a small, birdlike woman from social services. One minute swaddled in my arms, sleeping in a soft grey blanket provided by the paramedics, the next roused and crying and manhandled into a car seat. I listened with my jaw clenched, fingernails digging into my palms, as Mia was carried away from me through the police station and her crying grew fainter and fainter until it faded to nothing.
That was it, was it? The last time I’ll ever see her. I’ll never hold her again, the bond built up over the last six hours blown away like gossamer on the wind. I pat my pockets for my phone, to look at the picture I took in the café, before remembering it was taken from me hours before. There was no time to grab it during our escape so I don’t even have a single picture to remind me.
Nothing.
The ache builds in my chest, like a bruise spreading outwards, a feeling of loss so overwhelming that for a moment I think I might collapse to the floor, curl into a ball and just cry. Wait for sleep, for oblivion, for a time when I can’t feel anything anymore.
But who are you crying for? For Mia, or for yourself?
I know the answer to that one.
Instead I put my palms flat on the cold metal surface of the table, straighten my back and blink the tears away. Six deep breaths in, six out. I focus on what I can feel – the dull throb of pain in the sole of my foot, the rigid band of a headache behind my eyes, the rough cotton of the sweatshirt – and wait for the feeling to pass.
The spherical glass eye of a camera looks down on me from the far corner of the room.
Don’t trust the police.
But this was the right thing, the only thing to do. Wasn’t it? What other option was there? Abandon her to a violent kidnapper? Take her home? I know this is the right thing to do.
Despite that, I still can’t shake the nagging feeling that I’ve let Kathryn down somehow. I’d like to see her again, to explain what happened with Mia, to check they’re both OK.
I waved away medical help to begin with, insisting they check Mia over first in case she had any kind of injury. But apart from tucking into another bottle of milk she seemed remarkably unaffected by the last few hours, giggling and smiling up at the green-jumpsuited paramedic as she was examined. Once Mia was checked, the paramedic had disinfected the wounds in my foot – two lacerations from the broken glass – and bound it in a bandage. It’s still tender, and pain lances through the sole with every move I make. He also cleaned the cut above my eye and put a plaster over it.
The duty solicitor arrives, an amiable man in his thirties with kind eyes, who introduces himself as Chris Betteridge. He tells me that anything between the two of us is confidential, before asking that I be honest with him. He explains the police caution to me and tells me he’s only there to advise, not tell me what to do, but ultimately I have three options: answer the questions; say ‘no comment’; or read a prepared statement. I tell him I’m happy to answer any questions they have. Lastly, he tells me my legal rights are ongoing so I can stop the interview as many times as I like if I want further advice, although I get the impression that he’d rather get it done and dusted as soon as possible, given that we’re heading into the small hours of the morning. His pep talk complete, he sits next to me filling out a pro forma with various details, while a uniformed PC comes in and takes a saliva sample for DNA, the cotton wool bud soft and strange as it’s rolled up and down the inside of my cheek. Then we wait another hour for a pair of detectives to arrive, while I sip a second Styrofoam cup of lukewarm tea.
Don’t trust anyone.
My mind scrolls back again over the ten words scrawled on that scrap of paper. Examining each line. The first one a request, the next two instructions. Warnings, distinct and clear.
But I know all too well that fixating too long on one thing is a sure way to get blindsided. I was fixated for so long on starting a family that I hadn’t seen the