Stranger Child Read online

  Since the builders had left this had become her and Ollie’s daytime world. There was plenty of space for her son to play on a floor mat in the living area, and the under-floor heating made it warm for him even in the depths of winter. In truth, she couldn’t deny that she had also wanted to stamp some of her own personality on the house. She had had to stop feeling like a visitor. The new extension felt like her space.

  ‘London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down,’ she sang as she walked into the kitchen, flicking the light switch and turning towards the sink, where the lunch dishes were waiting for her. Ollie started bouncing in her arms, banging his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Ay, ay,’ he shouted.

  Emma laughed. ‘Are you joining in, sweetheart?’ She gently put him into his chair, but he wasn’t looking at her. ‘You’re a funny little man, aren’t you,’ she said, dropping a kiss onto his sparse blond hair.

  She glanced out at the dismal day. The black clouds heavy with rain were creating such gloom that the kitchen lights were a necessity even this early in the afternoon.

  Her eyes settled on the garden, which was in desperate need of some attention. The workmen had paid little regard to the niceties of maintaining the lawn or the flowerbeds as they had tramped backwards and forwards in their heavy boots, but she didn’t mind. She had visions of the spring days just around the corner, out in the sunshine with Ollie playing on the big waterproof mat. She was going to plan and design a real cottage garden with lots of roses. She had always loved roses.

  For a moment, Emma was in a trance, staring at nothing because in her head she could see summer days when the garden was finished, the beds bursting with newly planted flowers. She could almost smell the lavender she would grow in the borders.

  She wasn’t sure of the moment that it happened. It wasn’t an instant in time, it was more of a gradual awareness, but as she stared blindly at the black window, dreaming of the happy months ahead, something moved at the edge of her peripheral vision. Her eyes refocused from the garden to the surface of the glass, the bright lights of the kitchen against the dark sky beyond creating a perfect mirror.

  Every nerve ending in her body prickled, and she gasped as her brain finally acknowledged what she was looking at.

  It was a pair of eyes. A pair of eyes that were behind her, watching.

  Close behind her.

  In her kitchen.

  5

  A beam of sunlight burst through the black clouds, hitting the kitchen window and obliterating the reflection as if it had never been there. Emma’s fingers gripped the edge of the sink. Had she imagined it? But as quickly as the sun had come out, it was chased away by the squally clouds and the mirror image returned.

  Locking eyes with the ghostly reflection that ebbed and flowed as the light outside adjusted from black to grey, Emma groped along the draining board, searching with her fingers for a weapon. There was nothing more than a plastic bowl. Reaching up to the cutlery holder, she felt a sharp pain and a rush of liquid warmth as her fingers grasped the blade of a sharp boning knife, and she followed the steel down to grip the handle with damp, sticky fingers.

  Scared of breaking the fragile eye contact for even a second in case the person moved – moved closer to her or to Ollie, moved out of her line of vision or into the hall, where she would be forced to follow – Emma took a deep breath and spun round, leaning heavily back on the sink for support as her legs suddenly weakened.

  Her heart thumping and her throat too tight with tension to scream, she stared at the person in front of her as adrenaline pumped through her body, preparing it for fight or flight.

  It was a girl, little more than a child.

  She was slightly built with straggly blonde hair that settled on the shoulders of her scruffy dark-grey duffle coat, her hands thrust deep into the pockets. The eyes that Emma had seen reflected in the window were mesmerising. Large, oval and the deep grey-green of a stormy ocean, they flinched slightly as Emma brandished the knife. But the girl didn’t move.

  Emma lowered the knife onto the kitchen island, but kept hold of it. She had no idea what the girl wanted, but, young as she was, Emma didn’t trust her.

  ‘What are you doing in my kitchen?’ she asked. ‘Get out now, before I call the police.’

  The girl didn’t move. She just stared back, her eyes never leaving Emma’s face. In them Emma thought she could read hostility, but perhaps it was confusion, or fear.

  ‘Ay, ay,’ shouted Ollie, not used to being ignored. Neither pair of eyes strayed to him even for a second.

  ‘I’m not going to ask you again. Either go now, or tell me who you are and what the hell you are doing in my kitchen?’ Emma repeated.

  Silence.

  The girl stood where she was and stared at Emma, but her eyes narrowed slightly, as if sizing her up. For a second, she gazed at the knife in Emma’s hand.

  ‘Are you frightened?’ Emma asked. She couldn’t imagine what had made this girl come into her house, out in the middle of nowhere, but it occurred to her that perhaps the child was scared of something or someone. Was she running away? Maybe if Emma relaxed, the girl might tell her why she was here.

  Emma took some deep breaths and felt her heart rate slow. If the girl had planned to attack, surely she would have done it by now?

  Reaching forwards, she pushed the knife further onto the island. She lifted her cut finger to her mouth and sucked it, then pulled a tissue from up her sleeve and wrapped it around the painful wound. But she never took her eyes off the girl.

  ‘My name’s Emma. Nobody’s going to hurt you.’ She didn’t know why she said that, but despite the girl’s impassive stare she was, after all, only a kid. Surely she couldn’t mean them any harm?

  The girl slowly drew her hands from her pockets and Emma could see they were balled into tight fists, her arms held stiff and straight. And she was wearing gloves. Emma’s body tensed – perhaps the gloves meant that the girl didn’t want to leave any trace that she had been here.

  ‘Please – just tell me what you want.’

  Everything Emma said was met with silence.

  The girl stared at Emma for a moment longer, and then her eyes flicked around the room as if she was looking for something. Emma used the momentary respite from the hypnotic gaze of those cold eyes to look more carefully at the girl. She could see that her coat was at least two sizes too big – as if she had borrowed it from an older sister, or even a brother. It fell way below her knees, and the sleeves hung beyond the end of her arms. She wore dark-blue jeans, crumpled over a pair of dirty white trainers. But in spite of that, she had a fragile beauty that was at odds with the hostility of her stance.

  ‘Look, I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, but unless you tell me I’m afraid I’m going to have to call the police. Somebody will be missing you, wondering where you are.’

  The girl’s head spun round towards Emma, and her eyes opened wide. She glanced towards the back door, and suddenly Emma was worried that she was going to run. Two minutes ago, she would have been relieved to see her go, but something must have happened to this child for her to turn up here. Perhaps there had been an accident and she had walked here? Perhaps she was lost.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down? Can you tell me your name? I’m Emma, and this,’ she turned her head, smiling at her son to reassure him, ‘is Ollie.’

  The green eyes betrayed no hint of warmth as they focused on Ollie, who was looking curiously at the girl and banging his plastic spoon on the tray of his high chair.

  Emma’s mobile was upstairs in her handbag, and the girl was standing between her and the kitchen telephone. Although Emma had put the knife down, she still didn’t want to be within striking distance of the girl in case she had misjudged her.

  ‘Please – sit down.’ Emma raised her arm and pointed to the dining table at the far end of room. The girl didn’t move and Emma edged slowly around her without getting too close, hoping that she could reach the phone.
She kept her voice calm and level.

  ‘Okay, I’m going to call the police now. Nobody’s going to hurt you, and I’m not calling them because I want you arrested for being in my house. I just want you to be safe and to get you back home. I don’t even know if you understand what I’m saying.’

  The girl flew towards the phone, ripped it from its base and threw it across the room. She swivelled on her heel and ran across the kitchen, grabbing the knife from the island where Emma had left it. She backed up against the wall, one hand balled into a fist at her side, the other grasping the knife, ready to strike.

  Emma stifled a scream of fear. She mustn’t frighten Ollie. She wiped her suddenly damp palms on the legs of her jeans and circled to the other side of the island, placing herself between the knife and her baby, her eyes locked on the girl’s. All kind thoughts about this child’s welfare fled from her mind as she realised she was trapped. She couldn’t leave the kitchen to get her mobile. Even if she could get past her, she couldn’t leave Ollie here.

  ‘Get out! Get out of my house right now. You’re scaring my baby,’ ordered Emma with as much confidence as she could muster. This is just a child, she told herself. You are in control here.

  Emma risked a glance at Ollie, who was indeed looking confused. His gaze shifted from his mummy to the girl, his deep blue eyes filling with tears as the tension in the room sizzled around him. Emma reached out a hand and stroked his face with the back of a finger.

  ‘Shh. It’s okay, sweetheart.’ She didn’t want to shout at the girl again, but she wanted her gone. Alert to the girl’s slightest movement, she picked up Ollie’s drinking cup from the worktop and passed it to him. The girl wasn’t looking at Emma now. Her eyes were darting around the room, her brows knitted together slightly. Was she searching for an escape route?

  Emma looked at Ollie, still sitting in his chair watching the girl, and she felt her anger grow as she took in his sparse blond curls and his plump cheeks, damp from his momentary tears. Nobody was going to hurt her baby. It struck her with force that if the girl came anywhere near Ollie, she would fight against that knife with her bare hands without a second’s hesitation.

  She had no idea what to do. David wouldn’t be back for hours, but maybe the girl didn’t need to know that.

  ‘Look, I don’t know why you’re here and what you want, but my husband will be back any minute now. And I’m warning you …’ Emma stopped. She didn’t want to threaten her. She didn’t know if this girl was mentally ill and could be inflamed by talk of violence. ‘Please, talk to me.’

  Emma’s fraught mind replayed everything that had happened. If the girl had wanted to attack, she’d had plenty of opportunity before Emma realised she was in the room. She had been silent, her expression blank, until she thought Emma was going to contact the police. She seemed to want something from Emma, but Emma had no idea what it was.

  ‘I know you don’t want to speak to me, but if I give you a piece of paper and a pen, will you write your name down for me?’ Emma asked with a sudden flash of inspiration. It occurred to her that maybe the girl couldn’t speak.

  Gently easing Ollie’s chair back slightly, well out of the girl’s reach, she took a notepad and a pen from a shelf above the worktop and pushed them across the kitchen island towards the girl.

  ‘Please, write your name down for me. I don’t know what to call you, and if I’m going to help you I need to know who you are.’

  The girl stared back at Emma, ignoring the paper and pen that were in front of her.

  Emma closed her eyes in frustration. Maybe David would have more luck, and if not it would be down to the police to sort it out.

  As if thinking of her husband had conjured him from nowhere, the throb of a powerful engine invaded the oppressive silence as David’s Range Rover pulled into the drive. Relieved as she was, she had no idea why he was home so early.

  A few seconds later, the front door slammed, and Emma desperately wanted to rush out into the hall to greet him. But somehow she was scared that if she turned round the girl would have disappeared and nobody would believe she had ever been here.

  Her relief was tempered by surprise as the girl threw the knife onto the worktop, pulled the notepad towards her and started to write. Just a few letters, and she turned the paper round to face Emma.

  ‘Emma?’ She heard David drop his keys in the bowl in the hall and heard his footsteps coming towards them. ‘Emma? Something terrible has happened. Where are you?’ he called. She could hear anxiety in his voice as he strode towards the kitchen.

  She stared at the five letters as if they made no sense. But they did. A shiver ran through her body and goose bumps covered her arms.

  I must warn David. But it was too late. He pushed open the door and his eyes went straight to Emma.

  ‘Em. I’ve had some shocking …’ he began. His eyes were suddenly drawn to the corner of the kitchen. He glanced at the girl, and his brow knitted into a frown. He looked back at Emma as he walked across the room, his head on one side as if asking her a silent question. She knew she should speak, but for a moment she couldn’t find the words.

  ‘Ay, Dada. Ay,’ shouted Ollie.

  But David didn’t respond to his son. He turned back to the girl and stopped dead, his mouth slightly agape. He stared, speechless, at her, and his face drained of all colour.

  The girl stared back, two bright red marks on her cheeks betraying some emotion that was absent from her eyes. The silence felt heavy, and Emma was suddenly certain that from this moment forwards her life was never going to be the same.

  Finally, David spoke, his voice barely more than a whisper.

  ‘Tasha,’ he said.

  6

  As soon as David had uttered those two syllables, the silent spell was broken. A gasp burst from his throat as he crossed the room almost at a run. Emma looked on helplessly as her husband stood in front of his daughter, his open palms stroking her upper arms as he stared down at her face, his expression switching from puzzlement to joy. Tears spilled from his eyes and ran unchecked down his cheeks as he tried to pull Tasha’s rigid body towards him.

  Emma was sure he would be thinking of Caroline, of how things used to be when it was him, Caroline and Tasha all together. She could imagine the scene if both parents had been here to witness the return of their lost daughter; how they would have rejoiced together. She realised that tears were running down her face too, and she brushed them away quickly. How cruel that David and Tasha had lost each other for so long.

  There had never been an explanation for Caroline’s accident, and there hadn’t been a trace of Natasha from that day to this. David had told Emma how the whole town had come out to march up and down the fields surrounding the accident site. Helicopters had buzzed overhead. Urgent appeals had been issued in the press and on television. But there was no sign that anybody else had ever been in that car. Only Caroline.

  And now Natasha was here. In their kitchen.

  David had blamed himself for refusing to go to the family party. Even though he knew Caroline wasn’t a confident driver, especially in the dark, he had rejected her pleas and stayed at home, pretending that work was the issue. That wasn’t true. It was simply because he didn’t enjoy spending time with Caroline’s father. It had taken all of Emma’s love and patience to get him to begin to accept that he wasn’t responsible for what had happened.

  Now he was talking non-stop to his daughter, and Emma’s eyes had moved to Natasha, who seemed completely unmoved by anything he said, her gaze blank, her eyes turned away from her father.

  ‘Tasha. Oh darling.’ David shook his head as if he had no idea what to say. ‘This is incredible. I’ve missed you – far more than you’ll ever know. You’re so beautiful – you’re so like your mother – do you know that?’

  Trembling with emotion, he tried again to pull her into his arms, but as Emma watched she saw Natasha stiffen even more, her eyes narrowing. She could tell that the child’s jaw was clenched.
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br />   Belatedly, Emma saw the likeness to Caroline – the curve of Natasha’s cheek, her long dark eyelashes despite her blonde hair and the delicate pink of her lips. Caroline had been so dark, but it was a superficial difference. Under that sweep of chestnut hair in the portrait in the hall, her husband’s first wife gazed out with the same impenetrable gaze as the one Tasha wore now.

  David was still muttering words of love, trying to get Natasha to respond to him.

  ‘David,’ Emma said softly. She walked over and gently put her hand on his back. ‘I know this must seem strange to you, but Tasha probably doesn’t remember you very well. I think she’s maybe a little frightened.’

  David turned his head sharply to Emma. ‘Of course she’s not frightened. She knows I’m her dad. Why else would she be here?’ She could see the pain of Tasha’s rejection in David’s grey eyes and she barely recognised him as the same relaxed, confident man who had left the house that morning. Now his body was taut with tension, his skin flushed with anxiety.

  His face relaxed into a smile as he turned back to Tasha and lifted a hand to gently push her hair from her face, but she shook her head so the hair fell forwards again and continued to stare blankly at the table.

  ‘Why don’t we all sit down,’ Emma said, ‘and we can talk to Tasha, discover how she’s found her way back to you and where she’s been for all these years.’

  ‘She’s back. That’s all that matters, where she’s been can wait.’

  Emma stared at her husband. Of course it couldn’t wait. What if she had been held prisoner? What if she had been abused? Somebody out there was guilty of keeping this child, and they couldn’t pretend the last six years had never happened.