by Thorne Moore
iv
Vicky
The blank walls and ceiling of a Travelodge. Headlights moving across it. The low rumble of heavy lorries edging onto the slip road. A muffled moan of never-ending traffic on the motorway.
Vicky lay in the dark, staring at nothing. She needed this, a white alien bed in a nowhere place, where she could stop and think. She kept conjuring all the faces dotted around the peculiar road map of her life. Gillian. Roz. Kelly. Mrs Parish. People hurting. All pieces on the board, as she had allowed herself to be. Liberation was taking charge of the game, and she could do it. She could make something right.
v
Kelly
At five o’clock, Kelly drove along to the next village, found it on the map and figured out where she was. Too far north but she could see her way. Cross one major road, head south on the next, get on the motorway. She stopped at a service station, bought herself a serious shot of caffeine. Gone six now, late enough; Ben would be awake, surely. She tried his number. His phone kept ringing. He was probably in the shower. Then it stopped ringing. Hell! Battery low. It needed charging and she hadn’t brought the charger. How could she be so bloody incompetent?
She was in Lyford long before the office workers and shop assistants. Early enough to find the car park over the shopping centre almost empty. Should she find a payphone? Except that Ben would be on his way to work now. She couldn’t discuss all this while he was squashed in with other commuters. Give him time to reach the office.
She started walking towards the concrete headquarters of the Lyford Herald, then changed her mind. Old editions, she wanted; twenty-two-year-old news, not this week’s bullshit. They’d have old copies at the town library. Much better. No chance of her giving someone a punch in the eye in the library. If she visited the Lyford Herald again, she might just be tempted to make her feelings understood. The utter crap they’d written…
But it hadn’t all been crap, that was the problem. They’d added and subtracted, but they had worked on the story Kelly had handed them on a plate.
She found the library, in Queen’s Square. A couple of hundred yards from the Linley hotel and Rick’s Place. Beacons in that other life, when the mystery of her birth had been an exciting adventure.
A façade of glass etched with open books, quills, music notes. Double doors waiting to open at nine o’clock and not a moment before. She sat in the square outside, among the clipped ornamental trees and the pigeons, and was first through the doors, the moment they opened.
There were microfilm readers in the reference library, if she wanted old copies of the Lyford Evening News. Or bound copies of the weekly Lyford Herald. She settled for the Evening News. If the story was there, she wanted it day by day, blow by blow. And she wanted the privacy of the cubicles that housed the microfilm readers. She didn’t want to sit at a central table exposing her history to the whole world.
Start with her own birth date. Alleged birth date. Tuesday 13th March, 1990. Lorry jack-knifed on the bypass, an engineering firm closing, football club scandal. What was she expecting? Roz would hardly have put an announcement in the papers. Wednesday, Thursday – nothing through the entire week. Into the next, and there it was, Tuesday 20th March.
Baby found in Mall.
God, it was true. Roz had really abandoned her baby. This was that Victoria. A girl, thought to be less than a month old, was wrapped in a towel. Kelly could see Roz doing it, thinking it was the best thing to do. Poor Roz, poor helpless young mother. Kelly could understand what had driven her. But she could see, too, why Victoria Wendle had been so upset. To know that your mother had just left you in a doorway – and then taken another child.
That was the really terrible thing: the taking of another child. And it hadn’t been a fantasy, not Victoria putting the wrong two and two together. Roz had admitted it. In the park, she had said.
Kelly scrolled on. Friday.
Baby Vanishes in Park.
Kelly covered her face with her hands. Could she bear to read on? She had to. Not that there was much to read. A large headline to make up for a scant article. Stop-press stuff, the paper trying to put something together quickly with nothing to work on. A blurred picture of ‘the park’ as if that would help.
Police are searching urgently for a baby snatched from her pram today by the lake in Portland Park. The mother, named by the police as Mrs Heather Norris, of Linden Close, is understood to have left the pram briefly, while attending to another child. When she returned, the baby girl, Abigail Laura, was missing. Police have as yet no clues as to the identity of the person or persons who might have snatched the child, and are appealing urgently for witnesses. They would like to hear from anyone who visited the park today, between 1.30 and 3.30 p.m.
Abigail Laura. Was that who she really was? And Mrs Heather Norris. Was that her real mother? The woman left with an empty pram. A terrible crime.
She had to go on. The next day the paper was full of it. Parents were too distraught to give a statement. Distraught. Kelly’s parents. People she didn’t know, who had been no part of her consciousness until now. Heather and Martin Norris. What had happened to them? Where were they now? How long had they been distraught? How long before dull acceptance had driven out the worst of the pain? What do you do if someone steals your baby?
Police had spoken to people who had been in the park, but as yet there were no leads. An interview with a mother who had noticed a suspicious stranger loitering around a nearby infants’ school. Fear stalks the streets of Lyford. There was a summary of previous abductions and some distasteful speculation on the intentions of the abductor.
More on the Monday – photographs of Heather and Martin Norris, snapped as they were bundled inside their home by police officers. Kelly sat staring at them. Grainy photographs, even more indistinct on a ghostly microfilm, but there they were. A totally normal couple. Nothing to set them apart from all the other couples who lived in that suburban street. That should have been her home, that house, with its tile-hung walls and cramped little porch, and its clipped pocket-sized front garden, indistinguishable from the houses to either side. They should have been her parents, that sad couple. He was just an average man, nothing heroic, nothing villainous. Wavy hair. She could see that much. And a face that would probably have been quite nice if his jaw was not set and his eyes were not glassy and unseeing.
Daddy.
She was even less clear, Kelly’s mother, Heather Norris. Shoulders hunched and head bowed, her hair falling over her face. Broken.
‘Mum. Roz. What have you done?’
‘Find what you were looking for?’ asked a librarian, passing her cubicle.
‘Yes, thanks,’ said Kelly, hurriedly. This was private. She didn’t want to share it with a librarian.
She wanted to share it with Ben. He’d be safely at work by now. She could ring him, pour it all out. She left her bag and coat by the microfilm reader and went down one floor to the rank of public telephones by the newspaper room. Tried his mobile. It was switched off. He did that, she knew; switched it off when he was in a meeting. Maybe she could try his office, leave him a message.
A woman answered, bright and businesslike. ‘Good morning, Claims, Jane Danby speaking.’
Kelly tried to collect herself. Office Speak. ‘Hi. Good morning. Is…’ How stupid that she didn’t know his surname. She racked her brain, trying to remember what his mother had been called. Parish. ‘Is Mr. Parish there? Could I speak to him please?’
‘Parish? Sorry, no one of that name here.’
‘Ben Parish?’
‘Sorry.’ Kelly could hear Jane Danby’s strident voice away from the phone. ‘Anyone know anyone called Parish working here?’ Back to the phone. ‘No, sorry, you’ve got the wrong number, I’m afraid.’
‘Okay, thanks.’ Kelly put the phone down. It was all part and parcel. Parallel worlds. She’d slipped through, and Ben was in another world, no longer part of hers.
She went back to the Evening Post. Tu
esday. A plea from the father, her father, for whoever had his child to come forward. More biographical details of the parents. Heather Norris was twenty-seven, born in Nottingham, had worked in a library. This one. Kelly looked around. This one or its predecessor. It looked like a new building. Martin was twenty-eight. A stock controller. Kelly pictured him rounding up cattle. Born in Lyford, he had been a champion sprinter for his school and his mother Barbara was a stalwart of the St Michael’s Amateur Dramatics Society.
Details. Snippets that she should have known all her life. She wanted to see their faces.
She found them on the Wednesday edition. Someone had given the Post a wedding photograph. Martin and Heather cutting the cake, he beaming broadly, she, with veil pushed back, revealing a slightly anxious smile. The tone of the article had changed. Quotes from neighbours about how stressed Mrs Norris had been, long before Abigail had gone missing. Hints of a nervous breakdown.
On the Thursday the gloves were off.
Police have confirmed that they have taken Heather Norris in for questioning about the fate of missing baby Abigail. No charges are imminent at this stage. Grandmother of the child, Mrs Barbara Norris, said, ‘I cannot bring myself to believe that Heather could have harmed her own baby, but if she has, I beg of her to tell us the truth now, so this agony can end.’
Pages, day after day, of evidence and rumour and innuendo. Diatribes in the letter columns. A solitary plea from a vicar to bear in mind that we are all innocent until proven guilty. And then the story petered out.
Police have confirmed that Heather Norris, mother of missing baby Abigail, is not being charged, although investigations will continue. ‘The case will remain open until the fate of the child is finally uncovered,’ said Superintendent Barry Trufall.
It was all there, and it wasn’t enough. She wanted more. She asked for the old bound copies of the Lyford Herald. A weekly paper, with more considered coverage. Not more enjoyable reading though. At least the pictures were clearer. A more recent photo of the husband and wife. Her father and mother, and their little son. Barbara Norris, her grandmother.
A map of the park, showing where and when. A photograph of the lake.
She really needed Ben now. Try again. Try his office once more. There were no parallel worlds, just this one. One world screwed up in an unbelievable knot.
‘Can I speak to Ben, please.’
‘Hang on. Ben! For you.’
His voice, at last. ‘Hi, Ben Norris here.’
She had known. A growing suspicion – her previous visit, those photographs, the faces, that lake. She’d known. Perhaps, secretly, she had known from the moment Roz had mentioned the park. ‘It’s me, Kelly,’ she said, astonished that the words came out.
‘Kelly! Where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you. Got your text this morning but I couldn’t get through to your mobile.’
‘Battery’s out. I couldn’t recharge it.’
‘Where are you though? In Lyford? What’s going on? I thought—’
‘What are your parent’s names?’ she interrupted. ‘Their Christian names?’
‘Christian names? Martin and Jacky my step-mum – and Heather my mother. Why?’
Why had she even asked? ‘Your mother’s Mrs Parish.’
‘Yes. They both remarried. Why? Kelly, what’s up?’
‘Can you come here?’
‘To Lyford? Now? I don’t know – No, of course I can come. Something’s wrong, isn’t it?’
‘Something’s wrong. Yes. Something bad.’
‘You’re all right? Are you hurt? Is it your mother? Tell me, Kelly.’
‘I’m all right. Upset, but not hurt. Please come. I can’t explain this on the phone.’
‘I’m coming,’ he said. ‘Give me a couple of hours. I need to get back to my car.’
‘I’ll be here. Outside the library. I’ll wait.’
And that was all she could do now. Sit and wait.
Ben, in his suit, ran across the square, searching the lunchtime crowds. Kelly raised her hand and he saw her.
She watched him coming, Ben Norris. Pictured that photograph in the Lyford Herald. Heather and Martin Norris and their young son Ben, known as Bibs.
Her brother.
‘Kelly!’ He hugged her, reassuring himself she was in one piece. ‘I didn’t know what to expect. What’s going on?’
She stared at him. Lightish brown hair, hazel eyes, just like her. Just like her. Was that what she had seen, in Rick’s place? Was that what Ben had seen in her? ‘You had a baby sister who died.’
She felt his flinch of withdrawal, the defences against past pain. ‘What? Yes. She died.’
‘Abigail Laura.’
‘OK, she was called Abigail. What have you been digging up? Because I wish…’
‘I’m Abigail.’
‘What?’
She drew a deep breath. ‘I’m Abigail. I’m your sister. Mum…Roz took me, from the pram in the park.’
‘No!’ It wasn’t shock or surprise. It was denial, absolute and unconditional.
‘She admitted it. I discovered I wasn’t her natural daughter. That was what brought me to Lyford in the first place. I wanted to find the other girl, the one she gave birth to. I thought… Never mind what I thought.’
Kelly took his arm, led him to a bench. He sank down, dazed.
‘I was just trying to help. Mum was ill and – she’d said something about a mix-up in the hospital, labels being switched, two babies accidentally swapped. God knows where she got that idea from. The truth was, she had a baby, she gave it up, and then – then she wanted it back. So she took a baby, from the park, convinced herself it was hers. She admitted it. I’ve found the whole story in the newspapers. March 1990. It means I’m your sister, Ben. I’m Abigail.’
He was staring at her, drinking in the words, trying to shuffle them into an order that made sense. Still refusing to believe. ‘This is some kind of con? A joke? Do you have any idea what you’re saying? Abigail is dead.’
‘No. She was taken. By my – by Roz.’
‘It isn’t true.’
What could she say? Keep repeating the facts? This was all too much for him. It was too much for her and it had been creeping up on her gradually all morning. He didn’t want to believe. They were lovers. And now she was his sister. How cruel was that?
‘We’re still—’
‘No!’ He jumped up, away from her touch. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘We didn’t know we were related. I love you, Ben.’
His eyes met hers, staring into them, wanting to feel what he had felt before, wanting this all to stop, now. ‘You don’t understand,’ he repeated.
‘We met and fell in love. That hasn’t changed, has it? Being brother and sister, it’s just—’
‘It isn’t that! God! It isn’t a matter of incest!’ He put his head in his hands, then walked away, stumbling as he went. He reached the first fluttering tree and leaned against it for support.
Kelly rose to follow him, then stopped. There was nothing to do but watch and pray. It couldn’t end. No matter what evil, vile trick fate was determined to play on them, it couldn’t just end.
He raised his head at last, lowered his hands, straightened himself. Then he marched back.
‘I’m sorry. Kelly. It’s not the incest. It’s just – you see – if you really are Abigail, you can’t understand how much – all these years – how much I’ve hated you.’
It wasn’t what she had expected. It hit her in the solar plexus.
He looked away. Shut his eyes a moment, then sat down beside her, staring down at his feet. ‘You wrecked my whole life and I hated you.’
She needed him to explain, but all she could say was, ‘Sorry.’
He flashed her a brief, bleak smile, before looking down again. ‘I thought you were dead. We all did. Dad was so sure. So certain Mum had killed you.’
‘She didn’t.’
‘God! All these years! He was so convinced.
Everyone thought it. Everything fell apart. They divorced. Dad kept asking me, “What really happened, son? What did she do? You must have seen something.” But I didn’t see anything. I couldn’t remember anything. He told me you were dead, and I believed him. I couldn’t believe her, you see? Because she didn’t want me, she just wanted you. Abigail, Abigail, Abigail. And I thought it was because of me. Something to do with me. My fault.’
‘No!’
‘I thought she blamed me. Maybe she did, I don’t know. I just remember Gran telling me, again and again, “Don’t you worry, Bibs, whatever anyone tells you, it wasn’t your fault.” So I thought it must have been. And all these years I’ve hated you for causing it all, and I’ve hated her for messing things up.
‘You know what Dad couldn’t forgive? It was the fact that she wouldn’t admit it. He could see the guilt in her eyes, but she wouldn’t admit it. Kept insisting someone had taken you. So that was what I came to hate. The lie. Her refusal to say what she’d done.
‘I remember—’ His eyes were screwed up, recapturing the image. ‘Being in the car with Gran, driving past and seeing my mother standing on a street corner, handing out leaflets. “Have you seen this baby?” Not in the car with me. Standing there while I drove by, asking people about you. Trying to pretend it was all true, that story about you being taken. That was all she did, pretend to look for you. They divorced and she never came to see me.’
‘I’m so sorry, Ben.’
‘They had blue teddy bears on them, those leaflets.’ He bit his lip, breathing hard. Then he turned, ready now to look at her again, ready to cope with the knowledge shifting the ground under his feet. ‘She never came to see me. Why? God, you know I think it was him. Dad. He wouldn’t let her come. I hadn’t thought of that. I only knew she didn’t want me, she wanted you and she wouldn’t admit that she’d killed you. We didn’t have any contact for years. Dad and I moved north, and he started a new family. When I came to find her again, a few years ago – do you know why? I didn’t want to make it up with her. I just wanted to plague her into finally admitting what she’d done. Just say it, just once. I wanted to shake her and shake her.’
