His Kidnapper's Shoes (11 page)

Darkness had fallen by the time I finished. Exhaustion, both physical and mental, overwhelmed me; I stumbled down the hill, back towards the house.

People talk about closure and stuff, but I don’t think my grief would have been lessened in any way had I registered the death and given Daniel a proper burial. It wouldn’t have changed the awfulness of it all. Although I realised what I had done with Daniel was wrong in the eyes of the law, I didn’t regret it. I could never have had my baby cremated as I had with Gran; somehow, I found the idea of flames burning into his delicate flesh utterly abhorrent. And I didn’t like the idea of burying him in some anonymous cemetery, flanked by the corpses of strangers. No, his grave was somewhere wild, beautiful and peaceful and the oak tree would take care of my baby forever.

Has your anger towards me lessened at all, Daniel?

12

CAN OF WORMS

Daniel stared at the monitor on his computer, willing his fingers to take the first steps on the family history website Tim had showed him.

His mother had been born in 1967, or so she’d told him. Any sister of hers who might have given birth to him would have been younger, he suspected, but he didn’t think he should take anything for granted. Perhaps she had been older. Best to keep his search parameters reasonably wide, he thought. He decided to research births between 1957 and 1973 in the online register, under the name of Covey, in the town where his mother grew up. Covey wasn’t the most unusual of names, but it wasn’t exactly common, either. With such a large timespan to look through, it took longer than he thought. His shoulders ached and his eyes hurt by the time he’d finished.

The only registered birth attributed to his grandmother, Madeleine Jean Covey, in that area of Hampshire during the time span in question was that of his mother, Laura Susan Covey.

He tried again, this time not including Hampshire. He’d assumed there’d been no change of home for the Covey family, but checking was essential in case what his mother had said hadn’t been accurate, or an outright lie. This took even longer, but the result ended up the same. He found no trace of Madeleine Covey having given birth to any children other than Laura.

He might have missed what he was looking for, of course. He’d try another angle; he’d attempt to find an entry in the death register. If this hypothetical sister had died, it had probably happened around the time Laura turned eighteen. He had to hope she had never married and taken another name; he was screwed otherwise.

He scanned through for the death certificates of anyone named Covey during the period 1983 to 1988, the timespan in which he thought the sister had probably died. None appeared to fit what he was looking for. Nobody of the right age to be his mother, with the name of Covey, had died in the area of Hampshire where Laura Bateman had grown up.

From what he could see, there had been no sister. His mother wasn’t his aunt. He rubbed his hand over his jaw, sighing. This looked like a dead end.

The phone rang. Shit. He’d been so wrapped up in what he’d been doing he’d forgotten to call Katie.

‘You’re neglecting me already.’ He registered the laugh in her voice.

‘I’m sorry, Katie. I got pretty tied up with this online family history thing.’

‘You find anything?’

‘Nope. Mum was indeed an only child as far as I can tell. No trace of any sister, in either the birth or death records.’

‘Well, that’s one avenue of enquiry knocked on the head. Don’t forget. You still have the DNA option to follow. You looked into that anymore?’

‘No. This has taken up most of my time. But I'm definitely going to do it. Especially now the family history thing has turned out to be a blind alley. I’m going to Mum’s tomorrow. I’ll get some of her hairs from her brush whilst I’m there.’

‘Remember to find some with the root still on.’

‘Will do. Anyway, enough of me and my weird family issues.’ He lowered his voice, injecting a truckload of molten sex into it. ‘You wearing that black silk thong I like so much?’

The phone call didn’t end for another hour. Sated and grinning, he sat down afterwards at his computer, typing ‘private DNA tests UK’ into Google. He browsed through a few sites, bookmarking one that thankfully explained the science bits in plain language. The test could be done with hair samples and through the post, as Katie had told him.

He read a bit further into the website he'd bookmarked.

Shit. Apparently, consent forms came with the kit they sent out; the testing company required his mother’s agreement to do the procedure. He wouldn’t be asking for her permission any time that century, he thought.

Daniel considered his options. All two of them.

First one. He could stop this, right now, and put the whole thing behind him.

Not going to happen, he told himself.

Second one. He could falsify her consent.

By the time he clicked off the website, he'd ordered the test kit. No going back now.

The next day was Sunday, and he’d promised his mother he’d go over as usual for lunch. He felt like a total asshole when he thought about what he was going to do. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t invade her privacy; so what did he think sneaking into her bedroom to steal a hair sample was, if not exactly that? He was betraying her trust; whether he related to her as his mother or not, he knew he meant the world to her. She'd be devastated if she ever realised he held more warmth in his heart towards the unknown woman from his memories than he did towards her.

I’m an asshole, all right, he thought, but I’m going to do this anyway. I have to.

It didn’t prove hard to get what he’d gone for. He’d brought with him an envelope for the purpose. He excused himself shortly before the time came to go, saying he needed to use the toilet.

He went into the bedroom that his mother shared with his stepfather. No sign of a hairbrush on the dressing table. Then he spotted a handbag on the floor by the wardrobe. He pulled it open and reached in a hand.

Bingo. A large wooden hairbrush, complete with tangles of hair clogged in the bristles. There was plenty, surely enough for the test. Looking closer, he saw tiny pale bulbs attached to the ends of some of the hair. He started pulling hair from the brush, stuffing it in the envelope.

The test kit arrived two days later. He picked up the envelope of hair and started looking through the blonde strands. By the time he finished, he’d found six hairs with the roots on. The bare minimum required, but it would have to do. He took another envelope and started to pull hairs from his head, one by one, until he ended up with six with the roots attached.

He’d seen his mother’s signature often enough to be able to do a reasonable copy. Besides, the testing company would never know otherwise anyway. The kit would go in tomorrow’s post. They’d get it Thursday, postal service allowing. He reckoned he’d get the results by Friday of the following week, maybe even earlier. He refused to think about what he’d do if the test showed she wasn’t his mother. One step at a time, he told himself.

He still felt shitty about what he'd done. He’d phone Katie. She’d reassure him, they’d make plans and by the time they ended the call he’d be able to deal a lot better with all this. Hell, they’d probably have themselves some hot dirty phone sex again.

He grinned, and pulled out his mobile.

After he sent the test kit off, he did his best to put the whole thing out of his mind. Katie played the same game. She merely nodded when he told her he’d sent off the kit, asked him to call her as soon as he got the results, and changed the subject.

To pass the time, he turned back to his art, which he’d neglected since meeting Katie. Paint, brushes and canvas helped keep his thoughts at bay. He’d dabbled in all forms of painting since he was a child, finally settling on acrylics as his chosen medium, revelling in the thick, sensuous quality of the paints. His latest creation was the most deeply personal thing he’d ever attempted. The outlines were deliberately blurred and the colours muted, the shapes of the woman, girl and child fluid, as if they were melting. The whole mood of the painting was surreal, dream-like, in an attempt to portray the hazy quality of his distant memories. He found a soothing catharsis in getting them out of his head and onto the canvas, purging the figures in his mind into the paint; art helped him forget, at least for a while, his anxiety about the DNA analysis.

The waiting game ended Thursday of the following week. The test results were on the hall floor when he got home from work.

He ripped open the envelope at once. He held the test results in his hand, a couple of sheets of A4, along with a covering letter. Words jumped out at him. Genetic loci. DNA amplification. Testing process. They signified zilch to him.

Then words that did make sense floated in front of his eyes.

But in another way, they meant nothing whatsoever.

‘Alleged mother…can be excluded...biological mother…no shared genetic markers…’

He read the words again. And again. A third time and they started to sink in at last.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. His memories weren’t false.

Neither were his gut feelings.

Laura Bateman was not his mother.

So who the fuck was she?

He’d done one hell of a job over the past week of convincing himself the results would show Laura Bateman to be his mother. It was the easy option. The one that meant nothing in his life would have to change. He’d have got closure on the doubts that had plagued him for so long.

Now, with the test results in his hand, he had a crock of shit right in front of him, stinking as crap always did. Shit he'd brought upon himself, and no way would it ever smell any sweeter.

Eventually he reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile. Katie answered on the first ring.

‘Hey, lover boy.’ She sounded upbeat. ‘How are things?’

‘I got the DNA results.’ He knew his voice betrayed him.

‘Dan?’ He heard her draw in a breath. ‘Dan…are you all right? What did the test company say?’

‘She’s not my mother, Katie.’ The words came out in a rush. ‘Got the results right here, in black and white. Seems we have no genes in common, none at all. Laura Bateman isn’t related to me in any way. I have no idea who the hell she is or whether any of what she’s ever told me is true. It’s one hell of a big can and it’s full of worms all right.’

‘I’ll be there in five, Dan. Let me grab a few things and I’ll come straight over.’

‘No.’ He sighed, unsure how best to say this. ‘I need some time, Katie. I can’t deal with this right now. I’m finding it all too weird.’

‘Don’t shut me out, Dan.’

‘Not shutting you out, honest. Just got a shed load of things to sort through in my head, that’s all. You’re not working tomorrow, right? Come over in the evening. I’ll be fine by then, I promise.’

‘Can’t do tomorrow.’ He heard her sigh. ‘Or Saturday. My shifts got changed and I got dumped with a load of double ones. Sunday is the earliest I can manage. This is weird, really weird. But we’ll sort it, Dan.’

He didn’t trust himself to reply.

‘Dan? I’ll see you Sunday. You take care until then, right?’

‘Yeah, I will. Katie…’

‘Yes, sweetie?’

‘Thanks. For everything.’ He almost told her he thought he’d fallen in love with her. The words hovered on his tongue, teasing him, before he reined them in. He’d tell her once all this crap was over.

Daniel sat for a long time after the phone call, thinking.

Who was Laura Bateman? Why had she posed as his mother?

He knew he’d have to demand answers from her. Tonight wasn't the night, though. It was getting late, nearly ten o’clock. His emotions were bruised and bloody from being put through the wringer; he was too wound up, too out of control right now.

It would have to be tomorrow. He knew Ian Bateman always went out with his business associates on Friday evenings. He reckoned his best bet would be to go over to the house about seven-thirty. He’d wait until his stepfather had left, if his car was still in the drive. Then he'd confront the bitch and he’d make damn sure he got the answers he needed.

13

ALL A MIRAGE

I'm sprawled on my bed, staring at the ceiling. So far, the shrinks have left me alone today. No doctors trying to probe inside my head, thank God. My thoughts are dark this morning, as if my mind has turned into a bolthole for my worst fears and insecurities, long suppressed. I'm thinking about Daniel; how much I love him. What he'd say, if I forced him to give an honest answer, about whether he cares anything for me. I wonder what my boy does feel where I'm concerned, but however much I yearn to believe otherwise, I don't think it's love.

Sometimes the thought forces its way into my mind, and I thrust it away the second it does, that Daniel has never really accepted me as his mother. I think back to when he was still a small boy, when I had to cajole him to call me Mummy. I persuaded myself all I needed was time. Well, it’s been twenty-two years; long enough, you’d think, but apparently not.