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.
I know she’s safe, as safe as anyone can be when they are kidnapped, I’ve just spoken to her. But still my heart pounds at her silence.
Then, there it is. Tap tap.
I feel my soul relax, my shoulders unhunch, at her sound.
But it’s only a temporary release. I must get her out of here. I must get her properly safe.
I look at the window again. If I could just escape, I could come back for Cara. Or maybe, now that we’re both here, there’s double the chance that someone will have seen something, reported something? One of Cara’s school friends maybe? They’re always together and, when they’re not, they’re calling or messaging or Instagramming or whatever it is that they do on those devices of theirs. I don’t know. She just helped me spruce up my website. ‘It needs more jazz, Mum!’ she said. ‘And a picture of you! You’re selling yourself, just as much as you’re selling the cupcakes!’ So perceptive, Cara. Such a good business head. Maybe she won’t go to university. Maybe she can help expand the studio into a cupcake empire. And how lovely to have a daughter who’s so proud of you that she insists on her favourite photo of you on your website. And that the photo is one of the two of you together – both with hair down, heads resting together, eyeliner on, black leggings showing off slim legs, big cheery smiles saying life is great, eat cupcakes.
Should I have been more careful, putting up photos of my daughter? Maybe. Maybe not. But she’s probably all over social media of her own accord. She’s fifteen. It’s what they do.
Oh, to be back in that studio with you now, Cara!
I bend my head against the wall to Cara’s room, as if I’m leaning against her head like on that website photo. Oh my darling. Please let that window help us escape. Please let one of your school friends have seen something. Please.
She won’t tell. She won’t tell. Alice repeats the mantra of silence. Cara had entrusted her with a secret. What good would it do to tell anyone about it? ‘La, la, la, I’m not listening’, she says to the little voice inside her head that insists telling might do some good. I’m doing my English homework, she tells the voice sternly. And I am not telling that man what I know. That’s a secret.
Alice’s eyes wander to the passport-sized picture of her and Cara on her wall. They’re wearing crazy red wigs, silver star-shaped sunglasses and moustaches. Both of them grinning madly. You can almost see the giggles. It was a party at school, and the teachers had laid on some ‘fun’ dress-up photo booths. And they were fun. What the teachers didn’t know was that Cara had held on to the sunglasses and customised them – just in case they weren’t tacky enough – with some glitter-glue
