Blood Ties (15 page)

Andy said we would.

 

I’ve got a new client today. She told me her name was Sarah when she telephoned but wouldn’t give me her last name or number. She sounded very young and very shy. I’m half expecting her not to show up but as I’m preparing the tea tray – I always offer my clients tea and a biscuit – there is a knock on my front door. I pull the elastic band out of my long hair, run my forefingers under each of my eyes and tuck in my blouse. When I open the door I see a young Asian girl of probably no more than fifteen.

‘Sarah?’

She nods and looks up and down the street before stepping into my small living room. She keeps swallowing, as if she is fighting against being sick. I don’t take my eyes off her but smile and tell her to sit. I always do it in the living room, the client in the armchair, me on the sofa, the tea tray a bridge of comfort between us.

They are always nervous the first time, until they realise that it doesn’t hurt and I am usually right. But I’m careful with what I tell them. I have a responsibility, a kind of cosmic accountability that if too much gets said, the balance sheet doesn’t add up.

‘So what’s your real name?’ I ask. ‘Tea?’ I pour her a cup anyway because it seems that two questions have overloaded the girl and she remains silent. Only after I have taken a few sips and half a digestive does she speak.

‘If you were that good, you’d know.’

Her eyes are black globes but there’s no lustre in them. She’s a troubled girl. I know that much from her phone call and, anyway, most people who come to see me have problems. ‘You’ll waste most of your session if you make me guess.’

‘Just call me Sarah.’ Sarah bows her head and locks her fingers together. The backs of her hands have the residue of beautiful henna tattoos. Her nails are painted cerise.

‘What would you like to know then, Sarah?’ I haven’t decided what to use yet. Tarot? The crystal ball? What does she suit? Maybe the runes, or should I take a look at her palms?

She sits perfectly still, staring at her fingers, her long dark hair falling across her face. She’s like this for about four or five minutes then she pulls her head up, as if a great weight is attached to her forehead, and she stares at me with huge cinnamon eyes.

‘I’m pregnant and I want to know if it’s a boy or a girl because if it’s a boy then Father won’t kill me so much.’ She sucks in a lungful of air because saying those words has winded her. ‘He’ll hate me but he won’t kill me.’

I don’t miss a beat. I’m used to it now, hearing about babies. It’s been thirteen years, after all. Life goes on. Other people get pregnant. Other babies have died since mine. I’m not news any more.

‘Then it’s a boy,’ I say, having to suck in air too because now I’m being a counsellor not a psychic and that’s something I never do. Damn this Sarah girl. ‘Does your mother know?’

Sarah’s head drops again. ‘She’s dead.’

‘Let’s ask her what she thinks about all this then.’

‘No, no!’ Sarah falls off her chair onto her knees and covers her face with her hands. ‘The shame,’ she wails over and over.

‘But if she’s dead . . .’ I was going to say, then does it matter, but for Sarah of course it matters. Her mother’s dead and she’s pregnant.

‘How old are you?’

‘Fifteen.’

Two years older than Natasha then.

‘When did your mother die?’

‘When she gave birth to me.’ Sarah wipes her face on her sleeve and sits down again. ‘Why are you asking me all these questions? Are you a fraud? You should know.’

‘I only know what comes to me, Sarah.’ Now it’s my turn to get on my knees. I take her left hand and turn it over. She has six child lines, three of them jagged and broken. I take a risk and place my hand on her belly. Just by the feel of her I can tell she’s probably nearly six months gone. Easy to hide under loose summer clothes and her trim young body carries the bump well. But I can feel the baby inside; know instantly it’s a girl.

‘It’s definitely a boy.’ I have to turn away as Sarah’s face loses some of the pain she walked in with.

‘Really?’ She holds her belly and smiles. ‘If I tell Father that I will name the baby after him, then in time he may forgive me. But I will not be able to marry Farhad, as he had planned. No boy will want me now.’

I take my tarot pack, shuffle and hand Sarah the cards. ‘Cut them.’ Anything to break up this psychiatric consultation. When she’s done, I lay five cards out in a cross beside the tea tray. Death, the Fool, the Prince of Cups, the three of Swords and Strength. It comes to me in a flash, without the cards.

‘You love him, don’t you?’

Sarah nods, her cinnamon eyes syrup-coated.

‘But he’s white and your father won’t allow you to see anyone but the boy he has arranged for you to marry?’

She nods again. I’m angry at myself because this is too easy. I’m not telling her fortune, I’m being her mother. I offer her a biscuit.

‘What do the cards mean? I’m scared that death is there.’ Sarah points to the array, showering biscuit crumbs over the Fool.

‘Death? He’s nothing to be scared of. He means new beginnings too, you know. Or perhaps the death of everything you’ve known in your life so far.’

The press conference was arranged for the next day at a hotel in the centre of Northampton. The speed of everything amazed me. Within hours of the announcement, reporters and TV cameramen converged from all over the country on my home town. It took me the next twenty-four hours just to wash and dress. My limbs were filled with wet sand and my will to even move around the house was weighted with lead. I couldn’t believe that all these people had come just to see me.

Andy and I were taken in a police car to the Marriott Hotel and ushered into a private room. I could hear the commotion of the press nearby, checking their equipment, vying for the best spot to catch a shot of me pleading, crying.

I’d put on a pale blue suit, the one I’d worn to Natasha’s christening, but I wished I hadn’t. On my right shoulder was a small stain where Natasha had dribbled milk. I pressed my cheek onto the mark. DI Lumley handed me a piece of paper.

‘Your statement to the press, Mrs Varney. When you read it, make sure you’re loud and clear. I want the bastard to hear everything you say.’ He gave me that look again, as if I was in conspiracy with the person who had done this. I looked at Andy for support. He was peering over my shoulder, reading and nodding in approval.

‘I didn’t write this,’ I said.

‘No, this one’s been drawn up for you to read out. We have to be very careful what you say. We don’t want them to know how much we know but, likewise, we don’t want them to know that we don’t really know anything at all.’

I was confused. One single point of fire ignited in my heart. Looking back, it was the beginning of my anger. I wanted Andy to react, to say that we weren’t reading it, but by the expression on his face I could tell that he approved of my pre-written speech. I skimmed a few lines of it but knew it wasn’t what I wanted to say. It didn’t sound convincing enough and that, I knew, was paramount. It could all be thrown back at me in the future. I had to touch the hearts of the nation. I needed them on my side.

‘Best if Mum does it, Mr Varney.’ DI Lumley beat his fist against his heart and pursed his lips. Perhaps he truly felt sorry for us and just didn’t know how to show it.

A waitress from the hotel came into the room with a trolley and served us tea. I didn’t want it but was told to drink up to calm my nerves. I wanted PC Miranda to be with me but they said it was her day off. My cup and saucer rattled as we waited for two o’clock.

Every clock in the world got in my way. It was now Natasha minus four days and three and a half hours. What would I do when it was exactly a week later, a month, the anniversary? How would I feel on her birthday, at Christmas or the year she was supposed to start school?

‘I want my baby back . . .
please
. . .’ I cried, dropping my head to my knees. DI Lumley felt it was a good time to lead me out to the press, while I was animated enough to show some emotion. I stood, quivering, hyperventilating and sweating on a podium with about fifty journalists and TV crew waiting silently for my plea to the kidnapper.

Then, as I sat down at the table, as I leaned forward to the microphone and opened my mouth to speak, the flashing began. I scrunched up the piece of paper that DI Lumley had given me and dropped it on the floor. In my own words, I addressed the nation.

 

‘Death really is nothing to be scared of. But let’s look at this. The Fool is where you are now in your life. And see, he’s reversed.’ I watch for Sarah’s reaction, tune in to her involuntary twitches, expressions, a flick of the hair or nail picking or anything else that might give me clues. Her eyes widen as she edges forward in the armchair.

‘It means you’re stuck,’ I add. This, as I thought, elicits instant reaction from Sarah. I’m on to something.

‘You’re telling me.’ Her face sheds a layer of mistrust, like a guest removing their coat. She takes a first sip of tea, an indication that she’s warming to me.

‘Tied up in knots is what I see, Sarah. Backed into a corner and you’re only fifteen.’ How I hate myself. I turn to the cards again because it’s better than drowning in her eager spice eyes.

‘When will the baby be born?’ Now she asks something that takes only a bit of mental maths. I continue to stare at the cards, wishing she’d gone to see her family GP.

‘I can see there’s been much turmoil in your life.’ She’s said as much anyway. ‘So much sorrow and pain. You’ve had a life of heartbreak, Sarah.’ I’m sticking my neck out here, with little else to go on really. But she takes my lead flawlessly.

‘Since I was born. Tell me, when will it end? Will I ever be happy?’

‘Of course,’ I say, wondering if she will. ‘Your baby will bring you great joy and your father’s initial anger will diminish once he sees what a beautiful child you have given to the family.’ I’ve never told a child’s fortune before; never had to wonder about so much blank life ahead. ‘And you’ve got strength on your side. The cards are clear about that.’

‘Really?’ She takes more tea.

I spend the next forty minutes telling Sarah about all her good qualities and how to handle her father and young lover, how to breathe during childbirth and not once do I return to the cards for help. I feel like even more of a fraud than I already am. This is simply woman to young girl. Mother to daughter. It is all I can do not to beg her to give me her baby when it’s born.

 

When I had finished, when I had begged with the population of Great Britain to open their eyes and help find my baby, when I had told them about my stupidity and negligence and implored mothers everywhere never to leave their babies unattended even for a second, when I had described Natasha in every detail down to the length of her tiny fingernails and the pale shade of her milk-speckled tongue, when I had said all that, I made a point of speaking directly to the person who took my baby – one to one, just me and him, full-on eye contact through the cameras. It had to be done.

DI Lumley opened his mouth, raised an arm, gripped my elbow but then thought better of it. He stepped back and remained perfectly still by my side, letting me have my say, in spite of the pre-written statement crumpled on the floor. That afternoon, he proved to me that he had a heart. I stared deep into the BBC television camera and took a long breath.

‘When you first met my baby – she’s called Natasha Jane Varney, by the way – she would have smelled a little of me, perhaps a tang of the washing powder on her sleep suit, maybe a trace of my perfume or shampoo had rubbed off on her clothing. What worries me now is that she’ll smell of you. When I get my baby back, you’re going to be on her. What worries me, too, is that I found a bootee after you’d fled so one of my baby’s feet is going to be freezing. And I’m concerned that you won’t wind her after a feed.’ I can’t believe that I found it in me to laugh here. ‘If you actually bother to feed her, that is. Just so you know, she has six feeds in twenty-four hours but because she’s always been breastfed, you’ll probably have trouble coaxing her to take a bottle. You also ought to know that she likes to be held over your shoulder and patted gently on the back. She loves it when you lay her on your legs and sing nursery rhymes to her, pulling funny faces at the same time. “Rock-a-Bye-Baby” is her favourite. And she adores walks in her pram – I’m assuming you’ll be investing in one of those – but if it’s a really cold day, do wrap her up well, won’t you?

‘Natasha usually wakes about nine or ten times during the night. She’s never been a good sleeper. Except in the day, that is, but you’ll have far too much to do then to be able to catch up with sleep . . .’ I felt a hand slide up my arm. ‘You could always phone the health visitor but she might be too busy to come . . .’ The hand grips my elbow and tries to lower me back into the chair but I’m not stopping; not now everyone’s finally listening. ‘If you get really worn out, you can always leave her in the car and go into a shop.’ I pause and stare at the ceiling to make the tears stay in my eyes. ‘Then maybe someone will steal her.’