The Face At the Window

by Ruby Speechley

  The Face at the Window

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  A letter from Ruby

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  The Face at the Window

  Ruby Speechley

  For my dearest son Charlie,

  with all my love.

  Prologue

  The sour yellow streetlight illuminates the landing as she creeps down the stairs fully clothed. The clock in the kitchen shines blue numbers in the darkness: 1.11 a.m. She slips her coat and boots on then checks her pockets for the last time – passport, mobile, cash, keys. Another minute and she’ll be out of there. For good.

  Was that a sound on the landing, a footfall? She strains to hear in the near silence above the hum of the fridge. Something clicks. What was that? Hurry, before he wakes up.

  As she turns the back-door handle, the kitchen light flickers on and he is striding towards her in his dressing gown. She pulls the door with both hands, but he twists them away and pushes her to the ground, towering astride her.

  ‘Going somewhere?’ he booms and reaches down to empty her pockets onto the cold hard floor. The mobile slides across the tiles. Her fingers stretch to reach it. He stamps hard on her hand and she howls, the agony ricochets up her arm. He picks it up, showing one of her messages, then he smashes the screen against the side of the counter. Shattered fragments shower over her as she rolls on her side protecting her bump. His satisfied grin morphs into a grimace. She’s trying to do everything in her power to protect her baby, but what if it’s not enough?

  Chapter One

  Monday 13 August 2018

  Gemma

  I can’t be late. I manoeuvre the pram one-handed round the corner, past the neatly stacked sacks of barbecue charcoals towards the tills. If I can get this lot packed away and dinner on by the time Nick comes home, I can be at the restaurant by four. I stop at the sight of the queue in front of me. Thomas starts grizzling. I stand behind a tall man whose trolley is piled high with trays of marinated meat and burger buns. I rock the pram back and forward but Thomas isn’t fooled and bursts into a continuous cry. Sweat trickles down my neck, prickles under my arms.

  My shopping basket hangs lopsided by my side, against my bare leg, handles pressing red angry lines into my arm. I tug the hem of my shorts trying to ignore the pain of metal biting into my skin and curse myself for not wearing something longer, more sensible. For the tenth time the packet of coffee balanced on the top slides onto the floor. I put the basket down heavily to reach for it. If it were for me, I’d happily leave it behind, but it’s one of Nick’s staples. He needs his caffeine fix every morning. Running out of Colombian medium ground is not an option.

  Thomas’s cries grow louder and more desperate. Everyone’s judging eyes pierce into me. I reach into the pram, softly calling his name, and hold his smooth little fingers, but instead of grasping mine back, they pull away and open wide, emphasizing the escalating wave of crying. I try making clicking noises with my tongue against the roof of my mouth, a sound that is curious to him and usually makes him stop and listen. But not today. Why not today? Please!

  I wipe my forehead with his muslin cloth and straighten up, hand on my back, lengthening my spine. I let out a breath and when I look up, it’s as though my prayers have been answered. She’s like an angel standing in front of me, smiling; her bright violet-blue eyes, slightly cocked inquisitive face, silky blonde hair and long side fringe.

  ‘Hello, Rosie, it’s so good to see you,’ I gush, tears forming instantly in my eyes.

  ‘Are you okay?’ A concerned frown passes over her. We both wince as Thomas’s cries rise in pitch.

  ‘A bit frazzled. He hates it when the buggy stops moving.’ I pull my face into a smile, but I honestly think I’m going to cry. ‘Would help if this queue wasn’t so bloody slow.’ A few people turn to see who spoke. The man in front nods. I cross my arms, willing it to move forward an inch at least. ‘I need to get home and sort out my husband’s dinner in time to get to the restaurant.’

  Rosie’s frown is back again, but this time it’s accompanied by the slightest hint of a smile. She still lives at home with her mum so I’m probably like some old married woman to her. She leans into the pram and touches Thomas’s palm. He curls his fingers around her thumb and grips tightly, pausing for a few moments to examine her face and catch his breath. She’d probably be surprised if she knew I was twenty-two, only two years older than her. I don’t wear all the young fashions like she does, the crop tops and trousers, the little skirts and strappy dresses. They suit her. They’d look awful on me. Nick says he doesn’t want me looking what he calls slutty. He prefers me in classy classics he calls them, like these thick cotton nautical shorts, sailor’s style ribbon blouse and canvas lace-up deck shoes. As soon as Rosie takes her hand away, Thomas screws his eyes tight a
nd lets out a high-pitched scream which shakes me to the core.

  ‘Can I help at all? I could push him round for you, if you like?’ Rosie gathers her hair in one hand and drapes it over one shoulder, then she dips her head again and smiles at Thomas. He stops crying and gasps back tears as he watches her with wide wet eyes.

  ‘Oh God, could you? Would you mind?’ I say, grateful beyond belief for her kindness. She shows the same calmness at work, sorting out difficult customers with her charming smile and understanding words. Helping people, making them feel special seems to come naturally to her. It’s like she can tap into their wavelength in an instant. Nothing is too much trouble for her.

  ‘Honestly, I’d love to. You finish up here while I wheel him up and down out the front. I’ll wait near the bench.’

  ‘Goodness, you’re a lifesaver, Rosie, thank you. I’ve got your mobile number, haven’t I? In case this takes even longer, or you need to call me if he’s not calming down.’

  ‘Yeah, course. Don’t worry, he’ll be fine with me; we’re going people watching, aren’t we, Thomas?’ She pulls smiley faces at Thomas, finishing with a laugh and a wink. Already his cries are slowing into steady chugs. I peel my handbag off the pram handle. Rosie takes hold of it.

  ‘See you soon.’ I kiss his hand and touch his warm flushed cheek. I wish I could be a better mum for him. No one tells you how hard it is to comfort your own baby, keep them happy all the time.

  Rosie presses down on the handle and the pram tips up jolting Thomas forwards. A little more heavy-handed than I’d like, but I smile to reassure her it’s okay. She looks too young to be in charge of a baby, but I know from work how capable she is.

  The further she pushes him away from me towards the exit, the more my body tightens. I fight the urge to run after them. They’re only out the front, I tell myself, but it’s torture being separated from him.

  The crowd is moving in all directions. Rosie half turns and waves at me above people’s heads. I glimpse her blonde hair briefly once more, then she’s gone.

  The queue finally starts moving. At last I reach the conveyer belt and can rest my basket on the edge and empty it. The freedom of being able to use both hands is ridiculous. I can’t see the bench outside from here, but I keep checking anyway, expecting them to bob into my line of vision at any time. I send Rosie a quick text to say I’m third in the line now, so shouldn’t be too long, and I hope Thomas has calmed down. I wait for a reply, but my phone stays silent. I expect she’s seen my message but daren’t stop and text back in case Thomas starts up again.

  It’s almost ten past three by the time I carry the shopping outside. I head straight over to the bench and dump my bags on the seat next to a woman with a pushchair carrying twins. I sit down and we smile briefly at one another. It’s the second time today; we’ve already seen each other going into the shop. I explain about Rosie looking after Thomas for me. She says that’s a kind thing of her to do. I scan the square. I can’t spot Rosie, but then it’s full of market tents today and she could easily have popped into one of the small shops round the outside or further up to the merry-go-round. She may be in the coffee shop. The thought of resting for a few moments with a creamy cappuccino is bliss, but I really need to get moving. I text her to say I’m waiting on the bench, then I lean back and shut my eyes for a few moments. I feel the bruise on my hip where it caught the corner of the table.

  My eyes flicker open. I stand up. Is that Thomas’s cry? I strain to hear, but to me it could be any baby; it’s not distinct enough. Nick says mothers instinctively know their own baby’s cry, so why don’t I? I check my phone. Still no message. Have I made a mistake? Did she mean another bench? My eyes dart around me. She could be waiting somewhere completely different. But I can’t see any other benches close to the supermarket. I’ll wait another five minutes, I don’t want to badger her when she’s been so kind to me. I stare at the screen clock, counting down every painfully slow second in my head.

  The moment five minutes has passed, I call Rosie’s number. It goes straight to answerphone. ‘Hi, I can’t get to the phone right now, please leave a message after the beep.’

  ‘Oh, hi, Rosie, it’s only me. Gemma, that is. Just to say I’m ready to go. Sorry it took so long. I’m on the bench outside Sainsbury’s like we said. I can’t see you, so thought I’d better call as I really need to get going. I hope Thomas has calmed down. I’m so grateful to you for looking after him. Could you call me straight back, or come and meet me, please, whichever is quickest? Thank you.’ I click the ‘end call’ button. My hand is shaking. I sit again, looking left then right, picturing Rosie waving and smiling as she approaches, a little out of breath.

  I wait another five minutes and she still hasn’t come. I keep checking my phone for texts and voice messages. I wonder if she’s emailed me but nothing’s come through. I must have made a mistake. I wasn’t listening properly. Nick’s always saying I never listen. Did I give the impression I wanted her to take him straight to Papa’s Pizza? She understands how behind I’ll be with tonight’s prep. I imagine explaining to Nick why I’m late home. Why his dinner isn’t ready. He’ll know it’s all my fault. Tears roll down my face. I sniff and rub them away with my fingers and try calling Rosie’s mobile again. But this time it says in a very clear voice, ‘This mobile is switched off.’ What can this mean exactly? Has she turned it off deliberately or has the battery died?

  ‘Are you okay, love?’ An old man with a walking stick and one orange bag of shopping is sitting where the mother was earlier. I don’t remember her leaving or him arriving. A few other shoppers gather round as I explain what’s wrong. The man’s watery red-rimmed eyes look sad.

  ‘I think we need to call the police, love.’

  Panic floods through me. ‘Don’t you think they’ll have been held up somewhere?’ I stand up and he stands too.

  ‘I’ll tell security, they’ll know what to do,’ he says. He walks lopsidedly towards the doors, his stick clicking on the ground like it’s counting down the seconds.

  ‘What do they look like?’ asks a woman with a small dog on a lead. I describe Rosie and the pram and the woman leads a small group into the market, calling their names.

  I climb up on the bench in an attempt to view the whole square and shout at the top of my voice. ‘Rosie, Rosie, Thomas, Thomas!’ A few people stop what they’re doing and stare. The mother with twins from earlier comes over and looks up at me.

  ‘No sign of your baby yet?’ Her face is creased with anguish. Is that what I look like?

  ‘I don’t know where they could have got to.’

  ‘How long’s it been?’

  ‘About fifteen minutes since she left the shop.’

  She sucks air in through her teeth, her face hitching up on one side.

  I step down, blinking at the ground, then into her eyes. ‘Oh my God, my baby is missing!’

  Chapter Two

  Twenty-Three Days Before

  Gemma

  A magpie is chattering on the low picket fence outside our front garden. Becca and Ben are arm in arm crossing the road, heading our way. I grab my phone and I hurry down the stairs, glancing at the screen. A notification flashes up. I can’t see who it’s from, but there are lots of exclamation marks and swear words. The doorbell rings as I reach the bottom stair.

  ‘Come in, come in! So good to see you.’ I wave them through and kiss Becca and Ben on both cheeks. Becca hands me a bottle of alcohol-free fizz and Ben passes a bottle of red to Nick who appears behind me.

  ‘How are you guys?’ Nick leads the way into the living room where the patio doors are wide open. ‘Long journey?’

  I slip my phone onto the sideboard. Everyone laughs at our standing joke. It’s so silly, it’s hard not to. I met Becca at the yoga classes in the village hall about five months after we moved in and we hit it off straight away – we walked home together, chatting all the way. We couldn’t believe it when we stopped in our road, realizing we lived opposite each
other.

  ‘Who’s having what?’ Nick claps his hands together. He’s already had a cheeky first glass or two while cooking dinner.

  ‘I don’t mind joining you in an alcohol-free night, Gemma.’ Becca follows me out onto the patio and puts a Waitrose bag on the table. She looks glamorous as ever in a turquoise backless dress and kitten heels. She’s pinned up a section of her gorgeous curly red hair with a sparkly clip.

  ‘Are you sure? You don’t have to.’

  ‘Yeah, honestly. I don’t want you to be the odd one out.’

  ‘Red for me, mate,’ Ben says.

  Nick takes both bottles into the kitchen followed by Ben, who is already asking him 20 questions about his new motorbike. I step inside for a new pack of serviettes and glance at my phone. The message has gone.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Becca asks.

  ‘Yeah, sorry.’ I press the button to switch my mobile off.

  ‘So how are you feeling?’ Becca pats my arm. ‘Not long to go now.’

  ‘Really well. A bit tired in the evenings. Hard to believe in two weeks or so I’ll have my baby in my arms.’

  ‘Can I?’ Becca puts her hand out.

  ‘Of course, although I think he’s asleep.’ I swirl my palm over my bump. Then Becca lays a hand gently on one side of it. ‘Everything okay at your last appointment?’

  ‘All good thanks.’

  ‘I’m hoping I’ll be on duty when you go in. Just drop me a text when you go into labour.’

  ‘I will. It’ll be good to see a friendly face.’

  ‘No more thoughts about leaving then?’ She whispers as she takes a box of fresh cakes out of the bag on the table.

  ‘Not since Christmas. He’s been better, really trying.’

  ‘I hope so. You know if you ever need me…’

  ‘I know, and thank you, but this baby is going to change him.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘He’s normally down the pub on a Friday, but he stayed here last night. He didn’t even make a fuss about it.’

  ‘That is a good sign.’

  ‘We wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for you,’ I whisper near her ear and cover her hand with mine. She looks up. My face is a tight ball, trying not to cry. I place her hand back on my bump and the baby moves, his head pushing out against my skin. ‘He says thank you.’