Tania Carver - The Surrogate

She gave a slight nod.

‘Why?’

‘You know why.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Families have to grow. Or they die.’

‘And this was the only way to do it? Ripping unborn babies out of their mothers’ wombs?’

‘They’re not mothers, they’re just carriers,’ said Sophie, her eyes alight. ‘Babies have to bond. You don’t want something second-hand.’

Phil sat back, trying to process everything she was saying, tamp down his rage and revulsion, keep going with rational questions that would make her open up.

‘So where is he now? Where can we find him?’

She shrugged. Then a smile spread over her features. A sick, twisted smile. ‘Out hunting, probably,’ she said.

A shiver ran through Phil. ‘Out hunting?’ He leaned forward. ‘Where?’

She shrugged.

‘Where is he?’

Sophie said nothing, just closed her eyes.

Phil balled and unballed his hands, tried to hold his emotions in check. If he gave in and railed at her, he knew he would lose her completely. He leaned forward once more, measuring his words carefully.

‘Sophie, tell me. If you don’t, his picture, this photo’ – he held it right in front of her face – ‘will be on the TV, newspapers, the internet by tonight. I know, it’s not a great likeness. But someone will recognise him. And then we’ll have him. So you may as well tell me now.’

Nothing.

‘Does he know you’re here?’

A nod. ‘I phoned when I came in.’

‘You didn’t need a solicitor?’

She shook her head. ‘Had to warn…’ She paused. ‘Him. Had to warn him.’

Shit, thought Phil. That was probably the worst thing that could have happened. He had to think quickly, find a way to turn the situation round, make it work for him.

‘He’ll think you did this to him, Sophie,’ he said, hoping his words worked, ‘whether you tell me or not. If that picture goes out and we get a tip and go after him, he’ll think it’s because you gave him up.’ He sat back. ‘D’you want that?’

No response.

‘So tell me.’

Nothing.

He leaned back in to her, his voice low and confiding, like a priest about to take a confession. ‘Look, we’re going to get him. One way or the other. So you may as well tell me all about it.’

He waited. Eventually she looked up, those mad eyes catching his once more. And that same twisted smile returned. ‘I’ll tell you. Everything.’

Phil tried not to breathe a sigh of relief. ‘Good.’

‘But it’s a long story. You have to listen to it. You have to understand . I can’t tell you if you don’t understand.’

Phil breathed deeply. And again. He wanted to leap across the table, grab her by the throat, scream at her to give him up, tell him where he was and what he was doing. Slap her, punch her, whatever it took. But he didn’t. Instead he just said, ‘I’m listening, Sophie. I’ll understand.’

He looked at the grainy photo and hoped that, whatever he was doing, wherever he was, they would still be in time to stop him.

Marina opened her front door.

She walked into the cottage, her head down as she removed the key from the lock. She was tired, aching and wanted a bath. She needed to relax, along with a bit of privacy, give herself time to think about what to do next.

She stopped moving.

The cottage was wrecked. Furniture tipped over, books pulled off the walls, ornaments and crockery smashed on the floor. The polite, tasteful, carefully ordered life she had built up with her partner was gone. The breath went out of her as she surveyed the damage, her hand going automatically to her mouth. Then she saw the centrepiece of the display. And her whole body began to shake.

Tony was lying in the middle of the room, on his back, his body twisted. At first she didn’t recognise him because his face was covered in blood. She identified him by his clothes. She crossed to him, knelt down beside him. Blood was pooling around his head. There were injuries to his forehead and the side of his head. She touched them. His skull was soft, yielding, like an empty, cracked eggshell, only held together by an inner membrane.

She pulled her hand away quickly, feeling revulsion at the touch, and let out a whimper.

Behind her, the front door slammed.

She turned quickly, jumping as she did so. A figure in an old overcoat was blocking her exit. In one of the intruder’s hands was a hammer, blood still dripping from it. In the other, a hypodermic needle.

Marina knew instinctively who it was.

She tried to get to her feet but couldn’t do it fast enough; her maternal instinct to protect the baby meant no sudden movements. Then her assailant was on her. She opened her mouth to scream, but they were too quick for her. They dropped the hammer, clamped a meaty hand over her mouth. It was rough and callused, yet slick and wet with Tony’s blood. It was held firmly on her mouth. No sound would pass.

She struggled, tried to grab on to her attacker, punch, kick. No good. They were bigger, stronger than her. She was held firm, pulled right into the overcoat. She breathed through her mouth. The overcoat stank.

She was twisted round, but the intruder still held her tight. Marina saw the needle coming towards her, tried to fight even harder. She barely felt it break the skin as it entered her neck.

She didn’t feel her eyes close or her body go limp.

She was unaware that her attacker held her until she was completely unconscious, then, careful not to put too much pressure on her stomach, dragged her out of the house.

‘ You know what they used to say about those villages, the ones that are miles away from anywhere?’ said Sophie.

‘I’ve heard lots of stories about them,’ said Phil. ‘Which ones do you mean?’

She gave her twisted smile once more, the overhead light glinting off her mad eyes. ‘That you never knew whose baby is whose.’ She laughed, then her face became more serious. ‘Do you know what I mean?’

‘Ah,’ said Phil. ‘Those ones.’ Growing up in the area, he had heard all the stories about the isolated coastal and rural communities. And knew from experience that most of them were true, at least at one time.

‘If a baby died in a family, then one would go missing from another family to replace it.’

‘That kind of thing, yeah.’

She nodded. ‘And nobody would ever say anything.’

‘No,’ said Phil. ‘Because then they would have to admit where the first baby came from.’

Sophie laughed. ‘You’ve heard them as well.’

‘But those villages aren’t that isolated now, are they?’ said Phil.

Sophie stopped laughing. She looked almost regretful.

‘Main roads and all that.’ But they were still bleak, he thought. Windswept and inhospitable.

Sophie sighed.

‘So where are we talking about?’ said Phil, probing for her home town. He mentally scanned a map of the Essex coast. ‘Was it coastal? Jaywick? Walton? Not Frinton?’

She didn’t respond.

‘What about on a river? Bradfield? Wrabness?’

A flicker of something behind her eyes. He hoped there was someone watching on a monitor to catch it.

‘So come on,’ he said, trying to hurry her up. ‘You’re telling me a story. About your family. I’m here, I’m listening.’

Sophie put her head back, her eyes upwards, as if receiving a signal or instructions from some unseen source. ‘There were four of us…’ she began. ‘Me, my brother, my father…’ She paused, her eyes changing, an unreadable expression on her face. ‘And my mother…’

She stopped talking again, lost in her reverie.

‘What about your mother?’ Phil prompted her.

Sophie’s head snapped forward, her eyes on Phil once more. ‘She died.’