His Kidnapper's Shoes (2 page)

A few weeks ago, he’d been the closest to happiness he’d ever been in his life.

A lot had occurred since then; he had no idea how to cope with any of it.

Not surprising, really. Not many people would deal well with finding out their so-called mother had kidnapped them. Taken them when they were too young to remember. Stolen them from the parents who had given them their DNA and pretty boy looks.

Small wonder he was pissed off, he thought. Who the hell wouldn’t be? His name wasn’t his name. He wasn’t Daniel Bateman, but Daniel Cordwell, kidnapped twenty-two years ago by Laura Bateman, then Laura Covey, not long after his fourth birthday. Right now, he hadn’t a single clue as to why. His mother – no, his kidnapper – wasn’t talking. Not at all, not to anybody. God only knew whether she ever would. The police had told him she was undergoing psychiatric evaluation to establish how stable – or not – she was mentally.

Daniel snorted at the thought. She’d always been a bit flaky.

Ever since he’d found out the ugly truth about his life, he’d downed bottle after bottle of beer, trying to figure out what the hell to do next. Much more alcohol, he thought, and he’d end up like his stepfather, with the paunch, spider veins and the overall look of a man for whom self-care wasn’t a priority. The thought had been enough, together with the fury seething inside, to make him hurl his beer at the wall.

Ian Bateman. The prick didn’t merit a second thought. Unless it was to think of him dying a miserable death.

He’d started hitting the beer when the realisation punched him in the gut how different his sorry messed-up life might have been if that bitch Laura Bateman hadn’t kidnapped him. A knot of anger was swelling inside him, twisting deep within, and the booze was an attempt to drown it, submerge it in a flood of alcohol, in the hope it might start to unravel.

So far, it hadn’t worked. He’d never been much of a drinker and before all this happened, he’d not seen much point in getting rat-arsed like some people did. Sure, he’d been pissed a few times when he first discovered booze, all mouth and spunk with his teenage mates, but since then, he’d kept his consumption low. Getting plastered didn’t fit with sport and going to the gym and keeping his face as pretty as most people found it. And Daniel Bateman was a looker all right. He teamed a potent blend of sable-soft dark hair with peridot-green eyes, giving women the urge to stroke those styled-to-be-messy strands before succumbing to the seduction of his olive-hued eyes. An irresistible mix of chocolate and mint topped with cream from his skin and served up in the oval dish of his face. Not total perfection, thankfully; a tiny scar carved into his left eyebrow from an old sporting injury saved his face from the tedium of being flawless. As did his nose - a little sharp, perhaps, a purist might say, but did women care? Hell, no, not when the full lips below tempted them in for a kiss. ‘A mouth I’d happily drown in,’ Katie had told him.

Katie. As a result of the ugly truth that had blown his world apart, he'd lost the one person who really mattered in his screwed-up life and with her the chance of something different. Something better.

Shit. Her loss was too raw, too painful. He couldn't think about her right now.

Anyway, his so-called mother occupied the epicentre of his thoughts. Laura Bateman. The woman who’d put his world through the liquidiser the day he’d confronted her, the evidence of her deceit set out in cold typeface in his hand. Despite all his rage and accusations, she’d stood in front of him and denied everything. Bitch.

He hadn’t realised those pages of A4 were a sealed can, and by confronting her, he’d opened it and let out the proverbial worms.

He could have ignored the test results; perhaps it would have been better if he had, walking away and never seeing Laura Bateman or his prick of a stepfather again. He’d had the chance to move to Australia with Katie, an opportunity now closed to him, and he’d never have uncovered his real identity. Far less painful all round.

He’d tried to punch the rage out of his system. He’d gone to the gym one evening, grabbed a punch-bag and given the leather one hell of a pounding. He’d hammered away until he was barely capable of standing up and his arms could hardly move. Sweat had blinded his eyes and drenched his T-shirt and he’d not stopped until Len, the trainer on duty, pulled him off.

‘Enough, Dan.’ Len topped six feet five, with a physique like a rhinoceros, but Daniel still tried to pull away back to the punch bag. The other man wasn’t having any of it.

‘I said enough.’ Len dragged Daniel away, holding him up by the arm. ‘Look, mate, I don’t know what’s eating you or what’s got you so pissed off. But you’re not going to find the answers in that bag.’

Through the sweat, he saw the concern on Len’s face. ‘Pissed off. Yeah, you could say I’m pissed off. I’m about as pissed off as I’ve ever been.’ He swayed a little, exhaustion threatening to get the better of him.

‘This have anything to do with that new girlfriend of yours, Dan? What’s her name…Katie? Thought everything looked pretty peachy where she’s concerned?’

Shit. He couldn't deal with this. Len was a decent enough guy but Daniel didn’t do talking about messy emotional stuff with anyone and he didn’t intend to start with Len. Sure, he’d begun to open up with Katie, especially in bed, but he sure as hell would never be between the sheets with her again. Anyway, Katie hadn’t been what had driven him to the punch bag. She was collateral damage.

He realised Len was waiting for an answer. ‘Look, I’m OK, mate. Really.’ He pulled away and headed back to the flat. Len was right. He wouldn’t get the answers he wanted from a punch bag. Not from beer, either. Maybe he’d go back to screwing things out of his system.

Sex had always been his drug of choice. And, yeah, he liked to shag. A lot. With his looks, he rarely went home alone, always picking bed partners who just wanted a good time sweating up the sheets before saying goodbye. He never saw anyone more than three or four times, figuring after that he was in way too deep and he needed to get the hell out.

Because Daniel Bateman didn’t do commitment. Oh no. He found them, fucked them and forgot them, the sex being easy, convenient and shallow. Just the way he liked it. On the nights when he felt good, he went out and found someone to screw. Any time things weren’t so good – say if he’d been brooding about his stepfather – he reacted in similar fashion by going out on the pull. Blondes were his favourite, with the stereotypical big tits and tight ass. He’d worked his way through his share of brunettes and redheads too, and had been in the sack a few times with older women.

He’d shagged guys, too. He liked to think he was as straight acting as they came, but apparently, that posed a challenge to some of the gay boys around town. He didn’t go for twinkly little queens, but if a good-looking guy who acted as straight as he did crossed his radar, then he’d play along. Discreetly, though. He usually subjected Tim to every detail of his exploits with women, but Daniel didn’t think he’d be too receptive to the idea of a flatmate who swung both ways. Might make him go all homo-scaredy-cat on him and Daniel didn’t want that. Tim was OK and he could do without the hassle of finding somewhere else to live.

He liked the contrast with screwing women he got with men. There were times he needed to be in bed with someone who sported hard angles and body hair rather than curves and smoothness. He made it clear each time who would be on top. No way would he ever bottom with another man; if the guy was OK with that, then game on.

Yep, shallow sex came out the winner as his drug of choice all right. More accurately, it had done.

Until Katie Trebasco came along.

He sure as hell didn’t know what to do about any of it and the punch bag and the booze hadn’t told him. He doubted whether going back to screwing around would either, but it was worth a try. Not tonight, though. He felt too soused with the drink to do much in the sack and his current dark mood would hardly bag him a warm body for the night. Too late to go out on the pull, anyway.

He looked at the clock. Shit. Nearly midnight, and work in a few hours. He staggered to his feet, heading towards the bathroom. Best to be in bed before Tim got back. He couldn’t face the meaningful looks and pointed clearing away of the empty beer bottles.

He needed his bed.

Along with turning the clock back a few weeks. Yeah. A miracle would solve everything.

3

ALCOHOL AND OPALS

I think I’m in some sort of psychiatric facility although I’m not sure; I’ve not been taking note of what’s going on around me. My confinement in this place must be because of my violence at the police station, when they forced me to provide a DNA sample. In contrast, the staff here must think of me as quite the model patient, always calm and compliant, although I never speak. I do what I’m told, when I’m told, to make life easier. I don’t want to interact with these people and going along with whatever they decide is best for me is simpler. I have my own room and I can be quiet here.

In my mind, I’m back being questioned by the police, my lawyer sitting beside me, the mental health social worker somewhere off to my left. I still don’t respond to anything that’s said to me, or even show I understand what they want; my refusal is obvious, though, from my silence. No way will I allow them to take a blood sample or swab my mouth. I won’t give them something they’ll use against me, something to show there’s no biological link between my son and me, even though I’m his mother in every way that matters.

What I don’t realise is that they don’t need blood or saliva. They can take a hair sample from me to use for DNA, and they can employ force if need be. I register this fact and something inside me, suppressed for a very long time, snaps. It’s not going to happen. I won’t let them. They decide to go ahead anyway; the rage inside me erupts and I hit out at anyone I can before they restrain me, arms thrashing, screams of fury and frustration tearing from my throat, wild inarticulate sounds. The mental health social worker gets very involved and after that, everything’s a bit of a blur.

None of that concerns me anyway. Daniel still occupies most of my thoughts. Anger like his can’t last forever. He’ll calm down, given time, and he’ll come to visit me and I can explain. He’ll understand and no matter what happens everything will be fine. I’ll wait. I won’t speak if he’s still full of rage. The only way I’ll talk is if he’s ready to listen to me.

I've plenty of time. Meanwhile, I lie on my bed and gaze at the ceiling, wishing you were here, Gran. I’d bury myself in your arms and you’d hug me tight like you always did and somehow the world would transform into a better place. You’d help me explain things to Daniel – you two would get on so well, Gran – and I’d draw comfort in being with the two people I’ve loved the most.

I’ve not lived a happy life, apart from the joy of having had you and Daniel in it. It’s hard remembering some of it, Gran, like when I lived with Mum. That small Hampshire town, home to three generations of us Coveys, seems light years away now, after more than two decades of life in London. I never did tell you everything; I always wanted to shield you from the worst of it. You were so ill, and I didn’t want to worry you. But it became part of what shaped me, made me who I am, and what led me to that flat in Bristol and to my son, my beloved Daniel.

It really did get bad for me at times, Gran. Take Mum's drinking, for starters. I think I’d turned eight when I realised not all mothers drank as she did. Up until then I thought it was normal to have a mother who I had to help to bed when she was drunk. Apparently not, as I found out when I talked to the other girls at school. I learned not to say anything further, and I became vigilant about keeping up a façade of normality. Mum was a clever drunk, anyway. She’d get up in the morning as though she’d not touched a drop the night before, scrub all traces of the booze from her breath and go to work like everyone else. Wine was her favourite tipple although she wasn’t fussy. She’d buy it by the box as well as the bottle and I’d watch her rip the bag from the packaging and squeeze out every drop.

You were always there for me when I needed you, though. I remember how I’d call you if she got bad and you’d come over. You’d help me undress her and get her into bed, your manner endlessly patient, your voice always so calm.

‘Roll her onto her side, Laura, like this, in case she vomits in her sleep. She’ll choke if she does, my love.’

I’d look at Mum’s face on the pillow, her skin the colour of uncooked dough, snoring as she slept off the alcohol, her inability to be a mother a piercing regret to me.

Afterwards, you’d sit on my bed and brush my hair.

‘Almost long enough to tickle your hips,’ you once told me, the tug of the bristles against my scalp a panacea to my drunken mother snoring in the next room. ‘Like soft golden caramel and every bit as thick.’ You reached behind my ear and conjured up a sweet wrapped in shiny gilded paper, and I laughed, even though you’d pulled that trick so often before. You peeled off the wrapping and held the caramel up against my hair.

‘See, Laura? Look how the colours match.’ My hair was paler, I thought, but there wasn’t much in it. You popped the sweet into my waiting mouth, and then patted my cheek, the oversized ring on your finger next to my eyes. ‘Would you believe it? Another perfect match. Eyes of opal blue.’ You stroked my caramel-coloured hair and for a while, I forgot I had a mother who was drunk and incapable of being a parent to me. You made it all go away, Gran, and that was the real magic you had for me, more powerful than any sweet.