A Mother’s Sacrifice. Gemma Metcalfe

out for Cory, pins and needles working their way down my arms and into my fingertips.

      ‘But we haven’t even eaten.’ Magda looks genuinely upset as she passes Cory over to me. ‘You’re not worried, are you? Claudio is often wrong. I wouldn’t think too much of it.’

      ‘No, it’s not that.’ I place Cory into his pram, the coffee shop suddenly too stuffy, the air close enough to choke on. What was I thinking? The place is probably littered with germs, no place at all for a newborn. ‘I, erm, I just remembered that James wanted us to go somewhere. Look, I’m sorry – enjoy your lunch, dinner, whatever it is you’re having.’ I look down at my watch. How is it even four o’clock already?

      ‘Okay, sweetie, I’ll call you later.’

      I gulp for air as I exit the coffee shop, the high street now littered with shoppers, all racing around like an army of ants who have lost their leader. I fight my way through them, keeping my head bowed, adrenaline snaking its way through my veins and making me dizzy. Dusk is already beginning to creep around the edges of Chester, the thatched roofs of the city’s original Tudor buildings blurring against an iron sky. Tears prick the backs of my eyes as I struggle to push the Silver Cross pram back down the cobbled street, my stomach dipping in sync with the pram’s suspension.

      I try to tell myself I am being ridiculous. That no person in their right mind would believe the ramblings of a woman with multicoloured hair and a Spanish spirit guide. But as much as I tell myself to stop being ridiculous, I can’t seem to loosen the feeling of impending doom which coils around my insides. After all, somebody is trying to frighten me, whether him or a sick bastard who knows what happened nine months ago. Realistically I know it can’t be who I think it is. He doesn’t even know where we live, doesn’t know very much about me at all. And yet, what other explanation is there? Who else would want to hurt me in this way?

      I know I need to confess everything to James. Even though I promised myself I never would.

      I reach Town Hall Square, which is heaving with people, the annual Christmas markets pulling them in in droves. Surrounding the masses, wooden sheds, dressed from head to toe in festive attire, offer up European feasts. The sweet aroma of hot sugary waffles collides in the air with spicy Bratwurst, the fruity tang of mulled wine rekindling memories of Christmases I’d rather forget. Claustrophobia claws at my insides as I fight my way through the crowd. I keep my eyes buried into the floor, the ground a stampede of shoes and boots, some flat and bulky, others pointy with scuffed toes. Cory starts to cry and thrash around under his quilted pram cover. Quickly checking my watch, I realise it is now four-thirty and I haven’t brought his five o’clock feed with me. I zigzag the pram from left to right, trapped in a mass of bobble hats and fur-lined anoraks, the bulky pram wheels clipping the back of worn-down Ugg boots and flattening plastic cups that litter the floor.

      ‘Watch it, will you, love!’

      ‘Sorry.’

      ‘Nice baby you have there.’

      I spin my head around, my lungs emptying of air as I take in the man’s facial features. Steely blue eyes pin me to the spot, a flash of orange hair poking out from underneath his hooded top. ‘What did you just say to me?’

      He doesn’t reply.

      I attempt to dodge past him but he sticks his filthy trainer out under the front pram wheel, blocking my path. ‘Are you all right? You don’t look very well.’ He laughs, his hand reaching into the pram, his spindly fingertips now inches away from Cory’s face. ‘Let me take the baby. You aren’t very well.’

      I feel my legs buckle underneath me, his words too much for my mind to process. As my head connects with the cold, hard floor, I hear his parting words. ‘He’s mine, Louisa!’