Authors: A. L. Bird
The Good Mother (12 page)
Perhaps my heart is not quite broken though. Just very badly fractured. And with a little assistance from the other end of the corridor – voluntary or not – perhaps that heart would heal. And so he, that other man, that man outside this spectacular heist I am attempting, must not be allowed to spoil my chances of recovery. I must show him that. At 11 a.m.
Because if I can’t make that work, I’m going to have to create a new plan. In a hurry. And I don’t like to think about what I might have to do.
‘Susan! Susan! Breakfast!’
I fling my eyes open.
There’s a tray. Sunlight. Day.
Before that, night.
I’ve been sleeping. Which means I haven’t been counting. Which means 10.30 a.m., 11 a.m., could have come and gone. Our plans destroyed by my neglect.
‘What time is it?’ I cry, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. As my feet hit the floor, full awakeness hits me and I want to claw my question back. Who arouses suspicion on escape day?
The Captor stands back and looks at me.
‘Why, you due somewhere?’ he asks.
I shake my head. Damn, damn, damn. Think!
‘No. I just want to keep a body clock. For when I get out of here. Because I will get out, you know.’
‘Sure.’ Is that a smirk? Is he laughing at me, the bastard, for the thought of being out of here? Well, let him laugh. He doesn’t know what we have planned.
‘So?’ I ask. ‘The time?’
He looks at that watch again, the pretty yet masculine one. I wish I could smash its face against his, both of them destroyed.
‘Quarter to eleven.’
Damn. How could you, Susan? Indulging yourself – sleeping – when Cara needs you! Bad mother. Bad, bad mother. I want to hit myself, but manage not to. It might seem odd. I pinch away the guilt instead. But look – stop regretting too early. We could still push on with the plan. I’ll need to take a risk. It’s only fifteen minutes out.
‘How’s the shower this morning?’ I ask.
‘You’re not usually keen for a wash,’ he says, with an eyebrow raised in surprise.
‘I didn’t say I wanted a shower. I just asked how it was. If the water’s warm. Been tested yet today?’
‘Not by me,’ he says.
Damn it. Does he know? Is he playing with me, with such an equivocal answer? I want to shout Has my daughter used the shower today?
But I can’t, of course.
I flick my eyes as fast as I can to and from the grate. Nothing there. Still no reply to my letter. Is she down with the plan or not? Can we even carry on?
I’m going to assume yes. We have to go for it.
‘Why?’ he asks me.
Ah yes, of course. Why.
And I don’t have an answer. So I shrug, and take a sip of the orange juice on my tray. It’s like being at one of those baking ‘master class’ functions again, drinking cheap juice out of plastic cups. Or more likely, Chardonnay. He looks at his watch. Is that the slightest tap of a foot? Yes, it is. So, he’s still in a hurry. Agitated. Our plan can still work.
‘Don’t let me keep you,’ I say. ‘I’m sure I can manage breakfast without killing myself.’
I’ve got to plant that, you see. That seed of doubt. Make him wonder if, when I scream, that’s what’s happening. That I’m trying to kill myself. That there is something worth coming running for.
He frowns.
I look at him full square. I do open and honest but slightly troubled eyes.
He keeps frowning. Like he’s not going to leave. Like one of his two prized possessions has suddenly developed a fatal flaw, and he wants to safeguard them.
‘Figure of speech,’ I tell him.
He nods, still frowning. I’ve reassured him enough for him to leave the room. But it should be enough to make him reappear once I start my screams. How easy it is to manipulate him – how well you come to know a stranger in these surroundings.
Door closed, I put down my orange juice and run to the grate. I rattle it as per my letter. Has she heard? I don’t know. I’ll have to risk a gentle tap on the wall. Still nothing. But then – yes, what’s that! Do I hear a knocking from next door? Yes, yes, I think I do! Not on the wall, but on the door. Then I hear music – Cara’s voice, I mean, my version of music – as Cara demands a shower.
This is it then. Will he come? He must. He must. There’s the banging again. And that’s her door being unlocked, is it? I can hear his voice. So unless he’s talking to himself, he must be talking to Cara. I hear footsteps outside the door, heading in the direction of the shower.
Right. Give enough time for her to get into the shower room. For her to take off her clothes. To begin a long, leisurely rinse. For him to get increasingly agitated as he looks at his watch again and again. And then …
‘AHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!’
Everything goes into the scream. All the pain, the worry, the fear of being here.
Again.
‘AHHHHHHHH!’
Black dots in front of my eyes. My hands on the sides of my head. The room swinging away from me.
The Captor standing in front of me.
‘What? What’s wrong?’
‘AHHHHHHHHH!’
Spiralling now, the room is. And I’m physically sinking, I can feel myself, to the floor. The scream becomes a groan. I can’t stay up. I have to lie down. My legs buckle. I crawl to the bed.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks again, standing over me. Or at least I think he must be standing over me. He might have moved into the doorway. He sounds very far away. Someone’s hands are on me, shaking me, though.
I manage to look up.
Then I pull back. Yes, there he is. Leaning down, right next to me. They must have been his hands. In fact, yes, they are still on me. I look at them. He moves them away. For a second, I feel like putting them back again.
‘Why were you screaming? Susan, what is it?’
Because I’m here, of course. Because I’m not where I’m meant to be. Because of what you’ve done to me. Because I want to be with my little girl. Because I can’t bear, I cannot bear, the thought of not seeing her. Because I want to see her again now, now, now and forever and—
Oh. Yes. That’s right. I’m screaming so that Cara can run.
Pragmatic.
The room rights itself again.
Even now, she must be running out of the house! Even now, running down the corridor, away, away, to freedom! Or is she still standing on the threshold of the shower room, hesitant, unsure whether she should run? Has he even left the door unlocked? Or is she trapped in there now, away from me?
I need to think positive. And I need to buy her some more time.
‘Oh, it was just so awful, I was …’ I trail off. Story half-untold, but more for the telling.
‘What, Susan?’
‘No, no. I can’t say.’
‘Yes, you can. You can trust me, Susan.’
I look at him. I try to imagine a world in which I can trust this man who I hate, this man who brought me here. Or a world in which someone who has kidnapped you and your daughter can hold himself out as a figure of trust. It is only a warped world, a madman’s world. Which is what I am dealing with.
I shake my head. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Try me.’
I shake my head. And I keep on shaking my head. Then I pull my knees up to my chest and continue, just sitting there on the floor, shaking.
He tries to put his arm round me again, but I flinch, so he lowers his arm.
I don’t know how long he stands there, just looking at me. Perhaps he is wondering if this would be a good moment to rape me. Perhaps it would. I could lie back and think of freedom. I look at him, then I have to look away again, quickly. Just in case he can tell what I’m thinking.
I stop the head-shaking. Cara must be out by now, surely?
So as soon as he is out of the door he’ll be back, won’t he? He’ll know then what I was up to.
Unless Cara hasn’t escaped. And he has to punish her. Then I might hear nothing. Or her horrible screams.
How will I know?
I need to know.
Every moment he is in here with me is a moment of not knowing whether Cara is free; whether I will soon be free too to be with her. I need him out now. I need to know how he’s going to react.
Why aren’t they telling me? I’ve done my bit. Why won’t they tell me – is she OK?
I smooth myself down and stand up.
My legs shake a little bit. The Captor puts out his hand for support. I see him see his watch as he does so. His brow crinkles a little. I see the time: 10.55. So. Almost late for his meeting.
‘I’m fine,’ I say.
‘Are you sure?’
I nod. ‘Just sometimes gets on top of me. All … this.’
He closes his eyes. ‘One day you’ll understand, Susan.’
He puts his hands on my shoulders. I wriggle to move them out of the way, but his grip is too strong. He kisses the top of my head.
I’m almost comforted by that kiss. It feels soft and pleasant. So I jerk away. This man is not my friend.
‘I’ll be back soon,’ he says.
But will you, my captor? Will you? Because will my daughter have escaped? Go outside, go outside now, and let events unfold.
Silence.
There is still silence.
It is filling my head, my soul, this room. I can’t imagine there being any noise anywhere in the world, unless I make it.
Nothing from the corridor.
Nothing from next door.
Why?
Am I suddenly alone in the world?
Has there been a sudden nuclear apocalypse, which somehow only this room has withstood?
Has Cara escaped only to find our world no longer out there?
I stand on the chair and look through the window over the now stale cupcake. I see trees blowing in the breeze. There’s still a world out there then. But there, it makes a sound. Wind in the branches. A whistling or a rustling maybe. But in here, silence.
Think of all those Cara noises there used to be at home. Crying, early on – she refused to be comforted by that small sheep toy. Perhaps she knew it hadn’t been meant for her. And then when she was older, those flute scales wafting through the walls. I hum a little scale now. It falls flat.
I climb down from the window again.
Should I rattle the grate?
Should I whisper, or even speak a hello?
Has she done it? Has she got away?
Where’s the baby, Susan? Why haven’t you brought home the baby?
Perhaps in his hurry to get to his meeting, the Captor forgot about Cara being in the shower. Perhaps he just left my room, left the house and still hasn’t come back. So perhaps the drama will come on his return. Perhaps there’ll be swearing and stamping and storming. Perhaps he’ll drag me out of the room by my hair. Perhaps he’ll hit me. Perhaps he’ll finally rape me.
Which would be wonderful. Because it would mean that my Cara was free.
So I’ll give it a bit longer.
How long do you give them? How long do you wait to see if they’ll breathe?
Still just these four walls.
These, four, silent, walls.
White, or are they cream? Or even yellow?
Magnolia. They’ll be magnolia.
Perhaps if I put my back against them, they’ll expand.
No.
I’ve remade the bed. It didn’t take much, just unrumpling the duvet. I reread and refolded all the letters from Cara in my pillowcase. Paper makes a nice noise when you fold it. A noise, anyway.
Why doesn’t time tick? Why should we be reliant on clocks?
I smell the potpourri. It smells the same as it has every other day.
What’s happened, Cara? Where are you?
I don’t know if this was a good plan. I don’t know if it will work, being without you.
Time, just passing.
Nothing.
Here I am.
Still here. Sitting on the bed, hands folded. And unfolded. Folded again.
Hello? I ask the room.
Silence.
I should—
Bang!
I jump up.
There we have it! A noise! A noise, outside this room! A door, slamming, it must be.
Now, now we have it. Now, I’ll know.
The other side of the door
He’s not in his car when I go outside.
He’s on the doorstep.
I know him from one glance. It’s hard to miss that bulk, and the authority that comes with heft. Leather jacket, too, a rough texture worn by age. The perfect poster boy for the world of murk in which he works.
Once I’m over the initial shock, I quickly step outside and shut the front door behind me. He mustn’t see the pictures. No one must see them. They reveal too much; they almost scream, Lock me up and throw away the key.
‘We said we’d meet in the car,’ I rebuke him.
He shrugs. A leisurely shrug, that says, Yeah, what you gonna do about it? so that his lips don’t have to form the words.
‘We’ll go there now, shall we?’ I ask.
In reply, he leaves the porch and walks along to the living room window. He ducks his head as if to look in. Casually, but with threat.
The blinds are down, of course. They’re always down. Before I know it, we’ll all be living in condensation-induced mould. And then the pictures will go mouldy too. I really ought to take them down. Like I took down the ones in the hall. Erase all traces of what’s gone before.
‘Shall we go to the car?’
I don’t want him walking round the house. There’s that window, outside Suze’s room. Too high for him to see in, but if she sees him … Well, that could make things happen, couldn’t it? If she sees him walking round the outside of the house, inside the fence or out, she’s going to have a reaction. And she’s probably going to wave, and dance, and anything she thinks will get his attention. And because he suspects – I know, you see, that it’s not just about Cara for him; I know it’s about Suze too – he will look up. And he will see. And then we’ll be in game-over mode. I don’t know whose game. But someone’s.
So I do a bold thing. I walk round to his right-hand side, putting myself between him and the house. And I gently take his elbow so that I can steer him away, towards his car.
He looks at my hand.
If he sees the blood, he doesn’t comment.
‘I don’t have a lot of time,’ I say.