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 scream for help but he slaps a meaty palm over my face, the stink of grease and unwashed skin filling my nose.
With his other hand he opens his jacket to show the black butt of a pistol in his waistband. His fingers curl around it, ready to draw.
‘I told you not to scream,’ he says quietly. He leans in closer, his breath hot and stale. ‘Now shut up or I’ll put a bullet in you.’
A wave of fear washes over me and I will him to keep the pistol where it is, to keep it anywhere apart from pointing at Mia. I remember something I was once taught: guns are predictable but people are random. And maybe this man more than most; he’s strong and angry, maybe psychotic. Even a single shot might hit the baby.
‘OK,’ I say, my voice catching in my throat. ‘OK, I won’t scream.’
‘I don’t know who you are, I don’t know why you’ve got the baby. And I don’t really give a shit. But you’re going to give her to me, right now.’ He tries to unstrap her again, a rough hand reaching around under my jacket, the other remaining on the butt of the pistol. ‘Christ,’ he says under his breath, jostling the baby and pushing her to the side. ‘How the hell do you undo this thing?’
I scan the street again, my heart racing, looking for a uniform, a passerby, anyone who might intervene or raise the alarm, call the police. A couple of people at a bus stop further down the street, heads bent over their phones. Cars in traffic, a white van, a cycle courier with earphones in. But no one seems to have noticed us. London: capital city of avoiding eye contact, keeping your head down and minding your own business.
As he hunts for straps and buckles, Mia starts to whimper, her little face turning pink.
‘What’s the matter with her?’ he mutters.
‘You’re frightening her,’ I say. ‘You startled her, woke her up.’
Mia’s whimpering gathers pace towards a full-blown cry.
‘Jesus!’ The man looks nervously up the street as a traffic warden rounds the corner. ‘Just get in the bloody car then, you and the baby.’
My hands go instinctively to Mia strapped to my chest, cradling her warm back, the shape of her against my own body.
‘Or what?’
‘Or I’ll shoot you and throw your body in the boot.’ He shoves me towards the open driver’s door. ‘Now take off the rucksack and get in the car.’
I jerk the rucksack full of baby things off my shoulder, and throw it into the passenger footwell then go to open the rear door on the driver’s side. Fear pulsing hot in my veins, for Mia, for both of us.
‘Not in the back,’ he says. ‘Get in the front. Can you drive?’
‘Yes but not with the baby in the—’
‘Just get in the damn car.’
I lever myself in gingerly so as not to squash Mia against the steering wheel. He slams my door shut and steps away to get into the back, and for a second he’s still on the pavement and I’m behind the wheel of the big BMW, engine running, hands on the steering wheel, one thought leaping ahead of all the rest.
Go.
Now.
Just put it into first and floor it before he can get in. Take his car and leave him behind.
I reach for the gearstick, P – R – N – D – S printed alongside it.
Shit. Automatic.
I try to push the gear stick into drive but it won’t budge, and a second later the man slides into the rear seat, directly behind me, slamming his door shut.
‘You driven automatic before?’ he said. When I shake my head, he says: ‘Press the button on the gearstick to put it into drive. Take it easy on the gas, it’s a three litre. Just take us down to the lights and turn left, nice and steady.’
I roll the seat back to make more space, clip the seatbelt over us both and lower the strap so it tucks behind the baby’s back. My heart is thudding painfully against my ribcage. I hear the familiar tone of my phone being switched off as I put the BMW in gear and pull out onto St George Street, feeling the rumbling power of the engine under my right foot. Traffic is starting to thicken up as the afternoon ticks towards rush hour.
‘That’s it,’ he says, ‘right onto Seymour and up towards the flyover. Nice and easy. If you try to talk to anyone, if you hit the horn, draw attention to us or do anything stupid, if you so much as buzz the window down I will shoot you, OK? Do you understand?’
With a shiver, I feel the blunt shape of the gun barrel pushing through the seat into the small of my back. At this range any bullet would probably kill both of us but I would also crash the car – so as long as we’re moving he won’t shoot. I hope.
‘Listen,’ I say, pulling up at the first set of traffic lights. ‘Take me instead. I’ll go with you, wherever you want to go. I’ll do whatever you want to do, and I won’t fight or struggle. But let’s leave the baby somewhere safe. I can stop at a café or a shop, somewhere with staff, you can take the keys and I can hand her to someone just like Kathryn handed her to me. I promise I won’t run, I swear. I’ll go with you but let me make sure she’s safe.’