I’m sitting in the park, on a swing, toes embedded in grass, rocking back and forth without ever leaving the ground. The chain digs into my hips; I’m too big for the plastic seat and the chill of it has seeped into my bones. I’ve been here for hours and I’m so stiff I’m not sure I could stand if I tried. Tom rang a while ago, but I didn’t answer, just sent him a text instead.
I need some time.
My mum called me an ungrateful bitch. She threatened to kill herself. What kind of daughter am I?
I bite my cheek, hurting myself and tasting blood, wondering what it would be like if I kept bleeding. It would stop me from hurting anyone ever again. I think of Dad: it’s in me, that impulse towards destruction. Is it in Mum too?
I wonder when she will speak to me again.
A group of mums with toddlers has congregated at the other side of the park; they’re glaring at me, trying to get me to relinquish the swing with the sheer force of their animosity. I don’t.
Desperate to think of something other than Mum, and how I’ve hurt her, my thoughts veer back to the missing girl from the train station. It feels as if she’s on the other swing, right next to me. I can almost see her: legs pumping, hair flying, fists curled around the chain. She isn’t laughing though, how could she be?
Finally, the park empties, and I am alone. With some difficulty I uncurl my fingers from the iron links and touch the place where rust has turned my palms red. I can smell it: coppery, like blood.
I don’t know what to do next to find her. Why couldn’t someone more capable have seen her being taken? Why me? All I’ve done is create a map showing kidnappings, something that any half-decent analyst could have done, and probably has.
Suddenly I am desperate to speak to Naomi, the only person who thought, at least for a while, that I had genuinely witnessed a crime. The only person who hasn’t labelled me paranoid, accused me of wasting police time, or called me a bitch.
I decide that I’m going to hand the map in to her and then let it go; focus on my family, on the move and on making Mum forgive me. If Naomi decides there’s something in it, she’ll be able to conduct an investigation and, if she doesn’t, well, at least I’ve tried.
I wipe my stained hands on my coat, and, with cold fingers, I make the call.
‘Patterson.’
‘Oh.’ I lick dry lips. ‘I was hoping to speak to Sergeant Shaw.’
‘Sorry, Sergeant Shaw is out on a call. Can I get her to ring you back?’
‘If you can just let her know that Bridget Carlson rang, please?’ I hang up after he agrees, unkink my limbs, climb off the swing and head back towards my car.
At the gate I look back. The swing I left is moving erratically, as if I’m still sitting there, pushing with my toes. Back and forth. Beside it the other hangs motionless.
When I get home, Grace is fast asleep and Tom is waiting for me. He leaps to his feet. ‘Are you all right, Bridge? Jesus, you’re chilled to the bone. Where’ve you been?’
‘Nowhere. Just the park.’ I freeze when I see a bandage on his hand. It’s pink with blood that has soaked through. There’s been too much blood recently. I sway, feeling sick. ‘What have you done?’
‘Cut myself chopping veg like an idiot. Don’t worry, it’s fine. Was therapy that bad?’
‘Mum went mental. She tried to write a cheque for twenty grand to stop us from moving.’ I wrap my arms around my chest, still shivering. ‘She threatened to kill herself, Tom, it was beyond awful.’
‘She threatened to kill herself?’ He flushes, one slash of colour on each cheek. Is he angry or upset? I can’t tell.
I swallow. ‘Just like Dad.’
‘I can’t believe she’d threaten to do that. That’s …’ he frowns. ‘Seems a bit odd that she wants to take Grace, then.’
‘What?’
‘She rang an hour ago. She wants to see Grace.’
I stare at him. ‘You don’t mean now?’
‘In the morning. She says she’ll be here at nine.’
‘But … I didn’t think we’d see her for weeks.’ A sick feeling squirms around my gut. ‘Don’t let her take her.’ I blurt the words.
Tom frowns. ‘You think she might hurt Grace? She wouldn’t, would she?’
‘I …’ I look at the picture of Grace that hangs on our wall. In it she’s six months old and smiling. ‘No, I just—’
‘Then she isn’t taking her.’ Tom stands. ‘If you think there’s any chance at all …’
The snake wound in my guts loosens its bite. ‘Okay.’
‘She won’t like it,’ Tom warns.
‘I know.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll deal with it.’ Tom pulls me close and I inhale his scent. ‘She already thinks this is all my fault anyway.’
I lean into him, feeling safe, feeling loved. And I stay there for a long time.
The next morning the doorbell rings at nine. I’ve been up and awake with Grace since six, checking the time every five minutes, tension making my muscles ache.
Tom takes a deep breath, then he goes to the door.
‘I’m coming in.’ I brace, but Mum walks gingerly into the kitchen, shoulders hunched like an old woman. ‘I thought, seeing as you’re going to be moving, you’ll have a lot to do. Packing and what-not.’
I stare at her.
‘So, it makes sense for me to take Grace for a few days.’
I open my mouth but Tom puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Alison, Grace isn’t well. Didn’t Bridget tell you? She’s been throwing up. A nasty sick bug. We wouldn’t want you to catch it.’
Mum’s eyes go from Tom’s bandaged hand to Grace. ‘She looks fine.’
‘She is now.’ Tom doesn’t flinch. ‘But the NHS website says she’ll be contagious for another forty-eight hours.’
‘Are you lying to me, Tom?’ Mum says, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘After all the help I’ve given you, after everything I’ve done …’
I turn and open the washing machine. It is filled with Grace’s clothes and bedding. I yank it all out and it slaps onto the tiles, sopping wet. Frankie-Lion topples from the pile and Grace squeals when she sees him.
I look from the pile of washing to Mum. She takes a step backwards. ‘Forty-eight hours then? When will that be?’
‘Let’s leave it a couple of days, to be on the safe side.’ Tom meets her gaze but I’m not looking at him. There’s something else in the laundry: a woman’s t-shirt. It isn’t mine.
Mum leaves without saying another word. Tom sees her out but I don’t watch them go. I bend down and pick up the green top. It’s smaller than one I’d wear, expensive-looking, a silk blend. I hold it as Tom comes back in.
‘What’s this?’
‘I don’t know. Isn’t it yours?’ Tom asks, absently, as if I wouldn’t know my own clothes.
‘No.’
Tom picks Grace up and holds her tightly, a shield.
Water soaks from the t-shirt into my blouse. I feel the chill on my skin. ‘How did it get into our wash load?’
‘It must have been left in there from the last wash. Are you sure it isn’t yours?’ The voice isn’t Tom’s, it’s a rough squeak, like a gear shift in a car gone wrong.
‘Whose is it, Tom?’
He frowns at me. Then his expression clears. ‘It’ll be Sam’s. Must have got swept up in our luggage when we were packing, then dumped in the laundry.’ He relaxes visibly. ‘Do you want me to call her and let her know we have it? She might want us to post it back.’
‘Sam’s?’ I look at the shirt. It’s possible. It’s her style.
Tom laughs. ‘What did you think, Bridge? That I had some woman round while you were at work, then offered to clean her clothes?’
‘I … I don’t …’ I let the top fall back onto the pile of Grace’s sheets.
Tom steps nearer and takes my arm. ‘Don’t!’ I jerk my elbow back and my heel catches in the trailing end of a wet blanket. I topple over with a cry.
Grace screams as I hit my head on the breakfast bar with a solid thunk.
The sound of my head hitting wood keeps reverberating, as if it’s going on and on and isn’t just the work of half a second. Pain rattles through me and I curl up on the floor, elbows over my temples, my chest heaving.
‘Oh my God, Bridge! Let me put Grace down. I’m coming.’
Tom tries to pull me up but I resist. He grips my arms and yanks, heaving them from my face. ‘I need to see, Bridge.’ My eyes remain closed, but I hear his gasp. ‘You’re going to have a hell of a bruise. Are you all right? Speak to me!’
I squeeze my eyes tightly shut and sob. It is all too much. Am I crying because of the pain? I don’t think so. I’m crying because my dad killed himself when I was eleven, and because my mum threatened to follow him. I’m crying because there is a missing little girl that no-one cares for. I’m crying because Naomi hasn’t called me back. I’m crying because my own head is a mess, filled with nightmares and darkness and holes where happy memories ought to be. I am crying because I think Tom just lied to me.
‘You’ll be okay.’ Tom is beside me again. I hadn’t noticed him go. ‘Here, take some Nurofen, quick.’ He presses a glass of water and two tablets into my nerveless fingers. ‘Sit up.’ He hauls me into a sitting position and wraps his arms around me from behind, holding me upright. My bones have vanished, I am only blood and flesh: human gelatine.
With a hand that shakes so hard I splash water on the tiles, I take the tablets, even though I can’t see what difference they’ll make. The throb in my head is nothing. In fact, it’s a blessed distraction.
Tom is making shushing noises, rocking me, but Grace will need dealing with soon. I choke back my tears.
I don’t know how much time passes before I calm down enough to get to my feet.
Tom installs me on the sofa in the living toom, with Grace and a cup of tea. Then he perches in front of me, leaning forward in the easy chair, resisting its comfort. ‘We should get you to hospital, you might have a concussion.’
I start to shake my head but when the movement sends spikes down my neck, I stop. ‘I’ll be all right.’
He exhales shakily. ‘You really scared me. What was that abou—’
My phone beeps, the sound echoing between us. Without thought, I twist and pull it from my pocket. Pavlovian training. I shouldn’t have, my eyes are too blurry to read the display. Tom reaches over and takes it from me, automatically glancing at the message as he slips it into his own pocket. ‘You don’t need to look at this now, do y—’ He stops and frowns, takes the phone back out and re-reads the message more carefully. Then he lays it on the coffee table between us. The case clicks on the wood like a closing door. ‘Who the hell is Grant Dobson?’
‘Grant Dobson?’ I lean towards the phone. The message sits there, longer than my usual texts, practically an email. I squint until the font begins to make sense.
This is Grant Dobson’s neighbour. You asked me to let you know if he said anything that might help you. We walked to the shop together this morning and there was a van parked on the corner. He lost his shit – thought it was after him. Said Betsie had been seeing a white van before the kidnapping. He went on a bit. Forgot when and where he was. He wanted me to put his posters back up. Said people kept taking them down. Of course, he also claims that demons drink his whiskey while he’s asleep, so … good luck. Mick.
Tom points at the screen. ‘What’s going on, Bridge?’
I can’t think straight. There is only one way to explain. I stand carefully, like an invalid, holding my head. Then I take my keys from the table and slip into the hallway. Tom follows. I leave the house and go to the car.
‘What are you doing? You can’t drive anywhere, not like this!’ Tom’s demands grow more strident, but he stops when I go to the passenger seat and feel on the floor for the book. My head throbs as I bend over and pull it out. I hold it to my chest. When I show him this, he’ll go mad, he might even leave me and go to stay with Neil again.
I hand the book over.
‘Kidnapped!’ Tom reads the cover. ‘I don’t understand. I thought you’d stopped thinking about this stuff.’
‘Page twenty-six,’ I rasp, and head back into the house.
Tom doesn’t follow. He remains standing in the driveway. I can’t watch him read the chapter. I go back inside, sit on the sofa to watch Grace, and wait for my world to implode.
Footsteps in the hallway and then Tom is standing in front of me, staring as if I’m a stranger. ‘I don’t understand,’ he says eventually. He tosses the book on the sofa next to me and sits on the other side of it. It lies between us, the spine bent, the pages creased.
‘What?’ I ask him. ‘What don’t you understand?’
‘A lot of things.’ Tom rubs his face. Stubble rasps against the heel of his hand. ‘I thought you’d agreed to drop all of this.’
‘I know. I just … couldn’t.’
‘But when did you get in touch with Grant Dobson? And why him? Why not one of these other families?’ He pushes the book towards me. ‘Why not Mr Barraclough or Mr Scott?’
I touch my forehead gingerly; I can’t help it. I wince at the swelling under my fingers, it feels alien. I drop my hand. ‘There are similarities between his daughter’s kidnapping and the one I saw. And … he lives near Clitheroe. I–I don’t know how to say this. I went to see him when you were at your meeting.’
‘What the fuck, Bridge?’ Tom spits. Grace looks up sharply. She’s found Dobbie and is gripping him with both hands.
‘Tom!’ I hiss.
He gets up and switches on the television. Mister Tumble comes on. Grace is immediately absorbed in the colours and sounds.
He doesn’t sit back down. Instead he begins to pace, his hands restless too, as if he doesn’t know what to do with them. He pulls his hair, turning the curls into spikes. ‘What the fudge, Bridge?’ he hisses. ‘You lied to me before and now you’ve lied again. You said you were checking out the area while I was job-hunting, and instead you go and look into more of this kidnapping crap. It didn’t happen, Bridget. It was a dream.’ He looks sad. ‘What’s wrong with you? Don’t you care about us at all?’
‘It wasn’t a dream.’ I close my eyes against his expression. ‘I saw a girl being taken, Tom. Why won’t you believe me?’
The doorbell rings.
Tom frowns. ‘Who the hell is that?’
I touch the book beside me, like it’s a talisman. ‘Are you expecting anything, anyone?’
Tom shakes his head.
‘Ignore it then.’
The doorbell rings again and this time there’s an additional hammering, as if the person on the other side is impatient or doesn’t believe the bell is working.
‘Open up, please, Mrs Carlson.’
‘The police?’ I look at Tom.
‘Why would it be?’ Tom rises. ‘I’ll go. You stay here. We still have a lot to talk about.’
I don’t stay in place. I follow him as far as the living room door. He goes into the hall and opens the front door.
‘Mr Carlson?’ There is a woman in a suit at the door. Behind her, a policeman I don’t recognise. The woman lifts her hand and shows Tom something that I can’t quite see. I can hear her though. ‘My name is Moira Johnson. I’m from Social Services. Can I come in?’
Tom hesitates for a second, as if he’s going to slam the door, then he stands to one side. The two visitors crowd into the hallway and the policeman closes the door behind them.
‘Tom?’ My voice is a quiver. The woman takes in my bruised temple and moves closer, blocking my sight of him. The policeman shifts with her. Now they’re both between us.
The woman is comfortable-looking, as if she’s been upholstered, but she looks tired; a tiredness that goes to the bone and deforms the shape of her face. There are smile lines beside her eyes, but unused, forgotten. She reminds me of a once enthusiastic teacher worn down by decades dealing with uncaring teenagers. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Carlson?’ She glances back at Tom, as though she knows what’s happened and that it is an old story she is sick of hearing.
He flinches. He knows what she’s seeing. ‘She hit her head—’ he starts.
‘Let your wife answer, please.’ The policeman lays a hand on Tom’s arm. They’re the same build, the same height; but Tom falls silent.
The social worker moves closer to me. ‘My name is Moira. Can you tell me what happened,’ she gestures, ‘to your face?’
‘I did hit my head.’ I touch my temple and flinch. ‘We were in the kitchen and I tripped … on some laundry. You can still see it in there. I hit my head on the way down.’
Moira lowers her voice. ‘We can take him out of the room if you’d like. You can talk to us alone.’
‘No. Honestly, that’s what happened. Tell them, Tom.’
He nods but his eyes are on the policeman in front of him. He doesn’t speak. Suddenly the policeman lifts Tom’s hand, like he’s at show and tell. His bandage has slipped overnight and the cut on his palm gapes. He should have had it stitched.
‘Oh, Tom,’ I whisper.
‘How did this happen, sir?’ The policeman has altered his stance. He looks now as if he’s protecting Tom.
Moira straightens. ‘Where is Grace?’ she asks.
‘I don’t understand.’ I lean on the wall; my arms are jelly. ‘Why are you here? It can’t be for this.’ I point to my head.
Moira shakes her head. ‘Can you fetch Grace, please?’
Instinctively I move to block the living room door, but she pushes past me. Grace is sitting in her bouncer. When Moira bends down to look at her, Grace grins and holds Dobbie up for review. Moira takes him, makes a cooing sound, then hands him back. ‘She looks like a healthy little girl. Why don’t we all sit down and talk?’
Tom walks around the policeman, takes my hand and leads me into the living room. We both sit on the sofa. The social worker takes the chair, by Grace. The policeman remains standing.
‘This is just an initial visit,’ she is speaking but I can hardly hear her. My head hurts too much. I try to concentrate but all I can do is feel Tom’s hand in mine, see Grace in the bouncer. Social Services; they must be here to take my baby.
‘Multiple credible reports … professional opinion … rage issues … believes Grace is in danger …’ Slowly Moira’s voice gains clarity, like a radio being tuned into the right station. ‘… hallucinating, is that right? Seeing things that aren’t there. After I received the initial report, I spoke to a Sergeant Ward, who told me your wife reported a crime that never happened.’ She is speaking to Tom. ‘According to the reports we’ve received, Bridget is dangerously depressed, she has spoken about experiencing rage in reference to the baby and, more recently, she has hurt Grace. Force feeding, from what I understand. That’s abuse.’
‘But—’ I look at Tom, the blood draining from my face. ‘Did you …?’
‘Of course not!’ Tom puts his arm all the way around me, as though I might fly away, but he looks at the social worker. ‘Bridget is on antidepressants. There was an incident the other day, after her therapist told her to come off them. As soon as we realised what a bad idea that was, she started taking them again. It’ll never happen again. You can talk to her doctor. Dr Lewis …’
‘Tom looks after Grace.’ I rush to fill in the silence. ‘He’s the primary carer, not me. I’m at work most of the time. I won’t risk changing my medication again. I’m fine now.’
‘But when you made up a crime for the police, you were on the medication, Mrs Carlson?’
‘Yes, but …’
‘Your mental health isn’t for me to assess. Today, I’m here to ensure that we have a sensible plan going forward, one that ensures that Grace is safe and—’
‘You’re here to take her away!’ I twist out of Tom’s arms and lurch to my feet. Tom stays sitting, his face like paper.
Moira lifts her hands, placating, and the policeman takes a step towards me. Rage, she’d said. ‘Multiple. Credible,’ I mutter. Who knew about my rage? Whose report would be so ‘credible’ that a woman from social services would race to the house and bring police support?
‘… goal is always to keep children with their families … set up a child protection plan …’
I can barely hear her. I lift Grace out of her bouncer and hold her tightly. Too tightly. She starts to squirm and cry. ‘Grace, stop it. Grace!’ She cries harder, reaching for Tom. ‘Grace isn’t in any danger, I swear!’ I whirl to face the woman sitting on our chair. Grace screams in my ear. I wince as the sound rips through my head like a saw. ‘I’d never hurt her, neither would Tom.’ I hold Grace even more tightly and she wails. Moira glances at the policeman and suddenly he is right in front of me.
‘Hand Grace to me, please, Mrs Carlson. You’re upsetting her.’
‘No!’ My head pounds and all I can think is that they’re going to take her away. And it was all I’d ever feared: that I wouldn’t be a good enough mum and I’d lose her. I back towards the corner and look at Tom. His face is bloodless and he’s half standing, as if he wants to come to me but doesn’t dare move.
Moira gestures and he rises. ‘Can you calm your wife down, Mr Carlson, is that possible?’
The policeman steps to one side and suddenly I can breathe a little easier. ‘Tom?’
When he reaches us, he holds his arms out for Grace. ‘It’s all right, Bridge, I’ll take her.’
‘No!’ I look at the door. There’s a clear path down the hall. I can take Grace and run. I hear a car outside. The world is still turning, unbelievable as it seems. The policeman sees the direction of my gaze and side-steps into my line of sight.
‘Multiple credible reports,’ I say again. ‘Tom! More than one report. It was you, wasn’t it?’
‘Of course not, you think I’d risk our family—’
‘Then who? Who was it?’
‘What’s going on?’ Mum’s voice. She’s standing by the open front door, her back straight as if she’s bracing for battle. ‘I came back to discuss … never mind. I can hear Grace screaming all the way down the road.’ We all fall silent, except Grace who continues to howl: a long, terrified wail that makes my heart pound. She has dropped Dobbie and is now gripping my hair so tightly that I think they’ll have to cut it off to take her away from me.
Mum scuttles down the hall, so quickly I barely see her feet move. She looks at Tom, at the policeman, at the social worker who is now standing beside the sofa. Our tiny living room is so crowded, there’s no air.
‘Bridget, give Grace to me, darling.’ I start to turn towards Tom but Mum takes my chin and holds my eyes. ‘Darling, listen to Mummy. Let me take her. Then we can sort all this out.’
My fingers loosen and then Grace is out of my arms and into Mum’s. Almost immediately she starts to whimper instead of wail, gripping Mum as if she’s a lifeline. My own arms feel empty.
Moira turns to her. ‘You’re Mrs Carlson’s mother?’
‘Yes, I’m Mrs Monahan.’ She strokes Grace’s hair. ‘I called you.’
Tom’s head turns like he’s a bird of prey, sharp and fast. ‘You what?’
Mum’s was one of the credible reports. Crimson covers my vision and I lunge. Strong arms wrap around me and yank me backwards. The policeman. I’m spun around, my wrist and elbow are grabbed and suddenly I’m bent over, facing the floor with my arm twisted behind my back.
‘You need to take a deep breath, Mrs Carlson.’ His voice in my ear is deep and low. It reminds me of Dad’s. I have no choice but to stop, to dangle in his grip like a doll. The position makes the blood rush to my aching head. I strain to look up at Mum.
‘What choice did I have?’ She runs her palm over Grace’s hair again, her attention on Tom. ‘Bridget has been hallucinating. Obsessed with kidnappings. I had thought that, between the two of us, Grace would be all right. But then she’s admitting to hurting Grace and telling me that you’re moving away, that you’re going back to work, leaving her in charge …’
I’m gaping, opening and closing my mouth like a carp in a bucket.
Tom turns to Moira. ‘This is nothing but vindictiveness.’ He says it as calmly as he can but his face is bruised with colour. I’ve never seen him so furious. ‘Bridget’s mum doesn’t want us to move.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’ Mum smiles. ‘All I want is what’s best for Grace. And leaving her alone with my sick daughter … is that what’s best for her?’
I’m shaking so hard I can barely see. Tom’s fists are clenched. Grace buries her face in Mum’s shoulder.
‘You said multiple reports?’ I twist to look at Moira. ‘Mum’s wasn’t the only …’
Moira shakes her head.
‘Aunt Gillian …’ I struggle, but the policeman’s grip is unrelenting. ‘You got Aunt Gillian to call them too. When? After we first told you we were thinking of moving?’
Mum looks at Moira. ‘I know you aren’t here to take Grace away; I confirmed that already. But how about if I take her anyway, just for a few days? It’ll give everyone a break, a chance to calm down. She’ll be perfectly safe with me. I’ve got a nursery all set up.’
Tom’s head snaps up at this. ‘How long have you been planning this, Alison?’
She ignores him as if he hasn’t spoken. ‘I think if my daughter were to get a break, things might improve. She’s just so exhausted, you see, trying to do everything. You can sort out your protection order, or whatever it is you need to do. Grace will be safe.’
‘Grace is safe here.’ I squirm again but still can’t straighten. I find myself staring at the policeman’s boots. Black and shiny. I can almost see my face in them.
‘All right, Sergeant,’ Moira says. ‘Let her go.’
‘Are you sure?’ There’s a pause, in which I assume Moira nods, then his hold on me relaxes. I straighten, rubbing my wrist. I don’t look at him.
Moira is taking something out of her bag. Paperwork. ‘Mrs Carlson, come and sit down.’ She gestures and I walk to the sofa like a marionette. ‘Listen to me very carefully. When you see the social services on the news, you are seeing the absolute worst situations. Children are very rarely removed from their homes. We are here to support families, not break them up.’ She is keeping her voice steady, she thinks I won’t listen otherwise, but I’m watching Mum and Grace. Mum is humming in Grace’s ear, soothing her. All I did was make her cry. Moira takes my hand, drawing my attention again. ‘I am not here to take Grace away, Bridget. I am here to make sure that she is safe.’
‘From me?’ I shudder and look at her. Her eyes are kind.
‘What your mum says makes sense. I’m not telling you what to do at this point but it seems to me that you could use a break. Babies are exhausting. I’m guessing you haven’t had a day off since the day she was born?’
I shake my head.
‘You need a rest, Bridget.’ She looks at Tom. ‘You too, Mr Carlson. If you’re the primary carer, you need a break too.’
‘I don’t need a break from my daughter!’ Tom snaps.
Moira touches my arm. ‘Your mum’s offer is a good one. Now, according to Section Twenty of the Children’s Act, you can volunteer to have her go with your mum for a set period of time but, honestly, I’m not sure we need to formalise anything right now. Just let your mum take Grace for a few days, so that you can both have a rest. When you’re feeling better, we can have a meeting and put a plan in place going forward, that will enable us to help you as a family.’ She puts her card on the table and turns to Tom. ‘I’m not saying you have to agree to this, Mr Carlson, but I do strongly recommend it.’
Tom nods, curtly.
‘I’ll get a few of Grace’s things.’ Mum heads for the stairs with Grace and the policeman follows her up.
Tom staggers to the chair as if he’s been punched in the stomach, then he sits, his fists pressed against his knees.
After a while Mum comes down. She’s carrying Grace and the policeman has one of our suitcases. It bulges.
‘You don’t have to do this.’ I say, hopelessly. ‘You don’t have to take her.’
Moira squeezes my hand and stands up. ‘You’re doing the right thing, Bridget. Let your family help you. And get some sleep, you look exhausted.’
I follow the social worker into the hall. Mum says something to the policeman and he takes Grace’s pram from the cupboard, her car seat. They all leave the house: the policeman, the social worker, Mum and Grace.
‘I don’t want this,’ I say, but it’s as if I’ve made no sound. For a moment I wonder if it’s possible that I haven’t. That I’m making no impression on the world at all. Perhaps I’ve disappeared.
I follow Mum onto the steps. She stops, makes Grace wave bye-bye and then goes to her car. The policeman helps put Grace in the car seat.
I watch until both vehicles have vanished around the corner. Then I watch some more. A bird alights on the fence and cocks its head at me, perhaps wondering why I’m just standing, frozen. What would be the point of going back inside? Grace isn’t there.
Eventually, I realise that I’m getting cold, the autumn air biting through my long-sleeved t-shirt. My breasts too, are hurting; Grace’s screaming triggered my let-down. I wrap my arms around my chest and stumble back into the house. I don’t want to. It’ll be a strange and empty place without Grace, an alien planet, but what choice do I have? Tom is still sitting in the living room exactly where I left him. He hasn’t moved an inch.
He looks up when he hears me and I reel back as if I’ve been slapped. His face is stricken. He looks destroyed.
‘T–Tom?’ I edge into the room and realise that he must have moved since I’d left. His hands aren’t empty anymore. He is crushing a damp Frankie-Lion in one fist.
‘Your mum forgot Frankie.’ His voice isn’t his. Again, I get that sensation of having entered an alien world or a different dimension. ‘Your mum did this. Because we said we were moving. And she was able to get Social Services on her side because you couldn’t stop obsessing about that kidnapping.’ His voice is emotionless, as if he’s just learning to speak but hasn’t worked out how to do it properly.
‘I … yes, I suppose.’
Tom looks back down at Frankie. ‘I’ll call the estate agent and withdraw our offer on the house.’ Suddenly his gaze flutters to the sideboard where the map I’d made is still lying face down, its creases rendering it topological.
Tom stands, picks it up, stares at it. Then, with a flash of fury, he tears the page in half. It’s as if all the energy he wants to spend getting Grace back is going into tearing the paper again and again until it is confetti on the carpet.
I can do nothing but watch.
‘This is your fault,’ he mutters. ‘I can’t even look at you.’ He reels past me. ‘I’m going to stay with my parents until Grace comes home. That’ll give you a rest, won’t it?’ He looks back at me and a stranger is behind his eyes. ‘You speak to the social worker and find out what you have to do to make them trust us with Grace. Go and see a court-appointed psychiatrist, whatever it takes.’ Then he is gone and I am alone.