She shakes her head, but I can’t tell if she means he’s not here, or that she won’t tell me.
‘My baby, my beautiful girl. When she was first born, she would only sleep on my chest, day or night. And even though I was demented with exhaustion, I didn’t put her down. I held her, because that was what she needed me to do. I was amazed that I had grown her inside me, flesh of my flesh. And although of course she began to walk and talk, and eventually to have a life I knew little about, a part of her was still inside me. It still is. Is it any wonder I wanted to bring Maria back, to make you face what you have done?’
‘No. I understand, I do. But I’m a mother too now, please —’
‘How did it feel, when you realised I’d taken your son?’ She interrupts me, won’t give me a chance to allow any sympathy to creep in. ‘Did you feel as if every drop of blood had drained out of your body? Did you feel you’d do anything – anything at all – if only he could be safe? That was what I wanted, Louise. I wanted you to feel a tiny fraction of what I have had to live with every day since 1989. People compare losing a person to losing a limb sometimes… “Oh, it was like losing my right arm”, they say. It’s nothing like that. You can learn to cope without an arm, without a leg. You never learn to cope with losing a child. You never get used to it. It never gets easier.’ The words gush from her like waste from a sewage pipe.
‘I hope my little messages have made you look over your shoulder everywhere you’ve been these past few weeks. I hope you’ve been coming to in the night with a start, jumping at every little noise; waking a little more scared each morning, a lumpen, heavy feeling inside; wondering if it’s all worth it, if you can live the rest of your life like this.’ Bridget is holding tightly on to the desk behind her, the skin on her hands stretched tight over the bones, her face flushed.
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ It’s all I can manage. ‘Please, where is he?’
‘Sorry’s no good to me. I don’t want you to be sorry. I want you to suffer, like I’ve suffered. I’ve been imagining it, every time I sent a message. Conjuring up the fear on your face, the dread in the pit of your stomach. Even following you wasn’t enough, although I enjoyed the way you ran from me in that tunnel in South Kensington. I wanted you to feel what I feel, but I wanted to see it too, to see your pain with my own eyes.’
We stare at each other, eyes locked. She ought to be triumphant – this was what she wanted, after all. But all I can see is despair and terrible, endless pain.
‘But why now?’ I whisper.
‘I didn’t want to get in trouble with the police. Stalking, kidnapping, the police don’t look too kindly on that. But it doesn’t matter to me any more, not since the last time I saw the doctor. She looked so kind and concerned, was so terribly sorry to tell me, couldn’t say for sure how long I had. But all I could think was: yes; now I can make Louise Williams and Sophie Hannigan pay for what they have done.’
Bridget is dying. My brain tries to process this, make sense of it, but the mention of Sophie’s name has made the temperature in the room drop a few degrees. I take a step back, grasp the doorframe.
‘You were so careless, Louise. Did no one ever tell you to be careful about what you put online? Photos of your little boy in his school uniform? Casual mentions of your local high street? Pictures of your house? You even moan on Facebook about having to put him in after-school club, so I knew you wouldn’t be there at three o’clock today with all the proper mothers.’ The knife twists, biting a little further into me.
‘As for that internet dating site – God, you were easy to fool. All I did was paste in a photo from a catalogue. I didn’t even take much trouble over the message. You must have been really desperate. And you waited so long! Half an hour! I had to order a second drink in that restaurant opposite the bar.’ She laughs unpleasantly. ‘I knew exactly where Henry would be and when. You should have taken better care of him. He didn’t even have any idea that he shouldn’t go off with someone he doesn’t know. He was perfectly willing to accept that I was his grandma, chatting to me about his day, accepting sweets from me, telling me what he wanted on his toast.’
His toast. The kitchen. He must be in the kitchen. I tear myself away from the force field of pain and rage that surrounds Bridget, and run down the corridor. The door sticks for a second and then opens with a squeak.
‘Oh thank God, thank God.’ Henry is sitting on a high stool at the breakfast bar, a glass of apple juice in front of him, eating a slice of toast and jam.
‘Hello, Mummy,’ he says casually.
I run to him and pick him up, squeezing him to me, burying my face in his hair, his neck. Underneath the odour that school has added, of pencils and dusty floors and other children’s sticky fingers, he still has his essential smell, the one I’ve been inhaling like a glue-sniffer since the day he was born.
‘Hey,’ he says crossly, wriggling out of my embrace. ‘My toast.’
‘Time to go,’ I say breathlessly, trying to keep my voice light and casual. ‘You can bring your toast.’
‘I want to play with the trains again. My grandma said I could.’
‘There’s no time. Daddy’s waiting in the car.’ I tug on his hand. ‘Come on, Henry.’
There’s a noise in the hallway, the creak of the front door, footsteps on the laminate. Sam, I think with a rush of warmth, pulling Henry into the hallway.
‘Mum?’ calls a voice.
Oh God, it’s Tim. Thoughts tumble through my brain. Is this how it ends? Is this the last thing Sophie saw? Tim bearing down on her, avenging the death of his beloved sister? I can’t imagine that Bridget has the strength to have killed Sophie, so it must have been Tim. I want to tell Henry to go, to dodge Tim and run as fast as he can, but I know he won’t understand what I’m asking him to do. It’s clear he has not been frightened and has no understanding at all that we are in danger.
‘Louise. What are you doing here?’ There is panic in his voice. He stands in the corridor, filling the width of the hall, blocking our only escape route. I grasp Henry’s hand a little tighter, my own slippery with sweat.
‘I invited her,’ says Bridget, stepping forward into the doorway of the bedroom. Tim doesn’t move from the hall. I am caught between the two of them, like the king in a game of chess that is nearing checkmate, enemy pieces closing in from every side.
Tim takes a step closer. ‘What has she told you, Louise?’
I pull Henry closer to me, feel his warm body pressing into my legs. He looks up at me, eyes round and trusting.
‘Mum, what have you done?’ says Tim, his voice urgent. ‘What’s Louise doing here?’
I try to will my legs to move, to run, to at least try and escape, but they won’t obey my brain’s command. It’s like one of those nightmares where you’re stuck in thick mud, being chased by a monster you have no hope of escaping.