‘I said get up, before I drag you out by your hair!’ His voice holds the same authority it always has, only now it’s edged with a dangerous undertone I’ve never heard before. What’s happening? Why would Doctor Hughes want to hurt me?
‘Cory, where’s Cory?’ I raise my arm and use both hands to push myself up off the back seat of what must be his car, a searing pain slicing through the back of my head as I do. I collapse back down face first, the image of Magda’s body lying in wait; my friend, my best friend slumped against my kitchen cupboard, her skin a sickly shade of grey, a knife sticking out of her torso. Panic wraps itself around me. I squeeze my eyes shut.
One thing you can see, one thing you can hear…
Without warning, sharp nails dig into the back of my neck and I’m yanked back, hitting my head on the rim of the car door as I’m propelled up onto my feet. The neckline of my nightdress cuts into my throat. I manage to wedge my fingers down the front of the fabric and pull at it to stop myself from choking, gulping greedily at the freezing cold air. The wind blows up the hem of my nightdress as it charges past. Straining my neck, I manage to turn to face to Doctor Hughes who still has hold of the back of my nightdress, the whites of his eyes alight in the darkness. My gaze falls down to where Cory is being held in place by the doctor’s forearm, my baby’s torso and legs dangling down like a rag doll.
A scream bubbles up inside of me but evaporates as it hits the air.
‘Make a sound, and I kill him.’
‘Please, please don’t hurt him.’ I start to cry, my fingers still wedged down the front of my nightdress in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure on my throat.
‘Seriously, Gwyn, do you ever do as you’re told?’
‘Who’s Gwyn? What are you talking about? Please don’t hurt my baby!’
‘I never should have trusted you. Now walk!’ He starts to drag me across what I think is waste ground, the night so dark it’s difficult to see anything bar my own breath. I don’t understand what’s happening. Is it a case of mistaken identity? And who in God’s name is Gwyn?
After a minute or two the ground changes in texture, muddy and soft to cold and hard. In the distance, a car flies past us, it’s taillights disappearing before I have chance to shout for help. Straight in front of us, two cast-iron street lamps shine a soft light down onto a cobbled footpath. I look up, see Old Dee Bridge up ahead.
‘Why are we here? What are you going to do?’ I strain to look at Hughes, my questions drowned out by the ferocity of the roiling River Dee thrashing against the brick wall which is now a metre or so to the left. I look over to my right, am greeted by another, albeit much taller, wall. We are hemmed in, invisible in the darkness! Even if anybody did happen to look out of their window or venture out onto their balcony from the flats above us, they won’t see us. ‘Please don’t do this, Doctor. I’m begging you, please.’
‘I’m sorry, Gwyn. It’s the only way.’
Confusion, mixed with sheer desperation, clouds my thoughts as Doctor Hughes throws me towards the low wall causing me to fall to the ground, my knees scraping against the concrete. I scramble over to the wall in a desperate bid to get away from him. Pushing my back up against it, I look up, see that he is now looming over me, his forearm still wedging Cory into his side. ‘Please, please stop this.’
He takes a step forward, his heavy bulk now partially blocking the light behind him. It’s too dark to really make out his expression but I know he’s calm, too calm, which is somehow more terrifying than his blind rage of a moment ago. Cory isn’t making a sound and I think his eyes may be closed. The cold is too much for him, he’s surely gone into shock. Oh God, he’s going to die! A sob escapes from my mouth as I reach my hands out towards him, gravel embedded in them from where I’ve fallen. ‘What do you want?’ I plead. ‘I’ll do anything as long as you don’t hurt my baby. Give him to me, please!’
‘Stand up.’ Doctor Hughes speaks softly, his rolling Welsh accent terrifying.
I take a deep breath, manage to pull myself up into a standing position, knowing only that I have to be calm if I am going to save my son. ‘Just tell me, please. Why are you doing this to us?’
He smiles, his white teeth contrasting against the black sky. ‘Because he’s mine, and he isn’t safe with you.’
I shake my head, confusion clouding my thoughts, making it difficult to think. ‘He’s not yours. He’s mine and James’s.’
‘Now we both know that isn’t strictly true, don’t we?’
‘Well, mine and the donor’s then. But not yours, never yours! I don’t know who you think I am, but you’re wrong!’ Anger rips through me, my barely controlled voice seeping out through the gaps in my teeth. ‘You have no right to him.’
His laugh rips through the air. ‘You really are stupid, my dear.’ He takes a step towards me. ‘I am the donor. I’m your child’s father!’
‘For nothing is hidden that will not become evident, nor anything secret that will not be known and come to light.’ Luke 8: 17
‘Pardon?’
She attempts to step back but the wall stops her in her tracks. Behind her, the River Dee rises in intensity, an almost perfect backdrop for the grand finale. The street lamp behind me partially illuminates Louisa’s beautiful face. I dare not blink, not wanting to miss the moment when sweet realisation lights up her pretty green eyes. I don’t have to wait for long. Slowly, her pupils dilate and her lips part into a silent scream.
It surprises me just how much the past and the present are aligning, an almost perfect synergy. There was a time, when God first revealed his plans to me, that I considered whether or not I was strong enough to see them through to fruition. When my wife, Gwyn, committed suicide two years ago by jumping off Jubilee Bridge in the dead of night, taking my precious little Gabriel with her, I thought I’d never be able to find strength again. I hated her for what she’d done, for what she’d taken from me, and yet I hated God more for allowing it to happen.
That is until I began to understand.
The Bible talks of ‘spiritual warfare’, a collision of good and evil. My wife, Gwyn, was always a mighty woman of God, introduced me to my Lord and Saviour when we first met, ten years ago now. It was her belief that God’s plan for our life was to set up SureLife, a fertility clinic like no other. ‘God is the only one who can give life,’ she whispered into my ear one evening while we were lying side by side, her hand resting protectively over her stomach. ‘But you are his finest vessel.’ Of course she was right. I was already becoming an expert in my field as an embryologist, earning myself the title of the ‘miracle worker’ from colleagues and patients alike. When Gwyn gave birth to Gabriel the same day I signed the paperwork for SureLife, I truly believed we were living out our godly purpose. But of course, with any spiritual warfare, the devil is always watching and waiting, ready to take everything a person holds dear. I guess in the weeks after Gabriel’s birth, I was too busy to notice the signs of my wife’s declining mental health. My ignorance allowed the devil a foothold in our life, and darkness was able to extinguish the light which had previously shone.
Of course the authorities labelled Gwyn’s demonic possession ‘postnatal psychosis’, but I of course knew the truth.