Keep You Safe

by Rona Halsall

  ‘Right, love,’ the prison officer said, a plump young woman, of a similar age to Natalie, with a short brown bob and a sympathetic smile. ‘Not feeling so good?’

  Natalie shook her head, cheeks burning, her throat so tight she was unable to speak.

  ‘First time here?’

  Natalie’s stomach lurched and she swallowed the bile back down, nodded again.

  ‘Okay, well let’s get you sorted out then, quick as we can. Then you can have a shower, get yourself cleaned up. I think we’ll get you checked out by the doctor first. Okay?’

  Natalie held her head in her hands for a moment before hauling herself to her feet. What is wrong with me? She was too hot, but shivered, her back damp with sweat, her body so heavy she struggled to keep herself upright. She followed the prison officer to the medical room, where a nurse took control and Natalie slumped in a chair, hardly feeling the needle as blood samples were taken.

  Eventually, she found herself being led into a small, cluttered room where the doctor sat behind a desk. Her black shoulder-length hair was streaked with grey. Lively eyes looked at Natalie over the top of lime-green bifocals, which matched the colour of her tunic and complemented her olive skin.

  Natalie squinted, the light too bright, a headache pulsing behind her eyes.

  ‘Okay, Natalie. From the samples, we can see that you have been taking opiates,’ the doctor said, no preamble, as if this news was to be expected. She looked at Natalie with a raised eyebrow, waiting for her to say something. Natalie looked back, clutching her stomach, the doctor’s voice a bouncing echo.

  Opiates? Is that what she just said?

  The doctor leant forward, her hands flat on the desk and raised her voice a little. ‘I need to know exactly what drugs you’ve been taking, in what doses, so we can wean you off them safely.’

  ‘Sorry? I’ve… I’ve what?’ How could this woman think such a thing? She shook her head, immediately regretting it as the room spun in front of her eyes.

  The doctor peered over her glasses and sighed. ‘This isn’t going to get you in any more trouble. Look, there’s no point denying it; your blood and urine samples tell their own story.’

  The clock ticked. Something electrical hummed. There was nothing Natalie could say. She’d never taken any tablets. Never injected anything. Why would she?

  ‘I’m trying to help you,’ the doctor said.

  Natalie stared at her.

  ‘Okay,’ she continued, ‘have you been prescribed anything?’

  ‘No! No, you’ve made a mistake.’ The volume of her own voice made Natalie wince.

  The doctor pursed her lips and carried on. ‘Anything for depression? Insomnia? Anxiety?’

  A memory flashed into Natalie’s mind. When Harry was poorly. She frowned as she tried to remember. ‘My doctor gave me something a few months back, but… I decided not to take them.’ Her voice was a whisper, but even that jarred.

  ‘Can you remember what they were?’

  She forced herself to think, scrunching her eyes against the pain. ‘The names of all these medicines… It’s hard to remember.’

  ‘What were they for?’

  ‘Um… well, my husband said…’ She sighed at the memory of his words, embarrassed to admit it. ‘I wasn’t coping… after the birth of our son and he, well, he said I should go and get something to help me sleep. Calm me down. I don’t know…’

  The doctor gave her a small smile of encouragement.

  ‘Well, we can contact your GP, ask for a copy of your notes, see exactly what was prescribed. Then we can work out how to help you cope without them.’

  ‘But I didn’t take any of them.’ She absolutely knew this to be true, didn’t she?

  ‘Natalie.’ The doctor’s voice was a firm, cut-out-the-crap tone. ‘You’ve definitely been taking something. And from the looks of things, from your withdrawal symptoms, you’ve built up a bit of a dependency and we need to wean you off gradually. Make it easier for you. Believe me, you don’t want to go down the cold turkey route.’

  Natalie slumped back in her chair, head in her hands, unsure of herself now.

  Have I been taking the tablets?

  She could visualise the bottle, sitting in the bathroom cabinet and she remembered looking at it a few times, wondering if one would do any harm, but then her mother’s experience with sleeping tablets and antidepressants would tap on her conscience, tell her it wasn’t worth it. Maybe she did succumb to the lure of a calmer reality.

  Did I?

  She shook her head. ‘I just… don’t remember. Why can’t I remember anything?’

  ‘A lot of these drugs can affect your memory; it’s one of the side effects. As well as making you nauseous, moody, depressed, erratic. All sorts of things. They affect everyone differently depending on the specific drug, the dosage, your metabolism.’ The doctor wrote something, looked up at Natalie. ‘We’ll start you on opiate substitute treatment today and when we have information back from your GP we can reassess if needs be.’

  The doctor looked at the guard before flicking her eyes back to Natalie. ‘And I think we’ll put you on the Therapy Wing, so we can keep an eye on you. It’s a separate unit where we look after people with drug dependencies and… other problems.’ Natalie’s heart skipped a beat. Lisa had mentioned the Wing. Isn’t that where all the nutters are held? Self-harmers, people with mental health issues.

  ‘It’ll be easier for us to assess your medication levels. And you can have your own room. Which we don’t have available in the First Night Centre at the moment. Bit of a glut in admissions these last couple of days.’

  The prison officer led her back into the waiting room.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Natalie said, eyes pleading. ‘Honestly, I’ll be fine in the First Night Centre. It’s just the shock of being here.’ She tried a smile, but it wobbled from her lips. ‘I don’t think I need to go on the Wing.’

  The prison officer sat her down. ‘If you just wait here, I’ll be back when I’ve sorted out a room for you. It’s for the best, you know.’

  Natalie tugged at her hair, hyperventilating.

  How the hell did I become a drug addict?

  Eleven

  Now

  It’s late when she calls again and I let the phone ring a few times before I answer.

  ‘Yes.’ Do I sound bored enough?

  ‘I have more information.’

  ‘Go on.’ I close my eyes. Please, God, just make her give me something that I don’t already know.

  ‘Okay, so I rang the hostel in Bangor again. She didn’t go back but the CCTV picked her up getting into a car. I’ve got a number plate as well.’

  ‘Right,’ I say, casual as you like, wondering how that information is going to be any use to me at all.

  A heavy breath echoes over the line. ‘You still there?’

  I smile to myself. All information is useful. ‘Okay, give me everything you know about the car she’s driving. Make, model, colour and number. You give me that, and you’ll get your money. Tonight.’

  When I hang up, I have a little debate with myself, but after a moment’s hesitation, I transfer the money. A deal’s a deal, at the end of the day. Then I delete her contact details and call history.

  That’s one bitch out of my life.

  Now it’s time to work on the next.

  Twelve

  Now

  Natalie is woken by the sound of drawers opening and closing, a door banging, the chatter of a breakfast show.

  She’s lying on the bed fully clothed, her phone still clutched in her hand, showing that it’s six fifty-two. It’s the first time she’s slept right through the night since she was sent to prison and she tries to blink her eyes awake. But sleep drags at her, not quite ready to let go. It was a nice dream she was having, playing on the beach with Harry, like the mothers she’d seen the evening before. They were making a sandcastle together and she wants to go back and finish it, hear Harry talk to her as he carefully shovels sand
into a bucket and pats it down hard.

  After a moment, she jerks awake again, and sits up, heart pounding with the idea that she should be doing something, should be somewhere and is late in some way. She swings her legs over the side of the bed, bereft now that Harry’s presence has faded away, and leans forward, elbows resting on her knees, while she waits for her heartbeat to steady.

  Today I’m going to find him, she tells herself. So, where am I up to?

  She’d tried ringing Jack last night, but a woman had answered his phone, telling her that he was out at a gig and had forgotten to take his phone with him. Natalie didn’t leave a message. Then she’d searched the Internet for several hours to try and find information on Tom’s whereabouts and had come up with a big fat nothing; she’d obviously fallen asleep still looking.

  Her brain feels numb, paralysed by too much sleep. There is nothing but fog where her thoughts should be, a feeling of hopelessness making her body lethargic and heavy.

  She checks the time again and puffs out a few breaths to wake herself up a bit. It’s too soon for people to be in offices, for her to ring anyone. She rummages in her bag and finds her running gear, knows from experience that exercise is the best way to get her thoughts moving, and a shot of endorphins will give herself the lift she needs. Just a short run. Twenty minutes max. Then she can come back, get an action plan together, and go and get her son.

  She trots downstairs, feeling more positive.

  ‘Sleep well, lovey?’

  Mary pops out of the kitchen doorway as Natalie reaches the bottom step. She’s wrapped in a fluffy blue dressing gown, wearing slippers shaped like monster feet, hair already done, nice and tidy, make-up on.

  ‘Ready for some breakfast? I’m making coffee if you want some. Or tea.’

  Natalie tries to smile but her face hasn’t woken up yet. ‘I’m just off for a run.’

  Mary raises her eyebrows. ‘Oh, okay. Well, you have a nice time. I’ll do breakfast whenever you’re ready.’ She gives a little wave, fingers wiggling as Natalie lets herself out of the front door.

  The view out to sea, the hugeness of the world, swells in Natalie’s chest. She breathes it in, a deep lungful of salty air, before starting a series of warm-up exercises. Then she looks at her watch and sets off at a brisk jog, pushing down through her legs, making her muscles work. I can find him, I can find him, I can find him, she says in time with her strides, a mantra to focus her thoughts. Her stomach lurches and growls, making her wince, but she pushes on.

  The day is calm, the sun already smiling in a sky the colour of duck eggs, the air warm against her skin. The long, low ridge of Peel Hill looms in front of her, the marina to the left of it, the castle and the sea to the right. It seems the obvious route. Not all the way up to the top, she tells herself, just ten minutes’ worth, then she’ll come back down. She starts up the steep path.

  She imagines herself walking up here with Harry, her little person trotting along beside her, holding her hand and chattering away like children do. Where might he be? Still in Douglas somewhere, close to Tom’s work? Or have they moved out to a place in the countryside… one of the villages? Realistically, she has to assume he could be anywhere in the two hundred and twenty square miles that make up the island. She grits her teeth, calf muscles on fire as she pushes her legs harder, until she finds herself on top of the ridge. She stops to catch her breath, then checks her watch. Ten minutes left. A quick breather, she thinks, then I’ll run back down.

  She sits on the grass, chest heaving after the exertion of the climb, and looks down the coast towards the south of the island, taking in the rounded hills, edged by soaring cliffs that drop into a restless sea. Gulls wheel and cry below her, the rocky shelves and crevices busy with fluttering, noisy life. She lets her mind drift on the waves, soar with the gulls, linger in the fluffy clouds that are forming above her. She can see mountains in the distance, across the sea. Ireland, possibly? More to her right, which must be the edge of Scotland.

  Exercise has weaved its magic on her mind and a stream of ideas starts to flow. The estate agents might have a forwarding address. And she can try the Post Office. Manx Telecom? Schools? Harry should be registered for the reception class now, if they have such a thing over here. She needs to find that out as well. What about nurseries? Then there’s Jack. She can try him again, see if he can help.

  Oh yes, lots of positive things to do.

  Perhaps Sasha might be easier to track down than Tom, she thinks, given that she must be staying in a hotel. And there aren’t that many hotels in Douglas. Or she could call Sasha’s mum and get her number that way. She picks at the grass, letting the stalks float on the breeze. They were a good team, her and Sasha, back in the day, before adulthood chopped their lives into pieces. How good would it be to feel that closeness again? The thought squeezes her heart and she sighs.

  Funny what we dream about when we are young and don’t have a clue. At least Sasha’s dream had come true, a successful actress, and she’d recently found true love at last, in Marco, whose name had filled her recent letters. But, Natalie thinks, what happened to her own fantasies? In all honesty she’d realised that they weren’t what she really wanted and had been more a function of hanging out with Sasha, trying to fit in. She’d discovered that what she really wanted was to be a wife and mother. Not a popular view amongst her circle of friends, but that was the truth of it. A husband to love her, children to nurture, and a house to make into a home. For a little while, she’d been living her dream. Until…

  He won’t know you.

  Sasha’s words bounce into Natalie’s head, knocking her thoughts off track. Tension creeps into her shoulders. How could she even suggest I should forget about Harry? Her fingers dig into the soil. How could she? But then, what would she know? She can’t possibly understand what it’s like when a piece of you is missing. Stolen.

  She stands, brushing grass off her legs, ready to go back down.

  A wave of dizziness catches her by surprise and she leans forward, hands grasping her knees, her heart suddenly racing. She knows these sensations; the dull thudding across her forehead, the spots in front of her eyes. The earth moves under her feet, making her lose her balance. It’s happened before and the only way to stop it from developing into a full-blown migraine is to eat something. She looks at the route she came up and gulps. So steep. Sweat beads on her forehead as she starts inching her way down, stumbling and swaying like a drunkard, a show of flashing lights exploding in front of her eyes.

  ‘Hey! Hey!’

  A man’s voice, the rustle of clothing.

  She turns to see a figure walking behind her. Tall and dark-haired.

  Where did he come from? Has he been watching me? Following me?

  Her heart quickens.

  It’s not Lech. He can’t know that I’m here, she tells herself. But she doesn’t believe it. Not in her heart.

  Her pulse pounds in her ears as she stumbles on, trying to go faster, but when she looks behind, she sees that he’s getting closer. Turning too quickly, she loses her balance, trips over a rock and crashes to the ground. Gorse and heather scratch at her face, her arms, prickling through her clothes. She hears his footsteps. Closes her eyes.

  It’s done. Over. Will he be merciful?

  Why would he be? His culture is Old Testament, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth and the words from his letter appear in her mind.

  ‘I will make you suffer what I have suffered. You will watch me do to your child what you did to my sister, my Katya. And then you are dead.’

  Her body tenses, hands shielding her head.

  Shuffled footsteps.

  A child’s laughter, an excited squeal, a man’s voice murmuring something. She turns her head to see a little boy crouched on his haunches, looking at her with big hazel eyes, curly blond hair, cheeks pink from exercise. Natalie’s breath rushes out of her. She squints to get the child’s face into focus, sees a smile full of tiny teeth.

  ‘Ha
rry,’ she whispers, wondering if she’s hallucinating. If she’s already dead. She squeezes her eyes shut, opens them again and the child is still there. He’s real. And all thoughts of being attacked are forgotten, dismissed from her mind by the appearance of this child. Her child. Could it be? She squints, conjures up her mental image of Harry and compares it to the child in front of her. The only feature she is certain of is the hazel eyes. It’s possible that he has his dad’s blond hair, instead of her brunette. She could have imagined him all wrong, couldn’t she? After all, who knows what a baby will look like nearly three and a half years on?

  ‘Harry!’ she sobs, emotion clogging in her throat, blurring her speech.

  The boy gazes at her and she stretches out a hand to touch him, but he’s too far away. She rolls onto her side and tries to get onto her knees, but her vision fizzes with unidentified objects.

  ‘Connor, come here,’ the man says and the child runs off.

  It’s not him.

  Disappointment weighs heavy in her chest and she slumps back down, pain thudding in her forehead in time with her pulse.

  ‘Steady,’ the man says, kneeling beside her. ‘Are you okay? Can I do anything to help?’

  ‘Blood sugar,’ she says to the ground, fighting back a wave of nausea.

  ‘Ah, right.’ He sounds relieved and unzips the top pocket of his rucksack. A piece of white stuff is thrust into her hand. She tries to focus on it… decide what she’s supposed to do with it.

  ‘Kendal mint cake,’ he says. ‘Pure sugar. Have you on your feet in no time.’

  She shoves it into her mouth, feels the minty sugar melt into a pulp and ooze its way down her throat. He passes her another piece, then another and a few minutes later she feels her energy start to return, the dizziness and nausea fading. She turns onto her knees, sits back on her heels and squints in the brightness of the morning light. They are both staring at her, the man and the child. She squirms under their scrutiny, cheeks burning and struggles to her feet.