read once about a mother thrush.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I told you about it. Do you remember?’ he asks urgently. ‘The little bird used her own body to dam an overflowing drainpipe in order to stop her nest being swept away by rainwater.’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘It was a story of such brilliant ingenuity and self-sacrifice. Out of all the stories I told you about the animal mums, that’s always been your favourite.’

  ‘Yes, it has.’

  ‘Because the father thrush fed the mother and the young while she protected the nest,’ he reminds me. My heart squeezes as I understand what he’s trying to say. ‘Let me come with you, Alison.’

  ‘No. I can’t. It has to be this way. He said I was to go alone.’

  ‘It will be a trap. He’s dangerous.’

  ‘I know, but you have to trust me with this, Jeff. You have to.’

  He takes a deep breath; another pause pulses through our history. I think he’s going to argue with me. Fuss, insist I call the police. At the very least demand to know where I am going.

  ‘OK, Alison.’ The relief. His unconditional loyalty nearly floors me. I imagine his concern and his frustration, but he is trusting me. The fact is, he has always believed in me, far more than I have myself.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ I whisper. The tears are biting in my throat and eyes but I won’t give in to them.

  When people think about nature’s most protective mothers they often talk about mamma bears willing to claw apart anyone or anything that might threaten their cubs. People are less aware that orang-utan mothers maintain physical contact with their babies for the entire first four months of their life. They literally never let go. Then there are the penguins who shield their chicks from the Arctic winds. I suppose I’ve always known that by presenting all these examples of animal mothers’ behaviour Jeff was telling me that he understood. That I’m an animal. That we all are.

  ‘Go get our baby back, Alison.’

  I hang up.

  As I put the car into gear my back is a little straighter, my heart a little stronger. I am not a thrush, or a bear, an orang-utan or even a tiger.

  Tom Truby, watch out, because I am an entire fucking menagerie and I’m coming after you.

  41

  I arrive in Brighton just before three. I park my car in an NCP and then head straight for the pier. I’ve decided that is the most likely place for him to expect me because, even though we once discussed our mutual dislike of noisy funfairs, the pier is the central point of Brighton.

  The elements assault me. The air is freezing; it pierces and the vicious wind slaps. Stinging needles of rain jab me. I fasten my coat right up to the top button, pull my hat low on my forehead and wrap my scarf snugly around so that the only part of my flesh that is exposed is the couple of inches from my nose to my eyes. But then I am concerned there’s a chance Tom might not spot me, even though I have Mozart with me. I ditch my scarf in a bin; a moment later a homeless man fishes it out, I wish I’d thought to hand it to him in the first place.

  I can smell the salt of the sea and hear hungry gulls screech. It’s a lonely, sad sound. Brighton is wearing an entirely different guise from when we used to visit with Katherine in the summertime. The shopkeepers have brought their wares indoors, as there are no tourists to be tempted into buying a rubber ring or flip flops; the front, the beach and the sea are practically deserted. I imagine Christmas shoppers will have stayed within the warmth of the shopping mall, though a hardy few might be battling with umbrellas as they dash around the tangle of the Laines. Despite the attractions, most people have the sense to stay away from the pier in weather like this; no one is dipping behind the life-size wooden fat ladies, the ones where you stick your head through the hole where her face ought to be. I wonder whether the lack of crowds will be a deterrent for Tom. Might he stay away? Have I got this all wrong?

  I buy a cup of tea, served in a polystyrene cup, and a small bag of deep-fried doughnuts I intend to give Mozart. I realise it’s a terrible thing to feed a dog but he looks like he needs a treat. There are benches under the central canopy, the ones where pensioners can find a bit of shade in the summer; I don’t sit there because I’ll be easier to miss. I find a bench towards the end of the pier, out in the open, exposed, and then I sit down.

  And wait.

  It grows pitch black, and the wind is still blowing in from the sea; the rain has now settled into a steady drizzle. All credit to Brighton, there are coloured lights running up and down the pier trying to break the gloom; the fairground attractions have, optimistically, been kept open, but their tinny jingles are lost to the unforgiving weather. Small clusters of people respond to the lights and occasionally someone hands over a token to hook a duck or sit on the waltzers. The rain has made the wooden floor of the pier glassy. I see a child dash and slip over, dirtying his c
lothes. He is helped to his feet by his parents, patted down, rushed to shelter. The smell of chips lingers in the air and, eventually, I buy a tray. I gobble them down, not allowing myself to enjoy them. I’ve already had a second cup of tea. My legs and bottom are numb; every fifteen minutes or so, I stand up, stamp my feet and stretch a bit. I’m wearing my walking coat but, even so, the cold and damp are beginning to infiltrate my bones. Mozart has crept underneath the bench and is trying to benefit from any protection my body can give. I feel sorry for him and wonder if it was cruel of me to bring him. I consider taking him back to the car but I don’t want to leave my post. I have to stay still. Tom has to find me.

  I wonder, has he been in Brighton since Saturday? Did he come back to Surrey just to drop off the book? Or have they been nearby all the time? I don’t know. The thought that he is always one step in front kicks its way into my head. I shove it out; it’s unhelpful. I have to focus on what I’m in control of. I have to take charge now. For example, I can assume he’s trailing me. I don’t shiver at the thought; that’s what I need.

  There are so few people on the pier I have to do very little by way of being vigilant for his arrival; the challenge is making the minutes fall away. I play games such as counting how many cars pass in the distance before I spot a bus. Twenty-three, twenty-four. Ah, a bus, start again. One, two.

  Just after six o’clock, I spot him. He is wearing a deer stalker hat I haven’t seen before and he’s turned up the collar of his coat, to protect himself from the elements, perhaps; to avoid detection most certainly. He stands, hunched and apart. I wave to him. It’s an out-of-place, joyful gesture, but I am so delighted, so relieved. I was right, I was right! And if Tom is here, then Katherine must be close by. Safe and well, please God. I frantically search her out, but I can’t find her. He catches my eye but doesn’t come over straight away. Instead, he makes me wait. He lingers near the carousel; I watch as he casts suspicious glances left and right, towards the helter-skelter and the girl selling chips. I understand: he thinks I’ve brought the police. I stand up slowly, one hand holding Mozart’s lead, the other wide from my side; an open gesture. Deliberately, gradually, I walk towards him. Like a wildlife photographer, scared of startling away the beast.

  ‘It’s OK, Tom. There’s no one here but me.’ I practically have to yell this above the noise of the wind and the waves crashing on to the pebbled beach. ‘Where’s Katherine?’

  He doesn’t answer me but asks, ‘Why are you friends with Annabel?’

  He doesn’t seem in the least bit fazed or embarrassed to have told me that Annabel was dead when she clearly isn’t. Like him, I don’t answer the question but pursue my own. ‘Is she OK? Is she with you?’

  ‘I saw the press conference. That wasn’t very nice of you, releasing my photo, telling the world I’m a person of “particular interest” in the case.’ He looks cold, angry. ‘I’m not a person of “particular interest”. I’m her dad.’ I stop a metre away from him. I scan about over his shoulder but I still can’t see her. I force my eyes to meet his. It’s difficult, like facing the devil. He looks dreadful. His eyes are manic; he’s unshaven, grubby. I don’t take any pleasure from this. If he’s this dishevelled, what state is Katherine in? His clothes are crumpled; he smells as though he’s been sleeping in them. He’s twitchy, buzzing like an electric fence. There is no sign of the calmness I once admired. His façade has crumbled. I’m left facing a raw, frightening instability.

  ‘Let me talk to her. Please.’ I can’t keep the need out of my voice.

  ‘Maybe.’

  So he has her! She’s alive! I sway slightly, allowing myself a moment of pure joy. The first for days. Because there was always that fear. The vilest thing possible. While I have been trying to keep the bleakest thoughts behind the wall, I have been for ever conscious of the wickedest possible outcome. But she is alive! He somehow senses my liberation and release and seems to want to crush it.

  ‘You can talk to her if you don’t disappoint me,’ he says.

  I’m not sure what he means or how I might disappoint him. Not knowing bothers me because I might do it inadvertently; he might storm off into the blackness, get away from me again. So I mustn’t let the relief make me giddy. I concentrate, focus. Being alert is all. I’m beginning to think I should have involved the police. They could have told me what to say, how to act. Or they could have pounced on him now, arrested him and brought this to an end. He is leaning on the pier railings, looking out to the tempestuous sea. I imagine pushing him over, hearing him cry out and splash into the water, but I know he’s too big for me to attack, the railings are too high. It’s a fantasy.

  As has happened on previous occasions, it’s as though he’s following my thoughts. ‘It’s a good thing you came alone, Alison, because I’m the only person who knows where she is and, if something should happen to me, how would you find her, then?’

  ‘Shall we go to her now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He turns to me and I see he is genuinely uncertain. There’s no sign of his previous determination and organisation. I get the sense that he’s making this up as he goes along. He has no idea. He’s rudderless. That’s dangerous.

  ‘Is she waiting for me? Is she far?’

  ‘Shut up, Alison.’ His words slam into me. ‘Stop asking questions, you’re annoying me.’ He pulls his hat off his head in a temper and then, impotent, holds it in his hand, seemingly unclear as to whether he wants to stomp on it or put it on again. He throws it out to sea. The wind lifts it for a moment; it’s weightless, before it’s dropped into the eddying water. He looks disappointed, thwarted. It wasn’t a satisfying gesture. There was no smash, or crash, or bang. He hits his hand down on to the railing. His upper lip stiffens as he refuses to wince. I stay absolutely still.

  I’m reminded of what I’m dealing with. A psychopath who tells a child she might have an illness that may well kill her, who pretends his ex is dead, who steals children. Because now I’m pretty certain Katherine was taken from us. If she’d gone willingly, he’d be gloating about it. I think about how I should best handle him. I think of Annabel commenting that if he does believe he is in love with me it might be useful, he might want to please me. Still. Perhaps she’s right. If anyone knows him, she must. I have to lull him. Flatter him. Win him over.

  I have to find Katherine.

  ‘I’m glad you sent me the novel.’

  He turns to me again, his face open, pleased. I find his smile as unwholesome as his snarl. ‘I knew you’d understand. Our book.’

  Our book? The concept is preposterous. I hold my face steady, not revealing that I think this. ‘Did you deliver it yourself? If so, you must have driven here today, too? We could have shared a car.’ It’s a silly joke but he responds, softening an infinitesimal amount. I want to take him back just a few days, to when I still believed his attention was harmless and flattering, to when he found my neediness – what? – a way in. I can’t forget, not for a moment. ‘It was very clever of you, leaving the book. Discreet.’

  ‘I knew they’d have a trace on your phones by now.’ He suddenly looks alarmed.

  ‘I didn’t bring my phone,’ I reassure him. ‘I’m not wired, or being tracked.’ I unzip my coat and hold it wide open. I’m not sure how wires work exactly, but then I doubt he knows either. It’s a gesture of good faith. He swiftly moves forward and grabs my shoulder bag. He turns it upside down and all my belongings spill on to the pier. Something small falls through the wooden slat, washed out to sea, never to be seen again. I have no idea what. Probably nothing more than a loose earring or a lipstick. A reminder, as if I needed it, that things get lost so easily. My purse, diary, make-up, Tampax, car keys – all scatter. Tom looks satisfied. He clumsily puts his hands into my coat pockets, searching for a phone. He pats my jeans pockets, too. I can’t bear the feel of his hands on my bottom but I stay absolutely motionless and smile. He runs his hands down the centre of my chest, across my stomach, around my waist, like they do in airpor
ts if you’ve set off the alarm at security. Then he places his hands flat on my breasts and looks me in the eye while doing so. Challenging – evaluating? I force myself not to flinch.

  I bet he can feel my heart beat.

  ‘OK.’ He steps back, almost sneering. Sure of himself. Sure he has me where he wants me. In his control. I came here willingly, would do the same again in an instant. I’m an insect to him. Nothing more than an ant crawling in his hand. He could close his fist and crush me whenever he chooses. I do not stoop to pick up my belongings. I hope he’ll forget about them, too. ‘Why did you run out on me on Friday?’ he demands.

  ‘That was a mistake,’ I admit.

  He nods, somewhat appeased. ‘It was, Alison.’ A muscle in his cheek quivers; he looks confused. ‘I mean, what was so awful? What was wrong, exactly? All I said was that we could be a family.’

  ‘You have a family.’ The observation slips out, inadvisably.

  He flips again. No longer the man who is confident he has what I want and therefore is in control, now he’s the man who’s been hurt and rejected. Vengeful. ‘Don’t be fucking clever, Alison. I said I saw you at the press conference with Annabel. I can imagine how friendly you two are now. I bet she’s told you everything, has she? Or, at least, her own warped view of everything.’

  I reach out and put my hand on his soggy jacket sleeve. ‘I don’t believe a word she’s told me. Well, obviously, I know she’s alive, but I know and understand why you told me she was dead.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes, you were trying to protect me.’

  He looks pleased with this idea, delighted. ‘I was – that’s right. Have you met her boyfriend?’ He manages to make the word ‘boyfriend’ into a jeer.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Rory.’ He spits out the name. ‘Just a little man. He’s her GP.’ The information is delivered as an insult. ‘Or was. Disgusting. He ought to be struck off. He stole my kids. Did she tell you that? Did she?’ he snarls.