No Child of Mine

by Susan Lewis

  As furious with herself as she was with Heather Hancock, Alex stuffed her phone in her bag and tore open the front door. What was she thinking, letting that supercilious old cow get under her skin when her little theatre group needed all the free publicity it could get if they were ever going to land any bums on seats? Were it not for the fact that Heather Hancock was a friend of Gina’s, as well as a known self-adulator, she’d never have risen to the bait.

  So merrily off down the hill the evening went, hardly pausing for breath, and all courtesy of Jason’s wife who was no doubt already being informed by her best chum of just what a pathetic and nasty piece of work Jason’s girlfriend actually was. (Alex doubted they’d put it so politely, but it was as far as she was prepared to go in lambasting herself.)

  Remembering that her nephew had probably texted back with his goldfish’s name by now, she dug out her phone while locking up the house and after checking she started to laugh.

  Fantastic. I’ve always wanted a goldfish named after me, she texted back. Can’t wait to meet her.

  If only all kids could be as happy and loved as her sister’s twins.

  The little girl was shaking so badly that she was terrified of not being able to keep quiet. Her mummy had told her she must, so she was trying, but it was hard, so hard, and everything was dark. There was a little boy here too, snuggled in tightly against her. She could feel his fear pounding through her. It was making it difficult to breathe.

  There was lots of screaming outside, and roaring in anger; loud thumps, crashes, heavy footsteps and the smashing of glass.

  The little girl squeezed herself into a tight ball.

  The boy was standing up. He was older than her, taller, braver. He was opening the door, telling her to stay where she was, and then he was gone.

  She wanted him to come back.

  She didn’t want to be on her own. The bad man might get her.

  Her mummy would come for her soon.

  She’d promised.

  A door slammed and everything fell silent, but she was still too afraid to move.

  Where was the boy? Why hadn’t he come back?

  The darkness was like a monster, trapping her in its lair. It was closing in on her, wrapping itself around her; her terror was so fierce it was eating her up.

  Her mummy must have forgotten where she was.

  Still shaking, she stood up and went to the door.

  Suddenly there was noise again, and she shrank back. The bad man was out there, he’d come to take her away so she’d never see her mummy again.

  Using a fist to stuff down her sobs, she cowered into the shadows, squeezing herself in behind a giant box. She could hear lots of people and no one sounded like her mummy.

  Tears were streaming down her cheeks, but she had to keep quiet.

  She wanted her mummy.

  Why didn’t she come?

  It was a long, long time later, after everything had gone quiet again, that she stood on tiptoe, straining towards the latch. It was too high; she couldn’t get out. She tried and tried, but her arm wasn’t long enough. She could see her hand in a chink of light, pale and small, fingers outstretched. The latch was above it, but she couldn’t reach.

  ‘Mummy,’ she sobbed. ‘Mummy.’ She was crying very hard now, and wanted to scream, but she couldn’t make any sound come out. She tried and tried, but all that happened was a silent rasp of terror, and still nobody came.

  As Alex’s eyes flew open she knew right away, though on a distant level, that it was a nightmare, but the terror, the need to scream was still with her. Her heart was like a pounding fist; sweat was pouring from her skin. It felt so real. She must break free of it, tear through the force of its horror and properly connect with where she was, and who she was now.

  It took a while, longer than usual it seemed, but eventually the dreaded demons of her past began falling away. If only it was just a dream, something created out of a small reality and blown into nonsense, but she knew the child was her; and that the little boy, who she’d never seen again, and never would, was her brother.

  Moving carefully, so as not to wake Jason, she pushed aside the duvet and went downstairs to make herself some tea. She knew from experience that it wouldn’t be possible to go back to sleep for a while, so there was no point in trying.

  The dismaying, and most disturbing part of the dream – this was the first time she’d had it for months – wasn’t so much what was happening in it, though God knew that was the worst of it – it was that her unconscious mind felt compelled to go back to that horrifying time.

  When would she ever be free of it?

  Why couldn’t she let it go?

  She understood now that she’d been too young when the nightmares began for her adoptive parents to explain what was causing them. It wasn’t a tale a child should hear at any age, and certainly not when she was barely five. It wasn’t until she’d reached her teens, and still unable to escape the night-time terrors, that her father had finally decided she must be told the truth. They weren’t, as she’d always been told, an abstract reconstruction of something she might have seen on TV as a child, or read in a book, but a more or less accurate representation of the truth, as she’d known it, aged three.

  For a long time after she’d heard the details she’d wanted to pluck the horror of it out of her mind, cast it away, stamp on it, destroy it in any way she could. How was she ever going to live with the fact that her real father, the one whose genes she bore and whose blood ran in her veins, had carried out such a brutal attack on her family while she’d been shut up in a cupboard? Her grandparents, her aunt, her aunt’s boyfriend, her mother and her four-year-old brother – all of them had been victims of his crazed attack.

  If only her brother had stayed with her that night he might still be alive too.

  As it was, his little body was the first the police had stumbled upon when they’d broken down the door to get into the house; the others were in the sitting room, dining room and kitchen.

  It was a day later, the rector had told her, while he was at the crime scene, gaining an understanding of the trauma the police officers had experienced in order to help them, that a little girl had been found alive and uninjured in a hidden compartment of the attic. Alex had no memory of being taken from the cupboard, or of anyone carrying her outside to a car, but she knew now that the first arms to reach for her had been the rector’s. And in the absence of any known family to hand her over to, he’d insisted on taking her home to his wife.

  She knew that would never be allowed these days, but back then, when the rules governing child protection hadn’t been so stringent and men of cloth were more highly respected, there had been no objection to the trustworthy young priest and his wife taking her in. As they were registered foster carers she might have ended up with them anyway, so the authorities had simply arranged the paperwork to suit. She’d been three years old then; four and a half when they’d officially adopted her and five by the time Douglas Lake had become the rector of Mulgrove and they’d moved to the Vicarage.

  By then her real father, who was known to have carried out the killings, still hadn’t been found. Police believed that his human-trafficking associates, mostly Asians and Russians, had smuggled him out of the country back to his native Romania, but no trace had been found of him there either. The reason for the killings, Alex had been told, was that her mother, who’d come from Liverpool and got herself into an early, disastrous marriage, had threatened to go to the police when she’d discovered the truth of her husband’s business.

  He’d never been traced, and because there were fears that he might one day come back and try to find her, Alex’s identity had always been fiercely protected. No one outside her immediate family (apart from Jason now) knew that she was the little girl who’d escaped the Temple Fields killings. In fact, they’d happened so long ago that no one ever really thought about them now, apart from her.

  At the time of learning the truth about her roots
she’d begun tormenting herself with how different her life might have been if she’d grown up with her real mother and brother. Not that she didn’t love Myra, her adoptive mother, but she’d always known in her heart that Myra hadn’t been happy about having the daughter of a maniacal murderer foisted upon her. She’d tried to be kind, of course, and to ensure that Alex didn’t go without, at least in a material and welfare sense, but she’d never managed to make Alex feel as special as Gabby. And the way she’d later broken the news to Alex that actually, she wasn’t the only survivor of that terrible night, had been so matter-of-fact as to be downright cruel. Why had she not realised how shattering it would be for fourteen-year-old Alex to learn that her mother had come through it too, in spite of the near fatal knife wounds to her back and chest? She’d been hospitalised for almost a year, Myra had told her, but after her discharge she’d simply disappeared.

  ‘Didn’t she come to see me?’ Alex had asked, her voice hoarse with the shock.

  Myra had shaken her head. ‘I’m afraid not, my dear,’ she’d replied, managing to sound both sympathetic and disapproving – though whether she’d disapproved of the question, or of Alex’s real mother, Alex had never been sure. ‘She met with the rector and it was agreed that you were safe and settled with us, so it would be for the best if she left you here.’

  ‘But she must have wanted to see me?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure she did, but she was afraid – we all were – that if she came she’d lead your real father straight to our door. So after signing the adoption papers she left the area and we never heard from her again.’

  In her pubescent state Alex became almost obsessed with her real mother. It was as though she could feel her beating through her heart, speaking to her on the wind, watching her from somewhere just out of sight. She could see her gazing back at her from the mirror, and sense her understanding the crazy thoughts that charged about her mind. She’d realised then why she wasn’t like the family she was with, especially when it came to religion. Not that she didn’t believe in God because in a way she did – He was definitely good in emergencies, in that there had to be something to hold on to when life had pulled up the ladder, whipped out the rug, or smashed all the dreams. And as far as she could tell He’d always had a big part to play in births, marriages, deaths and for old ladies who didn’t seem to have much else to do. However, she’d never been able to see Him in quite the same way as the rector did. Nor had Gabby, come to that, though she’d done a far better job of hiding it. And Alex wasn’t entirely sure that Myra had ever had that close a relationship with Him either, considering how mean she could be at times. Alex had never challenged her on it, however, mainly because she and Myra were already finding more than enough to row about by then.

  Though the rector had agreed to try and find her mother, sadly, frustratingly, his efforts had come to nothing; it was as though she’d vanished off the face of the earth. ‘She won’t be Angela Albescu any more, I’m sure,’ he’d said regretfully, ‘but I can’t find any trace of Angela Nicholls either, which was her maiden name.’

  Alex had never voiced the fear that her mother had gone to be with her father, and God knew she didn’t want to believe it, but in the job she did now she saw it all the time, women forgiving men for the most unthinkable atrocities.

  ‘She probably has a new family by now, a bit like you,’ Gabby had once suggested, trying to comfort her. ‘And if she has, maybe she doesn’t want you to find her. I mean, if she’s got other children and no one knows who she used to be – not that she did anything wrong, but you know what I’m saying ... Anyway, she probably won’t want anyone finding out about her past, and they’d have to if you turned up on the doorstep.’

  Though it had hurt Alex deeply when Gabby had said that, and still did in her bleaker moments, she had now come to accept that her mother, whoever and wherever she was, really had chosen not to be reunited with her. If she had she’d have made some kind of effort to find her by now, either through the police, or social services, or even the church. Maybe it would have helped if Alex had been able to add the name she’d been born with, Charlotte Albescu, to the register giving permission for birth parents to be in touch. However, this was impossible, as the fear always remained that her serial-killer father might come looking for her, instead of the mother she’d barely known.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ Jason said, yawning as he came into the kitchen. ‘Are you OK?’

  Touched that he’d got up to find her, she said, ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ and giving a murmur of pleasure as he came to massage her shoulders she let her head fall back against him.

  ‘Please tell me you’re not still mad at me,’ he said, stooping to kiss her.

  Having forgotten their spat earlier, and the fact that she’d already been in bed and half asleep by the time he’d come home, she said, ‘No, of course I’m not, but you were late in.’

  ‘Would you believe, I fell asleep reading to the kids? That’s what comes of working hard. Anyway, tell me how it went this evening.’

  Switching her mind to the rehearsal, she said, ‘Yeah, pretty good. I think we stand a chance of everyone being line-perfect by opening night.’

  ‘Great,’ he approved, going to reheat the kettle. ‘So if you’re not worrying about that, what are you doing up at this hour? Please tell me you didn’t have one of those nightmares again.’

  Sighing, she said, ‘As a matter of fact, I did, but it’s OK, I’m probably ready to go back to bed now.’

  Turning to lean against the cabinets, his bare arms folded across his chest with the hard muscles showing their tattoos, he looked at her closely. ‘So what do you think might have prompted it?’ he asked, his tone letting her know that he wasn’t about to be palmed off.

  She inhaled deeply and let her eyes fall to the mug she was holding between her hands. What she was seeing in her mind’s eye had nothing to do with her as a child, and yet strangely it seemed to feel in some way connected. ‘If I told you there was this little girl,’ she began, ‘I expect you’ll say there’s always a little girl, or boy ...’

  ‘Because there always is in your case, it goes with your job.’

  She nodded absently. ‘I saw this one in the park, a couple of weeks ago,’ she continued, ‘you know, when I went with Gabby and the twins. She had quite an effect on me for some reason, and I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind since.’

  Sounding ironic, he said, ‘Don’t you already have enough kids to be worrying about, without adding another that you don’t even know?’

  She was too deep in thought to catch the tease. ‘There was something about her,’ she said, picturing the child’s solemn yet angelic little face. ‘I know this is going to sound odd, but I felt as though I knew her, even though I’m sure I’ve never seen her before.’

  He nodded. ‘You’re right, it does sound odd.’

  Her eyes came up to his.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, clearly realising his humour had missed the mark. ‘So why do you think she’s sticking in your mind?’

  She shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s the man she was with. There was nothing wrong with him ... I mean, he didn’t behave strangely or anything, but as they walked away I got this horrible feeling ... Well, that I was watching an abduction.’

  Jason blinked.

  ‘I wasn’t,’ she assured him, ‘because I’ve checked the records, and anyway, if a child, especially of that age, had gone missing it would have been all over the papers by now. But something wasn’t right in that situation, or relationship, I just know it, and now I can’t seem to stop thinking about it.’

  ‘Did you actually talk to her?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘Kind of. She didn’t answer, but the man, who I assumed at the time was her father, said she was very shy.’

  ‘But now you’re not sure that he was her father?’

  She shrugged again. Then, realising this wasn’t going to help her to get any more sleep tonight, she got up from her chair and went to p
ut her arms around him. ‘You’re right,’ she said, resting her head against his chest, ‘I already have enough children to be worrying about, so definitely not a good idea to start looking for problems for another when I don’t even know who she is.’

  Chapter Two

  ‘LAY ONE FINGER on my kid and you’re fuckin’ dead,’ the greasy-faced bruiser of a woman roared as she struggled with the police officers restraining her. ‘I said back off ...’

  ‘Shut it, Laura,’ DC Carroway cut in sharply. ‘Do what you have to do,’ he barked at Alex.

  ‘Get away from him,’ Laura Crowe raged, as Alex moved towards Daniel, the nine-year-old boy who looked no friendlier than his mother. ‘One finger on him and you’ll never use the fucking thing again.’

  Checking to make sure Carroway and his colleague had a firm hold on the woman who was capable of tearing someone twice Alex’s size limb from limb, and wouldn’t have had second thoughts about doing it, Alex was just reaching for the child when to her horror he whipped out a blade.

  She stepped back quickly, wincing as the mother cackled.

  ‘That’s my boy,’ Laura crowed. ‘Stick the bitch and get the hell out of here. Go on, you stupid bastard, run!’

  Before the boy could move Paul Bennett, another officer, was on him, knocking him to the floor and banging his wrist against a chair leg to force him to drop the blade. As it clattered to her feet Alex grabbed it and flung it through the open window, hoping another policeman would pick it up. ‘You need to come with me, Daniel,’ she told the boy sternly. ‘You know the procedure ...’

  ‘Fuck off,’ he spat, his face still pressed to the ground.

  ‘Don’t talk to the lady like that,’ Paul Bennett snarled, his fist tightening on the boy’s hair. ‘Now, when you’re ready to be nice ...’

  ‘You can fuck off too,’ the boy seethed through his yellowed teeth.

  His mother guffawed loudly. ‘You’re a bunch of fucking wankers,’ she rasped crudely. ‘You got no business forcing your way in here like this. We ain’t done nothing. You got the wrong people, as usual, you waste of fucking spacers.’