The Good Mother: A tense psychological thriller with a shocking twist. A. Bird L.

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СКАЧАТЬ means nothing, asking these questions. Why play detective? How will it possibly get us out of here? But at the same time, it means everything. If we have knowledge, we have the tiniest bit of power. Power to analyse our adversary. Manipulate him maybe. Or at least we shake off that horrible ignorance of such a fundamental part of our lives.

      But will I damage her? Cause her to revisit something her brain is saying should be firmly cordoned off? She can only be what she is, remember what she can. The pencil doesn’t have an eraser though. I would have to start again, which would waste precious paper, or I would have to cross out in thick strokes what I’d written, which would make me look indecisive. And Cara doesn’t need an indecisive parent right now. She needs someone strong and positive.

      Like Paul. We both need Paul. I wonder what he is doing now. Thinking of me, for sure. And of Cara. How he can get us back. I wonder where he is. Outside, in a stake-out? Or on our sofa at home, wrapped under one of the grey fake-cashmere throws, exhausted and emotionally drained by his search, by his anger, by his staved-off grief, catching a compulsive hour of sleep? I shake my head. That would not be like Paul. Paul is strong, emotionally and physically. Strong, proactive and capable. Look at how he helped me bring up Cara. Always there in a crisis – not that there’ve been many – to keep us safe. Even though she’s someone else’s daughter.

      Anyway, focus. Must finish the letter. Otherwise Cara might think she has been forsaken. That I don’t have a plan. That she should escape by herself – oh joy – and leave me still trapped – oh horror. I need to say something nice, something that will make her smile.

      Remember when we went shopping that time, about a year ago, and for a joke we were trying on matching mother–daughter dresses? When we came out of the changing room to parade and after we’d twirled round in the mirror out front, you came face to face with that guy – Benny wasn’t it? You thought you wanted to hide behind the mirror – I was only too aware how muttony I must look to him compared with your dazzling youth! But we managed to escape back into the changing room. Even if your escape was short-lived and you ended up in a McDonald’s having a milkshake with him. But that ended well, you see, and we managed it together. We’ll manage this together too. You’ll see.

      I sign off the letter with love and kisses, a nostalgic smile on my face. Tears in my eyes but not on my face. Because they’re happy tears. Tears of love for my daughter. Who I will see again soon. Please God. Please Paul.

      I sit and wait for a response. I wait and I wait and I wait.

      Is there something wrong with my letter? Have I missed the mark? Is my treasured memory of our shopping trip an irrelevance for her? Have I over-glossed it? Was I the one who pulled her into the shop, picked out the dresses and dragged her into the changing room? She doesn’t even like high street stores, always customises her own clothes. When she went for that milkshake with that boy, was she just desperate to get away from me, and spent the whole time bitching about how embarrassing I am?

      Is she even here, still, the daughter that I know? Is she safe? We haven’t communicated since last night. A lot can happen, overnight, in the dark.

      I wait some more. I can’t hear anything at all from next door. Maybe she really isn’t there? Maybe I need to find out, and do something to save her? Act now, quickly, before it’s too late.

      I’ll give it one more minute then I’ll knock. No, maybe that will be too late.

      Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap, I go.

      Nothing. No response.

      Where is she? What’s going on? Please, come on, knock back.

      Nothing. Nothing nothing nothing.

      I need to get out of this room.

      I need to see the hallway, her door, see if there’s anything unusual. Just to know. Just to see. Even if I can’t help.

      ‘Hey!’ I shout out. I pummel the door of my room, louder than the knocks. ‘Hey!’

      And there it is. The key in the lock. I’ve done it. He’s coming. I’ll get out of the room somehow. A shower! That’s it. I’ll say I need a shower!

      He stands in the doorway. As ever, between me and freedom. Between me and knowledge of Cara.

      ‘Shower time,’ I say. I try to make it sound natural. Not so urgent that he’ll suspect it’s a ruse.

      He looks me up and down.

      I shiver. I’d forgotten, in my hurry, what the shower would involve. Him looking at me. Like that. At the very least. And me with my clothes off.

      It’s for Cara. It’s for Cara. It’s for Cara.

      ‘Fine by me,’ he says.

      He gestures to the open door. I take a step towards it.

      And then comes the tap-tap. On the wall. From Cara.

      I freeze mid-footstep. Has he heard it? Has he noticed me hearing it? If I had that moment again, I wouldn’t freeze. Of course I wouldn’t freeze. It highlights the noise, gives it a significance. But it was my daughter, communicating with me – how could I not react. Even though her knock, which I solicited, puts our whole communication in jeopardy. Maybe even herself. Stupid, stupid me, selfishly checking up on her, not being strong enough. Again.

      He’s looking at me, the Captor. Questioningly? Or desirously, looking forward to seeing me naked?

      I don’t know. I feel sick. At least Cara is safe. At least she is there.

      She knocks again.

      What? Is she expecting a return knock?

      Stop it, I whisper to her in my head. Stop it! Find that earlier caution. It’s lovely, wonderful, glorious to know you’re alive and safe, but keep quiet, just now!

      I look at the Captor. What has he noticed? What has he heard? I would smile at him but then he would know something was wrong. Plus I’m not sure I can bring myself to smile at the man who has separated me from my family.

      Can I change my mind about the shower? Or will that look suspicious? Yes, probably. It will. I have to go through with it. I have to distract him from the sound of Cara. Of our communication. Our knowledge.

      ‘Well, let’s go and have this shower then!’ I say. And I try to lead the way out of the room. Suddenly there’s a scent of escape. But no. He’s too sharp for that. He’s in front of me again, clamping my arms by my side. I’m led out of the room. Past Cara’s closed door – behind which, for now, she is safe, thank God – down the meaningless corridor. What if one day her door was open? Would that be a good thing or a bad thing? Right now, she is in there, reading my letter. But maybe one day I will be ushered past and the door will be open. She will be gone. Spirited away somewhere by the Captor. How absurd, how cruel, to keep mother and daughter so close but not let them see each other. Psychological warfare? Or does he want us both? Think we won’t possibly yield with each other in the room? Needs us to feel isolated, alone. Well, we have a hidden strength, a unity, that he doesn’t know about. I hope. Unless he has worked out the knocking.

      I try not to think about what will await me in the bathroom. Not a long hot soak in the bath, like I used to enjoy, when I could find a quiet moment. No. The quicker option. But not quick enough. A very public shower. The toilet visits are bad enough. I’ve counted СКАЧАТЬ