Stolen Girl Read online

  But the entire situation fills me with dread. I can’t stand the thought of letting the outside world back into our lives after working so hard to shut it out.

  ‘I can do this,’ he says.

  Maybe he can, but I’m not sure I can.

  Chapter Four

  AIDEN

  We go to my dad’s on Sundays for a crowded family dinner. Grandma and Grandad’s B&B gets crammed with people: Grandma and Grandad, of course, Dad, who lives with them, and then Mum, Ginny and me. We end up squashed into the living room, loud voices growing louder as everyone tries to be heard over one another. It’s so noisy that I usually dread Sunday coming around. But if we don’t go, I miss not being there. I don’t understand how that works, but maybe I shouldn’t second-guess my feelings.

  It’s taken a while to get Grandma to stop fussing so much, but now she understands that I only want water and a small meal. I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m ill and that I’m about to drop dead at any moment. She checks that Mum is making me wear sun cream and sunglasses in sunny weather, that I do my physiotherapy, that I get enough calcium. Sometimes I see her peering at me through squinty eyes and I think she might be assessing how I look, whether I’ve put on or lost weight, or have dark circles under my eyes.

  It’s exhausting, but Mum says that’s what love is. The never-ending urge to fix whatever makes a loved-one sad.

  I don’t think I’m ill, not really, but I have spent a lot of time trying to figure out what I am.

  At night, in my comfortable bed, my mind wanders its way to him. To Hugh.

  The shadows of the bars fall across his face.

  ‘I brought you books to read,’ he says, slipping them through the steel.

  They are school textbooks about maths, science, nature.

  In the early days, I thought there was a great big search party out there that wouldn’t stop until they found me. But after a few years I realised that I was never going to be saved. When I was older than twelve, I began to wonder how Hugh even managed the practicalities of what he was doing. Didn’t anyone notice him buying me things? Didn’t his wife ever see his bank statements? His receipts? Clothes. Food. Toilet paper. Even the occasional new mattress. Maintenance for the bunker, like new air pumps and generators. Rat traps and electric lamps.

  Though I’ve often tried to explain what it was like to my therapist, Dr Anderton, I don’t think she could ever grasp how the strangeness was normal for me. Hugh and I would have mundane conversations with each other. I’d ask about Mum and Dad, what they were up to. What was going on in the village.

  ‘Your mum’s getting married,’ he said once. ‘To a teacher at the secondary school. Jake Hewitt. He’s rich, apparently.’ He paused, mid-bite of an apple. ‘I like him.’

  Then, several months later, he dug his phone out of his pocket and brought it closer to me. ‘It was the wedding this weekend. A beautiful day. She wore a long white dress. I think it had lace on it. Here, let me show you the photographs.’ He swiped his finger across the screen, revealing photograph after photograph of my mother beaming with joy. There was an older man I didn’t know by her side. Jake. ‘They released balloons in your memory.’

  I felt like a ghost then. A white balloon floating up into the sky, weightless. At the time, the idea was comforting, but now it terrifies me. What if, despite the Sunday lunches at Grandma’s, I can never tether myself to the real world? I might not be dead like Jake is now, but there’s such a thing as being dead inside, and maybe that’s the same.

  The car journey is fairly quiet because Gina has one of those toy computers for children. Mum buys us the odd expensive item every now and then, like my painting tools and laptop. She’ll rarely acknowledge it, but we’re basically living off the substantial inheritance from Jake.

  Ginny sees me looking at her in the mirror, screws up her nose and pokes out her tongue. Mum pokes out her tongue back and giggles. A half-hearted laugh catches in my throat, but I don’t let it out. Even in this car with a happy family, my mind has a tendency to drift to the past.

  Was that the worst moment? I don’t know.

  I think the worst moments come to me in my nightmares, because when they were happening for real, I went to another place.

  I should be grateful that I’m free, but the truth is, I don’t feel free. And that’s because of her pain. I glance across at Mum as she concentrates on the road. It’s not that I blame her for her feelings. If I was a father, which I can’t ever imagine, and my child was hurt by another person in the way Hugh hurt me, wouldn’t I want to shelter them from the world? Palm to my heart, could I say I would be different?

  It’s something I think about a lot when I’m angry with her. Because there are times when I look at her face and all I can see are the happy photographs with Hugh’s pale finger swiping through them. She was happier when I was gone. I think that a lot. Over and over until it hurts. She was happier when I was gone. But that isn’t true, is it? When I’m alone with Dad he tells me about Jake and how he controlled everything. ‘Controlling people are toxic,’ he says. But that’s kind of confusing, because I think Mum is controlling me a little bit.

  I take a deep breath as we pull onto Dad’s street. Dad helped us with his testimony at the trial, though Jake’s storage unit spoke for itself. Mum was acquitted for the way she fought back against her abusive husband, and my crime was considered self-defence against a kidnapper. We had sympathy on our side. Mum did what she had to do to save her child. But I still remember the blood on her mouth, the wild look in her eyes. Can this person calmly driving this car really be the same person that bit into a man’s arm? The world is strange to me. I don’t know how to make it feel more familiar when nothing makes sense.

  What I know is that the world pities me. I still have messages on my phone from famous people and letters from politicians telling me how inspiring I am.

  I’m not even the slightest bit inspirational.

  That’s why I’m glad I have Faith to talk to. She isn’t what Mum calls a ‘sycophant’, she’s someone who listens to me and gives me real advice. She was being honest when she said that I shouldn’t always listen to my mum because being a mother doesn’t make you right. She encouraged me to get an agent and sell my art. She says I should be out in the world more, and maybe she’s right. I spent so much of my life locked away from it.

  Dad hovers in the doorway of the B&B when we arrive. Hugh never showed me any photos of Dad when I was away. Seeing my father again was the biggest surprise for me. I’d forgotten his face. Since then he’s physically changed again, withering away because he tried to defend us against Jake and was hurt in the process. Faith also tells me not to feel guilty about that, because that’s what a father does for a child.

  Before I open the car door, I reach inside myself to see if my mind will go to that silent place it sometimes goes. If I notice it before it happens, I can usually stop myself. But today I’m still thinking of the book delivery and the promise of a future. My stomach flutters with anxious energy, but there’s no darkness building up.

  ‘Hiya, mate.’

  Rather than hug me, Dad holds up a hand and we high-five. I’m twenty now and I know this game has gone on too long, but it’s better than being pressed up against someone, even my dad.

  ‘You OK?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Good, good,’ he says, still standing there awkwardly. ‘How about you, Em?’

  Mum forces a tight smile. She’s been making that expression a lot since I told her about the chat show.

  ‘Bob!’ Gina cries, pointing.

  ‘Hello, Ginny-minny-skinny-bombinny.’

  She slaps him on the leg. ‘No, Bob. It’s Gee-naa.’

  All right, I’ll admit it, she makes me laugh. Dad grins.

  Mum stands proudly behind her daughter. ‘You know how to say Rob, Ginny.’

  ‘Oh, I know she does,’ Dad replies. ‘Come in. Mum’s just put the Yorkshires in.’

  ‘I’m go
ing to eat all the puddings,’ Gina announces to no one.

  Mum gets her settled on the sofa with her toy computer while I sit awkwardly in the armchair and check my Instagram DMs to see if Faith has been in touch today. She sent me a smiley face this morning.

  The room is bright, with the late-summer sun filtering through the windows. All of them are open but there’s little breeze and the stifling air makes me think about the bunker. Though I don’t want to, I imagine the naked lightbulb that would attract moths and throw shadows up the concrete walls.

  Gina needs help with one of her games, and I force myself to be patient and talk her through the buttons she needs to press. Computers have been tricky to learn, but I’m getting the hang of them now and even have my own Instagram account for my art, something that bugs Mum.

  The adults – I still think of myself as a child, I can’t help it – stand around making small talk and setting the table. Grandad picks Gina up and gives her aeroplane rides around the living room for a little while. It’s happy family time.

  ‘Are you coming to the table, Aiden?’ Mum asks.

  I hadn’t noticed myself slip away. By the time I come back, Grandma’s carrying dishes of veg to the table.

  Mum’s features are all bunched up, so I know she’s worrying about me. I make sure I get up quickly and hurry to the table at the back of the living room. It sits next to a bay window that gives us a view of the garden. My world is so vast now.

  ‘Mum says your book is ready.’ Dad starts the conversation as usual. He’s good at this. ‘You got the proofs, didn’t you?’

  ‘We brought a copy, but I left it in the car,’ Mum says. ‘I’ll go and get it.’

  ‘Oh, lovely.’ Grandma clasps her hands together. ‘Peter, have you got your glasses?’

  ‘Yes, all ready.’

  Mum shuffles her way around the table and leaves. I feel all of the eyeballs directed at me.

  ‘My agent wants me to go on a chat show,’ I blurt out, and then regret it.

  The table is silent for a moment. My body drinks it in, craving silence. Until I realise there are faces staring at me. This isn’t a good silence, it’s a bad silence.

  Dad speaks first. ‘Is that a good idea, mate? It’s a lot of pressure.’

  ‘It’s a wonderful opportunity to sell your book,’ Grandad says carefully. ‘But these people are more interested in selling themselves. They’ll ask you all sorts of things.’

  I hear the sound of the door opening and closing. Mum is returning.

  ‘I want to do it,’ I say.

  ‘Well,’ Grandma says. ‘If he wants to do it . . .’

  ‘Mum.’ Dad raises his eyebrows at her. He’s lowered his voice, signalling that this isn’t meant for my ears. ‘He can’t seriously –’

  ‘Can’t seriously what?’ Mum asks, slightly out of breath from hurrying back from the car.

  ‘They agree with you,’ I say. ‘That I shouldn’t do the interview.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says.

  Dad lets out a low sigh. ‘You’re an adult now, Aiden. All we can do is give you our advice.’

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘And that advice is don’t do it. I understand.’

  There’s another silence.

  The rest of the meal continues on without much more discussion on the subject. Mum passes the art book around and everyone makes pleasant noises about it. Grandma even begins to cry. I never thought he’d have this, she says into Grandad’s handkerchief.

  Mum, Dad and Grandma clear the plates away while I play with Gina in the living room. Her imagination fuels my art. Today I’m a monkey and she’s a fairy and we live on the moon. She shouts at me because I can’t do the monkey right, delegating the role to Grandad instead.

  As Grandad pretends to live in a crater on the moon, I slip out to use the bathroom. I don’t like to announce my comings and goings. I don’t like to be watched when I need to leave.

  It’s on the way up the stairs that I hear the sound of voices carrying from the kitchen. Someone has left the door open, and even though they speak in hushed tones, I can hear them.

  ‘I’m not saying we should be together. But I miss you,’ Dad says. ‘I miss all of you. I know Gina isn’t mine, but . . . well, I think of her as related to me, you know, like a daughter.’

  When Mum speaks, I imagine her expression, her eyes wide and glossy. Mouth pulled down with emotion. ‘It’s too complicated. The way I feel about this village . . . is . . . I just don’t think I could live here.’

  ‘And I need to be here,’ Rob says. ‘Because I need the help my parents can give.’

  ‘I know.’ I imagine Mum placing a hand on his arm. ‘I wish things were different. You know how grateful I am for what you did to help. I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. I married a weak man. If I hadn’t married Jake, you’d be walking without a cane. I –’

  ‘Emma, don’t. It’s not your fault.’

  I hear the catch in Mum’s throat. She’s crying again.

  ‘I mean it. You didn’t do anything wrong.’

  I go up the stairs to the bathroom so that I can’t hear her crying anymore. When the bathroom door is closed, I take my phone out of my pocket and type a message.

  ME: Mum’s crying again.

  FAITH: It’s not your fault.

  ME: Wish I could change it tho.

  FAITH: If she was a good mother, she’d pull herself together.

  ME: She doesn’t want Gina to go to school, or me to go on the chat show.

  FAITH: That’s not OK. She has to let you both be your own people.

  FAITH: I think you’re so awesome. I just wish she’d let you be you.

  ME: Me too.

  Chapter Five

  EMMA

  I tell myself over and over again that this is what he wants. This is his choice. I can’t make it for him. Aiden is twenty years old and he has a right to be able to make his own decisions.

  But I can’t deny the heaviness in the pit of my stomach, and the quick patter of my heart within my chest. I clench and unclench my hands, desperate to scratch the worn patch of skin I ruined when Aiden first came back from the bunker.

  The three of us – me, Aiden, Gina – arrive at the studio at an ungodly 6 a.m. because this gives everyone time to have make-up applied, hair styled; to be fixed up and made perfect. We need to look like polished versions of ourselves in order to seem real to the viewers. Every flaw is magnified when you’re inside a television. Every deviation from the norm is seen as an indication that something isn’t quite right about you. I never noticed this kind of thinking until I was thrust into the public eye.

  I’m dressed in a grey suit with a cream blouse. Aiden has on smart trousers and a light-blue shirt. Gina is in her usual leggings and T-shirt. She has Walnut in her hands. I’m pretty sure she smeared crayon on my blouse this morning. Maybe it’ll be one of those flaws discussed in a Twitter thread afterwards.

  Whether I’ll join the interview hasn’t been decided, by me anyway. As long as I’m sitting on a chair in front of the cameras, I’m not by Gina’s side, which is difficult for me.

  As soon as we arrive, a smiley assistant called Becky buzzes around us, directing us where to go. We’re bundled into a room and sat down in front of a mirror as a make-up lady applies powder to my face.

  ‘Mummy doesn’t like make-up,’ Gina says, unhelpfully.

  ‘That’s not true,’ I mumble, letting out an anxious laugh.

  ‘She says she can’t be arsed.’

  The room erupts with laughter and one of the women, Claire, says to me, ‘I can’t believe what you’ve all gone through. To fight off that man while you were pregnant?’ She shakes her head and bites her lip. ‘You’re a warrior.’

  ‘Any other mother would do the same thing.’ It’s my standard response, but I mean it. I believe they would.

  But Claire shakes her head. ‘We all think we would. We hope we would, anyway. But I’m not sure if it’s true. Anyway, we think you’re amazing.’
r />   Even as she says it, I cast my mind back to the microphones shoved in my face. The headlines that decided I was a bad mother. The public comments that criticised me for being too stupid for not seeing through the façades of evil men.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, trying my best to smile. ‘It means a lot to hear that.’ I glance over at the make-up assistants preparing Aiden. ‘Oh, Aiden doesn’t like to be touched.’

  ‘I’m fine, Mum,’ he says.

  ‘We think you’re amazing too,’ she says to my boy. ‘You’re both warriors.’

  A few hours later, the audience begins to filter into the studio while we stand together at the back. I can see that the set has two chairs facing one chair. The single chair is for Stacey, the host, and the other two are for me and Aiden. I haven’t actually told them I’ll be doing the interview, but I suppose they’ve decided I am.

  ‘Here are the questions,’ Becky says, giving me a wad of cardboard rectangles.

  ‘Thank you.’ I take the questions and have a quick scan through.

  ‘Can I look?’ Aiden holds out his hand.

  ‘Of course you can.’ I pass them over, a little hurt that he thought I might not let him.

  The questions are actually fairly tame. There are, of course, a few about how he is coping after being incarcerated and how he deals with the trauma of it all. There are some about me and how I support him, that kind of thing. What I don’t want is for them to ask him about the sexual abuse or the escape. I don’t want him to have to relieve those moments.

  And I’m afraid they’ll slip that in without warning.

  At least this isn’t a live broadcast.

  ‘It’s hot in here, Mummy,’ Gina says, squirming under my grip. She’s tired and fed up of hanging around on the set.

  ‘I could take you to the canteen if you like,’ Becky suggests.

  ‘She’s better off with me,’ I reply. ‘I think she might run rings around you!’ I try to keep it light, but I’m secretly terrified of the thought of her being out of sight.

  ‘I want to goooo,’ Gina protests.