Free The Good Mother by A. L. Bird

caution to the wind. ‘What’s wrong? Are you crying?’
    There, you see, I’ve failed. I’ve failed her. She can hear my anguish. Button it up. Keep cool. Reply. Keep voice level. Whisper.
    ‘Shh. Don’t worry, I’m fine. I’ve got your letter. I’ll read it now.’
    Sing my little baby a lullaby. Rock her into a peaceful sleep.
    Because I am. I’m fine. Really. Her voice has calmed me. The deep breaths actually bring oxygen to me now. We will escape, we’ll be back with Paul in no time.
    And the other feeling, apart from the bile, apart from the hate and the fear, that came when the Captor kissed me the second time – well, nobody need ever know.

Chapter 16
    Mum,
    I’m sorry I didn’t write for a little while. I felt so tired, so drained. And I just didn’t want to write again until … until I didn’t feel like it would rip me apart. The acknowledgement of where we are. How we are. It’s really sinking in now. Don’t you find?
    But hey, let’s be positive.
    The window sounds great. No, I don’t have one, just a skylight I can’t reach, so we’ll have to rely on yours. Has anything happened yet? Has the girl you saw come back? But yes, we can totally use the fact that he goes out. What if we just scream and scream as loud as we can. Or we ram all the furniture as hard as we can at the doors, so he won’t hear the noise? Or could we even somehow put a piece of paper between the lock and our door so that it doesn’t quite shut, then, when he is out, we can just escape? Or – maybe this is best – when you’re having a shower (never have I felt so dirty after getting so clean – I wanted to scrub myself again so I could wash away his eyes from all over me) I can start screaming really loudly and then you can run from the shower out into the open (put some clothes on first) and get the police or Dad and come back for me.
    Or we can just stab him with the pencils. If you break one in two. Stick it right in his throat.
    I mean don’t get me wrong, Mum – I’m not a sicko or a psycho or anything. But we’d be justified in killing him, right? Whoever the hell he is. Who is he? Why us?
    Really. Why us?
    Let me know what you think of my ideas. We’ll get out of here by tea and you can make us cupcakes (mine’s a sugar plum fairy one)! Or something.
    OK.
    I think I’ll try to sleep again now. I haven’t quite managed that yet.
    C. xxx
    I could weep. But I mustn’t. Mustn’t get all misty and mumsy. Must just focus on her ideas. Such as they are. Because the furniture one won’t work, will it? No. And nor will the paper between the lock and the door. Otherwise the whole of the security industry may as well just retire now. The screaming maybe. Heaven knows, I would happily just spend my entire time screaming. But the house is semi-detached at the very least, so the view from my window tells me. If it’s detached, no one will hear us. Or, even if they do, it will take a lot of screams to make them stop ignoring what is going on in their own backyard. Much more likely to ignore the screams with classic British non-interventionism, letting the man do whatever he likes in his own castle. ‘Oh, probably just someone having fun and screaming in jest,’ they’ll decide, too easily.
    But maybe there is something in the shower plan. I can’t let her be the one to cause the diversion though, can I? I can’t leave my daughter, my Cara, in the house by herself once I’ve fled, to face the consequences of my actions. No. She must shower and run and I must scream. But what if he gets wise to what she’s doing before she’s out of the house? What if there is a chase along the corridor, her running as fast as she can, him behind her? What if the towel she has hastily clutched round herself falls away and, as she bends to pull it up, he catches her, grabs her and strangles? punches? rapes? Floors her in some way? She would be defenceless against him, she would—
    And breathe. Susan. Breathe.
    Stop