‘Are you okay, Tommo?’ I put an arm around my son, holding him close.
We’re on the ferry, watching the water spill and chug around us.
This is the sort of ferry I remember going on as a child. Stressful, awkward holidays to the Hebrides with Mum and Dad. It has a café selling Scottish toffee and shortbread and bad cups of tea, with a good view.
Neither Tom nor I slept on the overnight train. Tom lay on the seat with his eyes closed, but I could tell by his breathing that he was pretending.
When we arrived at the ferry port, I made a big fuss about buying Tom a croissant. It’s so easy to be the loving mother when I have an audience.
Tom didn’t eat the croissant and I ended up throwing it in the bin. ‘Never mind, darling. You’re probably travel-sick.’
Then I dragged Tom on foot over the passenger bridge and onto the ferry.
Now we’re on the deck watching the water.
‘I’m cold,’ says Tom, teeth chattering.
Water swells and churns as the ferry sways and there’s a fine mist in the air. It’s made Tom’s face damp, I think. Or maybe he’s crying.
‘It’ll be a fresh start, okay?’ I say. ‘We’ll be safer now. Maybe we can go without medication for a bit. Things might be different.’
Tom doesn’t reply – just stares.
‘I won’t let them take you away from me, Tom,’ I say. ‘I would kill myself first. Don’t you understand that? You’re my whole world.’
‘I want to stay,’ says Tom.
‘Hush now, Tom. It’s for the best. You can’t stay here – who would take care of you?’
‘Dad.’
‘He hurt you, Tom. You’re mine, not his. I won’t ever let you leave me. Not ever.’
Tom goes silent then, sensing in his childlike way that I’m wandering into a place there’s no way out of.
I look up, meaning to appreciate the clear sky, the gleaming white boat, our lucky escape. But instead, I see two police officers in yellow high-vis jackets.
I put on a forced, bright voice and look down at Tom. ‘Ready for an adventure, sweetheart?’
Smile. Don’t look so frightened.
But I am frightened. The ferry hasn’t left yet – passengers are still getting on.
I didn’t take the Aberdeen ferry in the end. The port is too well-known. Someone might have guessed where we were going. Instead, Tom and I have boarded the Scrabster ferry. It’s more of a round-about route, but less traceable.
‘Mrs Kinnock?’ One of the police officers steps forward.
My grip on Tom’s hand tightens.
The police officers have the ring of Laurel and Hardy about them – one tall and skinny, the other short and fat. The short, fat one is female, her bright jacket pulled tight over a large bust.
‘Mrs Kinnock.’ A bright yellow high-visibility jacket blocks my path.
I’m a rat caught in a trap. ‘I’m not Mrs Kinnock.’ I look between the officers. One of them – the woman – has her fists clenched.
‘We’ve come to talk to you, Mrs Kinnock,’ the male police officer announces. ‘You have to get off the boat. Would you come with us, please?’
‘I’m not Mrs Kinnock.’
‘We know it’s you,’ says the policeman. ‘Tessa Warwick from Child Services traced your ticket purchase through the ferry company. If you could just come with us.’
I grasp Tom’s shoulder. ‘The police need to talk to us for a minute, okay? Nothing to worry about. And then we’ll be on our way to the Shetlands. Fresh air. Beautiful scenery. Sheep. All of that.’
‘You won’t be going anywhere, Mrs Kinnock,’ says the policeman. ‘We’re here to arrest you and take Tom into protective custody.’
I grab Tom, holding him to my body. ‘You won’t take him. This is my son. He’s part of me. I love him more than life.’
It’s a good show, and I feel the onlookers responding with pity, wondering what the police are doing to this poor, kind mother.
The short, fat policewoman steps forward, angry tears in her eyes. ‘I’ve given birth to three kids, Mrs Kinnock. Three of them. I love all of them more than life. But I’ve never given any of them medicine to make them sick.’
The man puts a hand on Tom’s shoulder. ‘It’s okay, Tom. It’s all okay. You’ll see your dad soon.’
I look between the officers, wondering if I can outrun them.
No. Not with Tom. And what am I without Tom? Nobody. Invisible.
‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ I insist.
‘Come with us, please,’ the male officer says. ‘Alison, you take Tom.’
The policewoman kneels down to Tom. ‘We’re taking you somewhere safe. All right, Tom? And then we’ll get you reunited with your dad.’
Tom’s face lights up, and I want to claw the smile back.
My feet become unsteady and I feel the hard metal gangway against my hip. ‘You can’t take him away from me,’ I say. ‘He’s my son. My son. He belongs to me!’
‘Mrs Kinnock, we have an emergency protection order,’ says the policeman.
Now I’m shouting: ‘You won’t take him away from me. You won’t take him away from me!’
The short police officer’s hand goes to the handcuffs on her belt. ‘If you could just come with us.’
There are high-pitched, animalistic screams.
Mine.
Somewhere, amid the noise, there’s a struggle. My head is pushed down, more forcibly than necessary, and I watch brown water churn under the criss-crossed metal gangway.