Free The Good Mother by A. L. Bird Page A

imagining the worst.
    It is a viable plan. The bathroom door has no lock. We know this. She could easily make a run for it, if I give her a chance to prove herself, prove her plan. And I must, mustn’t I? Let her prove herself. She’s at that age now where I don’t own her. I can’t just bend her to my will like I used to (or did I – she seemed to know what she wanted when she was even a day old).
    Because the other option is the murder option. And there is something horrible about your daughter wanting to kill. Yes, I would gladly kill the Captor. The bile is rising in me even now. But could I love her again if I knew she had pierced someone’s jugular? Been covered in their blood? Perhaps had an animalistic glint in her eye while she did it? I would have to do it, of course. And I will, if I need to. Of course I will. For me, for Cara. But I’d rather not. I’d rather he was locked up, away from everyone, like we are. I’d like him to suffer, in a way he won’t in death. Although he’d have to wait until he bled out from the pencil wound – slower than a knife wound, I guess. So he would suffer. And then he’d go to hell.
    But perhaps we should try to run first, before we kill. It’s not that I’m reluctant. Although what if we need to convince a court we’d done all we could before we tried to kill him? And if he were the one on trial, we’d understand more about what is going on in his sick mind. And know who he actually is. Because as Cara rightly asks, who is he? Does it matter even? He is the bastard who brought us here, to this situation. Does it matter which bastard he is?
    Possibly. But not right now.
    Cara would need a weapon if she were to flee. Could she smash the mirror in the bathroom, get a shard of glass to use as a dagger if he catches her up? But what if she cuts that precious skin of hers while she is trying? No. If anyone is to do that it must be me.
    Of course, none of this will matter if the window girl has seen the sign.
    I go to the window and climb onto the chair. I look through the crack of available window left by my sign.
    There!
    She is skipping, the girl, outside. Facing away from me. But there nonetheless.
    Turn! Come on, girl, turn! She’s doing an ordinary jump skip at the moment. Surely she must soon begin the more complex steps. The whirling, twisting ones she was doing last time that make her face towards me. Surely this is just her warm-up act. I ready myself with the sign.
    And yes, here we go. The footwork becomes fancier. She does kind of a mid-air trot then swings the rope to the side. Then, then, here it is, she turns in a circle while holding the rope. And she is facing me. I wriggle the sign as much as I can and bang on the window. Nothing. I wriggle and bang again. Come on, please. For me. For Cara.
    Is she looking? Just keep facing this direction, that’s it, that’s it. Now just look up, come on, let your feet do their own work.
    Trip, stop.
    Oh.
    And her attention is on her feet again.
    Not on me.
    The little girl is clearly well brought up; rather than give up the step that caused her to fumble on the rope, she earnestly does it in slow motion again and again. Then she speeds up and finally, finally she is confident enough to lift her head. And she looks straight at me.
    Or at least, in my direction. Does she see me? She is too far away for me to read the expression on her face. An even if it is one of wonderment, of the engaged interest and trust with which Cara used to look at me when she was that age, it may not do me any good. She’s probably been told not to wave at strangers. But I waggle the sign as much as I can. Is that a slight inclination of the head? A nod? A shake? Even just an acknowledgement? That would be something.
    She turns away from me and continues to skip with her back to me.
    I slump against the windowsill. Fine. Be like that. Ignore me. A bit like Cara in her early teenage years, in that borderline between childhood and pretentions