love me like I know she can. She’d thank me for the delicious fish supper. Thank me for the warm bedding. Thank me for taking care of her. But it’s not an ideal world. Don’t we know it. All of us, under this roof.
So until that happens, she’s got to stay there. Locked in that room. And sometimes I may need to use force. Judge me, you up there, if you want to. But just like you have your plans and work in mysterious ways, so do I. I didn’t like slapping her. Of course I didn’t. Yes, there was an element of me that liked the touch of her skin. So soft. English rose. Just like Cara. You want to caress skin like that, not hurt it. Needs must though. Even if she was more stunned than hurt. She’ll forgive me in the end. She has to.
Slapping her, stopping her screaming, was the right thing to do. Selfish, partly. We need to communicate. We need to have a dialogue, even if for now it’s full of hate from her. And I want to be able to hear her voice. Not just gaze at her from afar. If she’s hoarse, we can’t do that, can we? I’ve thought so much about her speaking to me nicely, silkily, calling me by name, that I don’t want to ruin my chances by making her croak.
And there’s the noise, of course. Screaming. I think we’re safe. But I’m not big on attracting attention. Not now.
Of course, if she won’t communicate as she should, however long she’s in there, I’ll need to come up with another plan. Perhaps I’ll need to force her to understand. Something with more impact. Pierce that little bubble she thinks she can hide in, away from me, for ever. But for now I have to continue with what I’ve started. A new phase of life for us all.
‘Mum? Mum!’
It’s just a whisper but it stirs me. My brain fumbles out of the half-doze it has been in.
Cara!
But where?
‘Cara?’ I call.
‘Shh! He’ll hear you,’ comes the whispered response. That’s my daughter: ever practical, ever critical.
That’s my daughter. I was right. She is here. The maternal instinct hasn’t let me down.
I flick on the light switch, hoping that the glow won’t reach the Captor, or if it does that it won’t alarm him.
‘Cara,’ I whisper. ‘Where are you?’
There’s a banging sound from the wall opposite the bed. She must be in the next room. I rush over; caress the plaster.
‘Are you really through there?’ I ask. ‘But how can I hear you, through a wall?’
‘Lean down,’ she says. ‘There’s a grate.’
I do as she says, and she is, of course, right. My wonderful, wonderful daughter. You’re alive! You’re here! And you have found a vent between our walls! I lie right down on the floor to see if I can see her. Think perhaps we can join little fingers – our ‘mother and daughter for ever’ hook.
Her hand is so fragile, so tender. If I squeeze it, will she squeeze back?
But no. Hearing will have to be enough.
‘How did you know I was here?’ I ask her.
‘You weren’t exactly quiet,’ she says.
No. I wasn’t, was I?
‘You’re all right?’ I ask her. ‘He hasn’t touched you, or hurt you, or … anything, has he?’
Silence.
‘Cara?’ I start to panic. ‘He hasn’t, he didn’t—’
‘I guess you can’t hear when I shake my head,’ comes her response.
I close my eyes with relief. ‘Thank God,’ I murmur.
There’s a pause. Then we both start talking together.
‘Do you know where we are?’ I ask, as she says ‘Do you think Dad will find us?’
Then, from her, ‘I don’t know,’ as I say, ‘I’m sure he will, sweetheart.’ And at the same time I think, I hope so. Please, let him find us.
‘I’m so glad you’re here, Mum,’ she says. ‘I mean, it’s awful that he got you, when I understood what was happening I …’ She sounds like she’s holding back tears. Or maybe letting them flow. My poor darling Cara. ‘But I’m just glad, glad I’m not alone.’
I nod. ‘I know,’ I say. I hope she can hear that I’m hugging her voice with mine. Because I know what she means. I’m overjoyed she’s here. She’s here and she’s safe and she’s with me. I’d much rather she were at home, safer, with Paul, but at least I have this comfort. She would be my desert island luxury, as I’ve often told her. I’ll never let her go.
Such a beautiful baby. An item to treasure. Can’t I keep her with me?
‘What do you think he wants to do to us?’ she asks. ‘Just, like, keep us here? Or do you think he’s got, you know, plans?’
Can I use the maternal cloak of little white lies to conceal the world from her? In theory, for one more year, until she is sixteen. But she is savvy. That’s what growing up in London does to you. And she watches TV. We both know what she means.
‘Let’s hope he would have done that by now, if he was going to,’ I say.
As if on cue, there is the sound of footsteps, and a door opening along the corridor.
‘He’s heard us!’ I whisper. ‘Quick, back into your bed! Don’t tell him you know I’m here. He’ll move us!’
‘Mum!’
I hear the pain of separation in her voice. It rips through my heart. Worse, almost, than when they took her way from me, bundled up, in hospital, all that time ago.
‘I’ll think of something. Don’t worry,’ I say. Then I add, ‘There’s a window.’
But I have to scramble back to my bed because there’s a key in the lock.
The Captor’s face appears in the door frame.
‘Did you call me?’ he asks.
I shake my head.
He looks at the floor. ‘Shame,’ he says. Then I see his gaze has shifted to my bed. Where I haven’t quite pulled the cover over my exposed leg. I adjust the duvet quickly.
‘I must have been having a nightmare,’ I say. ‘Thank you for that.’
He just continues to look at me. I feel tremors start in my hands. He must have plans, looking at me like that. Is it how he looks at Cara too? My Cara, just next door. Who I must protect, keep safe, now that she is here. That is my role, my calling, my mothering duty at its starkest. I grasp my hands, holding them both together to stop the shaking. I must not show him I am afraid. That makes me vulnerable.
I raise my chin and meet the Captor’s stare. He looks away.
‘Would you like some hot chocolate?’ he asks.
‘What, so you can drug it?’ I ask.
He blinks at me. I knew it. He didn’t realise he had such a clever captive.
‘I don’t want your drugged hot chocolate,’ I say, more loudly than normal, so Cara can hear. Keep her safe, don’t let her succumb. We don’t want another generation started here in nine months’ time.
‘I’ll go back to bed then,’ he says. ‘Unless …’
He stares again into my bed. I think he is going to ask if he can get into mine.
Instead, he says, ‘Just tell me tomorrow if you want anything.’
‘What do