Tania Carver: The Surrogate

‘Think that’s it?’

‘I reckon so,’ she said.

He turned to the assembled team. ‘There’s the target,’ he said. ‘Come on.’

He stepped into the field.

‘Now remember,’ he said when he had the attention of the whole team. ‘According to the witness, we’re dealing with someone who has a separate identity. The name is Hester, she’s a transsexual. But there’s another identity she calls the husband. And that’s the one we have to watch out for. The murderous one. She might be Hester at the moment, she might not. But whatever we do, we don’t want to deal with the husband. So let’s do this quickly and cleanly, right?’

The team followed him, as carefully and quietly as they could.

The baby’s eyes closed.

‘That’s it… good girl, that’s it…’

Hester held the baby with one hand, stroked her neck with the other. So fragile, so small, the difference between life and death. Like a toy, a child’s toy.You could play with it for years but then one day you decide to burn it, or hack away at it. Just to see what happens. And you do see what happens. But after that moment’s gone, you’re left with a melted lump of plastic, or something broken and useless. Only good for throwing away.

And that’s what the baby was now. It would only take a moment, just a few seconds, less than a minute, even. And it would all be over. Then things could go back to normal. Her husband could return and they could be together again.

Just one moment.

The baby’s breathing changed. She was asleep. Hester smiled again. She had done it. She had talked to the baby, rocked her, got her to sleep. Like a real mother would do.

She sighed.

A real mother.

But it didn’t matter. Not now. She had a plan. She had to follow it through. She had to make things happen.

She placed the baby back in her cot, careful not to wake her. Covered her with the blanket. Looked at her. Then knelt beside her, placed her hands gently round the baby’s throat.

And something sparked within her. Stopping her.

She . She had called the baby she. Not it. She. Like a mother would do.

Maybe that meant something. That she was a proper mother after all. That she didn’t hate the baby; she was capable of looking after it.

She closed her eyes, her head starting to hurt. No. She had to do it. Had to kill it. It was the only way for her husband to return. He wouldn’t come back so long as the baby was there, she knew that. Whatever else she felt, she knew that.

So she had to do it. Had to.

She placed her hands round the baby’s neck again. Tried to speak. Couldn’t get the words out. Noticed for the first time that she was crying. It stopped her.

‘Buh-bye bye, buh-baby…’

Still sobbing, but as quietly as she could so as not to wake her, she placed her hands tenderly around the baby’s neck.

And began to squeeze.

The house was surrounded.

Phil couldn’t believe anyone actually lived there. His initial impression had been right. It looked almost totally derelict, with black plastic sheeting and hardboard patching up holes and rotting areas in the wooden cladding. Tiles were missing off the roof and the yard outside was so full of junk it looked like a health and safety officer’s worst nightmare.

It was the right place. He was sure of it.

The team were in place. Phil was standing beside what he supposed was the front door, next to a team armed with a battering ram, ready to break it down. He spoke into his radio.

Gave the signal.

The battering ram was in place.

The door was smashed off its hinges.

They charged in.

Hester’s hands were round the baby’s neck when she heard the noise.

It was a huge crash, like an explosion. At first she wondered if it was an earthquake or a bomb. And her immediate thought: she hoped it didn’t waken the baby.

But then she heard movement behind her. Shouting, running, lights, bodies.

In her home. In her home.

She turned, shocked, tried to take in what was happening. Couldn’t. Didn’t know what was going on. All she knew was that she was scared.

There were men. And women. Some holding fearsome guns. All shouting at her. Telling her to do things. Step away, lie down, things like that. She looked from one to another in turn, trying to make out what it was they wanted her to do. Lie down, step away. Pointing their guns.

Her heart was beating like it was ready to burst. She didn’t know what to do. She turned away from them, heard them shout even louder, move closer to her. She looked at the baby. She was starting to wake up. They had made so much noise they were waking up the baby.

In desperation, she grabbed hold of her and pulled her out of the cot. She had to rock the baby back to sleep. Couldn’t have her awake, not now. She clutched the baby to her chest, turned round again.

They had taken a step back. Still shouting at her, but there were more words in the orders now. Put the baby down, step away, lie down, put your hands on your head. It was like a game she didn’t know the rules for and that she couldn’t keep up with.

So she clutched the baby to her.

The baby started to cry.

She closed her eyes. Tried to will them all away.

Anni focused on the scene before her. She saw Phil at the front of the team, commandingly issuing orders. She quickly took in her surroundings. First she checked for exits and entrances, anywhere they could be attacked from. Task-force members had positioned themselves there. She looked round.

She had seen squalor before, but this place was one of the worst. It looked like someone had been squatting in a dilapidated garage or outhouse. There were attempts at homeliness: armchairs and a settee with antimacassars draped over them. But the furniture was worn and old, like it had been salvaged from some tip. A rusted old tin bath had been set up as a cot; there was an attempt at a kitchen area, but Anni wouldn’t have wanted to eat anything prepared there.

The most frightening thing was the person holding the baby. She had expected something, or someone, out of the ordinary. But she hadn’t been prepared for the sight of the figure that greeted her. Tall, over six feet, wearing a faded flowered sun dress over what looked like at least two layers of vests and T-shirts, with filthy old denims and boots. A badly fitted wig had slipped back to reveal a shaven head, and make-up had been applied as if without a mirror. There was also facial stubble where this person hadn’t shaved for a day or two.

Anni tried to hold her revulsion in and concentrate. She thought instead of Graeme Eades, and the last time she had seen him as he lay sobbing in the cheap chain hotel, thoroughly repentant and guilt-eaten, begging them to return his baby, the only link to his dead wife. That sharpened her concentration.

She looked at Phil, standing in front of her, using the calm and reasonable voice he used in interviews to make suspects open up. The earlier shouting and gun-brandishing hadn’t worked, just made Hester cling even tighter to the baby. So he had changed his approach. He was asking her to put the baby down, to move away. But his words, no matter how softly spoken they were, didn’t seem to be having any effect either. Anni thought she knew why.

She softly placed her hand on Phil’s sleeve. He looked at her, stopped talking. She gestured with her eyes: let me try. He nodded. She stood alongside him.

‘Listen to me,’ she said. ‘My name’s Anni. Is your name Hester?’

Hester’s eyes were all over, roving about, trying to take in what was happening. Fluttering round the room like a swallow trapped in a barn. Her hands were back on the baby’s neck. Anni knew that the slightest application of pressure could kill the baby.