A. Bird - The Good Mother - A tense psychological thriller with a shocking twist

This might be the last time at this place, though. Because the previous time the other man, the man they’re going to see, had suggested they meet at his home. More relaxing. They could learn more about each other. He’d even given directions.

‘I just want us to be close, Cara,’ he’d said. ‘You’ll be quite safe. You’ll have your chaperone there throughout.’ He said ‘chaperone’ in a funny way. Like he was making a joke. Perhaps he only used that word because he didn’t know what to call the man who brought her. She didn’t, either, not really. Not once they’d had the little chat that evening in the car, his hand on her knee. Everything changed after that. She couldn’t be herself around him, couldn’t think of anything to say to him at all, never mind his name. She’d settled into the pattern after a while. But it was still odd. Of course it was odd. She would have asked Mummy. If Mummy were allowed to know.

Anyway, whatever he was called, the chaperon didn’t seem to like the idea of going to the other man’s home. So here they were, driving fast to the usual café. A bit faster than usual, maybe? Were they late? She looks at her watch, then realises she doesn’t know what time they’re meant to be there. And she doesn’t really know where ‘there’ is.

So there is nothing to do but sink into the seat. It’s out of her hands. But she’s perfectly safe. Of course she is. It would be like all the other times. See the men. Then go home to Mummy. She looks across at the chaperone to smile, to show him she still trusts him after everything. But he doesn’t smile back. He looks ahead and he frowns.

Chapter 1

My eyes flash open.

There’s a bed, a room and a blankness.

I leap off the bed, a strange bed, a single bed, and collapse straight onto the floor.

Where am I? What’s going on? Why am I so weak?

I put my hands over my eyes. Remove my hands again. But nothing becomes right. I’ve still no idea where I am. Why am I in this alien room? In pyjamas? Is it day, is it night, how long have I been here?

And, oh God.

Where’s Cara? Where’s my daughter?

Look round the room again. It looms and distorts weirdly before me. I don’t trust my eyes.

I try to pull myself to my feet but black spots and nausea get in the way.

OK, Susan. Stop trembling. Try to remember.

A hallway. At home. The doorbell ringing. Delivery expected. Chain not on.

Going to answer the door.

Yes, that’s it. A door. I see a door now, in this room. Maybe Cara is on the other side?

Crawl over the floor. One hand in front of the other. Grunt with the effort. Feel like I’m Cara when she was learning. Past a tray of partially eaten food. White fish. The smell makes me want to vomit.

Approach the door, in this room. Lean my hands against it, inch them higher and higher, climbing with my hands. Finally at the handle. Pull and pull. Handle up, handle down. Please! Open!

Nothing. It stays firmly shut.

In my mind, in my memories, the front door of my house opens. I’ve answered the door. Then blackness, blankness. Nothing but: Cara, my Cara, I must see Cara!

I’m shouting it now, out loud. Screaming it. Black dots back again before my eyes.

Come on. Comprehend. Don’t panic.

Slide down from the door. Look around the room. It’s clean, too clean, apart from the half-eaten fish. White walls. A pine chest of drawers. Potpourri on a dresser. Beige carpets. All normal. My hands ball in and out of fists. It is not normal to me.

And you are not here.

But why, Susan, why would she be here? Was she even at home when that doorbell rang? She’s fifteen, why would she be there, at home, with Mum? She might be safe, somewhere else, happy, even now.

I shake my head. Wrong. It feels wrong. I need to know where you are. Something is telling me, the deep-rooted maternal instinct, that you’re not safe. I need to see you.

Footsteps! From the other side of the door.

A key in the lock. I watch the handle turn. Slowly, the door pushes open.

Him.

How could I have forgotten about him?

We face each other, him standing, me on the floor. Bile rises in my throat.

So.

This is the now-known stranger who has locked me in here. Wherever ‘here’ is. It’s been what – two … three days? He must have drugged the fish. That’s why it took me a while, for any recollection to return.

He’s holding a beaker of water.

‘Thought you might like something to drink, Susan.’

He knows my name. A researched, not random, snatching then. Watching, from afar? For how long?

I stare at him.

‘Where is she?’ I manage. Not my usual voice. My throat is dry. The words are cracked, splitting each syllable in two.

‘You mustn’t hate me, Susan,’ he says.

I wait for more. Some explanation. Nothing.

Could I jump him? Could I run past him, out of the door? I must try, mustn’t I? Even if there is no ‘past him’. He fills the whole doorway.

Stop thinking. Act! Forget the shaking legs. Go, go, go! Storm him, surprise him!

But he is too quick. He slips out. The door closes. The lock turns.

‘They’ll come looking!’ I shout, slamming my hands against the door.

Because they will, won’t they? Paul, even now, must be working with the police, following up trails, looking at traffic cameras, talking to witnesses. Find my wife, he’ll be shouting to anyone who’ll listen. Neighbours, dog-walkers, Mrs Smith from number thirty-nine with that blessed curtain twitching. My afternoon clients, they must have raised the alarm, when I wasn’t there. Right? I must be a missing person by now. Please, whoever has lost me, come and find me.

And, please, let Cara be with you. Let my daughter be safe.

Images of Cara frightened, hunched, bound, dying.

No!

Just focus. Look at the room. How to get out of the room.

Look, a window! High up, narrow, darkness beyond it, but possible maybe?

There’s a kind of ledge. I can pull myself up. Hands over the edge, like that, then come on – jump up, then hang on. Manage to stay there for a moment, before my weak arms fail me. Long enough to judge the window isn’t glass. It’s PCV. Unsmashable. And, of course, there is a window lock. And no key. Locked, I bet, but if I just stretch a hand – but no. I fall.

OK, so I need to put something under the window. That chair. Heavy. I push and pull it to under the window. Placing my hands on the back of the chair, I climb up onto the seat. With my new height, I stretch my arm to the window, then to the window latch.

Locked.

Still. A window is a window. People can see in, as well as out. When it’s day again, I can wave, mouth a distress signal.

So do I sit and wait in the dark until morning? Until I can see the light again?

Or does this man, this man out there, have night-time plans for me? Because you don’t just kidnap a woman and leave her in a room. You want to look at her, presumably, your toy, your little caged bird. Maybe he’s looking at me even now. A camera, somewhere? I draw my legs up close to me and hug them. I stare at the ceiling, every corner. No. No. No. No. I can’t see one.

Which means he must have another agenda.

I shudder.

Think of Cara. Be strong. What’s your best memory of Cara? Proudest mummy moment?

Apart from every morning when I see that beautiful face. I will have that moment again. I will. Just as I’ve had that moment every day since I first held you.

Little baby girl wrapped in a blanket. So precious. Be safe, be warm, always.

But apart from that.

The concert!

Yes, the concert.

All the mums and dads and siblings and assorted hangers-on filing into the school hall. The stage set up ready, music stands, empty chairs. Hustle, bustle, glasses of wine. Me chatting to Alice’s mum – Paul working late – about nothing and everything. Then, the gradual hush of anticipation spreads round the room. The lights dim. On comes the orchestra! And there’s Cara. Her beautiful blonde hair hanging loose, masking her face. She’ll tuck it behind her ear in a minute, I think. And she does. Then the whole audience can see that lovely rose tint to her cheeks, the lips so perfectly cherub-bowed to play the flute that she holds. I want to stand up and say, ‘that’s my daughter!’ Instead I just nudge Alice’s mum and we have a grin. Then there’s the customary fuss and flap as the kids take their seats. All trying to look professional, but someone drops their music, and someone else plucks a stray string of a violin. Not Cara, though. She is sitting straight, flicking stray glances out to the crowd, holding the flute tight on her lap. Come on, Cara, I say to her in my head. Just do it like you’ve practised. All those nights at home, performing to me sometimes so that you have an ‘audience’. You’ll be fine.