The Stolen Girl (5 page)

Her voice washes over me, soothing. Marshmallows, that’s what I want.

I grab her hand. ‘I want something to eat,’ I say.

She smiles at me, her expression tender. ‘Oh, darling, of course. Come on.’

On the way to the hospital café, I try one more time. ‘When can I see my mum?’

She chews her lower lip and I notice, once again, the bluish black circles ringing her eyes. ‘It’s difficult. You’re here at the hospital because we want to make sure she didn’t...’ She doesn’t complete the sentence, she doesn’t need to.

‘My mother…’ I begin, daring the social worker to challenge me, ‘…wouldn’t harm me. She cannot bear the thought of me being hurt.’ And yet, she has. I am hurting, right now. I push away the thought, angrily swiping at the tears I thought I’d exhausted which are beading my eyes. I remember the time she found out I was being bullied, the raw agony in her eyes, the way she had bunched her hands into fists and said she would come and fight the bullies herself, and I had known that she would too, my slip of a mother who was, who is, scared of every little thing, especially people. ‘She
loves
me,’ I yell and a passer-by shrouded beneath his coat cringes as if slapped. He turns and I see his eyes, red-rimmed. He has lost a loved one too, I think, the flower of pain blooming.

‘In the eyes of the law, she has wronged you,’ the social worker’s voice is tender as the whisper of silk on skin. ‘Look, it’s complicated, Diya. This case, your case…there are not many precedents. Family lawyers are right this minute poring through legal tomes and going over past cases to try and find out what is allowed and what is not.’ A deep sigh. ‘We all want what’s best for you. I know you desperately want to see her, but…’

‘You think seeing my mum is not in my best interests?’ I yell, venting all the anger I feel at this situation I find myself in, all the hurt, the helplessness, the anxiety rendering my voice a broken squeal.

She sighs once more, sounding as helpless as I feel. ‘I will talk to the team in charge of your care, put forward your case. Okay? I cannot promise more. And even if we do go to see her, and that’s a big “if”, mind you…’

My heart lifts at the thought.

‘…it will not be for a few days yet, until she’s been charged and moved.’

It sinks again, my somersaulting heart, at the sudden vision of Mum in prison. I blink it away. I try.

The café looms, a tired woman manning the counter, sorry-looking cakes and sandwiches drooping in orange light.

‘Ah, here we are.’ The social worker’s voice falsely cheery, both of us relieved.

She buys me a sandwich, apple juice, a packet of crisps and some oat biscuits, and I eat to fill the Mum-sized hole in me, to allay the fear, to douse the worry. I cannot taste the food and the Mum-sized hole refuses to be filled by anything other than Mum herself, and yet I eat. I chew and swallow, because at least it is something to do. My stomach roils. The flower of pain flourishes. This is too big a loss, too huge a pain for food to comfort, to soothe; too wide a chasm to fill. For the first time in my life, even the one thing usually guaranteed to ease the pain is not helping.

The social worker watches me eat, her eyes soft as the sky at twilight, and I am reminded of Mum watching me those evenings when she brought back my favourite dishes from whichever Indian restaurant she was currently working at. I turn away from the social worker’s gaze and freeze momentarily, almost choking on my juice at the sight of us reflected in the glass window of the café, a chubby woman gazing affectionately at a chubby girl who could, in this shadowy light, be her daughter. My stomach churns. My body hurts, the flower of pain running riot inside.

‘Let’s go,’ I say, not able to finish the food for perhaps the first time in my life, binning the rest instead of saving it for later, knowing it will not help, not relieve me of the incessant ache of missing my mother.

In the car, the social worker, Jane – such a solid, dependable name – says, for at least the third time since I’ve met her, ‘If you need to talk about anything, anything at all, I’m here. Okay?’

Like all the other times, I pretend not to hear, staring resolutely out of the window at the blackness outside.

‘I mean, I may not physically be there if it is, say, the middle of the night, but you have my number. You can call anytime. Even if it’s four in the morning.’

She smiles. I don’t.

‘You cannot take me to see my mum.’ My voice sullen, tinged purple with agony and yellow with tiredness.

She sighs, defeated. ‘Not now. But I will try and find out what the legal constraints are, I promise.’

The foster carers’ house is in a quiet residential street a twenty minute drive away.
Good
, I think,
the further away I am, the better.

The door is opened by a slight woman wearing a salwar, her hair pulled back in a bun.

‘Hello, Diya. I am Farah. Welcome,’ she says, enveloping me in a hug before I can move away, her gentle fingers stroking my hair.

She smells of sanctuary and of detergent, with a slight hint of curry. She smells of home, of Mum after she’s come back from the restaurant and had her shower. This woman’s smell, the feeling of being in her arms, brings it all back, threatens to undo me and I push her away, hard.

I cannot trust anyone. How can I, when the person I love most in the world has betrayed me? I believe my mum and yet, all the evidence points to her guilt. I think of her, just standing there meekly, her gaze apologetic. Allowing herself to be led away like a criminal. ‘You tell them, Mum,’ I had pleaded. And she had done nothing, hadn’t denied the accusations. All she had said was that she loved me, that I was her daughter.

I close my eyes, push these thoughts away, try to get my bearings. I cannot trust anyone. Not even myself. Not when I betray myself every time I think of her, miss her, ache for her. I have to be strong. I cannot afford to get close to anyone. This woman is just a foster carer, paid to look after me for a few days.

At least she didn’t kidnap you.

My eyes sting, a feeling fast becoming as familiar as breathing. When I open them, I spy two heads peeking from behind a half-open door, one stacked on top of the other, the hint of a pyjama bottom, stripy blue. Identical bug eyes, identical shocks of unruly hair. One of them is wearing glasses, the other has a mole right at the centre of his nose. They look curiously at me, unblinking, assessing. I stare back. Finally, one of them attempts a smile.

‘What are you looking at?’ I yell, but my heart isn’t in it and it comes out weary, barely louder than a whisper.

‘Affan, Zain, what are you doing up? To bed, both of you,’ their mother clucks and they disappear in a swish of pyjamas.

‘I am tired,’ I say.

‘Of course,’ the woman, Farah, says. ‘Have you eaten?’

‘Yes.’

‘Come.’ She holds out a hand, then drops it to her side when I do not make a move to take it. She motions me to follow her up the narrow stairwell, echoing of the boys’ hurried footsteps, their conspiratorial giggles, the lemony scent of fabric conditioner and mischief settling in the displaced air crowding the stairwell in the boys’ wake.

‘Bye, Diya, I’ll be back for you tomorrow bright and early. Sleep well. You’ve earned it,’ my social worker, Jane – I must remember to think of her as that – calls up the stairs.

I do not bother to reply.

Farah points to the little bathroom sandwiched between two other rooms, the door of one of which is just closing, a flash of pyjamas, a shock of hair, a red fire engine overturned onto its side, Lego blocks scattered everywhere. A piece of paper flaps on the door, stuck with Blu-Tack that is curling at the edges, a legend inscribed on it in haphazard writing, in a jumble of capitals and small letters: ‘No GaLs aLouD’. The door to the other room is shut. A landing and then, tucked into a little alcove, another door.

Farah opens this one. A bed with a sky blue coverlet, yellow flowers dotting it in buttery splotches, a cream IKEA wardrobe glowing dirty yellow in the light pouring in from the street lamp just outside the window, a small table with a bedside lamp and some books. The artificial smell of flowery air freshener masking something else, the stale odour of a room not in use, no memories associated with it, the grey taste of dust and emptiness.

I go to stand by the window. A tiny garden hosting a trampoline and a plastic goal post. The grass blue in the darkness, black shadows dancing across it merrily, laying claim. A tumbledown shed, the door swaying in the wind. The silvery silhouette of a cat perched on the fence, tawny eyes glowing. A road, abutting the fence, cars whizzing past, eager to get home. Footsteps in the alleyway beyond, the sound of a match being struck, the hiss of drawn breath.

‘It’s not much,’ Farah says. ‘Spare towels and bed linen are in the cupboard here. If you need anything, just shout. Our room is the one beside the bathroom, next to the boys’. We put you in here because the boys tend to wake up in the night – we wanted to give you a little privacy.’

A pause.

I do not move, do not turn, force myself to stand still as a beacon, a lighthouse in the darkness guiding my mother home. My mother… That flower blooming again, encroaching, entrapping me from the inside.
I want you, Mum. I miss you.
I open the window, breathe in the heady scent of ice and night and cigarette smoke.

‘Sohrab is working late, an emergency. Hope he doesn’t disturb you when he comes upstairs later.’ She waits again.

I do not respond.

‘If you need me, at any time of night, just knock. I am a light sleeper, you will not be disturbing me – chances are I’ll be awake anyway.’

Why is she being so kind? Why does she sound like my mother? If she doesn’t go away now, I will break. I want to bend as far as I can go out of this window. How does it feel to fall, be weightless? Will it match what I am feeling inside?

As if she knows what I am thinking, Farah comes up to me, puts her arms around me, draws me into a hug.

I jerk out of her embrace.

She pulls the window shut. ‘It’s too cold to leave it open, isn’t it? Look, you are blue.’

She takes my hands in hers and rubs some warmth into them. I retrieve them roughly from her warming grasp.

‘Goodnight,’ she says after a bit, and walks away, quietly shutting the door behind her.

I do not inspect the books. I turn off the light and lie on the bed, on top of the sheets and duvet. I lie there and stare at the ceiling, white, undulating, unwavering until my eyes hurt and the tears that I have been holding back so desperately come in unstoppable waves.

M
y darling Diya
,

How I miss you! Here are just a few of the things I yearn to see again:

1) The way you scrunch up your nose when you are thinking.

2) The way you know just when I am hurt or upset, and you crack a joke, cheer me up.

3) The apple and strawberry scent of your hair.

4) The way your head fits snugly in the curve of my shoulder, the way you throw yourself at me with abandon, the feel of your arms around my neck.

5) The way you wait for me to get home from work, curled up on the sofa with a book, your eyes lighting up when you see me reflected in the glass of the window as I let myself in.

6) The way your smile starts as a twinkle in your eye which then spreads outwards, your lips inexorably lifting like they have been pulled by the string of a master puppeteer. Your eyes crinkle and your face folds into itself as giggles of mirth escape your lips, like birdsong heralding dawn.

7) The way when you open your eyes in the morning, they search for me and when they alight on me, they are inundated with contentment, awash with happiness.

8) The way you bite the end of every single pencil or pen you use.

9) The way you always misplace your keys.

10) The way you eat Maltesers, licking off all the chocolate until only the crisp centre remains, biting into the kernel last, allowing the sweet crunchiness to explode in your mouth. The way your tongue sweeps the outskirts of your lips after, aiming for any chocolate you might have missed.

11) The way your face runs the gamut of expressions when you are reading.

I could go on and on, my darling. The thing is, I miss everything about you. You are growing without me, eating, sleeping, talking without me and I resent every single minute of our time apart.

How are you?

‘A stupid question, Mum,’ you would say, were you here with me, rolling your eyes, that expression in them that says it all.

What wouldn’t I give to see your animated face, to hear your voice now! But, my darling, I genuinely would like to know. You see, Diya, for the first time in your life, I don’t know how you are. And it is killing me, the not knowing, the not seeing, the not being with you. I hope you have kind people taking care of you. I pray for that. I dread to think of what you must be going through, how you must have felt that first morning when you woke up and searched for me and I wasn’t there. I am sorry, my sweet, so desperately sorry.

I have told my solicitor everything in full detail. He is asking for a DNA test to be actioned. He has set the process in motion, the first step being to check if we are eligible for legal aid as I cannot afford to pay for the test.

Diya, I know you will be worrying about me, but I am all right here. I am. I hope, my darling, that you forgive me for what I am putting you through now, for what I did then, for everything I took away from you. I suppose this is why I did not tell you the story of your past, our past, the whole sordid truth – one, because I thought you were too young, and two, because I was scared. Scared as to what you might think. Scared that you would ask to go back. You who were always so happy, so content with me and with what life threw at you. You who packed at a moment’s notice when I said we had to move, picking up your box of books and your bag and saying, chirpily, ‘Let’s go’. You who have made me so very proud. You who deserved so much more. So much that
I
couldn’t give you but
she
would have.

I love you, my darling. I hope you don’t ever doubt that.

Yours,

Mum