I was rooted to the spot, amazed by what I’d just witnessed. Where was Mabel? Had they forgotten to put her in the car? I started to panic, then checked myself. There was no way even dopey depressed Amber would do that. Somebody must be looking after my little precious. Grandma and Grandad, perhaps. A friend? My thoughts went into free fall for a few seconds and I had to pull them back.
A few minutes later, the front door opened again and a girl pushed the buggy out. She was wearing a blue woolly hat with a huge orange bobble on the top. Wisps of black hair were escaping from under it, falling over her eyes and hugging the sides of her face. She had a baggy woollen jacket on, and equally baggy trousers, which tapered at the ankle and were stuffed into big laced boots. She looked like an art student. Underneath all those clothes, I guessed she was quite slim. I wondered whether I’d seen her before. Something about her was familiar, but I couldn’t be sure. She looked very young. Too young for such an important job.
She crossed the road and entered the park. We were no more than a few metres from each other, but she was focused on her destination and didn’t even glance in my direction. Even so, I deliberately walked away, knowing I could re-enter the park by the small gate that opened onto the rose garden and catch up with her without her realising. She was easy to spot in that silly hat, the orange bobble flashing like a beacon. Perfect for me. I could keep a good distance and merge into the crowd while still keeping an eye on her.
I followed her to the market stalls, where she spent ages debating what pastry to buy, then had to occupy myself while she sat down and ate it. To be fair, she was engaging with Mabel, talking to her and making sure she kept her hat on, which is more than Amber ever does. After what I guessed was lunch, she took her to the duck pond, but that didn’t seem to last very long and soon she was pushing the pram in the direction of home.
The fun was over; there was no point in my hanging around. Anyway, I needed some lunch myself and the cold was pinching me. I was about to head off in the other direction when something prompted me to follow them all the way to their front door. Just for the hell of it. I was only a few metres behind her when she went through the gates. There’s a newsagent across the way and I pretended to read the notices in the window, all the while watching her out of the corner of my eye.
She pushed the buggy into the front garden, then stopped to rummage around in her bag. She took a key out of her pocket and I saw her put it in the lock and push the door open as wide as it would go in order to steer the buggy into the small hallway. Halfway through, her mobile rang and she answered it, shutting the door behind her.
I stared open-mouthed at the green-painted door. The key was still in the lock! What a careless, stupid thing to do, I thought. In London, of all places, where people are always on the lookout for opportunities to commit crimes: an unzipped handbag, a phone sticking out of a back pocket, an unpadlocked bike. A key in the front door. A baby inside being looked after by a fool.
Usually I would never have dared to get so close, but this was an emergency. I crossed over and stood at the front gate, which the babysitter had left open. Taking a deep breath, I stepped over the threshold, and instantly it was as if I’d entered a force field. Enemy territory.
I advanced across the small paved area shared with the ground-floor flat, carefully avoiding the sightline of anyone looking out of the downstairs window. After a few paces, I reached the front doors, which stand side by side under a small porch.
My vision zoomed in on the key. Shiny and silver.
I knew what a normal person would do in this situation. A normal person would ring the bell, and when the babysitter thundered down the stairs and opened the door, they’d say, ‘Excuse me, did you mean to leave your key in the lock?’ And the silly girl would gasp and put her hand over her mouth and thank the kind passer-by profusely as she yanked it out of the lock and put it in her pocket for safe keeping.
But you see, I’m not a normal person. I used to be, but not any more. I’ve lost too much to be generous towards others. Nevertheless, I wanted to do the right thing, for Mabel’s sake. My finger hovered over the doorbell, but I couldn’t push it, couldn’t make that familiar ding-dong sound.
I stared at the key, wondering what to do next. I considered playing Knock Down Ginger – the game I used to play when I was a kid. My friends and I would pick on some poor old lady, bang on her door, then run away laughing while she opened it to find that nobody was there. It was a mean thing to do, but at the time we were just amusing ourselves. Should I knock loudly, then scoot off around the corner? No. That would be pathetic.
Instead, I decided that the simplest and least risky thing would be to post the key through the letter box. Reaching forward, I wriggled it out of the lock. With my other hand I gently lifted the flap of the letter box, revealing a narrow slit. I imagined pushing the key through the gap, releasing my fingers and letting it fall onto the tiled hallway with a gentle tinkle. It would eventually be found and the girl in the bobble hat would silently thank the kind stranger who had saved the day. But I’m not kind. Not any more. And I’m not a stranger either.
I gently released the flap without making a sound and walked calmly, but quickly away.
Now my treasure lies safely in my hand, fingers closed over it, forming a tight fist. It feels electrically charged, its jagged shape burning into my flesh. This little piece of metal gives me power. But I have to act quickly, or it will fade to nothing and I’ll be back where I started – a bystander with no part to play.
Chapter Five
The weekend before
Amber feels a fresh rush of anxiety as George unlocks the door with a swipe card and they enter the hotel bedroom.
The setting is sumptuous, but also intimidating. George marches in with their overnight bags, setting them on the luggage rack, but Amber looks about her, absorbing the scene and all that it implies. The centrepiece is a super-king-size four-poster bed, its sides draped in soft muslin. The bed itself is covered with satin cushions in various tones of dull silver and plum and faces a large, extravagantly framed mirror strategically positioned on the opposite wall. The furniture is painted pale grey and is vaguely French in style – bowed legs on the dressing table, crystal knobs on the wardrobe doors and drawers. The silvery grey carpet has a velvety sheen on it and is so thick you could almost trip over the pile. But the most disturbing thing in the room is the polished pewter bathtub that sits brazenly on a platform in the bay overlooking the gardens. It’s not as if the glass in the windows is frosted. Surely nobody actually takes a bath in full view of the other guests? Amber briefly plants herself into the scene, her dressing gown slipping off her shoulders to reveal her flabby naked body. She shudders visibly.
‘You okay?’ George asks. She nods and sits down on the bed. ‘Stunning, eh?’
‘Yes,’ she fibs. She takes her phone from her bag and starts composing a text to Ruby. It’s been less than an hour since they last exchanged messages, but it feels like days. The last she heard, Mabel had done a messy poo (the second today – a little worrying), and had just gone down for her afternoon nap. She was only forty-five minutes behind schedule, which considering Ruby was in charge wasn’t bad at all. Amber’s fingers fly across the screen.