The Secret Mother(19)

The landline rings. I ignore it. Then I have a better idea – I crouch down, scrabble about at the back of the hall table until I find the phone line, and yank it out of the wall. The ringing stops. Good.

I straighten up and try not to think about all those people out there. Circling. Waiting. Even inside my house, I feel exposed, vulnerable, no longer safe. I hitch my skirt up, drop to my knees and crawl into the lounge towards the window – the street lamp outside giving me enough light to see by. I pull each of the shutter cords until the blinds close up as tight as they will go. I crawl into the dining room/office – a stale and musty room I never use any more – and close the blinds in here, too. Lastly, I straighten up, get to my feet and head into the kitchen at the back of the house, taking care of the last of the downstairs blinds. There are still small gaps in the slats, though. I wish I had heavy curtains instead. Even with the windows covered, there’s no way I’ll feel secure enough to put the lights on.

In the dark, I collapse onto a chair at the kitchen table, afraid to go back into the sitting room at the front of the house. Should I call the police? Would they even do anything? It’s quiet. Only the hum of the fridge and the sound of my ragged breathing. I cower in my seat like a cornered fox in a hole, waiting to be torn apart by the hounds. At least they can’t get in.

With violently shaking hands, I turn on my mobile. I realise my default reaction is to call Scott. But I can’t do it. Not after what he told me this evening. His devastating revelation seems like days ago. No, right now I need to find out exactly what the media are saying about me. They’ve obviously found out about Harry, but why is it such a big story? What have they been told, and who told them?

I open Google on my phone and type in my own name. As the search results begin to populate, my body goes cold. My name is showing up in a list of headlines that fill the whole screen. They even have a photo of me, taken before my new haircut but still recent. It must have been taken yesterday, because I’m wearing my new work fleece. This is unreal. I can’t believe I’m in all the newspapers. I tap the result at the top of the list and wait for the page to open.

I scan the story. They’re saying I abducted a five-year-old boy. Okay, they’re not actually saying I did it, but they’re asking the question: ‘Did Tessa Markham abduct a five-year-old boy?’

No, I bloody did not.

Again I wonder how they found out about Harry. Could someone at the police station have said something? No… Of course, it’s so obvious. I suddenly realise who it was.

Carly.

My snooping neighbour. It had to be. Who else saw Harry? No one. But how did she find out about the rest? Well, I hope she got a nice juicy payout on the back of my misery. What a bitch.

I click on another image. This time it’s of a journalist with a microphone. The video starts up. She’s standing on my street! Pointing to my front door, asking if the woman who lives here is a serial child abductor. Oh God, she’s talking about when I found the baby in the pram. They’re interviewing the child’s mother. She’s there with the reporter, outside my house, damning me. Saying how it was a travesty that I wasn’t found guilty back then. They’re making me sound so terrible, like I’m guilty of these heinous things. But I’m not. I’m not. Am I?

‘It’s been two days, and the child has not yet been reunited with his family. No one knows where he came from or how he ended up with Tessa Markham. Perhaps there are more questions that need to be asked.’

I click on another image, of a local newsreader in a studio. He’s talking about my past, about my dead children. Saying that soon after Sam died, I was suspected of child abduction, but no charges were ever brought. Why haven’t they mentioned that it was me and Scott who called the police on Sunday? I mean, would I have called the authorities if I’d abducted Harry, if I meant to keep him?

I can’t bear to watch any more. To have it all raked over yet again. To have them speculate over the worst thing that can happen to a mother. Why am I being forced to confront all this again? Won’t my past ever leave me alone?

My mobile judders in my hand, making me almost lose my grip on it. Don’t tell me the press have got hold of this phone number too. But now I see it’s Moretti’s number. It must be Ben calling, he must have seen the news. He’s probably calling to fire me. I guess I can kiss goodbye to that promotion, whether I wanted it or not. I can’t face talking to him. Not now.

Ten seconds later, my phone pings, telling me I have a voice message. I sigh. May as well see if I still have a job to go to tomorrow.

‘Tessa, it’s Ben. Please call me when you get this message. Look, I’ve seen the news. I’m worried about you. The press are being a bunch of jerks. Try and ignore them if you can. I can come over if you need some moral support.’

My throat tightens at his kindness. I can’t believe he’s seen all that crap on the news and still thinks I’m a decent human being. My phone rings again: it’s Ben calling back. This time I answer.

‘Hello.’ My voice sounds small, pathetic.

‘Tessa, I just left you a message. Are you okay?’

‘Not really.’

‘Shall I come round?’

‘Better not.’ I manage a grim laugh. ‘I’ve got half of Fleet Street outside my house.’

‘Shit. I can still come over, though. I don’t care about that lot.’