His Kidnapper's Shoes Read Free Page A

although I never speak. I do what I’m told, when I’m told, to make life easier. I don’t want to interact with these people and going along with whatever they decide is best for me is simpler. I have my own room and I can be quiet here.
    In my mind, I’m back being questioned by the police, my lawyer sitting beside me, the mental health social worker somewhere off to my left. I still don’t respond to anything that’s said to me, or even show I understand what they want; my refusal is obvious, though, from my silence. No way will I allow them to take a blood sample or swab my mouth. I won’t give them something they’ll use against me, something to show there’s no biological link between my son and me, even though I’m his mother in every way that matters.
    What I don’t realise is that they don’t need blood or saliva. They can take a hair sample from me to use for DNA, and they can employ force if need be. I register this fact and something inside me, suppressed for a very long time, snaps. It’s not going to happen. I won’t let them. They decide to go ahead anyway; the rage inside me erupts and I hit out at anyone I can before they restrain me, arms thrashing, screams of fury and frustration tearing from my throat, wild inarticulate sounds. The mental health social worker gets very involved and after that, everything’s a bit of a blur.
    None of that concerns me anyway. Daniel still occupies most of my thoughts. Anger like his can’t last forever. He’ll calm down, given time, and he’ll come to visit me and I can explain. He’ll understand and no matter what happens everything will be fine. I’ll wait. I won’t speak if he’s still full of rage. The only way I’ll talk is if he’s ready to listen to me.
    I've plenty of time. Meanwhile, I lie on my bed and gaze at the ceiling, wishing you were here, Gran. I’d bury myself in your arms and you’d hug me tight like you always did and somehow the world would transform into a better place. You’d help me explain things to Daniel – you two would get on so well, Gran – and I’d draw comfort in being with the two people I’ve loved the most.
    I’ve not lived a happy life, apart from the joy of having had you and Daniel in it. It’s hard remembering some of it, Gran, like when I lived with Mum. That small Hampshire town, home to three generations of us Coveys, seems light years away now, after more than two decades of life in London. I never did tell you everything; I always wanted to shield you from the worst of it. You were so ill, and I didn’t want to worry you. But it became part of what shaped me, made me who I am, and what led me to that flat in Bristol and to my son, my beloved Daniel.
    It really did get bad for me at times, Gran. Take Mum's drinking, for starters. I think I’d turned eight when I realised not all mothers drank as she did. Up until then I thought it was normal to have a mother who I had to help to bed when she was drunk. Apparently not, as I found out when I talked to the other girls at school. I learned not to say anything further, and I became vigilant about keeping up a façade of normality. Mum was a clever drunk, anyway. She’d get up in the morning as though she’d not touched a drop the night before, scrub all traces of the booze from her breath and go to work like everyone else. Wine was her favourite tipple although she wasn’t fussy. She’d buy it by the box as well as the bottle and I’d watch her rip the bag from the packaging and squeeze out every drop.
    You were always there for me when I needed you, though. I remember how I’d call you if she got bad and you’d come over. You’d help me undress her and get her into bed, your manner endlessly patient, your voice always so calm.
    ‘Roll her onto her side, Laura, like this, in case she vomits in her sleep. She’ll choke if she does, my love.’
    I’d look at Mum’s face on the pillow, her skin the colour of uncooked dough, snoring as she slept