Taken (20 page)

‘I don’t keep in touch after they’ve gone and I’ve long given up fostering. Ill health and too many rules; I used to say they’ll make you have an assessment just for going to the toilet. I got into fostering because I was good with kiddies but when they started making you take tests for this and for that and turning up to check on you, then giving you a bollocking if you were having a fag, I called it a day.’

Casey nodded feigning sympathy and attempted to turn the subject back to the matter at hand.

‘My son was born January 1996, and he came to you in the same month. Apparently he was here with you for nearly a year.’

‘I don’t want to know how you found out where I lived – like I used to say to my late husband, spare me the gory details. But I’m afraid you’ve had a waste of a journey; I didn’t foster your son in 1996, or ’97 come to think of it.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘I might look like I haven’t got my wits about me, but I remember all my foster children like they were my own.’

‘Maybe you’ve made a mistake though.’

The woman looked at Casey over her rimmed glasses and frowned.

‘I’m so sorry lovie, I know it must be hard, but there’s no mistake.’

The woman shuffled over to the far wall, where she took a photo down and showed it to Casey.

‘January 1996 you say? Well January 1996 to the end of 1997, I had this little one, gorgeous little thing.’

Casey took hold of the black and white photograph to see a little baby smiling up. She watched the warmth come into Mrs Simms’s face as she spoke.

‘Took my heart this baby did – she was like a china doll. Her name was Emmie.’

It hurt when he laughed, but he couldn’t help himself. He leant back on the reclining leather chair as Emmie stood in front of him in floods of tears, begging him to give her the packages back. She was a fucking joke.

‘Please Jakey, I need them. Dad’s going to be in so much trouble if I don’t get them back.’

This last statement made Jake laugh even more. Was she so fucking stupid to think he’d give a shit about the man who’d nearly killed him? In fact, it was music to his ears.

He watched as she collapsed, wailing onto the faded brown couch in the middle of his friend’s council house. He felt nothing but scorn for her. He picked the dirt out of his nails as Emmie continued to cry.

‘Stop that snivelling, Em, it’s doing my nut in.’

‘But you don’t understand; I heard Oscar tell Dad he only had till Friday.’

‘But that’s exactly it, I do understand. I understand perfectly. And when they come looking for Alfie, it’ll take the police a week to find all the pieces of his body.’

Jake leaned forward towards Emmie and spoke very softly.

‘And when you bury him, Em, remember you have no one to blame but yourself.’

Emmie let out a hysterical cry.

‘You said you loved me! You told me you did, that’s the only reason I gave them to you.’

‘You’re having a laugh aren’t you, mate? A piece of piss schoolgirl like you; who in their right mind could love a fucking skeleton like you? Now do me a favour, get out of my flat.’

Emmie looked at him and wiped away the dripping snot from her nose. She raised herself up to her full height and spoke defiantly.

‘Don’t think I won’t get you back, Jake Bellingham. Nobody messes with the Jennings and gets away with it.’

Jake roared with laughter and threw the television controls at her head, only narrowly missing her. Who did she think she was, fucking Al Capone? She was a comic story, just like her dad.

‘You’re frightening me. I’m shaking, Em, look.’

Laughing again, Jake held out his hands and shook them wildly. Emmie turned and ran from the flat. She’d been so stupid, and now her dad was in danger because of her. She needed to sort it out, but there was no way she could tell her dad; she had to do it alone. She was the one who’d messed everything up and now she was the one who had to put it right. Jake Bellingham was going to pay and Emmie knew exactly how.

Oscar sat in his parked car on Caledonian Road, waiting for his headache to pass. He watched a woman with a Sainsbury’s
shopping bag cross the road and her bulbous frame put him in mind of his drunken mother. He hated to think about her, but sometimes the memories came flooding back, whether he liked it or not.

Oscar’s mother was called Violet. She was from Cork in Ireland and even though everyone agreed her she had a pretty name, they also agreed god should never have blessed her with the ability to have children.

Oscar couldn’t remember the bruises and the cigarette burns the first time they happened, but he suspected they started after his father had left. Oscar had been devastated when he’d watched him walk out the door with only his coat and battered trilby hat. He’d said goodbye to his son, telling him he’d had enough, and the young Oscar had been left standing on the doorstep watching his father go and willing him to turn round and come back.

His first vivid memory of Violet was when he was about three years old and he’d come downstairs to discover her semi-naked on the living room carpet in a drunken stupor, one of her numerous boyfriends lying in a similar state next to her.

‘Mum? Mum, wake up.’

‘What the hell do you want?’

‘I’m hungry.’

‘You grubby little bleeder, get out me sight before I give you a hiding you won’t forget.’

It’d been another day before his mother had decided to give him anything to eat and when she had, it’d been a bowl of cereal without milk.

Thinking back, Oscar remembered his childhood to be nothing more than a succession of beatings and abuse, but his mother had been a sly bitch, always careful not to mark his face so she could continue to send him to school without them informing the welfare. Not that they ever did a lot of good – the one time they’d come round they’d asked him in front of his mother if she’d been knocking him around and all he could do was stand motionless, unable to even shake his head. When they’d gone she’d given him the beating of his life and he still had the scar above his eye to prove it.

Oscar hated his mother more for the fact she let her drunken boyfriends batter him whilst she just sat and watched, and when they’d got bored of him being their punch bag, his mother would either lock him in his room or make him wander the streets. He’d left home as soon as he could and left her to drink herself to death, but it hadn’t worked. She was still alive and kicking as much as ever.

The man beeping his horn broke into Oscar’s memories, which he was grateful for. Rubbing his temples, Oscar thought about Alfie. He hadn’t heard from him since he’d seen him, but he imagined he was running round like a blue-arsed fly, trying to get the money together.

He hoped he was able to; he quite liked him as a business acquaintance. Even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t let him get away with ripping him off; whether it was intentional or not. If he let Alfie off, then everyone would start to take the piss and he’d not only lose face but he’d lose his reputation as well, and reputation was everything in this business; it made people want to work with you. If you didn’t have reputation, you didn’t have anything.

Casey sat in her flat and opened the bottle. She stared ahead in the dim light of the evening as she put the glass rim to her lips, tasting the burn of the whisky. It’d all come to a dead end. For so long she’d thought of Mrs Simms as the one connection to her son, and now it was over just as quickly as it had begun. In less than fifteen minutes all hope had disappeared; and if there was no hope, then there was no point in trying. Closing her eyes to stop the tears, Casey took another large swig of whisky hoping it’d take away the pain.

‘Hello?’

Casey spoke down the phone in a hoarse whisper. Her head was throbbing and her mouth tasted stale as a jarring hangover kicked in. On the other end she heard Josh sounding very cheerful.

‘Hi, it’s me.’

‘What can I do for you, Josh?

Casey knew that Josh would know she’d been drinking from her voice, he’d seen it all before; but she didn’t have the energy to pretend otherwise.

‘I’ve got to come down to London later; stuff to do with work here in Birmingham. I was hoping we might be able to meet.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Josh. Perhaps some other day. It’s not a great time for me.’

‘No, you don’t understand, I need to see you.’

‘Josh, please. We’ve been through this.’

‘Casey, listen, you know I’ll always love and care for you but …’

There was a long pause and Casey knew in her heart what was coming; she could’ve filled in the missing words and made it easier for him.

‘Cass, I’ve met someone else. The reason I need to see you is because I want a divorce and I need you to sign some papers.’

She paused for a moment, taken aback, but at the same time not surprised. She answered Josh, hoping to sound calm and reasonable, but as she spoke even to her it sounded brash and cold.

‘Fine.’

‘Is that all you can say?’

Now Casey was on the defensive: she knew she had no right to feel hurt and she was angry at herself for being so, and the more angry she felt the more unreasonable she sounded.

‘What do you want from me, Josh? I said I’ll sign them; just don’t make a big deal out of it.’

‘Are you okay?’

She snapped, annoyed at the concern in his voice.

‘If you mean have I been drinking, the answer’s yes.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

She was annoyed at the way she was behaving; he didn’t deserve it. Softening her voice she spoke again.

‘I went to the address.’

‘And?’

‘Right woman, wrong baby.’

The pause of the phone seemed eternally long before Josh spoke.

‘I was afraid of this. I’m sorry, Casey.’

‘Me too.’

Casey had tried on everything twice and decided nothing was right. She’d no idea what she was supposed to wear to go and see somebody she’d left without warning and hadn’t seen for over eighteen months. Sighing, she sat down defeated in the middle of the pile of clothes. What she needed was a drink instead of worrying about her clothing. She pushed the guilt of breaking her sobriety away, took the bottle of whisky out of her bag, and drank a large mouthful.

She sucked back hard when the heat of the alcohol hit the back of her throat. She was back in her dark tunnel and was starting to feel sorry for herself again; she hated that she was turning herself into a victim: something she swore she’d never become.

It was almost time, and Casey wanted to get to the station before him. It was important for her to seem composed, even though her stomach was doing somersaults. She was annoyed she was so nervous, and gulped down another large mouthful of whisky to steady herself.

As it turned out, Casey was late. When she’d finished getting ready, she was so much on edge she’d poured herself another drink and half an hour later was splashing cold water on her face to try to sober up.

She walked up Dean Street and as she turned onto Oxford Street she missed Vaughn waving to her from the other side of the busy road.

Casey stood outside St Pancras
station, the traffic on Euston Road rushing by, and took a deep breath. Looking up at the towering neo-gothic building it dawned on her she was scared.

Casey saw him before he saw her. He hadn’t changed; he still had the goatee which he’d grown to try and make his youthful face look older, the slicked-back brown hair curled to the side as it had always done, and his eyes – his blue eyes – were as piercing as ever.

She willed him to look up, but he carried on drinking the steaming coffee and reading
The Guardian
as he sat outside Costa
Coffee.

‘Josh.’

‘Oh my god Casey; it’s so good to see you.’

Josh Edwards jumped up from his seat, sending the metal chair he’d been sitting on clattering to the floor. He held Casey in a tight hug, then pushed her back, holding her in a firm grip at arms’ length.

‘Let me look at you. You’ve lost weight, Cass.’ He looked at her worriedly, trying not to pay attention to the strong smell of alcohol which couldn’t be disguised by the overzealous spraying of perfume.

‘Sit down. Can I get you a coffee?’

Casey wasn’t sure if Josh was asking out of good manners or because he could smell the cheap alcohol on her breath.

‘I’m fine, thank you.’

She looked at Josh and saw he was lost for words now the greeting was over, so she thought she’d help him out.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘For what?’

‘For walking out on you and not coming back. The problem was, time goes by, and then it’s harder to go back.’

Josh raised his voice and Casey placed her hand on his to soothe him. ‘Go back? Jesus, it wasn’t Monopoly you were playing, Cass. You were my wife, and one morning I woke up and you’d gone.’

‘I’d gone a long time before that day, Josh, you just didn’t know it.’

‘You could have talked to me.’

‘It wouldn’t have made a difference; I couldn’t stay – not after what I did to you – and I had to come to look for him. It was time.’

‘So you thought you’d run? What about me, Cass? Didn’t you think about me for one minute? Didn’t we mean anything?’

‘Of course we meant something. I thought about you every day, but it wasn’t going to be enough. I lost a part of myself back in that hospital when they took my son and I’ve been searching for that part ever since. I needed to do this.’

Casey stopped and looked at Josh, seeing the hurt in his eyes; there was no point in talking about the past. Trying to lighten the moment, Casey leant back on her chair, feigning a smile.

‘Anyway, you’ve done alright. Met a new woman. What do they say? As one door closes, another one opens.’

Casey held the smile but felt her throat tighten as she struggled not to cry. Josh glared at her angrily.

‘This is a joke to you isn’t it?’

Ignoring Josh’s outburst, Casey spoke in a calm manner, sad for the pain she’d caused a man who loved her, but she could never love him back in the way he wanted her to.

‘Now where are those papers you want me to sign?’