Читать книгу The Good Mother - A. L. Bird - Страница 18

Chapter 9

Dearest Cara,

It’s me! I’m writing to you! I got him to bring paper and pencils (you might have heard). So we can communicate without risk of being overheard. But you must make sure he doesn’t find this letter, or future letters, or the pencil or paper that I’m enclosing. Look for a hiding place. And then write back.

If I can’t write again, for any reason, then remember this: I love you. And Dad loves you. And between us, somehow, we will keep you safe.

Mum

xxxx

I rip the letter from the notebook and tear out some other pages. I fold up the missive and wrap the other pages around it. Then I change my mind and put the letter on the outside, facing outwards, in case she otherwise doesn’t see my writing. I place the pencil in the centre. Then I advance to the grate and begin shoving it through. The grate is small – each vent only the length of a finger, and narrow too. I have to reduce the amount of paper I send through and refold the package. The pencil itself, the essential tool of reply, I wriggle through.

I put my head to the wall and listen for rustling. Nothing. I stay pressed like that. Maybe she is asleep. Or worse. Not there. Maybe when the Captor left the house earlier, he took Cara with him. Maybe he is ransoming us or disposing of us or … whatever-elsing us one by one.

Shall I tap-tap on the wall? Or is that too much? Do I need to limit myself, not show by my desperation for her safety, how vulnerable we are? I raise my hand, lower it again. Don’t alarm her. Don’t keep knocking. Don’t put the Captor on to us.

But please be there, Cara. If you are there and reply to my letter, I know you at least are still with me. Only in peril in the same way as me. Not in some dangerous outside place. Although there’s a wall between us, a daughter is safest nearer her mother, isn’t she? Please be there. Please let him not have taken you someplace else. I can’t bear for you not to be there.

You’ll always be this little one’s mummy. No one can take that way from you.

Tears well. I let them fall. I rock back on my heels and wait. And wait. What is taking you so long, Cara? Why don’t you reply? Should I risk a knock on the wall? A whisper? But no. That might endanger everything. I must have a little patience. Must breathe. Yes. Important to remember. And fill my time wisely. The window!

Yes, of course, the window. My sign. It will be poxy in small notebook paper and a pencil but I will do the best I can.

What to write?

Keep it simple. Something like:

‘Please help. Mother and daughter, Susan and Cara Bright, held hostage in here. Call 999.’

We must be all over the news – Paul will have done his bit insisting the media and police will be on the case. Right? Paul won’t just think I’ve taken Cara on a trip? No. We were due to be at home, to eat together. The Captor snatched me from home and must have snatched Cara from school.

And Paul will find us. Then everything will go back to normal. I’ll resurrect the cupcake business. Cara will go back to school – once I’ve spoken to the Head about security – and we’ll all dine out on this trauma for the rest of our lives.

I sketch out the words for the sign lightly first. They cover six sheets of paper. Then I start pressing hard. Deep grey shading, to make it visible outside. But not too dark so as to destroy the pencil. It’s all I have.

I’m so absorbed in my task that it’s not until I hear the key in the lock that I know the Captor is coming.

Quick! Hide the sign! Why didn’t I take my own advice to Cara and look for a hiding place? The door is opening, where can I put the sign?

I shove it under duvet, just in time. By the time the Captor’s face appears, I am posing with the notebook, pencil in hand.

He bends down to place a tray down on the floor. Granola, yoghurt, orange juice, a cup of tea. An inch at the back of his neck is exposed. If the pencil were sharper, I could bring it down, now, spear it through the skin, force him to the floor. Or could I? He’s a big guy. I’m not so huge. Maybe I need more than a pencil.

He stands up again. Moment or non-moment of potential escape gone.

He looks at me. ‘Writing in your diary then?’ he asks.

I shrug. ‘I can’t think of anything to write. Not much happens in here.’

‘Let me help with that,’ he says. And he sits down on the bed. Right on top of the part of the duvet that hides the sign.

If he pushes the duvet back, I am finished. He is too close to me. I can smell him. He smells of mould. Not in a way that makes me retch. More that fragrant mould, released in forests after the rain. Fine for forests. Not so nice on a man.

He takes the diary and pencil from me. I want to resist, want to claw them back, but we know who has the power here.

He writes in the diary. Seeing as he is so close to me, I try to lean in, see what he is writing, but he hides it from me. He is concentrating. I couldn’t, could I, stand up and make a run for the door? He sees my head move and follows my eye line. He puts one leg firmly across mine. He is wearing big, heavy boots. I stay where I am.

Then I notice that when he moved, the duvet moved with him. The edge of the sign I drew is now visible.

Shit.

I hold my breath, waiting for him to pull back all the duvet, find out what is underneath. Punish me.

He is still focusing the notebook. For now.

I resist the urge to look at the sign again. He is observant. He will follow my eyes. Instead, I force myself to stare at him, while he looks at the notebook. I scrutinise the hair in his ear, the little lines around the edge of his eyes. This is a villain who has smiled more than he has frowned then. Not a good sign. Potentially sociopathic.

‘There,’ he says. ‘Done.’ He hands me back the diary.

I look at what he has written.

‘Today is the day that I shared my bed. Sitting this time. But it’s a sign of closeness. A sign of more to come. I will give that man what he wants – what I want, really – in time.’

I shiver. I look up at him. He smiles.

So. That is the plan then. He does, as he says, want me. But, apparently, I have to give myself to him.

He stands up. I want to break eye contact, let him know his plans revolt me. But I daren’t, lest his eyes search out the paper sign instead. Holding his gaze, I shift along the bed, putting one hand behind me. I call feel the rough edge of the paper under my hand. I hope it is covered. I hope he doesn’t think the gesture is an invitation.

He stays in the room, staring at me. A smile – or is it a smirk – crosses over his lips. He adds to the creases round his eyes. Then he turns his back and opens the door, and goes out. And locks me in again.