Northern Spy(59)

In his pram, Finn scrunches up his nose to imitate me sniffing. Cars drive past us with Christmas trees roped to their roofs. Already the air has turned festive, and in a few hours, when the temperature drops, this drizzle will turn to snow.



* * *



—

The snow falls all through the night, and in the morning the sky is eggshell blue. Marian wants us to go skiing in the Mournes.

“Can one ski in the Mournes?” I ask. I hadn’t known that was an option. There aren’t any chairlifts, obviously.

“We’ll have to hike up in skins,” she says. Tom has already left with Finn for the day, I’d been wondering what to do with myself.

When we arrive, the mountains are smooth white ridges against the sky. The storm has left behind almost two feet of powder, a historic amount, not seen in decades. We strap into skins and start climbing. Our grandfather taught us to ski, and I imagine he’d be proud to see us on this mountain.

At the peak, we stop to catch our breath, then point the tips of our skis down the slope. Marian is level with me in the pines, her shape appearing and disappearing between the trees. We race down the mountain, and the air fills with the regular, rhythmic sound of our skis turning in the snow.

We’re alone. We could be in the Alps, we could be skiing the backcountry in Klosters or the Val d’Isère, not that I’ve ever been to either. When we reach the bottom of the slope, we’ve left two perfect, curving trails down the mountain. Neither of us can stop laughing, and we hike up and race down again and again.

After coming home from the mountains, we make fondue. Marian boils the oil while I cut bread into cubes. I have a fondue set, a brown crock and two long forks. We’re both so hungry that we start cooking before changing out of our ski clothes, absurd in our henleys and thermal long underwear.



* * *



—

The next morning, I’m fixing breakfast for the baby while thinking about stretch-mark cream. I’m wondering whether to buy some, if it can work after the fact or if that ship has already sailed. I don’t know what makes me look up. When I do, two men in black ski masks are standing on the other side of the garden wall.





38


THE MEN DON’T MOVE. They might have been standing there for a long time. Above them, a few leaves twist on the winter trees. My entire body is given over to sheer panic.

The bowl of porridge I am carrying over to Finn crashes to the floor, splashing my feet and shins. He watches me from his high chair beside the sliding door. The men will be able to see him from their position. And they know I’ve noticed them. I can’t see their faces under the masks, but their eyes are fixed on me.

I won’t be able to free the baby from the high chair straps and reach the front of the house in time. They will beat me to the road.

Blood roars in my ears. The men are coming over the wall now. It’s happening too quickly. Already they’re dropping onto my lawn, in their boots and canvas army jackets. They aren’t holding guns, but both of them are taller than me, and bulkier.

Finn starts to whine with hunger, pointing at the bowl. I cross to the sliding door without knowing what I’m about to do, if I’m going to turn the bolt, but then I’m grappling with the handle and wrenching it open. I step out into the cold air and shut the door behind me.

Through the glass, Finn lets out a wail. The men are already halfway up the lawn. I hold my hands in the air, and they stop walking.

“Come on, Tessa,” says one. “Time to go.”

They wait for me to move toward them. “I can’t leave my son in there. It’s not safe.”

The men consider me, the holes in their ski masks stretched tight around their eyes and mouths. The shorter man’s lips are a dark color, like he hasn’t had enough water.

Behind us, Finn screams, fighting against the straps. If I were to lift him, he’d stop crying right away, he’d blink, his wide eyes looking around him with relief, and curl into me.

“I’m going to come with you,” I say, “but first I’m going to drop my son at my neighbor’s. She lives right up the road, we do it all the time. I’ll tell her my aunt’s ill.”

“You have one minute,” says the shorter man. “If you tell her to call the police or if you try to run, we’ll kill you and your baby. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

He stays outside, and the other man follows me into the house. My hands shake as I open the buckles on the high chair. Finn twists, reaching his arms toward me. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, you’re okay, mam’s here.”

He breathes in shakily, clutching my hair, looking over my shoulder at the man. I grab his nappy bag and blanket and open the front door.

“Stop,” says the man, and I wonder if this was a game, if he was only pretending to let me leave. I cradle Finn to me, one hand shielding his head. The man points at my feet. “Put on shoes.”

I look down. My bare feet are livid and red from the snow. I push them into a pair of fleece-lined boots and hurry down the path before he can change his mind.

Finn clasps his arms around my neck. I cover the side of his face in kisses as we walk, murmuring to him, breathing in his smell.

When Sophie opens her door, I say, “My aunt’s ill. I need to go to the hospital. Can you mind Finn?”