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

As he leans in, I catch sight of the two of us in the mirror over the sink. I almost gasp. I’m not who I remember myself to be. My eyes have purple patches under them – tiredness beyond black circles. Or maybe he has punched me? My skin is so pale it is almost translucent. My lips are dry and cracked. My hair, unbrushed, but in a ponytail, sticks up wildly. And if I thought he was twice the size of me, I was wrong. He looks at least four times the size of me. And about four times as human – pink skin (neatly stubbled), hair combed, lips moist.

Steam covers the mirror and the comparison is lost.

I notice my hands are burning and I pull them out from under the tap.

Then I present my wrists meekly to the Captor. He takes hold of them and escorts me back to my room.

When he leaves I’m sick on the floor.

I try not to think what will happen when I need to shower.

When Cara needs to shower. If she’s here.

All I want to do is hide in the bed in a foetal position. But I must be strong, for Cara. I must show him that it’s not enough to leave me locked in here. Like I’ve had my bit of outside and now I’m stuck.

So I take a big breath and unleash the banshee. I cry and I scream and I shout. Maybe we are in the middle of a housing estate. Maybe I’ll alert the neighbours.

The door opens before I even hear the key in the lock.

‘What’s wrong now?’ he asks.

What’s wrong? I want to shout back. What’s wrong? You’ve fucking kidnapped me, that’s what’s wrong. And done something, maybe, I don’t know, to my daughter. But I carry on with the wordless screaming. He moves towards me, closer and closer and closer, until—ow!

Stinging, on my cheek.

He’s slapped me.

So I scream again. Louder.

He slaps me again, harder.

It brings tears to my eyes.

And there’s a wet glittering in his.

‘I didn’t bring you here for this,’ he says. There’s a crack in his voice.

‘Then why did you bring me here?’ I hear my voice, high, wavering.

He shakes his head and moves back towards the door. I start screaming again.

He turns to me. This time his hand is in a fist. I flinch. He lowers his hand. But the warning is clear. No screaming. I lie down on the bed and face the wall. I can sense him standing there, watching me.

Eventually, I hear the door close. He’s gone.

I fling myself over on the bed so that I’m facing the door that he’s just exited.

Who is this man? I swear I hadn’t seen him before I was abducted. What does he want? Can’t he just tell me everything, like some kind of super villain confessing his evil plans? At least tell me he’s got his cock out every night at the thought of me but he’s just biding his time; tell me we had a chance encounter in a newsagent/ restaurant/ supermarket; tell me he has my daughter strapped inside a wheelie bin somewhere ready to be landfill unless I have sex with him. Just don’t leave me here, not knowing.

I need to know what’s happening. Why is no one telling me what’s happening to my baby?

I need Cara. I need Paul. I need a hug, some tea, some air, some knowledge, some hope. I just need. Give me something. Please.

Chapter 4 (#ulink_2615f9e4-c5f4-5b0f-bd49-ca972c51faba)

The other side of the door

I could just have let her scream. Of course I could. I’m prepared. Tough love, isn’t it called? I’ve experience of that. I’ve hardened myself for more. Had to. Grit your teeth, get on with it, think of the greater purpose. The purpose she’ll realise in due course. Once that natural obsession with her daughter has abated. Of course, she wants to know. And maybe I should tell her. But not now. Not yet. Little by little we’ll get there. Together. That’s the important bit. We’ll always be together. I’ve succeeded in that much. However difficult it might be, treating a woman like that when all you want to do is hug her and kiss her and … all the rest. The groundwork is done. We’re together. Now I just need to carry on. Day in, day out, as long as it takes.

Oh, she’s resisting. Of course she is. Wants to be in and out of that room like a jack-in-the-box. And it bothers me. Of course it bothers me. In an ideal world, she’d take one look at me, one morning, and she’d love me like I know she can. She’d thank me for the delicious fish supper. Thank me for the warm bedding. Thank me for taking care of her. But it’s not an ideal world. Don’t we know it. All of us, under this roof.

So until that happens, she’s got to stay there. Locked in that room. And sometimes I may need to use force. Judge me, you up there, if you want to. But just like you have your plans and work in mysterious ways, so do I. I didn’t like slapping her. Of course I didn’t. Yes, there was an element of me that liked the touch of her skin. So soft. English rose. Just like Cara. You want to caress skin like that, not hurt it. Needs must though. Even if she was more stunned than hurt. She’ll forgive me in the end. She has to.

Slapping her, stopping her screaming, was the right thing to do. Selfish, partly. We need to communicate. We need to have a dialogue, even if for now it’s full of hate from her. And I want to be able to hear her voice. Not just gaze at her from afar. If she’s hoarse, we can’t do that, can we? I’ve thought so much about her speaking to me nicely, silkily, calling me by name, that I don’t want to ruin my chances by making her croak.

And there’s the noise, of course. Screaming. I think we’re safe. But I’m not big on attracting attention. Not now.

Of course, if she won’t communicate as she should, however long she’s in there, I’ll need to come up with another plan. Perhaps I’ll need to force her to understand. Something with more impact. Pierce that little bubble she thinks she can hide in, away from me, for ever. But for now I have to continue with what I’ve started. A new phase of life for us all.

Chapter 5 (#ulink_24c38405-596a-51bc-85d0-2db4f534f06f)

‘Mum? Mum!’

It’s just a whisper but it stirs me. My brain fumbles out of the half-doze it has been in.

Cara!

But where?

‘Cara?’ I call.

‘Shh! He’ll hear you,’ comes the whispered response. That’s my daughter: ever practical, ever critical.

That’s my daughter. I was right. She is here. The maternal instinct hasn’t let me down.

I flick on the light switch, hoping that the glow won’t reach the Captor, or if it does that it won’t alarm him.

‘Cara,’ I whisper. ‘Where are you?’

There’s a banging sound from the wall opposite the bed. She must be in the next room. I rush over; caress the plaster.

‘Are you really through there?’ I ask. ‘But how can I hear you, through a wall?’

‘Lean down,’ she says. ‘There’s a grate.’

I do as she says, and she is, of course, right. My wonderful, wonderful daughter. You’re alive! You’re here! And you have found a vent between our walls! I lie right down on the floor to see if I can see her. Think perhaps we can join little fingers – our ‘mother and daughter for ever’ hook.

Her hand is so fragile, so tender. If I squeeze it, will she squeeze back?