The Good Mother (16 page)
Authors: A. L. Bird
So away with the tears. Let the eyes rest. Let there be peace. Let me sleep.
Lips, pressing mine. The man has no face, just lips. I know them. I’ve felt them before. I take my clothes off, all my clothes, because I want more than the lips. But no, suddenly, they’re horrible to me. And the lips are mine now – my own lips have gone. And I don’t want them on my face, so I tear at them, I tear at them. No! No! No! ‘But it’s OK,’ say the lips – they are in mid-air now, floating, a Cheshire cat of calm. ‘It’s OK, kiss me, kiss me. You know you want to.’ ‘But there’s something I have to do! It’s important!’ I tell the lips. ‘Kiss me, kiss me. It’s what you want to do,’ they say. ‘Who are you, mystery lips?’ I ask them. ‘Who are you? Who are you?’ ‘It doesn’t matter. Just kiss me, Suze, Suze, Suze.’ And we do, we kiss, we kiss, and we …
My eyelids flutter open.
Guilt.
Horror.
Bliss.
Because in the dream, I know him. I know the Captor. I still don’t know who he is, objectively, but there’s this sense of knowledge in the dream, so that in the dream world I don’t even need to question who he is.
And, because it is only a dream, it cannot hurt me. I will drift back there for a while. I can allow myself to enjoy it, can’t I? Even if it’s immoral for what has gone before and will come next. Let time stop, just for a moment. And who knows. I might even learn something. The thing. The identity.
Dear Mum,
OK, I have a confession to make. Please don’t be mad. But I need to tell you.
It’s not like I know the Captor. I get what you mean. There is something weirdly familiar about him. But I can’t help you with who he is. It’s the sort of face you always see around, so much that it becomes part of your daily life, but you can’t isolate it enough to identify it.
So it’s as much a mystery to me as it is to you.
But I have to confess something else. Something that may be relevant, if you’re playing the police person here. Where I was that afternoon.
I was with a guy.
I know I said this was meant to be a confession. But I don’t want to tell you who.
You’ll be mad by the end of the story. And I don’t want you to go looking for him (if we get out of here). But he was safe. I met him online at first – he liked some pictures of my designs on Pinterest (you know that scrunchy gauze and silk skirt, the jade one – well, that). Don’t worry, he’s not some kind of forty-year-old loser (no offence on the age). Though he did bring his dad with him when we first met up. Just in case I was a forty-year-old loser, I guess! But he was cool. My age. I hung out with him a bit. And we started going out. I went over to his dad’s place a couple of times. Not to see Alice, like I said. Sorry. And that afternoon, we knew his dad would be out, so … Well, it was only English that afternoon. And I’ve read ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’ like so many times – I know how the story goes. I figured I could survive one afternoon without discussing its themes. Again.
So, yeah.
That’s me.
It was a nice afternoon. The right place to be but, obviously, the wrong place to be.
Because if I hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t be here. I guess. Unless the Captor is some pervy stalker (actually we know he’s that) who was following me wherever I went. Only a coincidence.
But I just wanted to tell you because it sounds like you’re struggling through there. It’s tough, right, being alone like this? You begin to think all sorts of things. Crazy things. Your thoughts kind of slide. Interruptions from nowhere. No one to talk to except the bastard who brought you here. Or yourself (but really, don’t go there). So I wanted to give you something. And to show you I trust you, Mum. I trust you enough to tell you things. And that you will do the right thing by us. When we get out of here, we’re going to have such an amazing time.
And my boy, he’s really sweet, you know. So maybe, if he’s waiting for me, I’ll introduce you one day. If you’re going to be cool about it. In fact, he’s probably helping the police even now. My knight in shining armour. Except the armour – actually, no, let’s not go there. Sorry. Really wish I had a rubber. Eraser. Anyway …
But basically, I love you, Mum. So stay strong. Don’t worry about who the Captor is.
Just get us out of here. Use the mug. Smash it, as you say. Then stick it in his filthy throat.
Cara xxx
Oh the life my daughter is living! She shouldn’t be meeting people from the internet. How do teenagers still convince themselves they should do that? He could have been anyone! My brow sweats, my hands become clammy. It could still be that he is anyone. What teenage boy asks his dad to come along for moral support? Either a loser or someone whose dad has suspicious intent – ‘You’ve got a nice new young girlfriend, you say? Nah, you can’t be sure, son. Let me come along and inspect her.’ Grooming her on behalf of the father? Could any father really be that depraved? Convincing his son to meet a girl online – ‘Come on, son, all the grown-ups are doing internet dating, let’s make a man out of you’ – so that he can take the spoils? Admire those young firm legs, the proud yet chaste flaunting of the newly acquired curves, the short school skirts, the glowing skin, the ‘come hither’ eyes that don’t yet quite understand what they invite. A lift home, maybe, in dad’s car? A friendly hand on the thigh – ‘Call me Jim’ – each time a little bit higher? Then maybe an ‘accidental’ arm across the breast as he reaches across her to open the door? Hot breath on her neck? Desire in his heart, in his crotch, in his hand, later that night?
Little black dots before my eyes. The world spinning slightly. My legs shaky.
Come on, Suze. Calm down. Breathe. I sit on the edge of the bed. You’re overreacting. ‘My boy is nice.’ Cara is no fool. She knows what’s genuine from what’s not. Think of the banter she will have had with this guy online. Cutesy flirting. The sweet shyness of meeting up face to face. A fellow innocent in this boy, not a yob on the payroll of his dad. A lovely, happy time. Perhaps not even a full adult encounter in his room when they were supposed to be at school. Just some of the other stuff – second and third base, if they still call it that. I remember the gossipy chats at school. The girls with boyfriends would sit on the window ledge of the big bay windows before class started, and the rest of us would try to coax out of them news of how far they’d gone with their boyfriends. They desperately pretended to want to hide the information. Then they’d snap, whisper it to a chosen confidante (never me). The teacher would come into the room and so the rest of us would drift away, not knowing, only suspecting an intimacy we felt bound never to achieve.
So – good on my daughter. One of the cool girls. What I would hope for. Sacrifice an afternoon at school for a real-life experience. I can’t condone it to her when I write back, of course not. That would be liberal parenting gone too far. And, of course, with a girl, there’s always the pregnancy worry. But I have an inner smile, even an inner hug, at the thought of her enjoyment. It counterbalances the outer frown.
Can it really just be a coincidence though? That her afternoon of indulgence was the same afternoon that we were kidnapped? Someone must have known where she was going, otherwise they would have waited outside the school for her as usual. It can’t be, even on my most paranoid theory, that the dad of this ‘nice boy’ was the Captor, because she would recognise him. Would the dad have boasted to someone else about what his son was up to? Someone who takes a prurient interest in the not-quite-sex lives of not-quite-legal girls?
But then where do I come in? How the familiarity of the ‘Suze’?
I throw the letter down on the bed and clutch my temples. This is mad. I’m sliding, like she says. Like my fifteen-year-old daughter has to tell me. Why did I think I could be a good mother? Why did I think I could be strong enough for both of us? Oh, how I love her for her resilience, her empathy, her knowledge of just how I am feeling! Even when she was little, she could do that. When she was three, and my dad died, I remember her little hand in mine at the funeral. I looked down at her. She gazed up and said, ‘Not sad, Mummy.’ ‘OK,’ I replied. ‘Not sad.’ I was still sad, of course. I feel now like I’ve always been sad. But, at the same time, happy. Happy beyond limit to have produced such a treasure.
I need to get out of this room. Just for a few minutes. The walls, I’m sure, have shrunk, squashing my brain. There is no mental space left. The corridor and bathroom seem suddenly welcoming.
I bang on the door to summon the Captor. I’ll endure an unnecessary toilet trip just for the mini-escape, a quest for logical clarity. He arrives, swiftly. Another opportunity to stare at him, figure him out.
But this time it’s the corridor that attracts my attention. Not just the space. In fact, it too seems small. Compressed and narrow. Yet also unreal. That horrible sense of déjà vu you get when you’re tired. Exhausted. It’s like there’s two of me walking along here. One woman who has been here before, at this very moment, which gives a calmness. Then another woman who is trapped here, can’t wait to escape. Who feels unease at the sudden mismatch of sense versus reality. It’s the same in the bathroom. I have sudden images of horror. I see myself, in the bath, naked. It’s like that moment in ‘The Shining’ when suddenly there’s an old woman in the bath, with no explanation, just everything inexplicably shifts. I shake my head and the image is gone. There are just the two of us in the shower room again.
I do what I need to do to convince the Captor the trip was genuine. Then I meekly let him take me back to the room and lock me in. Whoever he is, wherever I am, I’m a prisoner again.
I sit down on the bed, shaken. The walls haven’t expanded any in my absence. If I don’t act soon they will crush my mind entirely.
Cara’s right. I need just to focus on getting us out of here.
That’s what I need to do. That’s what I’m going to tell her I’m doing.
But I’m going to find out. About the mystery of him. I want to find out. Before his throat is slit.
The other side of the door
Halfway down the soft drinks aisle, I abandon my trolley.
I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have left the house. I should have got Tesco to deliver. Or maybe Ocado; my soul could do with a lift.
But I was cracking in there. Spoiling things. ‘Suze’. It’s fine for her to be that in your own private world, but you’d vowed not to use that. Vowed to stick to Susan. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
And the nostalgia beat me. I wanted to be where we first met. All of us.
Years ago, it was. I was at the supermarket, getting my weekly shop, in the days when everyone still went out and did that. I’d got one of those trolleys that you can’t control, wheels all skewed. No wonder they end up in canals, along with all the boots and dead bodies, detritus that no one else wants. Anyway, I ran my trolley straight into theirs.
I hadn’t noticed them before the collision. I don’t know how; two blonde beauties should have attracted anyone’s attention. Everyone’s attention. But, when we collided, her coffee spilled, and my world stopped.
Susan – as I later found her out to be, through enquiries – looked up with a scowl on her face. But then she felt the connection. I know she did. The look changed when she saw me. It was the look of someone who likes what they see. I saw her clock the muscles, the stubble, the good hair. Yes, I’m sorry, it’s vain, but I’m attractive to women. Why lie? And I was even more attractive back then.
I told her I’d get her a fresh coffee to apologise. She shook her head – regretfully? – and inclined a gesture to the girl. Of course. Tricky to go on a date when you’ve got your kid in tow. But I wouldn’t have minded. They were both so lovely. And it would have been a date. Because I was entranced already. And, of course, she was too. Even if she couldn’t admit it at the time.
And I’ve been entranced all these years.
For all the good it does me.
But this nostalgia is self-indulgent.
I pull up my hoodie. I want to hide from myself. From the lapse in responsibility I’ve made in coming here, when I should be at the house, guarding my precious goods. I move into a sprint in the car park, onto the main road. I didn’t even bring the car with me, that’s how serious I was about actually buying anything. And I thought, to the extent I was actually thinking at all, that if I left the car, went out the back way, he wouldn’t notice. If he’s still out there.
Because I don’t want a confrontation just yet. I’ve got a gun burning a hole in my pocket. They escalate, scenes with him. Over-provoked, I could pull it out. Mocked, I could fire it. I could justify myself to him. Show my authority. My manhood. My right to have those Suze and Cara rooms inside. And he would go away permanently. Peace. Imagine that. Peace.
My run has slowed. I pick up the pace again until I’m at the back gate. Just before I slide in, I notice the girl.
Alice knows she shouldn’t go back. It’s too dangerous. Who does she think she is, some kind of ‘Harriet the Spy’ character? She should at least have tipped off the police, or left a note for her mum and dad. So they would know where to find her if she doesn’t return.
Mr Belvoir would know where to look. But he probably would never know she’d gone. Or if he did, he might not bother to tell anyone. For all his questions, he seems to be taking a very laid-back approach to this. She’s not sure about his motives. If he genuinely wanted to help, he would have snatched that horrible man and dragged him to the police. He should be bold, like she’s about to be. Is she?
It wasn’t enough, showing Mr Belvoir where she thought the man would be. Where Cara had taken her. She needs to do more. At least, she thought she did. Now that it’s almost dusk and she’s there, across the road from that place, she thinks she might have been mistaken. This is real. Inside there, there are real things going on. Things that are not right. Things that Cara wouldn’t want. And because it’s real, there is real danger.
Because he is evil, isn’t he? He has to be.
She could just go home.
But she owes it to Cara. Because like her own mum said, how can she ever think of herself as Cara’s best friend if she doesn’t do what she can to help?
