Stolen
Table of Contents
Stolen
Rebecca was born and raised in Redcar where she still lives. She has a degree in Film and Media and an MA in Creative Writing. She has lived and worked in Holland and London, and travelled across America on a Greyhound bus in 2002. She won a Northern Writers’ Award in 2010.
First Published 2013 by Moth Publishing an imprint of Business Education Publishers Limited.
Paperback ISBN 978 1 901888 86 7
Ebook ISBN 978 1 901888 90 4
Copyright © Rebecca Muddiman 2013
The moral right of Rebecca Muddiman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Except in the case of historical fact, the names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Cover design by
courage
.
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Martins the Printers Ltd.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Moth Publishing
Chase House
Rainton Bridge
Tyne and Wear
DH4 5RA
www.mothpublishing.com
For Stephen with love
Acknowledgements
I’m extremely grateful to everyone who helped make this happen, but especially to: The team at Moth Publishing, in particular Andrea Murphy and Sarah Porter, for their faith in me and my writing. Everyone at New Writing North for all their help and support over the years, in particular Claire Malcolm and Olivia Chapman. Will Mackie, my brilliant editor, who worked so hard and made the book so much better. Camilla Wray and Sallyanne Sweeney for the advice early on. Paula for promising to read this one. Cotton for taking me on long walks when it just wasn’t working. My family for supporting my dreams of being a penniless writer, especially Mam for being my manuscript guinea-pig; Dad for the encouragement despite not reading “that kind of thing”; and to Donna and Christine for sharing the weird crime-obsessive genes. Stephen, for keeping me going; for putting up with all the mountains and molehills, and just about everything else.
You don’t know what it feels like to have something stolen from you. The one thing that means more to you than anything else. One minute it’s there. The next it’s gone.
Think of your most prized possession. Think of the one thing you love more than anything else. Think of the one thing you would die for. And then think of losing it.
Think of the words of comfort given by others and how useless they are. Think of how the world keeps going on and on but how yours would stop, just like that. Think of the emptiness and the gaping hole where love once was.
Maybe you feel numb. Maybe it hurts too much to even contemplate. Maybe you cannot bear to think about it and so you bury your head in the sand and pretend everything is okay.
I cannot do that. I can’t let it go. I can’t grieve and move on. I don’t want to face the rest of my days with that emptiness. I choose to do something. I choose to be a mother. Her mother. I choose her. I will not stop until I have a daughter again.
2005
Chapter One
Abby Henshaw’s foot tapped as she glanced at the clock again before turning to her daughter, Beth, who was playing on the floor. A man with a little girl came out of the doctor’s office. He picked the girl up, swinging her under his arm until she giggled. Abby’s phone rang. She pulled it out of her bag, attracting the stares of the other people in the waiting room, and looked at the screen, cursing her husband for calling when he should’ve known she’d be at the doctor’s.
‘Hey. How did the doctor’s go?’ Paul asked.
‘We haven’t been in yet,’ Abby said.
‘What time was your appointment? I thought it was early,’ Paul said.
‘It was. Things got a bit behind schedule.’
‘Your fault or theirs?’ he asked.
Abby wanted to say theirs but she knew that wasn’t strictly true so she ignored the question. ‘So what’s up?’ she asked. ‘You sound tired.’
‘I’m alright. I just didn’t sleep very well.’ He paused. ‘Anyway I just wanted to check-in.’ She could hear him moving about, probably shuffling books around shelves. ‘What’s on your agenda today?’ he said.
‘Once we see Dr Evans we’re going to see Auntie Jen, aren’t we?’ Abby looked down at Beth and ran her fingers through her daughter’s feathery hair.
A nurse came to the door leading to the clinic rooms and shouted, ‘Martin Savage, please?’ A man with crutches stood up and hobbled towards the nurse.
‘Jen?’ Paul said.
‘You’re
driving up to see
her
?’
‘Yeah, I told you that the other day.’
‘I don’t think you did,’ he said and Abby opened her mouth to argue but Paul cut her off. ‘Anyway that’s not the point.’
‘What
is
the point?’ Abby asked.
‘Why can’t she come here?’
‘Don’t start, Paul.’
‘I’m not starting. I’m just asking why she can’t come to you.’
‘She said she’s got builders in. She doesn’t want to leave them unsupervised.’
Abby heard Paul snort. ‘She’s such a...’ He stopped. Since Beth had been born Paul had curbed his swearing and rarely lapsed. Abby wasn’t quite as restrained. ‘She should come to you, Abby,’ Paul said. ‘You’re the one who’s just had a baby.’
‘I’m the one who had a baby
eight
months ago. Anyway, she came here last time.’
‘That’s not the point. If she wants people to go to her she should live somewhere near civilisation. I mean what does she
do
up there? As far as I can tell, the only reason to move to the country is if you’re being punished for something.’
‘She writes,’ Abby said.
‘Jen doesn’t write. She lives the life of an
artiste
,’ he said. Abby could almost see quotation marks in the air.
Abby looked down at Beth and realised she was watching someone sitting behind her. Abby turned and saw a red-haired woman pulling funny faces. Abby dragged the pushchair closer towards her and turned her attention back to Paul, who was still complaining.
