Tania Carver - The Surrogate

Phil felt a sense of dread building with each word he heard. He had a feeling he knew where this confession was going. ‘So…’ He was almost frightened to ask the next question. ‘What did he do?’

‘Dressed him up.’

Phil nodded. That was what he had been expecting. He looked at Sophie’s face, sensed there was something more. ‘What else?’

‘Did what he wanted, made him…’

‘Into you?’

Sophie’s eyes were downcast. She nodded. Phil felt a small sense of victory amongst the unease about what she was saying. That look, that movement meant there was still something in her, some basic shared humanity underneath all the damage, the madness. He had to work on that, bring it out.

‘So Heston took your place.’

Another nod. ‘But our father wasn’t happy.’

‘Because he wasn’t queer.’

She nodded again. ‘He went along with it at the time. But afterwards…’ She shivered, as if recounting it from personal experience.

‘Afterwards, what? What happened afterwards, Sophie?’

‘He hated himself,’ she said, bitterness dripping from her words. ‘He hated himself and he hated Heston. For what they were both doing. He used to beat him. Whip him again.’

Phil suppressed a shudder. ‘And Heston took all this?’

Another nod. ‘He was scared. He didn’t have any option.’ She looked round then, as if coming out of a trance, seeing the room for the first time. ‘I want a drink. I want to stop. I want a drink.’

‘Not long now, Sophie. Let’s keep going. Just a little while longer.’

No. I want a drink. I want to stop.’

Phil couldn’t stop, he had to go on. He wanted to go on. He was making a breakthrough, just about to reach her. He couldn’t stop now. She had to keep going. Had to…

He looked at her. All vestiges of her earlier self were now long gone. No sexuality, no allure. Just a damaged woman with a damaged mind. She had clammed up and wouldn’t start again until she was ready. He sighed, checked his watch. Leaned over to the tape.

‘Interview suspended at…’

Hester’s husband had returned. She had felt his presence but hadn’t heard his voice. She had tried talking to him but got nothing in return. So she had given up. And then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, he had gone again, leaving her alone. With the baby.

She felt anxious, uncomfortable. Unable to concentrate on anything. Her heart was pounding, her mind spooling through all the possibilities of what might happen. They could storm into her home, take the baby away from her. She looked down at it, sleeping again after her husband’s departure. She was still trying to feel something for it, something positive and nurturing, but it wasn’t happening. Maybe they should take the baby. Leave her in peace. In peace with her husband.

She closed her eyes, tried to call him. Nothing. No response. She called again, louder this time. Nothing. The baby stirred as she did so. She ignored it, waited, listening.

Still nothing.

A shudder ran through her. Maybe he had gone, her husband. Maybe he wasn’t coming back; maybe he had left her.

Her head was spinning, her mind reeling.

No. He couldn’t do that. Couldn’t leave her alone once more. Like it used to be. Like the old days. She tried not to think about those days, it just made her sad. Made her cry, if she thought about them too much. But she couldn’t help it.

She tried to block them out, but those times, years ago, when she was alone and afraid, scared and crying all the time, came into her mind. Before her husband turned up to love her, before they became one. There was an unpleasant emotion rising inside her, one that was mixed with loneliness and fear from the old days, one that she had dragged with her all her life. Her most hated feeling: fear of being alone. Of being unloved.

And now her husband was unreachable. And they were closing in on her.

Well she couldn’t have that. Couldn’t be left alone. It would kill her. She needed him. She had to find him.

She called for him, shouted as loud as she could.

Nothing.

And again.

Nothing from her husband. But the baby began to stir. Crying in exploratory little gasps, getting louder and bigger as it got more air into its lungs, felt more confidence in doing so.

And there were those old emotions again, welling up inside Hester, waiting to break.

The baby kept crying.

She dropped to her knees, unable to stop those old, horrible emotions. They had to come out. She put her head back and screamed as loud as she could. Pounding her fists on the floor until her knuckles ached, beating her head against it too. Screaming all the while.

Eventually she stopped, but there was still screaming inside her head. She opened her eyes, expecting the screaming to stop, but it didn’t. That was when she remembered that the baby was there with her.

More emotion welled up inside her. Easier to identify this time. Hatred. If it wasn’t for the baby, she wouldn’t have got into this mess. Her husband would be here and they – whoever they were – wouldn’t be after her. After them . The baby. It was all the baby’s fault.

She got up, crossed over to it. Stood before the tiny, wailing figure. Looked hard at it with tear-filled eyes.

It screamed. She screamed back. It screamed louder. Hester screamed louder still. Whatever she did, it wouldn’t shut up.

So she bent down, pulled it out of the cot, held it in front of her face, screaming at it, her mouth fully open, like she was about to swallow it. Screaming, screaming…

Eventually it stopped. Hester was surprised. She looked round, not wanting to believe her luck. But yes, it had stopped screaming. She smiled to herself. That wasn’t in the parenting books. She had invented that one.

She placed the baby back in the cot, still pleased with herself. And then that black feeling began to return. Her husband absent. Them after her.

She tried not to give in. She had to hold on, had to think. Do something.

She looked at the baby again, fought down the rising hatred within her, the urge to blame it for everything going wrong. Because it was the baby’s fault. She was sure of that. The rage inside told her so.

She could kill it. That was what she could do. Place her hands round its neck and squeeze. Wouldn’t even have to squeeze very tightly, it was so small. Bones would snap like firewood kindling. Easy.

She placed her rough, callused hands round its smooth throat.

It looked up at her. Big blue eyes. Vivid and bright, fully rounded in an unformed face.

Her hands dropped away. She couldn’t do it. Not when it was staring up at her like that. No matter how much she might hate it.

She watched it, kicking in the cot, stretching its arms and legs, clenching and unclenching its fists. Her expression was blank.

When it’s asleep, she thought. Its eyes closed.

That’s when I’ll get rid of it.

And then run.

‘ We’ve checked,’ said Anni in the observation room. ‘I flagged that up. Wrabness she seemed to stumble on, so I went for that. Nothing. Gail Johnson, Sophia Gale, Sophia Johnson, nothing.’

Phil sighed, looked through the glass. Sophie had sat back in the chair, legs spread out, arms on the table, in sharp contrast to the rigid, upright person he had encountered on first entering.

I’m getting through to her, he thought. I’m breaking her down.

The observation room was full of bodies. Just about everyone who was involved with the investigation was there, Anni, the Birdies and as many other officers and uniforms as could fit. They were all waiting, watching, desperate to see the killer of one of their colleagues, their friend, break down and crack. Phil was well aware of the pressure that placed on him.