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chapter 28
The child chafes against my rules, even though I explain they’re for her own good. I’ve cut that distinctive bright blonde hair, but I still don’t risk taking her out in public, except when I’m forced to get food. She’s more of a handful than I expected, and I lose my patience with her quite quickly.
‘Where’s my mummy?’ she demands, with increasing frequency.
‘I’m your mummy,’ I tell her.
She flies into a rage, kicking and biting. My legs are soon covered with bruises, and, in the end, I’m forced to do things I’d rather not. She’s quieter after that.
None of this is going the way I thought it would. I expected her to be upset at first, but surely she realises by now I’m doing this for her? It hurts she can’t see how much I love her. Her precious ‘mummy’ wasn’t any kind of real mother to her. What was she doing, letting a child this age wander the beach on her own? I doubt the woman even misses her now she’s gone.
Whereas I’ve proven my devotion. I’ve risked everything for her.
But she doesn’t make herself easy to like. She’s sulky and rude, and throws a tantrum whenever she doesn’t get her own way.
I try to make allowances. We’re both suffering from cabin fever, trapped within the same four walls day after day. I didn’t expect to be here this long. I’d planned to lie low for a few days, while the fuss died down, and then we’d start our new life together.
But the fuss doesn’t die down. Her name is on everyone’s lips. Her photograph is everywhere.
I follow every development in the story obsessively, waiting till she’s asleep before going online and trawling through news sites and socialmedia. They parade the mother on television – as if that’ll do any good – and she doesn’t come across well. It doesn’t take long for the press to turn on her. The police need someone to blame for their lack of progress, too, and she’s a handy scapegoat. No one questions their failure to turn up a single lead when everyone is busy blaming the woman who should have kept the child safe in the first place.
But I worry we’ll start to attract attention if we stay in this roadside hotel. It’s the kind of place people pass through for a night, maybe two. No one stays longer than they have to.
It’s a risk to move, but it’s more of a risk to stay.
My options are limited. I can’t chance anywhere decent, so I pay cash in hand for a small room at a cheap B&B in a transient part of town. It smells damp and musty, and the child complains the sheets feel slimy. She’s fractious and complaining, and constantly,constantlyhungry. There are no cooking facilities here so she has to make do with crisps and sandwiches, and she doesn’t do so gratefully. This isn’t the start to our new life I’d envisaged.
I’m beginning to realise I’ve made a mistake.
I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this.
