“Simon doesn’t want to raise a baby. He’s got a career.”
“Simon loves Joseph! And he wants me to raise him.”
“He won’t when he hears what’s been going on.”
I leapt up from the sofa and yelled in his face, “You just don’t want to get it, do you?” My face grew red with fury and I found myself shaking all over. “I’m healthy ninety-nine percent of the time, and when I’m not, I ask for help. How am I any threat to my child now?”
“If you could see yourself, you’d understand,” he said, with intolerable serenity.
“You think I’m angry because I’m ill? I’m angry because you’re using my health to take away my son, the only thing in my life that I love enough to guide me swiftly out of depression. Show me a woman who wouldn’t be beside herself to have her son taken away from her, and then I’ll show you a bad mother.”
Chapter 12
After Gerald left, I lay on the living room floor staring up at the ceiling. It drifted in and out of focus as tears came and went. The room itself felt like an illusion – I was somewhere else, in the chilling depths of torment. I recognised this place – it was that dark, faraway pit that depression took me to. Only this time, I wasn’t depressed. This wasn’t the temporary effect of a chemical imbalance – this was real pain of the foulest kind. I’d had my baby taken away from me. It was the only experience that had ever even rivalled clinical depression, and now I found myself bartering with the universe – please, I’d rather be ill than going through this.
How long I was there, lying on the floor, I cannot tell you. Eventually, somehow, I managed to collect the shards of my shattered core and regain awareness of the world around me. I moved my body into a sitting position. I caught sight of one of Joseph’s little boots on the sofa. Suddenly, I felt energised. I couldn’t waste a second here on the carpet. I had to get moving. I had to get Joseph back.
Hurriedly, I kicked on my shoes, grabbed my phone and hurried out the front door.
I took long, purposeful strides towards the bus stop, spluttering the facts to the emergency services as I went. “My baby son has been kidnapped by his grandparents! Well, I asked them to look after him but I didn’t know they’d do this! They’re saying I can’t have him back! Emma. Emma Hatcher. He’s only eighteen days old. Yes, but he’s in Antarctica. Simon. Yes, his name is on the birth certificate, I can’t reach him. He’s in Antarctica!”
The bus arrived and I leapt on without even thinking to pay. “I’m going around there now. Fourteen, St Luke’s Street. Yes. No, I can’t! How can I wait at home when they have taken my baby? Gerald and Judy Moran. No, you listen …”
“Madam?” called the driver.
“Why do you need my date of … I’m going to have to go. But look, I gave you the address. Tell the police I’ll see them there.”
“Madam?”
“I really have to go. I’ve told you everything you need to know!”
“Madam?”
“Yes!” I threw some coins at the driver. God knows how many there were, but they seemed to cover the cost of the ticket, because he stopped shouting at me.
I sat on the bus in a state of shock. My mind was a cauldron of slush. Nothing really made sense any more. I just knew I had to get to that house, and any other thoughts were just slurry.
Finally, I stumbled off the bus and began ploughing down the street. I threw a foot out in front of me, and then another. I literally ran faster than my legs could carry me; I stumbled and crumbled as I ran. I thought of Simon and the very different races we were running.
Last night he would have flown from Chile, by private jet, to the Union Glacier, ready for the big race tonight – a race he would complete with style and control. Here I was, flinging my legs forward in a desperate, haphazard fashion, willing myself to find stamina I didn’t have.
He had trained for the occasion – practising for months. Is there any experience in the world that could prepare a woman for a journey like this?
Simon would be wearing a specialised running outfit, designed for the task and climate. I was still wearing the turquoise dress I’d chosen to welcome my son home in. It didn’t look elegant now, the skirt flailing around as I scuttled forward.
I knew there would be no reasoning with Gerald, but I may have been able to talk some sense into Judy. She was a mother herself. She must know how it feels to be separated from a son – presumably not as viciously as this, but she must surely understand a mother’s bond with her child.
Perhaps the police would be there already. A kidnapping was bound to inspire a fast response.
My foot skidded on a frosty slab. I tripped, scattering limbs all over the pavement. I barely noticed my bleeding palms as I picked myself up and continued running toward the fancy Victorian terrace where I knew the Morans lived.
Finally, I approached the road. I turned into St Luke’s Street, half expecting to find a series of squad cars illuminating each other with flashing blue lights.
If there were any police cars, I couldn’t see them from here. I felt let down. How could they not have arrived yet? I had managed to get here and I was using public transport.
Relatively few houses here wore premature Christmas lights, and those that did were tasteful and discreet. The whole street reeked of self-superiority.
I hurried toward the Morans’ house. I couldn’t see Gerald’s black Audi. Was he not home yet? Had he come and gone? Was my little boy not here after all?
The garden gate grew on my retinas. I could see the house peering out from behind its veil of trees. Not much further now. I slowed my pace, not through complacency, but through necessity to open the gate.
Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder.
I turned and saw a police officer there. It was a man – average looking, I think. To be honest, if the officer had had three heads I wouldn’t have noticed. I was so focussed on getting to my son.
“Where is he?” I asked, trying to see behind the well-built man.
“There was nobody here when we arrived.”
What? “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“Well you’ve got to find him, now!”
“We need to ask you a few questions. It’s cold; shall we go and sit in the car?”
“You’ve got to find him!”
“Do you think your son might be in danger?”
“Yes! They’ve kidnapped him.”
“Do you think they could harm him?”
“Oh God, I hope not. I don’t know. I hardly know these people.”
“But you did ask them to look after your newborn baby?” said a new voice in the conversation. I turned and saw a female officer.
“I had to give him to them. I had no other choice. I was ill.”
I didn’t have time for this. Were the officers absolutely certain that Joseph wasn’t here? They could be wrong. Had they tried around the back? I tried to walk, but the officer held me firmly.
“I think we should take you home. Then we can sit down and …”
“They can’t do this, can they?”
“We’re doing everything we can to investigate your allegations.”
“They’re not allegations!”
I didn’t want to go home. Home was the one place where Joseph would not be. Going home would be regressive. How could I bring Joseph home unless I was out looking for him?
“I can’t go home!” I cried, somewhat hysterically. But then I realised that if I were to maintain the moral high ground, I had to behave as rationally as I could. Going home might not feel rational to me, but if it were what the police wanted me to do, then it was what I must do.
I took one last look at the house, feeling so strongly that for one crazy moment, I wondered if I’d be able to feel Joseph’s presence through the stone walls. Obviously, I could no more see through a wall than I could walk through one. I sighed miserably, and got into the police car.
* * *
It surely wouldn’t hu
rt to go for a walk. Judy might have taken Joseph to the park – she did love that park … The police had advised me to go home, but they hadn’t told me to stay there. What harm could a short stroll in the park possibly do? If my instincts were correct, it could do a great deal of good. Surely, if I could just get Judy alone …
I had left voicemail for Nicky, and even Dave, but hadn’t yet heard from either of them. They were probably both at work with their phones turned off. I began to wish I had family of my own.
The park can be a lonely place when you’re on your own. The scattering of people walking dogs, skating and strolling, without a care in the world, only served to highlight how alone I felt. The jolly Christmas tree heightened my sense of isolation. Tears began to pour down my cheeks. With no particular destination in mind, I started running. Even if I couldn’t find Judy and Joseph, I needed to work off some of the anger I felt inside. I took long strides, my arms flailed around with inelegant frustration.
Then, just when I was least expecting it, I bumped into her – somebody I knew – Tina. She took one look at me and came hurrying over with her baby girl in tow. Looking at Aimee, safely strapped in her pushchair where she belonged, was both painful and warming. At least things were working out for one of us. The world wasn’t entirely satanic. I looked at Aimee’s little mittens and felt a stabbing shard of pain.
“What’s happened?” asked Tina, in her light, soothing voice.
“They’ve taken him away. They’ve taken Joseph!”
She looked around naively, as if the answer may be something as simple as his pushchair having slipped, unexpectedly, down a parkland slope. “Who?” she asked, still scanning a wooded area.
“His fucking grandparents!”
An elderly couple turned and stared.
“Is there somewhere around here that we could get a coffee?” asked Tina.
On the one hand, I felt that a second spent without looking for Joseph would be a second wasted; on the other, Tina may be able to help. I needed a chance to vent and perhaps, if we put our heads together, we’d be able to work out where the Morans had taken Joseph.
“I don’t live that far away,” I suggested. I wanted to get away from prying eyes. It would be unprofessional to take a client to my house, but since the day when I fainted, I had begun to regard Tina as a friend.
“I’d like to see your house,” she said, with a smile.
I felt some comfort to know that somebody was on my side. The police said they were investigating, but where were they? Sure, they’d taken a detailed statement from me, but now what were they doing? At least Tina, also a new mother, knew how I felt. There was a connection between us. Perhaps she’d be instrumental in helping bring Joseph home.
* * *
Tina was a great listener. She understood not only the delicate state of new motherhood but the perils of being from a demographic tarred with expectations of failure. I admired her and found myself morbidly wishing I had suffered from an addiction, not a mood disorder. It was dumb but, at that time, nothing seemed worse that my own predicament.
While Tina was making tea, the doorbell rang. I dived towards the hall. I heard Tina flick off the kettle so that she could hear what was going on. My heart was in my throat. Had Gerald and Judy finally come to their senses?
Alas, no. Instead, I was greeted by two ladies in what appeared to be casual office clothes. They looked like they might be sisters – each in their forties with their brown hair tied in loose ponytails. One of them was carrying a clipboard.
“Emma Hatcher?” she asked.
I nodded.
“My name’s Leila and this is Karen. We’re from Social Services,” she explained.
Finally. “So the police are taking me seriously!”
“I can assure you that childrens’ welfare is a top priority.”
A top priority? Surely it should be the top priority. “I can try and give you detailed information. I’ve been trying to work out where they like to go, where they like to shop …”
“Actually, we’re here to find out a little more about you.”
About me? Why did they need to know about me? “Am I being judged?”
“We just want to know a little more about your situation,” explained the one called Karen. “Nobody’s judging you.”
I showed them both into the living room, where little Aimee sat playing with rubber ducks.
“My friend’s little girl,” I explained.
“And where is your friend?” asked Leila, looking around.
At that moment, Tina called, “Will you be needing extra cups of tea then?” I turned and saw her head poking around the door.
“Hello Tina,” said Leila, turning to face her.
I saw the colour drain from Tina’s face. “I should go,” she said hurriedly. She rushed into the room and scooped up Aimee. I was confused. It was no surprise that Tina was acquainted with Social Services, but I didn’t know that there was any animosity between them. I followed her into the hall, where she was strapping Aimee into her pushchair. “Everything all right?”
“I just hate Social Services,” she explained. “They’re always breathing down my neck, even though I’ve been clean for over a year.”
Suddenly I panicked. Tina was a recovering addict. If Social Services knew about her substance abuse, how would that reflect on me? Positively, I hoped – it’s good to be tolerant and understanding, isn’t it? Somehow, I suspected that they may not view it that way. I said farewell to Tina and watched her and Aimee leave, feeling a lump growing in my throat.
“How do you know Tina?” asked Karen.
“She’s a friend,” I said.
“A friend?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you meet her?”
I knew that they sensed that I wasn’t telling the whole truth. “I met her through Shelter, originally.”
“Have you had housing troubles?”
“No, I work there. Well, I did – I’m on maternity leave.”
“So she’s a client?”
“Yes, well, no. Not now.”
“Do you often invite former clients into your home?”
Oh no. This wasn’t how I’d pictured things panning out. Of course I didn’t regularly bring clients into my baby son’s house. I wouldn’t bring anybody into his life that I didn’t trust. I would be especially discerning now that I’d seen the Morans’ true colours.
Already I had given Social Services the impression that I was an unfit mother, and I hadn’t yet told them about my health issues. Was I going to lose Joseph forever?
Chapter 13
I was longing for Simon’s return. It had been three excruciatingly long days since the abduction and somehow Gerald and Judy had managed to evade the police. Perhaps Simon would be able to find his parents and talk some sense into them. I gulped; would he want to help me after I’d sent him away so cruelly? Had he even got the message I sent before he left? Even if he had – ‘I don’t quite hate you’ was hardly a gushing sign of affection.
In addition to the overwhelming need for assistance in bringing Joseph home, I missed little things about Simon. How odd that something as small as having nobody to share a teapot with, could bother me at a time like this. Perhaps it was because I was so utterly crushed, that the little niggles were able to get to me.
It didn’t help that Nicky and Dave were out of town – a family pre-Christmas trip. I’d spoken to Nicky at length on the phone. She offered to come home right away, but I told her that Simon would be back today. Now, looking at the clock, I wondered if I’d made the wrong decision. Surely, by now, he’d be off the plane and turning his phone on. Surely, after ten days away, he would be desperate to see his son.
I wondered if I should have given more detail in my most recent voicemail, but how could I tell him that his parents had taken Joseph and run away? It was going to be difficult for him to hear however I told him, I at least owed it to him to break the news face-to-face.
I found myself Googling the ice marathon again. The landscapes were so soothing. Then, I noticed that somebody had uploaded a new album. Excitedly I opened the page and started scanning the thumbnails for faces. I found Simon – or at least, I thought I had. When I clicked on the thumbnail, I found that it was another man with a similar face shape and colouring. I tried another – again, not Simon. Finally, on page two, I found a photo of the whole group – around forty competitors. Simon’s face didn’t jump out right away. When I got down to the face in the bottom right, I realised that I must have missed Simon. I checked again …
The doorbell rang. I prayed it wouldn’t be Social Services. Although they kept assuring me that they wanted what was best for Joseph and that they were listening to me, I couldn’t help feeling judged. How could I feel anything else when strangers came into my home to find out whether it was a suitable place for bringing up my child – the child I’d carried, given birth to and loved for over three weeks.
But it wasn’t Social Services. I recognised Simon through the frosted glass. I threw open the door. Without really meaning to, I fell out though the doorway and into his arms.
“Steady on!” he said, with a laugh.
Obviously, he hadn’t heard.
I felt like blurting everything out at once, but it was a long, horrible story, and he was going to need to sit down.
“Did you get my messages?” I asked.
“No, I left my charger at home.”
“And you haven’t been home?”
“I came straight here.”
There was so much he wouldn’t know. Where should I begin?
“About what I said before you left …” Those words seemed so long ago and relatively small in light of the much graver things that had happened. Nevertheless, they had been hurtful and I had to show him that we were on the same side.
“I know you didn’t mean what you said. You pushed me away so that I would go on the trip.”
“You knew that?”
“Not at first, but … well … it sounds cheesy, but there was a moment on the flight out there …”
“Are you going to tell me you looked down at the world below and it put your life into perspective?” I asked, surprising myself with a sliver of humour.
The Ice Marathon Page 9
