table next to me points at the Baby Bjorn.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Still trying to get used to it.’
‘I used to wear it with my jacket over the top.’
‘Oh, right.’ I shrug my jacket off and slip the straps over my shoulders, tightening and adjusting until it seems about right. ‘Could you lift her up?’
‘Sure,’ the woman says, gently lifting Mia under her arms and lowering her into the sling. ‘There you go.’
The woman adjusts the carrier so that Mia is propped up snugly, and I slip my jacket on again over the straps. It’s a lot easier than holding the baby in my arms – and means I have both hands free.
‘Oh my gosh she’s so like you, isn’t she?’ The woman smiles admiringly. ‘Just a lovely little mini-me.’
‘Yes. I suppose she is.’
I realise that I’ve not touched my own drink. I take a sip, the tea already tepid, and put the cup back on the table. I wasn’t thirsty anyway. I stand up, Mia warm and sleepy against my chest, sling the rucksack over my shoulder alongside my handbag. The baby snuffles, her mouth opening in a tiny yawn, but her eyes don’t open.
My heart clenches with what I have to do next.
Outside, I go to the kerb and scan the street for another black cab. St George Street is a fairly busy road; there’ll be one along in a minute. I look down at Mia’s sleeping face, her chubby cheeks and perfect pink eyelids, a tiny bubble of milk on her lips. My phone pings again in my handbag. I dig it out and see the unread messages from Tara.
You back from the clinic already? X
You OK? School run now but will call when I’m back xx
I try to think of a reply that doesn’t sound too crazy, thumbs poised over the screen, and begin typing just as a car door opens wide at the kerb, the door swinging inches from my legs. I look up, a hand instinctively covering Mia’s back, as a large man in a black bomber jacket jumps out of the driver’s seat. With a jolt of shock, I realise I’ve seen his face before.
Early thirties, dark ginger beard and a broken-bone kink in the bridge of his nose.
The caller on Kathryn’s phone.
7
Before I can react, the man snatches my phone and shoves it into his pocket. He’s broad and heavily built, the fabric of his bomber jacket stretched taut over his shoulders and arms. He grabs me with his other hand, his grip digging into my wrist.
‘Scream and you’re dead,’ he says, his voice low. ‘Now hand her over.’
‘What?’ I say, my spine rigid with shock. ‘What do you want?’
‘Give her to me,’ he growls, pulling her closer. He tightens his hold on my arm, his iron grip digging into the flesh beneath my jacket. The bruises on Kathryn’s arm. Her ringing phone. Frightened eyes. Her husband – boyfriend, partner, ex, whoever the hell he is – has found us. His breath is sour and hot in my face. ‘Now!’
My head swims with fear, shock rendering me numb for a second before I recover enough to try to shake my arm free. I circle my other arm protectively across Mia’s back, holding her close, limbs buzzing with adrenaline.
‘Get off me!’
His other hand reaches for the baby, fingers digging under the harness, trying to unclip her, to pull her away from me.
‘Give her to me!’
Mia jerks, startled, and begins to whimper. The sound sends a bolt of pure anger through my chest and when he releases my arm to make another grab for the baby I open my hand and throw a palm strike at his nose, thrusting upwards good and hard. He sees it coming and dodges to the side, catching my wrist and wrenching it down to the side. I stamp my heel down on the toes of his boot but it doesn’t seem to have any effect.
‘What the hell is wrong with you!’ I shout. I look up and down the street but there’s no one looking our way. ‘I’m not giving her to you, get away from me!’
He circles me until he has his back to the café, his bulk hiding us both from the customers inside. His eyes are wide and bloodshot, the pupils dilated, flecks of spittle in the thick stubble on his chin. I try to remember what I have in my handbag, what I could use – attack alarm? Keys? Biro? I open my mouth to