The Good Mother: A tense psychological thriller with a shocking twist. A. Bird L.

      And the walls, of course, are paint, not wallpaper. So I can’t rip them down, write on them with the scent of flowers. No.

      Somewhere outside the room there is a sound of slamming.

      ‘Hello!’ I shout again. ‘Are you there?’

      Footsteps now. He is coming. The key in the lock.

      He is wearing a coat. So. I was right. He has been out. If I had a watch, some way of telling the time, I could record whether it’s a habitual outing. Whether it gives me time to speak to Cara. Whether we can use it to break the doors down. Or if it’s just a one-off, to collect ransom money. But perhaps he would have come back in something nicer than an anorak if he’d just got one million pounds.

      I want to say a bitchy ‘Nice day out?’ but I don’t. Better to pretend I haven’t noticed the coat. In case I need to exploit it later.

      Instead, I say, ‘You told me to ask you if I wanted something.’

      His eyes become more alive. ‘Well?’

      ‘I’d like a pen and some paper, please. To write a diary.’

      ‘A diary?’ His tone is curious.

      ‘Of my captivity. Not,’ I add, ‘that I expect it to go on for long.’

      He nods his head. He seems to approve of my request. I don’t want your approval, I want to scream, I want you to let me and my daughter out.

      But. short of that, give me a fucking pen and paper.

      ‘Anything else?’ he asks. There seems to be hope in his voice, encouragement. Like I’m suddenly going to ask for him, himself.

      Something to keep in mind for an escape.

      But I’m not ready to go down that route yet.

      For now, I just want to communicate with Cara, and the girl outside.

      I shake my head. ‘Just the pen and paper.’

      The door closes, the lock turns. A few minutes later, he comes back with a notebook and a couple of pencils. The pencils are blunt, I notice. Maybe he thinks I would stab him with a sharp one. Maybe I would. But these will at least do for my first letter to Cara. I wait until he is out of the door again and the lock seals me in. Then I begin to write.

Chapter 8

      The other side of the door

      Well, you have to give them what they want, don’t you? Builds up trust, for when you need it. Means they no longer want to escape. Bit of tit for tat – I give you a pencil, you give me … Well. What I want. But slowly does it. I’m playing the long game here. Not that I won’t take drastic measures if I need to. Haven’t I already been drastic enough?

      But can anyone blame me? I look at the photos again, lining the walls. So beautiful. That golden hair. Like mother, like daughter. Suze and Cara. Inseparable. What it would be like to touch it, for real. I sit back in my chair and let my fantasies run wild. I’m at the threshold of Suze’s room. She stands there, hips jutting at a provocative angle, twirling one strand of hair in her finger. Slowly, she starts undoing her blouse (or, OK, that pyjama top I’ve got her in – the best fantasies are based on reality). Then just when the buttons have got tantalisingly low, she stops, leans forward, and grabs my belt. She pulls me towards her. Then she kisses me. It’s a kiss that means I’m yours, I surrender, you can stop trying. It’s a kiss that ends up with me on top of her, on the bed. Loving her, hard. As hard as she’ll let me. Maybe harder.

      I take a couple of deep breaths. Come on, cool it down. I know some men in my position would just go now and burst through the door, take what they want, and sod the emotional side. But that’s not enough for me. I want her to want me. I will use what tools I have available. Perhaps Cara will be one of them, when it’s appropriate. The diary is a good sign. It’s like an acceptance that she’s staying here. That’s what I need. Acceptance is what I’m after. A step closer to recognition, forgiveness, to moving on to what should be our lives together.

      Oh, that life together. It’s like I can see it in a mirror but someone has steamed it over. Little by little, that steam will evaporate and there we’ll be, clear as day. I’ve just got to keep everything fixed in front of the mirror until that moment. Help that steam on its way. And no, everything will not end up back to front, inverted in its mirrored image. It will be perfect. Well, one imperfection. But I can’t do anything about that. Not now.

      I’ve still got some little tokens of that life. Suze’s phone. She had it on her, when I locked her in. I confiscated it when she was sleeping. Switched off, of course. Good luck contacting her, anyone. And I have Cara’s cherished instrument. She had it with her when she got in the car. Must just recently have had her lips against this very hole that I now lay my mouth on. Must have fingered its length to make her own melodious sound. Like I saw her do before. Oh yes. I’ve been there, to the school concert hall. I’ve stood at the back, in the dark, watching her. They stop monitoring the doors once all the parents have sat down and the lights have dimmed. Anyone could walk in.

      I should take this to Cara’s room. How I’d love to see her play, my own private performance. But I can hardly make her do that. I’m not deluded. Cara’s not going to do anything to my bidding, any more than Suze is (yet). And it’s Suze I’ve got to work on. Suze that holds the key to our happiness.

      I get up and close the curtains. There’s no room in the mirror picture for intruders. I can’t risk answering the door and, if I’m clearly visible, there’s no excuse not to. I’ve been out; that’s enough. No reason to let them indoors wander free. I’ll choose what from this house goes into the world. And what comes in.

Chapter 9

      Dearest Cara,

      It’s me! I’m writing to you! I got him to bring paper and pencils (you might have heard). So we can communicate without risk of being overheard. But you must make sure he doesn’t find this letter, or future letters, or the pencil or paper that I’m enclosing. Look for a hiding place. And then write back.

      If I can’t write again, for any reason, then remember this: I love you. And Dad loves you. And between us, somehow, we will keep you safe.

      Mum

      xxxx

      I rip the letter from the notebook and tear out some other pages. I fold up the missive and wrap the other pages around it. Then I change my mind and put the letter on the outside, facing outwards, in case she otherwise doesn’t see my writing. I place the pencil in the centre. Then I advance to the grate and begin shoving it through. The grate is small – each vent only the length of a finger, and narrow too. I have to reduce the amount of paper I send through and refold the package. The pencil itself, the essential tool of reply, I wriggle through.

      I put my head to the wall and listen for rustling. Nothing. I stay pressed like that. Maybe she is asleep. Or worse. Not there. Maybe when the Captor left the house earlier, he took Cara with him. Maybe he is ransoming us or disposing of us or … whatever-elsing us one by one.

      Shall I tap-tap on the wall? Or is that too much? Do I need to limit myself, not show by my desperation for her safety, how vulnerable we are? I raise my hand, lower it again. Don’t alarm her. Don’t keep knocking. Don’t put the Captor on to us.

      But please be there, Cara. If you are there and reply to my letter, I know you at least are still with me. Only in peril in the same way as me. Not in some dangerous outside place. Although there’s a wall between us, a daughter is safest nearer her mother, isn’t she? Please be there. Please let him not have taken you someplace else. I can’t bear for you not to be there.

       You’ll always be this little one’s mummy. No one can take that way from you.

      Tears well. I let