Freeing Grace (41 page)
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ I couldn’t believe she and Matt planned to swan off to court and pretend everything was fine. Looking back now, I reckon they were anaesthetised by shock. ‘Why not postpone the whole thing? This is ludicrous.’
‘And have them find out what’s happened? I don’t think so.’ She slid into a pair of shoes, balancing with polished fingers on the baby’s cot. ‘No. Our adoring public is expecting us, and the show has to go on.’
And what a show it turned out to be.
Today, road works were more than an inconvenience. They were the end of everything.
Leila had driven without stopping for hours. Getting out of Birmingham had taken far longer than she expected, and then there had been one nasty snarl-up after another. Her ears felt muffled, her mind roaring in sympathy with the constant drone of the engine. An empty bottle of water lay on the floor. She’d drunk the last drops two hours ago, but hadn’t dared to stop for more. She was fast running out of time.
The clock on the Renault’s dashboard was her implacable enemy. She averted her face, afraid to catch its eye. She’d jammed the map between the steering wheel and her lap. The next junction was to be her exit for Woodbury. Its off ramp beckoned, clear and smooth, just yards away; she could actually read the tantalising signs. Yet here she sat, hopelessly trapped in a long line of gently revving engines, forced to stare at the soot-blackened rear of the lorry in front. It sported an irritatingly jolly picture of a family eating breakfast, with the legend
Paddy’s Poptarts
bouncing across their heads.
She would never, ever eat one of Paddy’s poptarts, as long as she lived.
She squirmed in frustration, hands dancing a wild jig on the steering wheel. Among the traffic cones stood a group of men in orange jackets, all watching one steamroller. She’d begun to fantasise about leaping out of the car, charging down the road and grabbing one of them by the throat.
‘Please,’ she prayed, squeezing her eyes shut. ‘Please help me. I’m sorry I said those things about you. Please, please,
please
.’ When she opened her eyes, she saw that the needle on the fuel gauge had begun to twitch maliciously, hovering over the
E
.
From her bag came the electronic trill of ‘Jingle Bells’. She reached out, fumbling distractedly as the tune grew more strident and insistent. Finally her fingers closed around the phone’s curved edges. At the same instant the ringing stopped, as if throttled, in mid jingle. She squinted at the missed call message, twisted her mouth regretfully, and then turned the phone off and rammed it back into her bag. She didn’t want to speak to David now. Any more lies and she’d choke.
Paddy’s Poptarts lurched into gear and ponderously thundered forward. Leila let out her clutch and crawled close behind it, as if trying to hide behind its bulk. They inched past the workmen and their rows of plastic cones. One of the orange jackets—the one holding the stop sign—actually waved to her, and she wrestled with the desire to wind down her window and scream obscenities.
Suddenly, without ceremony, they were through. Hundreds of drivers surged away, accelerating joyfully like fish released after an angling competition. Leila headed for her exit and darted down it. Swinging onto a roundabout, she forced herself to glance at the clock just as a vicious red light began to flicker on the fuel gauge.
Oh, God. Why didn’t I leave more time?
She held the map against the wheel, scanning it while keeping one eye on the road. But nothing looked as it should. Maybe the bloody map was out of date. Maybe—heaven forbid—this was actually the wrong town.
She passed a petrol station, but she didn’t stop. Instead she turned into what proved to be an industrial estate, where warehouses stretched away into a grey horizon. A person could drive around and around this hinterland forever and never see a real human being nor a blade of grass. Perhaps this was hell. Perhaps she would never escape.
The red light on the fuel gauge was unrelenting now. This was a nightmare. It had to be.
The Harrisons’ solicitor, Stuart Forsyth, was waiting for us outside the courtroom. It was in a brand-new building, all pale wood and fittings in a corporate blue. Forsyth exclaimed heartily when he saw us, and then advanced on Deborah and pummelled her hand, looking extremely pleased with himself as though it was he personally who had charmed Big Brother.
Once she’d managed to get her hand free, Deborah introduced me as a family friend. Forsyth gave me a swift once-over, obviously weighing up whether I was shagging her or not. He was about fifty, with a particularly spivvy line in braces and an unnecessary amount of grey hair like a clump of tussock grass sitting on top of his head. I bet he had a comb in his back pocket. And he fancied Deborah, there was no doubt about it.
Join the bloody queue
, I muttered under my breath.
You’ve got no hope,
mate. None
.
‘No Perry?’ he boomed amiably, and didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Never to worry.’
At the mention of his father, Matt stiffened and turned away. It went right over Forsyth’s head, though. He was much more interested in impressing Deborah. I had the impression he wasn’t expecting her other half to turn up, but I bet his silly hairdo would have stood on end if he’d known where Perry actually was at that moment.
‘Excellent.’ He rubbed his palms together. ‘Follow me into a conference room. I’ve already bagged one.’
I parked myself on a row of blue seats in the concourse, but Deborah and Matt both emphatically jerked their heads at me, so I stood up again and resignedly trotted along behind.
‘Don’t tell him about Perry,’ hissed Deborah out of the corner of her mouth. ‘What he doesn’t know, he won’t feel duty bound to pass on. He’ll find out soon enough, but by then . . .’
We followed Stuart the Spiv into a dim little room with a tinted-glass wall. It still smelled of new carpet, but someone had already broken a chair and scribbled on the table,
Judge Cartwright fucks horses
. Through the smoky glass I could see people gathering. A gang of three—two men and a woman, all in dark suits—were huddled together just outside. More lawyers, no doubt. I couldn’t see into any of the other conference rooms because of the funny glass, but I did spot Imogen Christie in the distance.
Forsyth wanted everything to be done properly. He insisted on explaining at great length all the ramifications of the deal they’d struck. In plain English, it meant Grace could come home. The whole thing was typed up, ready for the judge to approve. Deborah assured him that she understood, but his words seemed to slide off her. Matt sat rigidly upright, his face a determined blank. I was proud of him.
‘We’ve got Judge Cartwright,’ the Spiv announced, smiling broadly. ‘Cannonball, we call her. But I don’t imagine she’ll be firing at anyone today!’
Two o’clock had come and gone before a cuddly type in a black gown bustled in. An organiser of ceremonies, by the looks of her clipboard. ‘You ready, Mr Forsyth?’ she asked.
Spiv slammed both hands down on the table. ‘We certainly are, Mandy. Early bath today! It’s all agreed. We’ve even typed up the order.’
Mandy tapped her clipboard. ‘We’ve not finished this morning’s work. Listing office gave us an emergency injunction before lunch, and it’s turned into a real can of worms.’ She looked a bit smug. I don’t think she liked Stew the Spiv any more than I did.
There was a good deal of tut-tutting and head-shaking at this. ‘I’m going to make a complaint about that new listing officer at the court users’ meeting,’ fussed Forsyth, interlocking manicured fingers pompously across his stomach. ‘It’s the third time in as many weeks, and it isn’t good enough.’
Mandy looked very happy. ‘Mm. Her Honour says to tell all parties it’ll be two forty-five at the earliest.’
Forsyth checked his watch and stood up, turning to Deborah. ‘Disgraceful. Well, you’d better go and get yourself a cuppa, Mrs Harrison.’ He swung open the door. ‘I’ll use the time to have a word with Marcus Watson, the barrister who’s here for the local authority. Tie up loose ends. Cafeteria’s on the fourth floor—avoid the doughnuts at all costs.’ He nodded importantly and bustled away in a flurry of loud braces.
There was silence in our room.
‘This is surreal,’ croaked Matt, and pressed his face down onto the table. Then he lifted it, squinting at the graffiti. ‘Didn’t Catherine the Great do that?’
Through the glass wall I watched Forsyth and a taller man—Watson, presumably—strolling up and down the long waiting area. The other guy looked weary and a bit threadbare, and he needed a haircut. They pretended to be talking very solemnly, with their heads together and their hands clasped behind their backs, but I bet they were discussing the footie, not a little girl whose future was all carved up.
‘Come on.’ I dragged myself upright and put out my hand to pull Debs to her feet. ‘Let’s sample the local café culture.’
The three of us took the lift upstairs. On the second attempt, I persuaded it to drop us at the fourth floor.
As things turned out, we got more than a cup of tea in that cafeteria.
Even as she reached the town centre, she knew she must be too late.
But ahead of her, like a heavenly mirage, floated the court building. It was a monstrous block of stone and glass, a coat of arms swirling majestically above the main entrance. There was nowhere obvious to park, so she swerved into a bus stop, running one wheel up onto the kerb with a sickening metallic thud. The drivers behind her burst into a chorus of sanctimonious hooting, but she didn’t care.
There wasn’t time to lock up the car. Lunging for her handbag, she charged across the pavement and up a flight of steps before exploding through the heavy revolving doors.
In an echoing lobby, two security guards lounged against a pillar, their heads bent over a crossword. They straightened as she whirled up, regarding her with faint curiosity.
‘I’m
late
,’ she pleaded, as the younger one languorously pretended to search her bag.
The elder of the pair ran a metal detector half-heartedly up and down. Then he stood back, taking in her obvious agitation. ‘Where are you supposed to be, love?’
Leila’s eyes flickered. ‘I’m . . . I don’t know. It’s an adoption.’
The guard jerked his thumb towards the lifts. ‘You want the second floor. There’s only two family judges sitting this week, and one of ’em knocked off at lunchtime.’
Waiting for the lift was out of the question. She pounded up the stairs, the heels of her boots ringing on the concrete, breath coming in gasps.
There were several people on the second floor. Most of them wore suits and carried lever arch files, and they completely ignored her. Leila walked quickly past while studying them obliquely and trying to slow her breathing: a spy, creeping behind enemy lines. There was no sign of anyone who looked remotely like a grandmother, black or white.
Then a middle-aged woman, comfortably overblown, emerged from one of the courtrooms. She was draped in a gown and held a clipboard.
Taking a long breath, Leila approached her. ‘I’m looking for the adoption,’ she whispered, coughing because her voice was suddenly hoarse.
‘Adoption?’ The usher looked blank, glancing at her clipboard. ‘We haven’t got . . . you mean the placement?’
Leila nodded.
The woman shot her a shrewd, kindly glance. ‘You the mother?’
‘No, no.’ Leila tried to look as though this was all in a day’s work to her. ‘I’ve got an urgent message for . . . um, the grandparents. It’s very important indeed.’
The usher seemed to relax. ‘You’re in luck.’ She smiled, contentedly tapping the clipboard with a biro. ‘They’re running late in Court Three, haven’t even started yet. Family’s up in the cafeteria.’
‘Where—?’
‘Fourth floor.’
Seconds later, Leila stepped into the lift. For a long time she hesitated, her hand hovering over the buttons. Now that she was so terrifyingly close, every instinct urged her to bolt.
Get a grip, girl
, she told herself, and jabbed her finger at the panel.
The doors slid shut, imprisoning her. The metal box shuddered, groaned, and began to rise inexorably upwards.
There was no turning back.
We sat at a table in the windowless space of chrome and Formica, staring at our untouched drinks. Half an hour earlier, we’d stepped out of the lift and stood in a bewildered huddle on the concourse. The fourth floor seemed to be deserted except for a woman in a white cap who was aggressively wiping the cafeteria’s glass counter. When she spotted us she started rubbing extra fast as though to prove she was extremely busy.
‘We’ve finished doing food,’ she yelled.
‘Oh.’ None of us knew what to do next, and she took pity on us. ‘I can do hot beverages. Or a snack out of the machine over there.’ She jerked her head at one of those tall, glass-fronted robots that drop your crisps into a well; you have to reach through the flap for them, and it always swings back and traps your hand.
We crossed the concourse and Deborah lowered herself onto one of the metal seats. Her movements seemed uncoordinated. ‘Coffee, Jake, please,’ she said faintly. I looked at Matt, but he shrugged. He followed me to the counter and leaned against it, his hands jammed into the pockets of his suit, while I negotiated with the scary soup dragon.