Trust Me

by T. M. Logan

  ???

  Erm . . .

  You OK? X

  I frown at the screen and type a quick response.

  All fine. Just indulge me?

  Mia’s hungry cries are coming more frequently now, her little face screwing up in exasperation. I stare at the phone, willing my friend to reply quickly, walking small circles as I jig Mia on my shoulder. Finally a new message arrives with a ping.

  Café won’t microwave in case baby gets scalded and you sue. Ask for a jug of hot water to stand the bottle in til warm x

  Another message, seconds later.

  What’s going on? X

  I type one-handed, shushing the baby.

  Thanks. Asking for a friend

  I put the phone down on the table and it pings again almost immediately, then again. I ignore it, pulling the curved bottle of formula milk from the side pocket of the rucksack and giving it a shake.

  Five minutes later I’m sitting back down at the table with the bottle in a jug of steaming water, the barista following me with a cup of tea. I keep jigging Mia gently up and down to keep her cries from reaching an ear-splitting level. I grab a muslin cloth from the rucksack and shake the bottle of formula again, squirting a few drops onto my wrist to test the temperature – warm but not too warm. The relief is immediate when Mia latches on to the bottle. I can hear Tara’s voice in my head: keep the bottle tipped up so there is no air in the teat, just milk. I’ve fed my godsons from time to time, but it’s different when the mother isn’t in the next room, when there’s no one to hand the baby back to.

  Mia begins sucking the milk down in greedy gulps, her whole body relaxing and calming in an ecstasy of feeding, piercing blue eyes focusing on my face as if I’m the only person in the whole world.

  While Mia drinks, I glance at the other mid-afternoon coffee-drinkers in the café. There are only a handful of customers. A fortyish guy on crutches, his left leg in plaster up to the knee. A woman in bright yellow Lycra at the counter, studying the cakes and pastries behind the glass. A couple of site workers having a breather over a cup of tea in the corner. A guy in his sixties surrounded by newspapers, pen poised over a crossword.

  Calm. Safe. No police, no hooligans, no weirdos from the train. My left arm aches from holding Mia, but it’s a good ache.

  My phone rings, vibrating against the table, the ringtone loud in the quiet café. Tara’s face shows on the screen, but with the baby in the crook of my elbow and my right hand holding the bottle, I can’t pick it up. I let it ring until the tune abruptly cuts off.

  I smile down at Mia as she sucks busily on the bottle of formula milk, already half finished. I know I need to wind her, to get some burps up, but am I supposed to do that now or when the bottle’s finished? I’m not sure. I pull gently on the bottle and it slides out of Mia’s hungry mouth, leaving her lips still puckered in a surprised ‘o’ shape. The blonde woman at the table next to me is leaning over, handing me something.

  ‘Here you go,’ she says, holding out a square of soft white muslin cloth. ‘You dropped this.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, shaking it and draping it back over my shoulder, ready for any milk that comes back up.

  ‘Just have a little breather,’ I say gently to Mia, putting the bottle on the table. ‘Then you can have more.’

  But Mia has other ideas, a frown of disappointment clouding her face, eyes flicking left and right, searching for the bottle that was there moments before. Little high-pitched squeaks of desperation burst from her, each a little louder than the last.

  ‘OK,’ I say with a smile. ‘Maybe you don’t want a breather.’

  I lift the bottle and Mia latches on again immediately. I’ve imagined doing this so many times with my own baby. Just this. Nothing complicated or greedy about it. Just this simplest thing, this bond between mother and child, building and strengthening and already so powerful I think my heart might crack at the thought of letting Mia go.

  And I can do it. These last few years of disappointment, lying awake at night I’ve half-convinced myself that I don’t deserve it, that I’m somehow lacking, that there’s some other reason why I can’t conceive. Some strange logic that I’d never be a good enough mother. But I can do this for Mia, I can feed a baby, sustain her, look after her. I straighten the square of muslin cloth on my shoulder and raise her so she’s upright, little chin against my shoulder, rubbing her back in a circular motion. For a moment nothing happens, and I wonder if I’m doing it wrong. Then Mia lets out a single explosive burp, then another, so strident in the quiet café that I’m amazed such a loud noise can come from such a small body.

  The woman with a toddler at the next table gives me a grin.

  ‘Best sound in the world,’ she says.

  ‘She’s a hungry girl,’ I say, lowering her back into my arm. Mia’s eyes are blinking slowly closed, her belly full, sinking into sleep with her mouth still open in a perfect tiny circle. Her head is warm to the touch, her downy cheeks soft and plump like little peaches.

  Children don’t make memories, I’ve read, until they’re two or three years old. So Mia will never know me, never remember this in the future. My face will be lost, washed away in time like sand in a rising tide, and she’ll never know about this strange day, this beautiful hour we spent together. The thought settles with the weight of sadness in my stomach. I take my phone from the table, unlock it – a missed call from Tara – and snap a picture of Mia. Her beautiful, peaceful face filling the screen. A soft, sleepy, contented baby, warm in my arms. This whole day has taken on an unreal, dreamlike quality, like something I’ve seen in a film or heard about a long time ago.

  Two-thirds of the formula milk is gone. Is that enough? I’m not sure. Mia seems content, so I settle her back. I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to reheat milk for a second go-around. Throw it out, sterilise the bottle, make up new formula with boiled water. I’ve seen Tara do it a hundred times.

  Every mother is a first-timer once. Every mother goes through this, has to figure things out one at a time. I just had a later start, that was all, but I’m a fast learner and—

  I catch myself, stop myself. My smile fading.

  Mia is not mine.

  Stop stalling.

  I know what I have to do.

  Life is not fair, life is never fair. But self-pity is the purest poison if you let it take hold.

  I lay Mia flat on the soft bench seat, perching next to her on the edge in case she suddenly rolls onto her side, and take out the baby sling. I turn it this way and that, trying to figure out the complicated set of buckles and fasteners, to work out whether you put the baby in it before or after you place the straps over your shoulders. After, probably, because it would be easier to lower—

  ‘Do you want a hand with that?’

  The woman at the table next to me points at the Baby Bjorn.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Still trying to get used to it.’

  ‘I used to wear it with my jacket over the top.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ I shrug my jacket off and slip the straps over my shoulders, tightening and adjusting until it seems about right. ‘Could you lift her up?’

  ‘Sure,’ the woman says, gently lifting Mia under her arms and lowering her into the sling. ‘There you go.’

  The woman adjusts the carrier so that Mia is propped up snugly, and I slip my jacket on again over the straps. It’s a lot easier than holding the baby in my arms – and means I have both hands free.

  ‘Oh my gosh she’s so like you, isn’t she?’ The woman smiles admiringly. ‘Just a lovely little mini-me.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose she is.’

  I realise that I’ve not touched my own drink. I take a sip, the tea already tepid, and put the cup back on the table. I wasn’t thirsty anyway. I stand up, Mia warm and sleepy against my chest, sling the rucksack over my shoulder alongside my handbag. The baby snuffles, her mouth opening in a tiny yawn, but her eyes don’t open.

  My heart clenches with what I have to do next
.

  Outside, I go to the kerb and scan the street for another black cab. St George Street is a fairly busy road; there’ll be one along in a minute. I look down at Mia’s sleeping face, her chubby cheeks and perfect pink eyelids, a tiny bubble of milk on her lips. My phone pings again in my handbag. I dig it out and see the unread messages from Tara.

  You back from the clinic already? X

  You OK? School run now but will call when I’m back xx

  I try to think of a reply that doesn’t sound too crazy, thumbs poised over the screen, and begin typing just as a car door opens wide at the kerb, the door swinging inches from my legs. I look up, a hand instinctively covering Mia’s back, as a large man in a black bomber jacket jumps out of the driver’s seat. With a jolt of shock, I realise I’ve seen his face before.

  Early thirties, dark ginger beard and a broken-bone kink in the bridge of his nose.

  The caller on Kathryn’s phone.

  7

  Before I can react, the man snatches my phone and shoves it into his pocket. He’s broad and heavily built, the fabric of his bomber jacket stretched taut over his shoulders and arms. He grabs me with his other hand, his grip digging into my wrist.

  ‘Scream and you’re dead,’ he says, his voice low. ‘Now hand her over.’

  ‘What?’ I say, my spine rigid with shock. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Give her to me,’ he growls, pulling her closer. He tightens his hold on my arm, his iron grip digging into the flesh beneath my jacket. The bruises on Kathryn’s arm. Her ringing phone. Frightened eyes. Her husband – boyfriend, partner, ex, whoever the hell he is – has found us. His breath is sour and hot in my face. ‘Now!’

  My head swims with fear, shock rendering me numb for a second before I recover enough to try to shake my arm free. I circle my other arm protectively across Mia’s back, holding her close, limbs buzzing with adrenaline.

  ‘Get off me!’

  His other hand reaches for the baby, fingers digging under the harness, trying to unclip her, to pull her away from me.

  ‘Give her to me!’

  Mia jerks, startled, and begins to whimper. The sound sends a bolt of pure anger through my chest and when he releases my arm to make another grab for the baby I open my hand and throw a palm strike at his nose, thrusting upwards good and hard. He sees it coming and dodges to the side, catching my wrist and wrenching it down to the side. I stamp my heel down on the toes of his boot but it doesn’t seem to have any effect.

  ‘What the hell is wrong with you!’ I shout. I look up and down the street but there’s no one looking our way. ‘I’m not giving her to you, get away from me!’

  He circles me until he has his back to the café, his bulk hiding us both from the customers inside. His eyes are wide and bloodshot, the pupils dilated, flecks of spittle in the thick stubble on his chin. I try to remember what I have in my handbag, what I could use – attack alarm? Keys? Biro? I open my mouth to scream for help but he slaps a meaty palm over my face, the stink of grease and unwashed skin filling my nose.

  With his other hand he opens his jacket to show the black butt of a pistol in his waistband. His fingers curl around it, ready to draw.

  ‘I told you not to scream,’ he says quietly. He leans in closer, his breath hot and stale. ‘Now shut up or I’ll put a bullet in you.’

  A wave of fear washes over me and I will him to keep the pistol where it is, to keep it anywhere apart from pointing at Mia. I remember something I was once taught: guns are predictable but people are random. And maybe this man more than most; he’s strong and angry, maybe psychotic. Even a single shot might hit the baby.

  ‘OK,’ I say, my voice catching in my throat. ‘OK, I won’t scream.’

  ‘I don’t know who you are, I don’t know why you’ve got the baby. And I don’t really give a shit. But you’re going to give her to me, right now.’ He tries to unstrap her again, a rough hand reaching around under my jacket, the other remaining on the butt of the pistol. ‘Christ,’ he says under his breath, jostling the baby and pushing her to the side. ‘How the hell do you undo this thing?’

  I scan the street again, my heart racing, looking for a uniform, a passerby, anyone who might intervene or raise the alarm, call the police. A couple of people at a bus stop further down the street, heads bent over their phones. Cars in traffic, a white van, a cycle courier with earphones in. But no one seems to have noticed us. London: capital city of avoiding eye contact, keeping your head down and minding your own business.

  As he hunts for straps and buckles, Mia starts to whimper, her little face turning pink.

  ‘What’s the matter with her?’ he mutters.

  ‘You’re frightening her,’ I say. ‘You startled her, woke her up.’

  Mia’s whimpering gathers pace towards a full-blown cry.

  ‘Jesus!’ The man looks nervously up the street as a traffic warden rounds the corner. ‘Just get in the bloody car then, you and the baby.’

  My hands go instinctively to Mia strapped to my chest, cradling her warm back, the shape of her against my own body.

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or I’ll shoot you and throw your body in the boot.’ He shoves me towards the open driver’s door. ‘Now take off the rucksack and get in the car.’

  I jerk the rucksack full of baby things off my shoulder, and throw it into the passenger footwell then go to open the rear door on the driver’s side. Fear pulsing hot in my veins, for Mia, for both of us.

  ‘Not in the back,’ he says. ‘Get in the front. Can you drive?’

  ‘Yes but not with the baby in the—’

  ‘Just get in the damn car.’

  I lever myself in gingerly so as not to squash Mia against the steering wheel. He slams my door shut and steps away to get into the back, and for a second he’s still on the pavement and I’m behind the wheel of the big BMW, engine running, hands on the steering wheel, one thought leaping ahead of all the rest.

  Go.

  Now.

  Just put it into first and floor it before he can get in. Take his car and leave him behind.

  I reach for the gearstick, P – R – N – D – S printed alongside it.

  Shit. Automatic.

  I try to push the gear stick into drive but it won’t budge, and a second later the man slides into the rear seat, directly behind me, slamming his door shut.

  ‘You driven automatic before?’ he said. When I shake my head, he says: ‘Press the button on the gearstick to put it into drive. Take it easy on the gas, it’s a three litre. Just take us down to the lights and turn left, nice and steady.’

  I roll the seat back to make more space, clip the seatbelt over us both and lower the strap so it tucks behind the baby’s back. My heart is thudding painfully against my ribcage. I hear the familiar tone of my phone being switched off as I put the BMW in gear and pull out onto St George Street, feeling the rumbling power of the engine under my right foot. Traffic is starting to thicken up as the afternoon ticks towards rush hour.

  ‘That’s it,’ he says, ‘right onto Seymour and up towards the flyover. Nice and easy. If you try to talk to anyone, if you hit the horn, draw attention to us or do anything stupid, if you so much as buzz the window down I will shoot you, OK? Do you understand?’

  With a shiver, I feel the blunt shape of the gun barrel pushing through the seat into the small of my back. At this range any bullet would probably kill both of us but I would also crash the car – so as long as we’re moving he won’t shoot. I hope.

  ‘Listen,’ I say, pulling up at the first set of traffic lights. ‘Take me instead. I’ll go with you, wherever you want to go. I’ll do whatever you want to do, and I won’t fight or struggle. But let’s leave the baby somewhere safe. I can stop at a café or a shop, somewhere with staff, you can take the keys and I can hand her to someone just like Kathryn handed her to me. I promise I won’t run, I swear. I’ll go with you but let me make sure she’s safe.’

  ‘Just drive.’

  �
�She’s just going to make a fuss, make noise,’ I continue, my mind bouncing from one idea to the next. A dialogue was better than silence – anything to get a sense of my assailant and his intentions. And more importantly, a chance to get Mia out of harm’s way. ‘You don’t want that, her screaming the place down and drawing attention to us. I’ll do whatever you want, but let me leave her somewhere safe. Please.’

  ‘Stop talking.’ The gun jabs me harder in the back.

  I let another minute pass, trying to push the facts into some kind of logical order, my mind flashing on stories of estranged fathers exacting revenge on their own children. I need to establish a rapport: it’ll be harder for him to pull the trigger if he knows my name, if he starts to think of me as a human being rather than a nameless victim. If he remembers that Mia is an innocent. But how did he find us? I should have gone straight to the police station. Delaying was stupid. Stupid.

  I can smell him behind me, a thin trace of deodorant failing to mask the underlying scents of sweat and unwashed clothes. The interior of the car is a mess, the passenger footwell a rubbish dump of screwed-up fast-food wrappers, polystyrene boxes and drinks cartons. The white rucksack lies on a pile of balled up clothes, and in the rearview mirror I can make out the edge of a sleeping bag on the backseat. The whole car smells fetid and stale.

  ‘What do you want with her?’ I say.

  I flinch as he jabs the barrel of the pistol hard into my back again.

  There’s silence for a moment before he speaks.

  ‘Who are you, exactly?’

  ‘My name’s Ellen Devlin, I’m forty-one, I live in South Greenford, I’m a project manager for an aerospace company.’