His Kidnapper's Shoes (8 page)

Katie's expression was unfathomable. ‘Dan… these memories…they might not be what you think. Perhaps the young girl was a babysitter who helped your mum out. The other woman – could be the same thing. Some friend or relative doing your mum a favour. You said she was close to her grandmother. It might be her you remember sitting by your bed.’

‘No.’ He was damn sure of that. ‘She wasn’t anywhere near as old as Mum’s grandmother would have been. There was no one else to help her, as I told you. She was an only child and she’s never talked about any aunts, cousins, any other female relatives. The older woman …she was there more than the occasional night, Katie. It happened more frequently than a friend doing Mum a favour once in a while.’

‘Did you ask your mother about all this?’

‘Yes. I asked several times, when I was still very young, until I realised she wasn’t going to tell me anything different. Up until the age of about seven, I suppose. I remember she’d already married my stepfather the last time I asked.’

‘What did she say?’

‘The same thing every time. She always said I was imagining things and laughed it off. She’d tell me I was her beautiful boy, how precious I was, how much she loved me. I always felt guilty for asking.’

‘Guilt. Every mother’s favourite trick.’ Katie laughed.

‘Thing is, I don’t remember who these women are, but I’m not imagining them, Katie. They’re real, although it’s foggy as hell in my mind. They played some role in my life, before Mum came along. See, that’s the other thing. Every time I remember the girl with dark hair…the woman beside my bed…Mum doesn’t figure in those memories at all. She comes along later. I know I was only a tiny kid at the time. However, I’m sure, as sure as I’ve ever been of anything. Mum wasn’t around then. That’s what I’ve never been able to understand.’

‘Dan…I’m not denying what you say. Human memory can be weird and not always reliable, though. Especially when you think how young you were. Children don’t usually remember anything before the ages of three or four, and boys recall less than girls do. Perhaps your mum told you some story which somehow got translated in your mind…’

‘No.’ He realised he’d spoken too sharply. ‘That’s not how it was.’

‘Hey.’ She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. ‘I’m sorry, Dan. I’m not pooh-poohing what you’re telling me. I’m simply saying our memories can be flaky things. You've probably heard about false memory syndrome, where people recall all sorts of stuff that never actually happened.’

‘I’m certain of what I remember, Katie. Those women are real. I just don’t have any idea who they are.’

‘You thought about asking your mother again? Now you’re an adult?’

‘No. I don’t think she’d tell me anything different. I guess both my stepfather and I, we’ve always steered clear of anything that might upset her. She’s always been, well, fragile. The depression thing. About the only time my stepfather ever shows a shred of sensitivity is where Mum’s concerned. But there’s more. You ever get gut feelings, Katie? Those times when you’re certain of something, even if it goes against all logic?’

‘Yes. Doesn't everyone? Can’t explain how it works, but yeah, my intuition’s pretty spot on.’

‘Then you’ll get what I’m going to say. I’m sure, Katie, and I always have been, deep in my gut. Every time I think of the girl with the dark hair, tossing me the ball, and the woman sat beside my bed, I’ve always thought I belong with them. I have no idea who they are, but they’re more real, more my family, than Mum. That’s why I can’t feel what I should for her.’ He sighed. ‘It's all pretty weird, right?’

Katie pulled a face. ‘A bit different, I guess. You ever thought what might be behind this? Tried to find out who these women are and why your mother hasn’t been straight with you?’

‘Yeah, I’ve thought about it.’ Over and over. ‘Never known what to do. Talking to Mum, as I told you, is a dead end. She has no relatives I can ask. Sounds shitty, but I’ve thought about going through her stuff, seeing if she has anything, anything at all, that might tell me what I need to know.’

‘Could you have been adopted?’

‘I don’t think so, no. Mum was only eighteen, remember; there’s no chance she’d have been able to adopt legally at such a young age, especially as a single woman. The only way it could have happened would be if it had been done in secret. Perhaps she had a younger sister who got pregnant, and died, so Mum took me on. The thing is - that doesn’t make any sense either. Why pretend she’s my mother, if she’s not? Why tell me she was an only child? Told you it was all a bit weird.’

‘Dan, I don’t want to throw a spanner in the works, but something else is a bit strange here.’

‘God. As if this weren't messed-up enough already. Go on.’

‘One of the first things I noticed about you was your gorgeous green eyes. Green eyes and dark hair have always had quite an effect on me.’ She laughed. ‘You said your mum has blue eyes?’

‘Yes. What attracted my stepfather to her, according to him. They’re probably her best feature, big and an unusually deep blue. I didn’t inherit them, as you’ve pointed out.’

‘But you also said she told you your father had brown eyes?’

‘Yes, that’s right. Why? What does his eye colour matter?’

‘I don’t know if you ever did much in the way of genetics at school. Thing is, the odds of a mother with blue eyes and a father with brown eyes having a child with green eyes – well, they’re quite low. It happens, sure. But it's unusual.’

‘So…’ Daniel paused, trying to comprehend what Katie had said. ‘You’re saying the man who my mother says was my father…there’s a good chance he may not have been? That might be untrue as well?’

‘Yes. It’s not impossible, as I said. We still don’t understand a lot about how children inherit some characteristics. The whole thing’s way complicated, Dan. But along with what you’ve already said, about thinking your mum isn’t your mum…well, there does seem to be something not stacking up here.’

‘Shit.’ He'd thought this couldn't get any weirder. ‘Shit, Katie. I had a mother who might not be my mother when we started this conversation. Now my father, this engineering student who she said died before I was even born, may not be real either.’ He tried to joke it away. ‘I’m having one hell of an identity crisis here.’

‘Dan. Listen to me.’ The firmness in her voice forced him to meet her eyes. ‘You either figure out how to deal with this, or else you put it behind you. Forget these doubts, the memories, and accept your life the way it is. If you can’t – and I can understand if not – then you need to find a way to get to the bottom of what it all means.’

‘Yeah. You’re right. People say stuff about needing to find their roots, where they came from. Tim’s a good example. Spends ages on those family tree websites, looking up birth and death certificates. No wonder he never gets laid.’

He laughed shakily. ‘Well, it’s not bullshit. I honestly haven’t a clue who the hell I am. I have a mother who has never seemed like a mother. Now even my father may not be who I’ve always been told he was. Who the hell are you dating, Katie?’ He shook his head. ‘Christ. Everything is so completely screwed-up. You’re right; I need to sort out which way to jump with all this.’

He stood up. ‘I’m going back to the flat to think. I’ll call you tonight.’

9

GOD’S LAUGHTER

I’m desperate to explain things to you, Daniel. I didn’t find things easy, you see. I was only seventeen when I got pregnant, eighteen when I gave birth, and to begin with, I was terrified of what lay ahead of me. I tried not to think about what it would be like to have a tiny baby dependent on me for everything. I was determined to be the best mum I could. My child wouldn’t have a drunk for a mother who only cared where her next wine fix came from. I may not be able to give my baby a father but I’d give it everything else.

Gran was always a practical woman. She made phone calls to Social Services in which she made it clear I’d be staying with her, pointing out I’d turn eighteen in two weeks’ time and be able to make my own decisions. We had a visit from my social worker; I refused to answer her questions about why I’d run away and Gran, thankfully, said nothing. In the end, everyone agreed the best solution would be for me to stay with her.

I remember glancing at Gran after the social worker left; thinking she now looked her age. She’d always seemed much younger, what with her patterned skirts, exotic jewellery and apparently endless love of life. Her illness had taken all the zest out of her, though, and she looked every one of her seventy-three years, and more. She had never regained her pre-cancer weight; she was still bony thin, her cheekbones prominent, and she seemed slightly hunched over these days. Her movements appeared slower to me, her thought processes not as sharp as they had been. The time had come for me to take care of her now, this woman who had always looked after me when I needed her. I thought we’d help each other, and play with the baby together, and perhaps she’d regain a little of what she’d lost. I saw us together, in the garden, dangling toys over the pram of a smiling baby and I saw some hope for the future, and right then I didn’t dare to ask for more.

I had other things to think about. I’d struggled through the morning sickness and was feeling human again. My appetite had come back and I had started to fill out. It was weird watching how my breasts and stomach swelled, blue veins appearing and thick red stretch marks joining them. I felt fertile, blooming, luxuriant, my burgeoning belly proof of the life kicking inside me. To my relief, my increasing desire to be a mother replaced my initial fears and I slowly grew more confident about the future.

One night I lay trying to sleep, unable to get comfortable because of my huge, at least that’s how it seemed to me, pregnancy belly and then the pains started. Gran got me into a taxi, we went to the hospital and then I found out what pain really was. I’ll end up splitting in two, I thought; I simply can’t manage this. They tried to give me an epidural but the damn thing didn’t work and the agony tore away at me, worse and worse. I struggled, sweated, cursed and prayed it would soon end, but it didn’t. The birth took over twenty-four hours and right at the point where I thought I couldn’t go on and I’d have to either push this baby out somehow or die, that’s when it happened. I made one final effort and suddenly everything was over. I was a mother.

And when I cradled my baby close, this red, screaming scrap, all the pain melted away and a rush of incredible love surged over me. I knew then nobody and nothing would ever matter to me as much as this perfect creature I held in my arms.

‘What will you call him?’ Gran asked.

I had no idea. I’d flicked through baby books at the library during my pregnancy, but had never come to any conclusions. I wouldn’t be naming the baby after Matthew Hancock, that was for sure. Eventually I settled on Daniel. It was an old name, still popular, and went well with the surname Covey. Second name – well, that didn’t seem so important. I chose Mark. Daniel Mark Covey. It sounded good, distinguished even, and Gran approved. We went to register the birth after I left hospital, and then I took my baby home.

Daniel, you have no idea how demanding babies are. Perhaps one day you’ll be a father, although with all those girlfriends you have, that change every week, it doesn’t seem likely any time soon. You’re young, though, still sowing your wild oats, and in a few years, you’ll be ready to settle down with the right girl and make me a grandmother.

Anyway, as I say, one day you’ll find out how much hard work babies are. The first few weeks passed in a blur. I changed nappies and heated bottles and rocked my baby when he cried. I snatched scraps of sleep as and when I could; I was permanently exhausted. It was as much as I could manage to struggle through every day.

Gran was wonderful and I would never have got through it all without her. I fretted, though; worried that looking after Daniel and me was taking a toll on her when she’d never really recovered her health after the cancer. She got woken up at night when Daniel screamed with rage, frustrated with a dirty nappy or an empty belly, and often looked worn out.

I tell you, Daniel, I was desperate with worry when I found her sitting in the chair one day, her face ashen white, fear and bewilderment evident in her hunched posture. My frantic questions, fired at her out of terror at finding her that way, confused her even more; she seemed to be having trouble getting her words out. When I eventually got her to talk, she told me she’d been heating a bottle for Daniel, when she suddenly found herself down on the floor but with no memory of falling. I bullied her until she agreed to go to the doctor and I think she probably felt too tired to argue.

Her doctor told me Gran had suffered a mini-stroke, and once she’d had one, then she’d be more prone to another. He prescribed medication and told Gran she had to start taking life more easily. I realised that however exhausted I might get looking after my baby, I needed to do more to take care of my grandmother.

I started to fuss more over her, reminding her to take her pills, which she didn’t always do, and making sure she got disturbed at night as little as possible. She still looked tired a lot of the time. I knew she was worried about finances and the state of the house. She’d bought the place after my grandfather died, being unable to endure staying any longer in the house where they had lived together. She’d not had much money and all she’d been able to afford was a small, isolated and run-down place a little way out of town, which needed more cash to set it right than she possessed.