Nowhere Child Page 6

  I bought a ticket from the machine and took the last train.

  By the time I got to Stockport it was too late to get a bus to Emma’s house – so I was going to have to wait for the first one in the morning. I knew where there were some dense bushes and I could hide under those until morning – they would keep the frost off, at least.

  I didn’t sleep. I kept seeing Andy, lying in that doorway, not moving. I was doing what he wanted, but I ached inside at losing him.

  The bus left on time, but I didn’t catch it. I watched it pull out of the bus station and waited for the next. I didn’t catch that one either. What if he was wrong?

  I looked down at Andy’s notes and realised that I owed it to him at least to try. I had to trust him.

  There was another bus just before noon, so I forced my reluctant legs forwards, paid for my ticket and sat down at the back of the bus, my hands clasped tightly between my knees.

  The bus dropped me about a mile from the house. I felt a strange fluttering inside. All this time, me and Andy had been focusing on the fact that Emma says she wants me back. But what if she’s been lying? What if she wants to beat the shit out of me for stealing her baby and getting her mixed up in all that crap last year – forcing her to steal to save her baby’s life? And what about him – my dad?

  I’m still not sure. I keep repeating over and over, ‘Andy wanted me to do this. I’m doing it for him.’

  But there’s another reason why I have to see Emma. I need to know whether Andy is still alive, and the only chance I have of finding that out is to ask Emma if Tom can check the hospitals.

  So here I am, about twenty minutes’ walk from home – if that’s what you’d call it – and shaking so much it’s hard to put one foot in front of the other. The shops in the small town where the bus dropped me are full of things for Christmas, and I remember coming here with my mum when I was little. She loved these shops – said they were far better than the big department stores in Manchester because everything they sold was specially chosen by the people who work here. They were chosen with love, and we had to buy them with love.

  We had bought presents for everybody who went to the party on the last day – the party we were coming home from when she died. The party my dad didn’t come to because he was too busy planning our kidnap.

  I remember the party at Granddad’s. Mummy was sad because my dad didn’t come with us, but she smiled at everybody and said how hard he worked all the time. She kept looking at her watch, though, and I knew she wanted to go home. She didn’t like driving at night and she wasn’t looking forward to the journey. I had heard her trying to persuade my dad to come with us.

  ‘What happens if the car breaks down in the middle of nowhere?’ she had asked.

  ‘It’s not going to, Caroline. It’s a new car.’

  ‘I might have a flat tyre, and I might not get a signal on my phone.’

  ‘Call me when you leave your father’s house. If you’re not home when I expect you, I’ll come and find you. You’ll be fine, darling. Just remember to call me when you set off.’

  Of course he had needed that information. He had needed to tell the men who were going to ambush us what time we would be driving along that dark, icy stretch of road. It was all part of his plan. And it worked – but not in the way he thought.

  When Mummy had seen a car blocking the road, she was going to stop. But then she got a call on her phone and she put her foot down. She had to go up on the grass verge to get round it and she was going really fast. I remember being terrified. I could see her eyes in the mirror, glancing at me to make sure I was all right – and then it happened. The car started to go all over the road, the back end where I was sitting was swinging from side to side. Then it started to turn over, and she screamed. I was strapped in my car seat, upside down. I banged my head, but that was all. I shouted for her, but she didn’t answer. All I could hear was the radio, playing Christmas music.

  I was crying. I wanted my mummy, and she wasn’t saying anything. Her head was half out of the window and I could see her eyes were open, but she wasn’t looking at me. I didn’t know what that meant, back then.

  Suddenly there was a lot of shouting; I could see strange-looking people coming towards the car. I know now that they looked weird because the car was upside down and they looked like they were walking on their heads, but back then it was so scary I could hardly breathe. Somebody leaned into the car and undid my car seat. I fell out and bumped my head again. I heard somebody say, ‘What are we going to do with the fucking kid?’ and then I was shoved at a man who grabbed me roughly under the arms.

  Even after all this time I can remember his smell. It didn’t mean much to me then – only that I didn’t like it. But now I recognise it as Rory’s smell – a horrible mixture of old sweat, too many fags and stale beer. He chucked me into the back of a car, and all the time I was crying because I wanted my mummy. I soon learned to stop doing that, though. They told me she was dead, but it was a long time before I really understood what that meant. For ages I woke up every morning thinking, ‘Today’s the day Mummy will come for me.’

  My dad hadn’t planned that my mum would die. I know that now. It was supposed to be a fake kidnap so he could pretend to the police that he was forced to rob his own company. He thought we would just be locked up for a couple of hours, and that no harm would be done while he got the money he needed.

  Remembering that day and what my dad did makes me angry again. How am I going to cope with seeing him? I brush the thought aside and set off walking, knowing that I have to pass the exact spot where the accident happened – where she was killed.

  Another memory leaps into my head. Just before she turned the car over, Mummy was shouting into the phone. She was shouting ‘Jack’ at the top of her voice, and when I told Emma it had seemed to mean something to her – and to the policeman, Tom. But I didn’t know what. All I know is that, whoever Jack is, I hate him almost as much as I hate my dad. If Jack hadn’t spoken to her, maybe she would still be alive today.

  I trudge along the road, glad it’s not raining. I don’t want to arrive soaking wet through. It was raining last time I arrived here, but that time Rory had brought me – delivered me like some sort of parcel.

  We had arrived on the back of his motorbike. He was so proud of that bike, but I hated it. I always leaned the wrong way, and he got mad. That day, though, he was less angry with me than usual because I had a job to do. I wasn’t nervous. I was sure what I was doing was the right thing – all I had to do was refuse to tell my dad or the police about my life for the previous six years and where I had been living, and then as soon as I could I had to find the opportunity to take Ollie from the house. It was no big deal – I owed my dad nothing.

  When Rory dropped me off down the lane from the house I had taken off the big waterproof and my helmet and handed them to him.

  ‘Get in there, girl,’ he had said. ‘You can come home as soon as you’ve done your job.’

  It’s hard to believe now, but I had ached to go to the place that had been home to me for more than six years – back to Rory’s house with the filthy sheets and the smell of stale food; back to clouts around the head and demands to nick more stuff from the supermarket; back to being thrown in the Pit when I did something wrong.

  I suddenly remember that I never did tell Andy about the Pit. I’m glad. He didn’t need to know that.

  I can see the house now, up ahead. It looks just the same, the old red brick giving the house a snug, secure feel to it that almost makes me smile when I think about the bad stuff that went on in there. I didn’t live there for long, but I look at the windows and know exactly which room lies behind each of them. Of course, we spent most of our time in the massive extension at the back of the house. Emma always called it the kitchen, but it had a huge dining table and a couple of comfy sofas too, with toys for Ollie and a flat-screen television on the wall. I can’t see it from here; just the window of the rarely used sitting
room – the room in which I faced my dad with everything I knew about him.

  My dad’s Range Rover isn’t in the drive. Perhaps he sold it after that night. Perhaps the police took it away. There’s only one car and that’s Emma’s. He must be at work.

  I dart into the bushes, suddenly scared that I might be seen from the window – and then I realise how stupid I’m being. They are going to have to see me some time. But I’m not ready yet.

  Will I ever be?

  I pull my black hood up over my head, scared the sun will catch my white face. I want to be sure Emma is on her own before anybody sees me.

  Instead of going up to the front door, I make my way down the muddy lane that runs along the side of the house. Not that it’s muddy today. It’s in the shade from the overhanging trees, so there is still frost on the ground, forming ice on top of the puddles and turning the mud hard.

  I stop still and catch my breath. Emma is outside in the garden, hanging some washing out in the sunshine. I can see her through the thick hedge – just make out the red of her jumper.

  I’m not making a sound, but suddenly Emma stops – her hands reaching up to the line. She freezes for a moment, and if I move slightly I can just make out her face. She seems to be listening, as if she’s heard something. But it’s not me. I am as silent as a mouse.

  I see her shake her head, obviously deciding whatever she thought she heard, or perhaps sensed, she was wrong.

  I’m safe for a few more minutes, but I need to find courage from somewhere. I need to do this – for Andy, if not for me. He believed that Emma meant every word of it; that she really does want me back. I find it harder to trust her – but I want to know. I need her to forgive me for what I did, because I’m not sure I will ever forgive myself.

  12

  ‘Come on, Ollie, eat your lunch,’ Emma said as she put the spoon back in his hand for the third time. He was usually the easiest child to feed and loved whatever she put in front of him, but today he was playing up.

  Emma felt unsettled today too. It was just one of those days when she felt twitchy but didn’t know why. Her conversation with Tom the other night had unnerved her, and for the first time since everything happened she was beginning to think she would have to move house. Stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, she never saw anybody, and it wasn’t healthy for Ollie either. She needed to be somewhere with people around her. She had only stayed here because of Tasha, in the hope that her stepdaughter would come home. This was the only place she knew to find her way back to, but even though Emma had now seen and spoken briefly to Tasha, the girl seemed further away than ever.

  Emma sighed. When Tasha had called Emma had hoped that maybe she had finally started to get through to the girl, and perhaps after all this time Tasha had realised that Emma really did love her. Maybe she should give it until March. Then it would be a year since David had died and Tasha had left. She couldn’t help thinking too that it would be a year since Jack had reappeared, fleetingly, in her life. Too many things had happened in such a short space of time, but after a year with no change, perhaps that would be the right time to move on.

  Her reverie was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell, and Emma jumped.

  For God’s sake, calm down. What was the matter with her – she was jumping at her own shadow this morning.

  She pushed her chair back from the table. ‘Eat your lunch, Ollie. We’re going out later, don’t forget. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  She left the kitchen door ajar so she could hear Ollie and made her way down the hall. Nobody ever came here unannounced, and she had no idea who it could be. She had meant to have a peep hole installed but had never got round to it, so she put the chain on – knowing that if somebody wanted to kick it in at that point there would be little resistance – and opened the door a crack.

  A man and a woman were standing there.

  ‘Good afternoon. It’s Mrs Joseph, isn’t it? Do you have a moment?’

  Emma realised that she must look slightly deranged peering through the crack in the door, and these people looked harmless enough. The woman was wearing what Emma would describe as a sensible navy-blue skirt, just below the knee, and a blazer in a rather startling fuchsia colour. The man wore a sober-looking suit, and she couldn’t think what on earth they could want with her. She pushed the door to and released the chain before opening it fully.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ she asked.

  ‘No, Mrs Joseph, I think it’s more a case of what we can do for you.’ He reached a hand into his briefcase and pulled out a slim magazine, passing it across to Emma.

  Just then Emma heard a shout from the kitchen. Ollie was obviously getting bored. She had promised him that as soon as he had finished his lunch, they would go and search for Tasha again. She had worked hard at trying to keep his sister alive for Ollie, and he seemed to respond well. He was clearly ready to go, because he was shouting her name. ‘Tasha, Tasha.’

  Emma looked down at the magazine the man was handing to her. The Watch Tower.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘My little boy is shouting, and I’m afraid I’m not interested.’

  The man looked as if he were about to say something else – no doubt they were used to this response and he had his next line ready. But Emma didn’t give him chance. With an apologetic smile, she pushed the door closed. It felt rude, but she needed to get back to Ollie.

  ‘Okay, Ollie. I’m coming, sweetheart.’

  She walked back along the corridor to where the door was ajar.

  Ollie was right where she had left him, but now a hooded figure stood behind him, two black-clad arms wound around his neck.

  13

  Ollie. He’s even cuter than I remember, and as I push the back door open and look at him, he turns towards me and beams, recognising me even with my hood obscuring most of my face. He always did seem to love me, even though I didn’t deserve it, and I owe this baby so much. He nearly died because of me.

  ‘Tasha, Tasha,’ he shouts, and I run across the kitchen and wrap my filthy arms around his little body, my back to the door in the hall.

  I hear a gasp behind me.

  ‘Get off my baby. Get your filthy hands off my baby.’

  I feel the rush of air as Emma lunges for me, dragging me away from Ollie.

  Ollie starts to scream, and I fall to the floor, face down. I shouldn’t have come. I knew Andy was wrong. She just wants me dead.

  I hear her footsteps as she races to the kitchen drawer and I guess she’s gone for a knife – just like the last time I found myself here, in her kitchen. I don’t bother to get up. I just lie, face down, my heart ready to break in two. This was my last chance – my only chance now that Andy has gone. And we were so wrong.

  ‘Get on your feet,’ Emma says. ‘Get up and go and stand by that wall at the end of the kitchen, your hands behind your back. I’ve got a knife, and I’ll use it if you try anything.’

  Ollie is still screaming, and it’s hard to make out what Emma is saying – but I get the idea, and I do as she says, keeping my back to her. I don’t want her to see the tears streaming down my face – to see how she is killing me. I lift my hands to try to wipe them.

  ‘Keep your hands behind your back,’ she shouts.

  I reach the wall and stand facing it. I hear her drag a chair – the one with the screaming Ollie on it, no doubt – across the floor to where she thinks he’s safe.

  ‘Turn round very slowly, and no clever moves with your hands. Do you hear me?’

  Oh, I hear her. I hear the fear and hatred in her voice, and I can’t bear to turn round, to show her how much she’s hurt me. All that pretence for all these months, saying how much she misses me and wants me back – it was just because she wants me to suffer.

  I don’t think I care any more. They can send me to prison or to a special remand place, or whatever they do with kids like me. I just don’t care. My mum died, Izzy died and now Andy’s dead. I’m best out of it.

  I
sniff loudly and try to raise my shoulder high enough to wipe my tears, but I can’t do it. My hood falls back, and I feel exposed. I take a deep breath, and feel the shudders run through my body. Slowly, head down, I turn – too ashamed to let her see my face.

  For a moment, there’s silence. She’s saying nothing – just standing there. I keep my eyes to the ground. I don’t want to see the disgust on her face.

  Then she whispers, her voice no more than a breath with a question mark. ‘Tasha?’

  She didn’t know. She didn’t know it was me. She hadn’t seen my face, only my back. I lift my head slowly, tears dripping from my chin, and I look at her. She runs towards me, the knife in her hand. I stand still, not knowing or caring what’s about to happen. I just stare into her eyes.

  ‘Tasha!’ she screams, dropping the knife and flinging her arms around my shoulders, pulling me to her and holding me so tightly I can hardly breathe. ‘Tasha,’ she repeats, more quietly now. ‘Oh, thank God.’

  Nobody has hugged me like this since the time I was very small and my mum thought she had lost me in Kendals in Manchester. When she found me, I started to cry and she thought it was because I was scared. I wasn’t. She was hurting me.

  But now I like the hurt. I’ve been standing with my arms behind my back, but slowly I bring them round to the front, not sure if it’s okay for me to hug Emma back, but I don’t think she’ll mind. I put my arms round her back, loosely to start with, but as she hugs me so fiercely and cries onto the top of my shorn head, I feel the dam inside me explode as the years of pent-up terror and unhappiness gush through the gaping hole in the walls that have held me together for so long. I start to sob.

  I cling on to Emma for dear life. I want to stay here, wrapped in her arms forever.

  I don’t know how long we stay like that, but gradually the mood changes. Emma’s delight moves to one of deep concern as she realises the depths of my pain, and her hugs become gentler as she stokes my hair and whispers words of comfort against my ear.