‘It’s okay,’ I whisper, though I’m scared too.
‘Mummy,’ he says again, untangling himself from my arms. ‘Mummy down there.’
He steps over to the trapdoor and points at it. If this is a game then maybe I should just play it; humour him for a bit until we can get out of here.
‘She’s down there?’ I say gently as I make my way back over to him. ‘Through that door?’
He nods his head.
‘You open,’ he says. ‘Open now.’
I crouch down and tug at the bolt. It’s stiff and I have to yank at it. Finally it slides across and I pull the handle towards me. As I do, a weak trickle of light filters up and the boy squeezes past me and disappears down the hatch.
‘Wait,’ I call as I lean over the hole. I can see a set of steps below me. The boy has disappeared into the darkness.
I need to get him out of here. I start to climb down. The steps are made of wood, the kind you find in loft conversions, and they lead me down to a wide, airless room, dimly lit by a solitary light bulb in the centre of the ceiling.
The room smells of damp and sweat and I hold a hand to my mouth as I stand at the entrance. What the hell is this place? I can see exposed brick walls with tufts of yellow insulation poking out of the cracks. As I move forward I see a filthy single mattress draped in a thin quilt, wedged against the wall. The quilt is covered with faded cartoon characters.
I keep my hand over my mouth as I step further inside. I daren’t take it away as I am scared I will throw up, the stench is so bad. My foot hits something and it skitters across the floor. I look to see what it is, my heart pounding. It’s a silver pen. Something about it is vaguely familiar.
I turn to find the boy. He’s over the other side of the room. There seems to be another bed pressed against the wall.
‘Mummy, wake up,’ he shouts as he climbs on to the bed and it’s then that I see a mound lying in the middle. I go cold. There’s someone in the bed. His mummy.
‘Lady’s here,’ he cries. ‘Lady help. She nice.’
He pulls the covers back and I see a tuft of dirty blonde hair. Who is this poor woman? The boy curls himself into her arms and she smothers his face with kisses.
‘Er, hello,’ I say. ‘I’m Sally, I . . .’
The woman lifts her head. I look into her eyes and my world becomes another world.
‘Mum?’ she whispers.
39
‘Hannah!’ I gasp. ‘What . . . what are you doing here?’
‘David tired,’ says the boy. ‘Mummy hug David.’
She takes the boy in her arms and rocks him like I did with her when she was small.
‘Is this your boy?’ I ask. I can’t think of what else to say.
She looks up and nods and my heart feels like it’s been ripped out of me.
This is all too much to take in.
Then I hear steps coming from above.
‘Sally?’
I swivel round at the sound of his voice and my hand drops from my face.
‘Oh, thank God, you’re here,’ I cry.
But instead of coming to me he goes to Hannah.
‘We’ve found her, Paul,’ I sob. ‘Our girl.’
I move towards them but something stops me. Paul has pulled Hannah in front of him and has his arm round her. He looks angry.
‘Paul?’ I say.
Then I notice it. There’s something in his hand. It glints.
‘What are you doing, Paul, you plonker?’
My words come out light and breezy and I have to stop myself from laughing. This is a joke, right?
‘The more pertinent question, Sally,’ he says, ‘is what are you doing? Why are you here? Did your booze run out?’
This is not a joke. This is actually happening.
Paul is holding Hannah in between us, and she’s so close I can feel her breath on my skin like when she was a baby and she would fall asleep on my shoulder. Her lovely blonde hair has been cut short and it’s all tangled and greasy. She was so fussy about her hair, it was her pride and joy.
‘Your hair,’ I sob. ‘What happened to your lovely hair?’
My beautiful, blue-eyed girl who disappeared that day more than five years ago is now a woman, an emaciated woman with hollow eyes. She stares at me, then blinks and turns away, and I feel something rise up inside of me, something that has been missing since the day she left. This is my daughter and I will do anything to get her out of here. Nothing is stronger than a mother’s love.
‘Hannah,’ I whisper, reaching out my hand to her. ‘It’s okay. I’m here now.’
As I speak he pulls her backwards. My mind is still refusing to work out what’s in his hand.
He laughs. ‘That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard in a long time. You’re here now. Isn’t that nice.’
‘She’s my daughter, Paul,’ I say, keeping my eyes on him.
‘Ha,’ he says. ‘That’s a laugh. Your daughter? You were never a proper mother to her; you were a disgrace. That’s why I had to step in, give the girl some security, a bit of guidance.’