Free His Kidnapper's Shoes by Maggie James Page A

a way to get to the bottom of what it all means.’
    ‘Yeah. You’re right. People say stuff about needing to find their roots, where they came from. Tim’s a good example. Spends ages on those family tree websites, looking up birth and death certificates. No wonder he never gets laid.’
    He laughed shakily. ‘Well, it’s not bullshit. I honestly haven’t a clue who the hell I am. I have a mother who has never seemed like a mother. Now even my father may not be who I’ve always been told he was. Who the hell are you dating, Katie?’ He shook his head. ‘Christ. Everything is so completely screwed-up. You’re right; I need to sort out which way to jump with all this.’
    He stood up. ‘I’m going back to the flat to think. I’ll call you tonight.’

9
     
     
     
    GOD’S LAUGHTER
     
     
     
     
    I’m desperate to explain things to you, Daniel. I didn’t find things easy, you see. I was only seventeen when I got pregnant, eighteen when I gave birth, and to begin with, I was terrified of what lay ahead of me. I tried not to think about what it would be like to have a tiny baby dependent on me for everything. I was determined to be the best mum I could. My child wouldn’t have a drunk for a mother who only cared where her next wine fix came from. I may not be able to give my baby a father but I’d give it everything else.
    Gran was always a practical woman. She made phone calls to Social Services in which she made it clear I’d be staying with her, pointing out I’d turn eighteen in two weeks’ time and be able to make my own decisions. We had a visit from my social worker; I refused to answer her questions about why I’d run away and Gran, thankfully, said nothing. In the end, everyone agreed the best solution would be for me to stay with her.
    I remember glancing at Gran after the social worker left; thinking she now looked her age. She’d always seemed much younger, what with her patterned skirts, exotic jewellery and apparently endless love of life. Her illness had taken all the zest out of her, though, and she looked every one of her seventy-three years, and more. She had never regained her pre-cancer weight; she was still bony thin, her cheekbones prominent, and she seemed slightly hunched over these days. Her movements appeared slower to me, her thought processes not as sharp as they had been. The time had come for me to take care of her now, this woman who had always looked after me when I needed her. I thought we’d help each other, and play with the baby together, and perhaps she’d regain a little of what she’d lost. I saw us together, in the garden, dangling toys over the pram of a smiling baby and I saw some hope for the future, and right then I didn’t dare to ask for more.
    I had other things to think about. I’d struggled through the morning sickness and was feeling human again. My appetite had come back and I had started to fill out. It was weird watching how my breasts and stomach swelled, blue veins appearing and thick red stretch marks joining them. I felt fertile, blooming, luxuriant, my burgeoning belly proof of the life kicking inside me. To my relief, my increasing desire to be a mother replaced my initial fears and I slowly grew more confident about the future.
    One night I lay trying to sleep, unable to get comfortable because of my huge, at least that’s how it seemed to me, pregnancy belly and then the pains started. Gran got me into a taxi, we went to the hospital and then I found out what pain really was. I’ll end up splitting in two, I thought; I simply can’t manage this. They tried to give me an epidural but the damn thing didn’t work and the agony tore away at me, worse and worse. I struggled, sweated, cursed and prayed it would soon end, but it didn’t. The birth took over twenty-four hours and right at the point where I thought I couldn’t go on and I’d have to either push this baby out somehow or die, that’s when it happened. I made one final effort