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

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      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 you want?’ I hurl at him as he closes the door.

      There’s a pause in the door shutting.

      ‘You,’ he says.

      Then the door shuts. And no one can see the tremors that have restarted. Because I know what that ‘You’ must mean. What it is building up to.

      I’m pleased that Cara and I aren’t face to face. That she can’t see my fear. And I have her face in my mind anyway. Of course I do – any mother does. All her faces. From when she was born, that crinkly tiny tiny face, the shock of dark hair.

       She’s so small. So, so small. Could be crushed in just the palm of a hand.

      Yes, that face, all her faces, right up to her now-face. That lovely blonde hair, about a thousand different shades, from gold to oaten, shorter now that she’s older. Cool Cara. Beautifully smooth. Not for my Cara the acne and pockmarks of the mid-teens. Flawless.

      ‘Cara?’ I whisper. That same reverent tone as when I called her by name that first time, in the hospital.

      ‘Shh, it’s not safe,’ she hisses, quietly. ‘We need to find another way to communicate. And then we need to get out of here.’

      She is right, of course. If he hears us talking, he will punish us. Separate us. Bring forward his plans. Whatever they are. But, for now, I need something.

      ‘Cara,’ I whisper again. She doesn’t reply. Frightened, I suppose, of being overheard. Just this one thing then I’ll heed her. ‘When I tap, like this, on the wall—’ I tap, twice, very lightly ‘—it means I love you, OK? And you tap back to tell me you’re safe. OK?’

      Nothing.

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