A. L. Bird - The Good Mother

‘There,’ he says. ‘Done.’ He hands me back the diary.

I look at what he has written.

‘Today is the day that I shared my bed. Sitting this time. But it’s a sign of closeness. A sign of more to come. I will give that man what he wants – what I want, really – in time.’

I shiver. I look up at him. He smiles.

So. That is the plan then. He does, as he says, want me. But, apparently, I have to give myself to him.

He stands up. I want to break eye contact, let him know his plans revolt me. But I daren’t, lest his eyes search out the paper sign instead. Holding his gaze, I shift along the bed, putting one hand behind me. I call feel the rough edge of the paper under my hand. I hope it is covered. I hope he doesn’t think the gesture is an invitation.

He stays in the room, staring at me. A smile – or is it a smirk – crosses over his lips. He adds to the creases round his eyes. Then he turns his back and opens the door, and goes out. And locks me in again.

Chapter 10

There it is – under the grate! A letter from Cara!

I was so busy trying to fend off, distract, comprehend the Captor that I must have missed it coming through. At least, I hope it’s a letter. Not just a bundle of papers. I rush to pick up the pages. They shake in my hands like leaves.

And yes! Thank goodness. Here is Cara’s wonderful handwriting. That beautiful, self-conscious, teenage script, with the dots of ‘i’s done in circles, the ‘z’s struck through, and all letters bulbous and round. That relief as real as when I used to look at you in your little bed, holding my own breath until your chest rose again. I clutch the paper to myself before I begin to read, inhaling it. Cara. Then I pull it away and study it.

Dear Mum,

Amazing. SO well done getting the paper and pencil. Totally get what you say about a hiding place. The room has a … actually, no, better not write where the hiding place is in case your place isn’t as good as mine .

So. What’s the plan? How are we getting out of here? We will get out of here, won’t we? Dad must be coming, right? I reckon give him another few hours and he’ll be here. Definitely.

How did you end up in here? I remember being by the school gates, then in a car, but not much else. Then … here.

I just wish we could get a message out. Let people know where we are. That we’re alive. And so far, safe.

That first night, I think it was night, that was the worst. I just sat up in this horrible bed in the dark holding the duvet and shaking. I couldn’t believe it was happening. I thought I’d never see you or Dad again. I would have given anything to know you were here. And now you are.

I love you Mum. I know you’ll get us out of this.

You will, right?

Cara xxx.

I read the letter again and again. And again. I trace the loops with my eyes and then with my fingers. Cara. At once so strong and so vulnerable. So independent and yet still my little girl. I’d give anything to hug her. Kiss that beautiful face. To take her home, reunite her with the pink biro that I know this letter would be written in, had she the choice. She’d maybe cover it with some pink hearts, for extra measure, like the hearts she draws on the magazine articles and clippings that adorn her bedroom walls. Perfume ads, fashion pictures, cute animals – she’s a real girl’s girl. Then she recreates that physical space online, Pinterest and everything. I know. She showed me a picture of one of my cupcake ads she’d ‘pinned’ on her virtual board. I felt so proud that she should be proud of me.

Much as I would love to write back immediately with outpourings of love, I can’t write back until there is a plan. You can tell from the letter that she needs me to think of one, to keep her happy. What energetic and traumatised fifteen-year-old wants simply to hang round waiting for Dad to do something? I’m surprised I can’t hear her ricocheting off the walls with pent-up frustration.

No. I must provide an alternative.

The window sign.

I tuck her note into my pillowcase and pull the sign from the bed. Quickly, I finish emboldening the letters that I had loosely pencilled in. There. That sign should be readable by the little girl outside, if she is still there.

I clamber up my chair ladder to the window and look out. No little girl today. But she must come back. Or somebody else must. And see the sign. I lean the pieces of paper against the window, facing out. They take up almost all of the window, leaving me just a small chink to look out of. The paper seems flimsy, like it could fall down at any moment. And however visible it is from the outside, it feels painfully visible from the inside. The Captor may see it. And, with it, my knowledge of Cara. Then he’ll take down perhaps my only means of escape, and deny me my lifeline with my daughter.

So what I need is a prop. Something to keep the sign in position and also conceal it. But not arouse suspicion. From my chair, I look round the room. What would work?

The only contender seems to be a pillow. I have two. One should squidge up nicely to fit in the gap. I clamber down from the chair, seize the pillow and spring back up to the chair. Success. The pillow fits. It takes away most of the light and my room takes on a dungeon feel. But it’s for a greater good. Our greater good. Mine, Cara’s, Paul’s. If the Captor asks, I’ll say the light was stopping me sleeping. I can still move the pillow if I need to, when I’m alone, to look out. For the girl. Or for anyone else.

And the other pillow – well, its case can hide the letters from Cara. Two missions accomplished.

Escape plan A put in train, I can now face Cara again. I pick up her letter and reread it. Why wasn’t I there at the school gates to pick her up? The Captor must have already got me. Did he do it in two journeys then? Or was one of us in the boot? Or was there an accomplice? I want to tell her I’m sorry I wasn’t there. But it wasn’t my fault.

As I pick up the pencil, my stomach rumbles. I look over at the granola. Healthy, nutritious. Not that I need to watch what I eat so much these days. With the yoghurt it would be delicious. And give me energy to fight for Cara. Can I eat it? Who would drug granola? Surely if you were going to drug breakfast, you’d make scrambled eggs, or porridge, or something else sloppy and indistinct. Not granola. But I’m not dealing with a logical person here. I’m dealing with a kidnapper. So he might have drugged it. Best not to risk it.

I turn back to the pencil and paper.

‘Dearest Cara,’ I write.

Cara. Beloved. I remember choosing that name, with her father.

People asking whether we’re giving her a name, just now. Of course we need a name. Look at her. She’s beautiful.

I wanted to call her all the names that summed up just how glorious she was to me: Cara Joy Aimee Hope Star Rose. In the end, I was persuaded just to go for Cara Joy. A name cannot sum up that much love anyway. The love that came just holding her in that little bundle, staring into her eyes, feeling her little lips at my breast, one finger wrapped up in her tiny hand. A magical day. I wonder if her father still remembers it. Remembers her. Fourteen years is a long time with no contact.

My stomach rumbles again. Love does not conquer hunger apparently.

I look at the breakfast tray. I could just eat half of everything. That way, if it really is drugged, it won’t hit me with its full strength. I might just be caused to flutter my eyelashes a bit, not invite him into my bed. And I would have the strength to give my letter to Cara the full attention it needs. Plus me starving isn’t going to help. I need the strength for a fight, if it comes.