As I step through the open door, the phone starts ringing once again. I yank out a dozen strands of hair as I fly down the hallway, enjoy the burning sensation which spreads across my scalp. Entering the lounge, I launch myself at the phone, almost knocking it from its holster. ‘Who is it?’ I shout down the receiver. ‘What the hell do you want?’
Do not fear what you are about to suffer. Be faithful unto death. The computerised voice hollows out my insides, emptying my lungs of air. I drop the phone, feel my legs buckle beneath me, as if somebody has severed me at the knee. As I lie in a heap on the floor, a strangled plea rises from deep inside of me. My throat burns from the strain, my head pounding so hard I fear a blood clot. The lounge closes in around me as memories of my life rain down upon me, a choir of voices gibbering and tittering to one another inside my mind. But there is one thing I’m now sure of. I am not crazy. Somebody wants me dead!
Grabbing the phone, I pull myself up, ignoring the heckling voices inside my mind and the sound of footsteps on the gravel outside. I bash out James’s number into the handset, hear the familiar sound of the ringtone. He doesn’t answer. ‘Cory…’ I garble to his voicemail. ‘Cory isn’t safe.’ I cut the call, quickly tap out Tamzin’s number, grateful for my photographic memory.
‘Louisa, we’re fine. We…’
‘Where are you?’
‘At the shop. Why, what’s the matter?’
‘You need to take Cory away from here,’ I whisper, aware of the footsteps on the gravel outside my front door growing louder. ‘He’s in danger. Get the bus home to your house and lock all the doors and windows. Call the police and tell them Cory is in danger and to come right away. You can’t come back here with him, it’s not safe. He’s got a key. He might even be here now.’
‘Who’s got a key? Louisa, speak to me, you aren’t making any sense.’
‘The donor. Cory’s sperm donor. He’s going to kill me and take him.’
She sucks in air. ‘What in heaven’s name are you talking about? What donor?’
‘Just do it!’ I shout. ‘For once in your life do as you’re told.’
‘But I haven’t got any nappies for him at home or milk or…’ Her voice is suddenly small.
‘Just go! Don’t come back here no matter what. Anyway, I won’t be in. I’m going to the clinic, to find out who Cory’s father is once and for all.’ I know I sound crazy but I am past caring. My priority is Cory’s safety; it is no longer important what happens to me.
‘All right, Louisa,’ she says at last, her voice shaking. ‘All right.’
The knock on the front door makes me jump even though I was half expecting it. I peer out of the window, relief flooding through me upon seeing Sean and his wife, their eyes connecting with mine through the glass. They both look terrified. ‘Go away, go away now or I’m calling the police.’
They shoot each other a look before slowly backing away, the wife’s arms raised in surrender.
I wait until they have reached the gate before dialling another number I know off by heart. A number that once lived on my speed dial.
‘Hello, SureLife Fertility Clinic, thank…’
‘Thank God you’re open,’ I interrupt. ‘I wasn’t sure with it being Boxing Day.’
‘Yes, we pride ourselves on being open all…’
‘I don’t care,’ I say, cutting off the well-spoken receptionist for the second time in as many seconds. ‘Get me Doctor Hughes. Now!’
‘Erm…’ Her hesitancy hangs on the line. ‘I’m afraid he can’t come to the phone right now. He’s very busy in theatre today.’
‘This is an emergency! My son’s sperm donor wants to kidnap him. He’s threatened to kill me!’
The receptionist gasps. ‘Well, you need to call the police. I, erm…’ she stutters, clearly having never dealt with such a situation before.
‘I need you to tell me the donor’s details,’ I plead. ‘Tell me where he lives. I have to stop him!’
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that…’ she says more forcefully, seemingly having composed herself. ‘Not unless the police request it. If you want I can make you an appointment with Doctor Hughes for another day but…’
‘Forget it!’ I shout, throwing the phone against the wall. ‘I’ll find out myself.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
Louisa
Now
‘Forty quid, love.’ The black-cab driver fiddles around with the meter, ramping up the fare from twenty pounds to forty. He turns around to face me, his palm open. ‘Double fair,’ he adds, obviously noticing my stunned expression. ‘It’s Christmas.’
I rummage around in the side compartment of my bag, my heart sinking as I realise that, in my panic to escape the house, I have left my purse on the kitchen counter. ‘I’m sorry. I only have twenty pounds,’ I say, seeing the scrunched-up note amidst the dummies, rattles, hair pins and loose change. And erm…’ I count out the few larger coins in my hand. ‘Two pound eighty.’
He blows out a pungent breath of stale beer, his wiry grey eyebrows furrowing into a frown. ‘Don’t mess me about, eh, love, I’m not in the mood.’
‘I’m not,’ I say, panicking, his heavy bulk and tattooed neck unnerving me. I unzip the larger compartment of my bag, even though I know full well my purse isn’t in there. ‘Please…’ I beg. ‘I left the house in a rush because my son’s sperm donor is trying to kill me. I left my purse on the side but I can give you my address and you can come for the rest tomorrow.’
With each word spoken, he appears to physically recoil from me, his frown unravelling into a look of shock. ‘Just give me what you have,’ he mutters. ‘Call it the season of goodwill.’
I press the money into his open palm, grateful when he releases the lock on the back of the cab. ‘Thank you,’ I say, as I step out into SureLife’s car park, having no idea how I’m going to get back home. ‘And Merry Christmas.’
The car park is sparse, with only a dozen or so cars occupying the spaces. Up ahead, the clinic’s normally picturesque garden is bare, the grass discoloured and patchy. The two weeping willow trees, which normally frame the entrance in cherry-pink blossom, stand naked, their infertile branches hanging like threadbare tassels.
I step through the entrance of the clinic into the brightly lit corridor, Bonsai trees in irrigated planters splitting it in two. To the right, the confectionery shop is shut, the iron-grey shutters locked in position. A quick glance to the right reveals a lone barista leisurely hand-drying a saucer in the empty cafeteria, her expression set to one of boredom. A marbled sign above my head directs me to the reception area, but of course I know which way to go.
I haven’t been to SureLife since my twenty-week scan. James felt that, as an anaesthesiologist working for the NHS, he’d be a hypocrite to pay for private care over and above what was necessary. I didn’t mind switching back to the NHS to give birth, even though I would have preferred to remain under the watchful eye of Doctor Hughes and his team. But I didn’t for one second believe James had developed a sudden moral conscience, considering it more likely that the clinic served as a permanent reminder of his own failure. It wasn’t really a surprise that he wanted Cory delivered in a hospital which had no prior knowledge of our situation. I was just as desperate to put the details surrounding Cory’s conception to the back of my mind, so I happily went along with everything, even promising never to speak of the donor again. But of course I now realise that denial was the worst possible course of action, one that has broken me emotionally as well as mentally.