Stop stalling.
I know what I have to do.
Life is not fair, life is never fair. But self-pity is the purest poison if you let it take hold.
I lay Mia flat on the soft bench seat, perching next to her on the edge in case she suddenly rolls onto her side, and take out the baby sling. I turn it this way and that, trying to figure out the complicated set of buckles and fasteners, to work out whether you put the baby in it before or after you place the straps over your shoulders. After, probably, because it would be easier to lower—
‘Do you want a hand with that?’
The woman at the table next to me points at the Baby Bjorn.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Still trying to get used to it.’
‘I used to wear it with my jacket over the top.’
‘Oh, right.’ I shrug my jacket off and slip the straps over my shoulders, tightening and adjusting until it seems about right. ‘Could you lift her up?’
‘Sure,’ the woman says, gently lifting Mia under her arms and lowering her into the sling. ‘There you go.’
The woman adjusts the carrier so that Mia is propped up snugly, and I slip my jacket on again over the straps. It’s a lot easier than holding the baby in my arms – and means I have both hands free.
‘Oh my gosh she’ssolike you, isn’t she?’ The woman smiles admiringly. ‘Just a lovely little mini-me.’
‘Yes. I suppose she is.’
I realise that I’ve not touched my own drink. I take a sip, the tea already tepid, and put the cup back on the table. I wasn’t thirsty anyway. I stand up, Mia warm and sleepy against my chest, sling the rucksack over my shoulder alongside my handbag. The baby snuffles, her mouth opening in a tiny yawn, but her eyes don’t open.
My heart clenches with what I have to do next.
Outside, I go to the kerb and scan the street for another black cab. St George Street is a fairly busy road; there’ll be one along in a minute. I look down at Mia’s sleeping face, her chubby cheeks and perfect pink eyelids, a tiny bubble of milk on her lips. My phone pings again in my handbag. I dig it out and see the unread messages from Tara.
You back from the clinic already? X
You OK? School run now but will call when I’m back xx
I try to think of a reply that doesn’t sound too crazy, thumbs poised over the screen, and begin typing just as a car door opens wide at the kerb, the door swinging inches from my legs. I look up, a hand instinctively covering Mia’s back, as a large man in a black bomber jacket jumps out of the driver’s seat. With a jolt of shock, I realise I’ve seen his face before.
Early thirties, dark ginger beard and a broken-bone kink in the bridge of his nose.
The caller on Kathryn’s phone.
7
Before I can react, the man snatches my phone and shoves it into his pocket. He’s broad and heavily built, the fabric of his bomber jacket stretched taut over his shoulders and arms. He grabs me with his other hand, his grip digging into my wrist.
‘Scream and you’re dead,’ he says, his voice low. ‘Now hand her over.’
‘What?’ I say, my spine rigid with shock. ‘What do you want?’
‘Give her to me,’ he growls, pulling her closer. He tightens his hold on my arm, his iron grip digging into the flesh beneath my jacket. The bruises on Kathryn’s arm. Her ringing phone. Frightened eyes.Her husband – boyfriend, partner, ex, whoever the hell he is – has found us. His breath is sour and hot in my face. ‘Now!’
My head swims with fear, shock rendering me numb for a second before I recover enough to try to shake my arm free. I circle my other arm protectively across Mia’s back, holding her close, limbs buzzing with adrenaline.
‘Get off me!’
His other hand reaches for the baby, fingers digging under the harness, trying to unclip her, to pull her away from me.
‘Give her to me!’
