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‘I could. It’s not very far away,’ I say. ‘But I don’t think you’re allowed.’
She frowns, considering. And then she raises her fingers to her lips again,ssssh,her eyes dancing with mischief.
I smile and turn as if to leave, knowing curiosity will be her undoing. She catches up to me and takes my hand, because she trusts me.
My daughter’s hand in mine.
We walk together in plain sight along the beach, past dozens of people. No one even tries to stop us.
I can’t believe it’s this simple. This is the moment of greatest risk, the only period of time when, for all the planning of thelast few days, events are largely beyond my control. If someone sees her with me and challenges us, I have my excuse ready. But no one even notices. We’re made invisible by our very ordinariness, Lottie and me.
I walk a little faster. The clock’s already ticking. Lottie may be missed at any moment. Time is of the essence.
I turn onto a stony path leading away from the shore. Lottie’s barefoot, though she doesn’t complain. But she’s slowing us both down as she hops gingerly from foot to foot, so I pick her up and she doesn’t protest.
My daughter in my arms.
She frowns for the first time when I open the door to the back seat of my rental car. I didn’t want to risk using my own vehicle, in case there’s a CCTV camera I missed, though I think I’ve managed to avoid them. The ID I gave the car hire company is obviously false; you’d be shocked how quickly you can obtain a fake driving licence and passport online. Thanks to Simon Green and Berkeley International, I know my way around the dark web all too well.
‘Where’s my car seat?’ she says.
‘Aren’t you too old for that?’ I ask, although of course she isn’t.
‘Yes,’ she says, pleased.
She doesn’t ask questions as we drive to a cheap hotel just forty minutes from South Weald village, other than a request to use the bathroom, which I deny, since by then we’re nearly there. I deliberately chose somewhere nearby, so as not to panic her with a long drive, but she doesn’t seem at all concerned. I keep stealing looks at her in my rear-view mirror, unable to believe she’s really here. She’s here, with me. We’re making our escape. This isn’t a fairy tale, this isn’t my imagination: this is real. Lottie is real.
I force myself to concentrate on the road. I’ve been carefulto pick a route with few traffic cameras and no road tolls. I don’t think the woman who stole my baby will be stupid enough to raise a hue and cry but, just in case, I’ve taken steps to ensure we won’t be found, until I’m certain she’s slunk back into the same dark hole from which she emerged. I don’t care about revenge, about punishing her. I have my daughter back.
In a few days, I’ll be able to take her back home to London. It won’t matter how I found her. It’s not a crime to rescue your own child.
The nightmare is almost over.
