by Rona Halsall
But what if Tom’s not in the office today? The idea that the mainstay of her plans might be a non-starter brings her to a halt in her bedroom doorway. She chews at her lip. Only one way to find out, she decides as she slips inside, closes the door and pulls out her phone. It’s just after eight, but she gets an answer straight away.
‘Good morning, Excalibur Wealth Management,’ Tom’s secretary says.
‘Oh, hello.’ Natalie sounds all cheery, as if she hasn’t a care in the world. ‘I just wondered if Mr Wilson’s in the office today?’
‘Oh, I’m afraid he’s out at a meeting, won’t be back until later this morning. Can I take a message?’
‘Oh, no. No.’ She’s too quick off the mark and slows herself down. ‘No, thank you. It’s a… personal matter.’ She cringes. She shouldn’t have said that; the secretary will be curious, but it’s too late now. ‘I’ll er… call back later. Is he in for the rest of the day?’
‘Just let me have a look for you…’ She hears keys tapping, then the secretary comes back on the line. ‘Right, so he’ll be in from ten forty-five until twelve, just popping back for a quick meeting, really, and then he’ll be working at home this afternoon.’
Her stomach jangles with nervous energy, the need to be doing something making her pace the floor. She checks her watch. A couple of hours until Tom comes back to the office. Dammit. She pulls at her hair, trying to think of something she can do to speed up the process of finding Harry and getting him to safety, but draws a blank.
She decides to get herself into Douglas and stake out Tom’s office, ready for his arrival. Just got to be patient, she tells herself. One step at a time. And the first step is to make herself look more ordinary. Invisible.
She sits in front of the mirror, backcombs her hair on the top to give it more volume, braids it over one shoulder and pulls out wisps on either side of her face to soften the angles of her jaw. Then she opens her new make-up bag and gets to work. It’s been so long since she’s worn make-up she’d forgotten what a hassle it is to get all the layers in place. Concealer, foundation, blusher, powder, mascara, eyeliner, eyeshadow, lipstick. But her hands remember the drill, quick and precise, and ten minutes later a glamorous face peers back at her. She allows herself a satisfied smile. Much better.
The new outfit she bought in Bangor, a flowery calf-length dress she found in a charity shop, matched with an olive tailored jacket, makes her look presentable enough. In a yummy mummy sort of a way. Comfy leather sandals finish the outfit in case she has to do a bit of standing around. She even has a sunhat and shades, should she need to hide her face.
She’s sure that nobody who saw her yesterday will recognise her today. Tom presumably thinks she’s still in prison and Katya’s brother, Lech, met her when her hair was brunette, her face chubby. Neither of them will be looking for an elegant, skinny blonde.
But that niggly feeling in the pit of her stomach refuses to go away and she knows she has to trust her instincts. Got to stay alert, she tells herself. After all, Lech runs an international operation, has contacts all over the place and although her release was supposed to be kept a secret, she knows that prisons are leaky places when it comes to information, because prison officers are only human and they have families to protect.
The threat rears up in her mind, an ugly truth that needs to be addressed. Up to now, she’s been running towards Harry, rather than running away from Lech, because she’d thought that her early release would mean he wasn’t ready, wasn’t looking. But I need to keep both things in mind, she tells herself. Plan for all eventualities.
Her eyes fall on the composite picture that’s propped in front of her, the best she can do without any photos to go on. Harry. She strokes his face with a finger, trying to imagine what his skin feels like. Is it as soft as when he was a baby? Soon, she’ll know and her heart swells with love for her child, filling her chest so she can hardly breathe.
‘Not long now, Harry,’ she whispers, kissing his picture before putting it back on the dressing table. Then she picks up her handbag and hurries downstairs.
So much of life is about luck, she thinks as she drives towards Douglas. The friends you make, where you live, job opportunities, the people you meet. Chance events that shape moments in time and change the direction of your life forever. It’s all about luck. And something tells her that her luck is changing.
Being released two months early was lucky, the result of a Home Office initiative to reduce overcrowding. And the fact that she was getting death threats made them push her to the front of the queue. Having the use of this car was lucky. Borrowed off a friend, an ex-convict who had been willing to let her have the use of it in return for a hefty chunk of money. Meeting Jack, a chance encounter, led her to Sasha and to Mary’s house. Yes, lots of lucky things have been happening recently, she thinks, with a flicker of a smile. Maybe I’ll be lucky today. Her hands tighten round the steering wheel. She’s got to be. Harry’s in danger, time is flitting away and she’s not even at square one yet.
Once in Douglas, Tom’s office proves easy to find, but locating somewhere to park is a different matter. Eventually, she ends up in a multi-storey car park at the back of Marks & Spencer, which is not ideal because it’s a bit of a walk to where Tom works. She takes a deep breath, steadying herself for the task ahead, puts her hat and sunglasses on and walks with a confidence that belies the churning in her stomach.
She takes the stairs out of the car park, a couple of flights down to street level. When she’s almost at the bottom, she hears the tap of feet coming down behind her. Purposeful and quick. Is somebody following me? The thought takes hold and grips like a vice, leaving no room for doubt. Her heart leaps, as though it’s been jump-started and she gallops down the rest of the steps, bursting out of the door at the bottom.
She finds herself in a pedestrianised square, a place she doesn’t immediately recognise. But she can’t stop, not for a moment, and hurries on. She enters the narrow street that houses the main shopping area and is relieved to see that it’s busy today, crowded with shoppers. She starts to sweat as she weaves in and out between people, can almost feel breath on the back of her neck. She imagines a hand reaching out to grasp her shoulder. Her heart skips, her stride lengthens, she speeds up.
You’re overreacting, she tells herself. You’re in a crowd of people, for Christ’s sake. But her body takes no notice. She starts to run.
There’s a small shopping centre up ahead on her left. A good place to hide. But as she gets to the doors, a scream and then a shout makes her glance back the way she has come. She stops for a second. People are looking round, murmuring to each other, craning their necks to see what’s going on.
A child’s buggy has been knocked over and a woman in a baseball hat crouches on the floor next to a child. For a few seconds, there is no movement, no sound. A young man in skinny jeans and a grey hoodie stands with a hand over his mouth, his other hand pulling at his long hair. ‘My baby! Oh, God!’ he starts shouting, over and over, panic in his voice. An older man stands next to him in a blue patterned shirt, his eyes raking through the crowd that is gathering around the scene.
A frown darkens his face, his lips drawn back from his teeth in an angry snarl. His eyes meet hers. For a moment, she is paralysed. Is that him? The man following me? He doesn’t look like Lech, but then, she realises, he might have sent one of his men to do his dirty work. It hadn’t occurred to her before, but now it seems a likely scenario.
She dashes into the shopping centre. Her eyes flick around as she gets the measure of her surroundings; a circular courtyard that houses a handful of shops, an atrium letting in natural light. An escalator in the middle leads up to another floor with the same layout. Adrenaline courses round her body, her mind alert to every movement, every sound. Nowhere to hide, she’s going to be cornered if she stays here. Then she sees another set of doors, leading outside at the back of the building. It’s her only escape route and she runs through them, emerging i
n a back street. She glances around. Is he behind me? Her pulse rate spikes. Her dress sticks to her back. She daren’t look, can’t waste a second. Nothing to do but push on and hope she loses him.
In front of her, a steep set of steps runs up the hillside next to another multi-storey car park. Places to hide up there, she decides, and dashes across the road, taking the steps two at a time, leg muscles burning. She grits her teeth, pushes through the pain, but when she reaches the top, she has to stop, hands on her knees, pulling air into her lungs as if she’s drowning.
A waist-height wall provides a hiding place in front of a single-storey building, once a shop but now closed. The left side of the street is lined with Victorian houses converted into office buildings, and the steps have brought her out at the start of the terrace. Across the road is a covered parking area, lined with cars, dark at the back, providing a perfect hiding place. She can dash over there and be out of sight in a matter of seconds. Feeling more secure now, she questions her reactions.
Is it paranoia or is it real?
Her heart says real, her head says not.
Gut instinct. She tells herself. Believe it.
Hidden from view, still huffing and puffing, she makes herself peek over the top of the wall, looking back the way she’s come. She can see the tops of people’s heads, but not their faces. Nobody is on the steps. Then a man exits the shopping centre. Tall, dark-haired. His shirt looks familiar. A brightly patterned blue Hawaiian print. Is that the man from the street? He looks up the steps. Her breath hitches. It is! It’s him. She ducks down, pops her head back up and sees him head off in a different direction.
Then a woman comes out, a mother with a double buggy. An elderly couple. A gaggle of teenagers. A few women with children of assorted ages. Older women on their own. A young man. Gradually, her breathing slows. See? Nobody there to worry about. Christ, you need to get a grip.
Still, a doubt wriggles in her mind.
Sirens blare, filling the air. She stiffens. Ambulance or police? A woman dashes out of the shopping centre and runs down the road. Natalie watches her duck into a shop further down. Then two policemen appear. They stop and look around, then split up, one heading towards the steps. Natalie’s eyes widen.
Dammit! Time to go. She wheels round and bumps into a dumpy middle-aged woman in gym gear, almost knocking her over.
‘Sorry,’ Natalie says. ‘You alright?’ But she doesn’t wait for an answer, and sets off across the road, cursing under her breath. She wipes sweat from her forehead. Is the woman still watching me? It feels like it. Has the policeman caught up? Or is it somebody else? She glances over her shoulder, but the woman’s gone. Nobody is looking. She ducks into the covered car park, crouches behind a chunky four by four, hidden in the shadows. She kneels on the floor and waits. It smells of piss and engine oil and she tries not to breathe through her nose, her ragged breath rasping in her ears.
Twenty
Then
On her fourth day in prison, Natalie had a meeting with her solicitor, and her first question, as soon as the woman walked through the door, was when could she see Harry.
‘I’m sorry, Natalie, but your request has been refused,’ her solicitor said, not even looking at her while she got a bundle of paperwork out of her bag and started sorting through it on the desk.
Refused? Not for one minute had Natalie imagined that she wouldn’t be able to see her son and it took her breath away like a blow to the chest. I’ll go mad if I can’t see him. She could hear herself hyperventilating. Oh God, I’ll end up like the rest of them.
The woman settled in her seat and started flicking through papers. When she glanced up and caught Natalie’s eye, her expression was calm and business-like. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can do. Let’s move on, shall we?’
‘Can’t I appeal? What do I have to do?’
Surely, I’ve got rights? And Harry, he has the right to be with his mum, hasn’t he?
‘Unfortunately, I can’t be much help, I’m afraid. Family law isn’t my field, you see.’
‘But I’m his mother.’ Natalie stood up, started pacing up and down the windowless box of a room where their meeting was being held. ‘Don’t you see that he needs me?’
Her solicitor sighed. ‘Well, as far as I’m aware, you still have a live-in nanny, so I’m sure your baby is being well looked after.’ She gave Natalie a conciliatory smile. ‘I’m sure he’s fine. I know this is difficult for you, but there’s absolutely nothing I can do.’
Natalie was in no mood to be placated and glared at the woman who was supposed to be helping her. ‘He’s not fine! How can he be? He needs to be with me.’ She tapped her chest for emphasis. ‘Me! Not some… nanny!’
‘Well, he can’t be with you in here.’
‘Why not? Other mothers have their babies here.’
‘Yes, but there are special circumstances which mean that’s the best option for the child.’ She was talking to Natalie with a forced patience, as if Natalie was a belligerent two year old.
Natalie opened her mouth to say something, but her solicitor held up a hand to stop her, a frown sharpening her face.
‘No, I’m sorry, there’s nothing more I can do for you with regards to seeing your son. You’ll have to believe me on this one. Your husband is in control in that department and if he doesn’t want to bring your baby to visit, well, that’s his call.’
Natalie stopped pacing as it suddenly dawned on her that Tom couldn’t come to visit, even if he wanted to. He was a potential witness, her solicitor had said. Maybe that’s what this was about. Not that he didn’t want to bring Harry, but he wasn’t allowed. That made sense. But the nanny, Elena, she could bring him, couldn’t she?
‘But…’
‘There are no buts!’ Her solicitor pointed to the chair, a hand clasped to her forehead. ‘Please sit down. You’re making me nauseous. I cannot cope with you pacing about like some… some caged animal.’ There was a weariness in her eyes, an edge to her voice. ‘Sit down, please, or this meeting is over.’
Natalie’s hands clenched by her sides.
‘I mean it.’ Her solicitor started shuffling papers together, getting ready to leave.
Natalie sighed. However much she disliked the woman, she needed her and she walked back to her chair, sat down with a thump, her hands knotted together in her lap.
The solicitor’s jaw was working as if she was chewing a toffee that had stuck to her teeth.
‘Okay, Natalie. I don’t think you understand your situation here. So, let me make it clear for you.’ Her eyes narrowed as she spoke. ‘You are a prisoner.’ Her finger jabbed the air. ‘You have no say. Your crimes have denied you that right, as well as the right to have contact with your son if your husband doesn’t think it’s a good idea. And, given that you’re a drug addict, not many people would disagree with his decision.’
Words of protest stuck in Natalie’s throat as the truth of her situation was laid out before her. She was helpless, at this woman’s mercy, and it seemed that she’d already decided that having contact with Harry wasn’t important. The solicitor fiddled with a pen, clicking the point in and out, in and out. She leant forward.
‘Just be glad that your child has a good home with his father and is being well looked after. Most women in here don’t have that luxury. Their children are in care, or left with relatives and goodness knows who else.’ She put the pen on the desk. ‘Your child is the lucky one. You need to remember that.’
Natalie opened her mouth, too astounded to speak. Her mind wrestled with the idea of more time without Harry, the pain of separation aching through her as though he was a missing limb.
Her solicitor kept staring at her. Natalie closed her mouth and stared back.
‘I can refer your case to a colleague who deals with family law. That’s the best I can do, okay?’
Natalie nodded. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, happy that she’d forced some progress; the most she was likely to achieve today.
‘Right,’ her solicitor said. ‘Let’s move on to the case against you, shall we?’
Natalie brought her mind back from its fluttering panic and forced herself to concentrate. She had to do everything in her power to make these people listen to reason and make sure she was released as soon as possible. It was the only way she was going to be with Harry again. She sat up straight. Perhaps there’d been progress in the police investigation. Perhaps somebody had taken notice of her comments after all. Perhaps Tom had…
‘Okay, so this is the situation.’ Her solicitor paused to make sure Natalie was taking notice. ‘If you plead guilty, act remorseful, send an apology to your client and tell them where the money is, then we have a better chance of getting a more lenient sentence. We could probably do some work around the effects of pregnancy, something hormonal, maybe see if we can get a diagnosis of postnatal depression.’
Plead guilty? Natalie put her hands to her temples, pressure building into a headache. What is the woman talking about?
‘But I haven’t done anything wrong.’ Natalie’s voice was a whimper. ‘I don’t know where the money is. Honestly, I don’t. I’m not guilty. I might have made a mistake, but I haven’t stolen any money.’
She wondered, as she said it, whether this was actually true. Or had she actually done it and blanked it out, acted out a recurring fantasy to get away? She shuddered at the thought. No. She’d know, wouldn’t she? She’d remember. A chill ran through her as she thought about the new car and the payment to the refugee charity and the airline tickets. She had absolutely no memory of any of that. But those things had happened. She tried to swallow her unease away, unable to look her solicitor in the eye now.
