His Kidnapper's Shoes (10 page)

‘Gonna go now, Katie girl. I’ll call you later. Hey, Katie?’

‘Yes, Dan?’

‘You’re one hell of a woman.’

11

SILENCE AND SCREAMS

Life seemed comparatively good back then, Daniel. I didn't mind the constant exhaustion; I went through my days happy and fulfilled, in a way I’d never been before. I'm the nurturing type, you see, Daniel; all I wanted, all I've ever wanted, was to be a homemaker in a stable family set-up. Taking care of Gran and my baby, looking after our home – these simple things satisfied the nesting instinct in me, and I revelled in them. For the short time God allowed me to enjoy them, I mean. Because He was indeed laughing at me, as I cooked, scrubbed and cleaned. He had His hands firmly on the rug of domestic bliss I was standing on, and I’d soon find Him wrenching it out from under my feet.

One morning I woke up late, having slept really well. I went over to check my sleeping baby, grateful for the unusual peace. Gran wasn’t one of life’s morning people; she wouldn’t be surfacing much before ten o’clock. I scuttled back into the warmth of my bed, thinking about the chicken I’d roast later on, followed by a trip to the park if Gran felt up to it. There was a new detective thriller on TV that night we’d decided to watch. A perfect day stretched before me. I dozed off once more.

The unfamiliar silence was still there when I woke up again. The lack of sounds got me worried, you see, Daniel. The house seemed too still, too quiet; something jarred in my mind as being off-kilter. OK, so Gran wasn’t at her best early in the morning, but normally the noises from her bedroom as she moved around told me when she’d got out of bed. I’d not heard a thing.

I pulled on my dressing gown, shoved my feet into my slippers and walked down the landing. I hesitated before knocking on her door. She might still be asleep; she’d been unusually busy yesterday, and hadn’t gone to bed until late.

‘Gran?’ Silence came back at me. ‘Gran, are you awake?’

Perhaps I should leave her be. A feeling in my gut, though, told me something wasn’t right here.

I tried again. ‘Gran? Do you want some breakfast?’

She didn’t reply. I shoved open the door and walked in.

I realised she’d died as soon as I looked at her. Her face was a terrible colour, the sort of colour no living human being ever is, and her mouth hung open. Her head had lolled to one side and I saw where her spittle had stained the pillow. The left side of her face appeared distorted, as if some invisible hand had dragged her cheek down towards her shoulder.

I remember the words No, No, No, spinning round in my brain and I shook her, although I had no idea what good that would do, but I clung desperately to the hope she might still be alive. A false hope. She was cold beneath my hands; she must have died hours before. My wonderful grandmother, who had been the backbone of my life ever since I could remember, had gone from me, and oh Daniel, I had no idea how I would bear her loss.

I was only eighteen and although I felt decades older sometimes, I was petrified. I was all alone now, except for a small, demanding baby who depended on me for everything. So I looked at my dead grandmother, lying grey and flaccid against her spittle-stained pillow, and I felt more scared than I’d ever done before, even worse than when I’d been hungry and had no idea when I’d next eat. Being alone terrified me because everything was down to me now and I didn’t know if I could cope.

I called an ambulance and the paramedics were so kind, as they’re trained to be. A doctor came out as well, telling me my grandmother had suffered a massive stroke, and calling an undertaker to transport her body to the mortuary. I finally broke down after everyone had gone. I was devastated, Daniel. Perhaps if you ever lose someone who you really love, although I hope to God you never do, you’ll know what it’s like. I wouldn’t wish on anybody the agony I went through then, slumped down on the living room floor of the damp house I called home. I cried and I cried, both for my dead grandmother who had been torn away from me whilst still only in her seventies, and for myself.

I sobbed for the chicken dinner we wouldn’t eat together, for the park we wouldn’t visit, for the thriller that would go unwatched. I wept for her batik skirts and tie-dye blouses, the flash of her opal ring and the jangle of her silver bracelets. Most of all I cried for the loss of the only warmth and love I’d ever known. My beloved Gran was gone and somehow I had to carry on without her.

Eventually screams came from above, though, and I dragged myself up, and went to tend to my hungry and wet baby, mechanically changing his nappy, bringing him downstairs whilst I heated up his milk and did my best to soothe his furious howls, tears still running down my cheeks all the while. He must have picked up on my anguish because I couldn’t settle him, but I didn’t mind the loud wails and his flailing legs because they told me he was alive, wonderfully and gloriously alive.

I went back upstairs and put warm clothes on my baby before settling him in his pram and walking into town. I found a funeral parlour and wheeled the pram in.

‘I need to arrange a funeral,’ I said. Then I flopped down in a chair, sobbing.

The next day, I started to look through Gran’s things.

I found what I was looking for in her chest of drawers; a brown envelope, containing her will. She’d left everything she had to me, including the house.

I realised I couldn’t stay there. Too many memories of Gran filled the place; besides, it needed too much repair work. I made up my mind. I'd go into town tomorrow and find a solicitor; when everything went through with the will, I’d sell the house.

Afterwards, I wanted a fresh start. Needed one, as well. Apart from the birth of my baby, I’d only known unhappiness in this small Hampshire town. Mum’s drinking, Gran’s illness and death, Matthew Hancock and the still vivid horror of my rape. I needed to get away. I’d rent a little flat for my baby and me somewhere else, perhaps in Bristol. A city, with more opportunities for jobs and training. The more I thought about things, the more a fresh start in Bristol seemed like the right thing to do.

All actions have consequences, they say. I guess that must hold true for decisions as well. Would I have acted any differently, if I’d been able to foresee what would happen because of moving to Bristol? My heart, gut and soul scream no, no, no, loud and proud, to me, Daniel. That choice led me eventually to you, my dearest son. Your presence in my life today is the consequence of that decision, made so long ago by a frightened and grieving eighteen-year-old, and you’ve always brought me such joy, no matter what you think of me right now.

I’m all too painfully aware you believe you hate me. Perhaps you do right now, but what I’m going to tell you will make you understand why I acted the way I did. I’ve told you why I decided to move to Bristol. Now I’ll tell you the rest.

A few weeks after Gran’s death, my solicitor had dealt with much of the legal stuff and things were moving along nicely, or so I thought. In my naïveté, I was making plans again, and I should have realised God would be somewhere in the background, laughing.

Anyway, life seemed good the day my solicitor told me I’d be able to put the house on the market in the near future. I’d be moving to Bristol fairly soon, I thought; my new life beckoned. Gran’s death still clawed at me, raw and painful, hitting me hard every single day. I knew she’d be happy I was moving on with my life, though. I went to bed early, my head full of plans, checking a sleeping Daniel in his cot at the foot of my bed, transfixed by the sight of his tiny fingers sucked between his lips. He smelled of baby shampoo and contentment, his essence warm and delicious and utterly mine, and he enchanted every part of me.

I slept more deeply than usual. It was after eight when I woke up.

My intuition immediately kicked in, warning me something was wrong.

The most awful sensation, deep in my gut, that I couldn’t ignore, told me. Every instinct, every nerve in my body, screamed at me to get out of bed, right away. I think something in the terrible silence alerted me.

You see, normally there would be some sort of noise from Daniel, even when he was sleeping; my mother’s ears were attuned to the sound of his breathing, however faint it might be. It was something I had come to take for granted; the faint snuffles he made when asleep, or the way his arms and legs bumped against the sides of the cot as he wriggled around.

No sounds came from my baby that morning.

Only a terrifying silence occupied the house besides me. A silence so thick it sent shards of dread deep into my gut.

I threw back the duvet, rushing to the cot. I grabbed the inert body lying face down under the quilt.

Daniel was cold. So cold.

No breath came from his tiny body.

And his skin, well, no baby should be such a pallid, unhealthy shade.

Cot death. I had heard of it, but such things only ever happened to other people. I had never even thought about it in connection with Daniel, my baby who had always been healthy and seemingly full of life.

Now he lay unresponsive in my arms and my voice rose high into the room, pleading, saying ‘God, no, no, no, no, no, please, God…’

I opened his mouth, and put my lips around the tiny ones I’d marvelled at the night before; trying to force air and life back into lungs I later realised had ceased working hours before. I pressed down on his chest, willing the heart underneath my fingers to start beating again, pushing reviving blood around his limp, pale body.

I don’t know for how long I did all that. Time had stopped for me when I grabbed my baby from his cot.

I blew into his mouth, and I pushed down on his chest, and all the while hot tears ran down my face and those shards of dread in my gut twisted, cutting my soul with denial that this had happened to my beautiful Daniel, to the baby who occupied the whole of my very existence. It wasn’t possible life could be so cruel. Life had already handed me my drunken mother, a brutal rape, and then taken my beloved grandmother. It shouldn’t snatch Daniel from me as well.

It already had, though. My fervent pleas to some unknown God who I didn’t believe in anyway went unheard.

I slumped back on my heels, eyes unseeing through the tears, the dead body of my adored Daniel in my arms, and I screamed. Huge furious shrieks tore from my throat, filling the silence of the empty house with my rage and denial and utter devastation. There was nobody to hear them, in that house so far from town, and I screamed until I couldn’t scream anymore, my throat raw. I held Daniel with one arm while I pounded the floor with the other until the hurt in my bruised and battered fist stopped me.

I lay on the floor, curled around the body of my baby, for the rest of the day. The room grew dark as night came and still I lay motionless on the cold carpet.

I’d stopped crying. Tears seemed pointless. No way would they ever be capable of expressing even a tiny part of the raw emotions within me. I had died inside, along with my baby.

I woke up on the floor the day after, cold and stiff, with my baby even colder in my arms.

I knew I should tell someone he’d died.

But I didn’t.

I don't know if you can understand all this, Daniel. Grief had probably obscured my judgement. I don’t think I thought very clearly back then. Perhaps I believed if I didn’t tell anyone, if I didn’t register the death, then it hadn’t really happened and my baby hadn’t died.

Telling somebody would have made it all real, you see, Daniel. I’d have ended up with a death certificate in my possession, as I had with Gran, a stark piece of paper making it official and turning the nightmare trapping me into stark reality. I’d have had to choose a coffin. At the thought of my baby’s body in a tiny wooden box, I broke down all over again. Misery of such savagery and depths swamped me, the likes of which I hope to God you never have to deal with, Daniel.

On the evening of the second day, I knew I had to let go of my baby.

I washed and dried him and dressed him in his best clothes. I wrapped him up against the night air outside and placed him gently in his baby sling. I went to the shed at the bottom of the garden, and took out a small shovel.

I put on my coat, and left the house with my baby and the shovel, walking away from town, down the little track leading to the nearby woods, where I’d often walked with Gran. I was familiar with those oak-covered hills from my time living with her. Dog walkers came to let their dogs off the leash in parts of them. I didn’t go near those areas. My baby had to be somewhere safe, out of the way, far from keen noses and digging paws, away from the sacrilege that would be to his beloved body.

So I carried him, held tight against me in his sling, along with the shovel, up higher, away from where the dog walkers frequented. I panted up the hill until I stood, hot and sweating, deep amongst the trees. I found one that was still young, a sapling really, and it seemed to me to be the perfect tree under which to lay my baby. The sapling would rise and thicken with age, its roots would wind around his body and that way he would never truly die. This beautiful tree would hold him safe and secure within its embrace and the lifecycle in the trunk, the branches, the thrusting roots, would give some sort of existence back to him. I’d found the tree of life.

I started to dig. When my arms ached and my back hurt, and the hole was about as deep as I could make it, I squeezed my baby tight. I kissed him for the very last time. Then I lowered him tenderly into his grave, and laid the little teddy bear I’d bought for him after his birth on top of him. I covered him with the earth, sobs choking my throat all the time, patting the soil down and finally heaving some heavy stones on top. He was at rest now, and he’d sleep beneath those tree roots forever.