What Lies Between Us(29)

I hope to God it works, because I’m not sure how much strength I have left to fight my daughter again.





CHAPTER 22





NINA


I sense something is wrong the moment I open Maggie’s bedroom door to invite her downstairs for dinner. Her gaze is like that of a frightened rabbit’s, caught in my headlights. Immediately, I am on high alert. She has done something she shouldn’t have. I don’t have time for this, as I have plans for tonight. But now we must play our cat and mouse game again until I find out what she’s up to.

‘Hello,’ I begin in a deliberately friendly tone. I survey the room for signs that something is out of place. Aside from the corkscrew incident, it’s been some time since she last tried to escape from me. I had wondered if it meant that I’d finally broken her. But that in itself would’ve been a double-edged sword. Because while it means I’ve won, I need her to crave the world she sees from her window. Once she stops wanting everything she can’t have, she’s no longer being punished. I can do without being stabbed by a fork or having a plate of dinner hurled at my head, but at least those defiant actions show she has fight left in her. And while there’s fight, I know that she’s hurting. I need her to hurt for her to understand what she’s done. ‘Is everything all right?’ I continue.

‘Yes, thank you,’ she replies, a little too quickly for my liking.

I choose to wrong-foot her with kindness. ‘Do you still have that headache? I can get you some more aspirin if you like?’

‘No, I’m fine.’

‘Perhaps you need some fresh air. Maybe we can think about going into the back garden for a few minutes?’

‘I’m okay for the time being. I just need to lie down on my own for a bit.’

Now I know for certain that something is askew because she has begged me in the past to allow her outside, even if it’s only for five minutes. ‘Okay then,’ I respond, and cautiously, I make my way towards her, scanning the room again. I even look up to the ceiling to reassure myself that a cartoon anvil hasn’t been rigged up to fall upon my head.

She rises to her feet, turning around so her back faces me, and I slip my key into the padlock and prepare to swap the shorter chain for the longer one. Her leg has a slight tremble to it, but I’m not sure if it’s because she is scared or has been seated for too long. However, the key won’t fit. My brow furrows as I try again, but still it won’t go in the whole way. I look up at Maggie and finally it makes sense. It’s not the first time she’s tried to pick the lock; she’s attempted it twice before with a bra wire and by snapping a pair of tweezers in half. There’s life in the old dog yet, I think, and mask my respect.

‘What did you use?’ I ask.

‘A hairpin,’ she replies without hesitation.

‘Where did you find it?’

‘On the dining-room floor, between the skirting board and the carpet.’

‘And the rest of it?’

She lifts the bottom sheet of her bed and hands it to me.

‘Okay,’ I say calmly. ‘You’re going to have to give me a few minutes to find Dad’s toolbox.’

I leave her alone to stew as I search the basement for it. Then I carry a set of bolt cutters back upstairs, assuming she’s aware there will be repercussions for this. I remain outside her door for a few more moments, taking joy in building the tension.

It takes three attempts before I cut through the padlock bar and it falls to the floorboards with a clunk. That’s when it happens. That’s when I take my eye off the ball.

Without warning, Maggie raises her foot and kicks me sideways in the face so that the chainless metal cuff secured to her ankle hits me square on the cheekbone. I yell in pain; the force of the impact and the shock of it knocks me to the floor. By the time I grasp what she’s done, Maggie is making a run for it.

She is surprisingly agile for a woman of her age and before I can get to my feet, she is across the room and heading down the staircase. I remain at the top, watching her at the bottom turning the doorknob that separates the second floor from the first. I’ve locked it. She grabs at it again, more frantically this time, but I remain where I am, watching her and nursing my aching cheek. Christ, it hurts. I can taste blood and I run my tongue against my teeth. I think she’s cracked one.

Suddenly, Maggie begins yelling for help and screaming with an energy I’ve not heard or seen in her before. She pulls at the empty egg boxes glued to the door and walls and tosses them behind her. Her throat sounds hoarse and she’s crying as she screams.

Maggie hasn’t thought this through properly. She has panicked and I reckon kicking me was a spontaneous action that has backfired. And now she knows that she is about to pay dearly for it. I prolong what’s about to come by descending the stairs slowly, one at a time.

She turns her body so that her back is now pressed against the door, her left arm and hand are covering her face and the right one is flailing and trying to make contact with me. It doesn’t take much for me to grab a hold of it, twist it behind her back and frogmarch her up the stairs. I’m surprised by how thin her skin feels to my touch.

I push her into the bathroom and then, gripping her by the neck, I shove her into the bath. Somehow in the tussle she falls in back first and throws her hands out to stop herself from landing awkwardly. But it’s too late and we both hear the crunch of bone against the metal of the taps. She has hit her head, and she’s hit it hard. For a moment, we are united in our wait for what will happen next. Nothing, as it turns out. She moves her hand to the back of her head and then brings it towards her face to examine it. There is no blood. It sounded worse than it is.