Page 34 of The Stolen Child

They sat silently for a moment, each lost in their thoughts.

Lily thought about the woman sitting around the campfire, gazing at Zach so adoringly. ‘Your mother. Is she a good woman?’ Lily asked.

Zach’s answer was immediate. ‘The best.’

‘Do you believe she would be capable of kidnapping a child? Because that’s what you’re accusing her of, if you truly believe you are Robert,’ Lily said.

Zach winced. And tears glistened in his eyes. He inhaled deeply, then said, ‘I cannot comprehend a world where my mother would cause pain to another human. She’s an incredible mother. A good wife. A pillar of our community in Westport. To think she could live that life, knowing she’d taken me from your parents . . . it’s unthinkable.’

‘Yet you do think it,’ Lily whispered.

Zach nodded.

‘When did you move to Spain?’ Michael asked.

‘My mother told me she left my father and moved there in 1982.’

‘Robert went missing in 1983,’ Lily stated, and to her surprise, a stab of disappointment pierced her ribcage. This would mean that Zach couldn’t be her brother.

Zach inhaled profoundly and looked from Michael to Lily. ‘I know that doesn’t add up. There’s something else that is niggling me. It might be nothing but . . .’

‘Go on,’ Michael urged.

‘Mom left my dad when I was six months old. I was born in 1981. And she brought me to Ronda in Spain, where we lived until Mom married Dom, and we relocated to America.’

Lily nodded along, committing the dates to her memory.

‘I went back to Ronda a few years ago. And I visited the villa we’d rented as a baby. It’s carved inside a huge gash in the mountains. Still owned by the same couple that rented it to my mother, Señor and Señora Alvarez.’ He smiled wistfully. ‘I had this romantic notion of tracing my early years. The couple remembered Mom and me.’ His face softened at the memory. ‘They said they babysat me when my mum went into town, shopping. And they had photographs of us all sitting on deckchairs in their back garden.’ His smile disappeared and he frowned. ‘They were the kind of photographs that always have the date imprinted on them.’ He paused, and then finished. ‘I remember thinking that it was weird that every photograph they had was taken in 1983 – nothing before that.’

Lily and Michael exchanged a worried glance.

Lily’s head pounded as she took in Zach’s words. She was beginning to understand why he had so many questions.

‘Maybe they didn’t have a camera until 1983. My parents have hardly any snaps of me and my brother when we were kids,’ Michael said, with a shrug.

But Zach looked doubtful.

‘Do you think your mother took you from my family in 1983 and created this whole story about your abusive father as a ruse to cover that . . .’ Lily said, her jaw dropping open at the thought.

Zach’s mouth quivered, and he looked so vulnerable as he turned to Lily. ‘I feel like I’m losing my mind, Lily. And I’m asking you to help me. Please help me uncover the truth. Help me find out if my life has been a lie and I’m truly your brother.’

BEFORE

April 1976

Sally

Doddington Estate, Battersea Park Road, London

Sally tried to cling to sleep for a few more minutes. But the sound of a train trundling by nudged her awake. Her nose was numb, cold from the damp flat. And her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she’d gone to bed hungry the night before. She’d have cereal. She didn’t have any milk, but she’d got used to hot water over her Ready Brek. And, if she closed her eyes, she could even trick herself into thinking that it was the same breakfast she’d had in the orphanage throughout her childhood.

In the distance, Sally heard the faint sound of a child’s cry. The thumping of feet on the floor above her shook the ceiling, and a door slammed shut, followed by a man’s voice reverberating through the walls. These sounds were not unusual, given that over seven thousand people lived in the blocks of council flats near Wandsworth railway station. However, despite the hustle and bustle of the surrounding environment, Sally had never felt so alone.

She climbed out of bed, putting her feet into her slippers before they hit the cold floor. How it felt damp despite being carpeted was a mystery. Sally pulled her dressing gown round herself. Was it her imagination, or did the belt cinch in tighter now? She made her way to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Sally retrieved a used teabag from a saucer and placed it in a mug. She’d been so excited on her first full day here, walking to the local grocer’s to shop. She was a grown-up, in charge of what and when she ate, no longer at the beck and call of the staff in the orphanage. But that excitement disappeared as fast as her allowance did when she had to pay for a basket of groceries. As the kettle slowly began to heat up, Sally looked around. Mustard wallpaper and chequered blue-and-black tiles should have brightened up the tiny galley kitchen, but they only seemed to make the room darker. She’d washed the net curtains when she’d arrived, but that hadn’t made a difference. Sally’s stomach fell when she opened her kitchen cupboard and saw it was bare, save for the box of Ready Brek. She prepared breakfast and took it with her into the sitting room.

She sighed when she sat at the small dining-room table in the corner of the sitting room. This room wasn’t much better than the kitchen. Lime-green wallpaper was beginning to peel above the brown wooden door. A damp patch stained the grey ceiling tiles. Sally avoided looking too closely at the murky brown shag-pile carpet. She glanced at the two-bar electric heater as she shivered in the cold morning air.

‘No point hankering over something you can’t have,’ Sally said out loud, mimicking Sister Jones’s soft Scottish brogue.