She nods, small hands grabbing fistfuls of his PJs, sobbing quietly into his chest. John picks up the glass of water on her bedside cabinet and presses it to her lips. She sips reluctantly. ‘That’s it. Good girl. Wash the blood away.’ He kisses the top of her head and rocks them from side to side. ‘What did you dream about?’
She wraps her arms around his neck and mumbles through the snot and tears that coat her mouth, ‘Under the bed!’
He nods. ‘Smithy was under the bed again, was he?’
‘He said he was going to eat my fingers!’ Her hands begin to tremble.
‘OK. Come here, sweetheart. It’s just a dream.’ He pries her arms from his neck and sits her in front of him. ‘We’re going to blow it away. Are you ready?’
She nods again, wiping her eyes. ‘Yes, Daddy.’
He rubs his hands together until they’re warm and cups her cheeks. He sucks in a breath and slowly blows on her forehead. Wisps of hair dance and sway on her skin. She closes her eyes and takes five deep breaths. He blows again, blowing the dream from her mind. He waits for her to sigh, something he has come to see as a good sign. He snaps his hands together. Her eyes ping open and she looks at him in surprise, as she always does. ‘I’ve got it! It’s in my hands! Shall we blow it away?’
‘Count!’
‘OK. On three, I’ll open my hands! Ready?’
‘Yes.’
‘One…’
‘Two…’
‘Three!’
He opens his hands and they blow into his palms. Bonnie sinks back into his arms and he cuddles her until her eyes begin to flutter closed. After he’s tucked her in bed, he makes his way to the door.
‘Daddy?’
He sighs. ‘Yes, Bonnie?’
‘What if Smithy comes back?’
He turns and kisses her head. ‘OK, sweetheart.’ John crouches down and slips himself under the bed. ‘Can I have one of your pillows, please, Bonnie?’
She drops one onto the floor and curls up on the edge of the mattress to be close to him. ‘Thanks, Daddy.’
He smiles and rests his head on the pillow, his limbs already screaming in protest. ‘He won’t come back now because he won’t fit under here with me.’
She giggles and dangles her hand over the bed. He reaches out and holds it until she falls asleep.
‘Goodnight, sweetheart.’
Will there be more photographs? More messages typed out and signed by his daughter? He isn’t sure which is worse: seeing the harm done to Bonnie or letting his imagination fill in the blanks. Both scenarios fill him with despair.
He looks round the small cottage they were relocated to that morning. With its orange sofa, inglenook fireplace, wooden floors and thick thatch, it isn’t something he is used to. But it oozes comfort. Any other time, he would have relaxed here. He would have sat crossed-legged like a boy with Bonnie on the rug, piecing together a puzzle, Jules beside him reading her book. Lemonade and plates of food scattered across their little world on the floor. The image makes him dizzy. Or perhaps it isn’t that. It probably has more to do with the fact he has hardly eaten for days. Jules on the other hand is overwhelmed with cravings. He often sits beside her, watching her eat, tears filling her eyes. Taking care of one baby while thinking of another. He dreads to think what the stress is doing to it. Him? Her? They don’t know and it really doesn’t matter.
How will they prevent this baby from being taken? What if Bonnie isn’t enough? What if this one is wanted too?
John rubs his neck, fraught with worry. A small part of his brain thinks that, if he cut himself, he would bleed fear and panic and pain.
John pulls himself up from the sofa and forces himself to make a sandwich. When he finishes, he is surprised to find it is the peanut butter sort Bonnie adores and he hates. He eats it anyway, cramming it into his mouth, wishing he could sweep Bonnie up onto his lap and kiss her head as he has so often done in the past. Overcome with emotion, he leaves the kitchen and climbs the stairs to the bedroom. Jules’s ‘panic bag’ sits on the bed, along with nappies, blankets, baby grows, towels, dummies and spare clothes for her. She took the panic bag out of their cupboard before they left for the cottage. Now all they have, aside from that, is a suitcase with toothbrushes, soap, aftershave, clothes and photographs of Bonnie. Their tablets, laptops and computers have been confiscated by the police. Their iPhones have been replaced with cheap pay-as-you-go mobiles for the time being.
DCI Alice Munroe had sat them down on the sofa as soon as she arrived that morning, Amy (their FLO) flanking her, and explained where they were with the investigation. He and Jules had sunk noticeably deeper into the sofa, clutched hands tightening until the blood drained away. Alice told them their examination of the photograph and envelope had turned up no DNA. They had nothing to go on but John’s past. He was the only clue in an otherwise clueless investigation.
They proceeded to comb through every inch of his past once again. Facets of his world strewn out on the floor and picked and poked at. He proffered it all with a desperation only Jules understood. They looked at him with sympathy and determination, but they didn’t know how it felt. How could they?
He gave Munroe his parents’ address and numbers so she could contact them for more of an insight into his past, a place this person resided so prominently. It was almost like the monster – Smithy – that Bonnie used to be so frightened of. Except this wasn’t Smithy, an imaginary creature they’d personified with a name. This was far worse. They had no face or name. Not a single modicum of knowledge. They were blind.
Munroe, delivering the onslaught of questions and information, had been tactful and almost gentle. John sometimes thought he glimpsed another side to her perfunctory manner. A soft middle to the hard edges. He looked at her and, before he could be completely sure, the humanity in her brown eyes slipped out faster than it had slipped in.
John wraps an arm around Jules’s shoulder, looking at the items splayed across the bed. If the baby comes early at least they will be ready. But he hopes it won’t. Where once he would have been eager to see his new child, now he wishes it could just remain where it is. Warm and protected. Safe from the torment of these long days.
Maisie
Saturday 16 January, 2016
‘Excuse me, is your name Maisie Green?’
‘Yes. Can I help you?’ The man is in his early thirties with wavy brown hair, bright-green eyes and a spattering of freckles across his face. He’s wearing an Armani suit, black with silver cufflinks, which adds authenticity to the air of wealth and class surrounding him like a bubble.
‘I’m here to see Tim. He’s a friend. Heidi told me to ask for you.’
‘Oh. OK. I just need to check it’s OK for you to see him. Just bear with me while I give her a quick call.’
Maisie studies