The Escape

‘No,’ I replied to every question. I just wanted it to stop. For them to bring Elise back to me and let us go home. ‘Can I ring my husband? Please! I’m allowed a phone call, aren’t I? He’ll tell you that this was down to Paula. She knows where we live. She’s been following and threatening me!’

I was told that they’d ring Max in due course and then my belongings were taken away and placed in a clear plastic bag. I did everything I was told, moving zombie-like as I opened my mouth and held out my hand, but then I began to shake. They’d found drugs in my house. I didn’t know how many they’d found, or where. All I knew was what DS Merriott had said to the Duty Sergeant – that they’d found a quantity of class A and class B drugs hidden in my home.

My panic increased as DS Merriott led me through a maze of different corridors. I tried to memorise the route we were taking – a right, then a left, then another left. By the time the detective pushed open the door to a tiny interview room, I was dripping with sweat and struggling to breathe. I took one look at the cramped space, strip-lighting and lack of window and shook my head.

‘I can’t.’

‘Mrs Blackmore, please don’t make this difficult.’

‘I suffer from agoraphobia and panic attacks. If we go into that room and you shut the door …’

DS Merriott looked at me with a kind of weariness that suggested that he’d had the shittiest of shit days and he really didn’t want to deal with my neurotic crap. ‘You were asked by the Duty Sergeant if you suffered from any kind of mental illness. You replied no.’

‘I was scared. I didn’t know what would happen if I said yes.’

‘We could prop the door open with a chair?’ suggested the portly female PC who’d accompanied us to the interview room.

The detective glanced at his watch and sighed again. ‘Fine. Let’s just get this done.’

I insisted, all the way through my interview, that the drugs weren’t mine, that I didn’t know how they got into the toilet cistern and that no, I did not take drugs for personal use. After grilling me for several minutes, DS Merriott then asked about Max and whether the drugs could be his. I told him, as calmly as I could, that Max’s dad had died from a heroin overdose when Max was a child and there wasn’t anyone more anti-drugs than he was. The drugs had been planted in our house by Paula. They had nothing to do with either of us.

He asked me to tell him again what had happened with Paula, and made a few notes on his pad of paper. Then he asked me whether I’d noticed any sign of forced entry when I’d returned home with Elise today. I told him that I hadn’t noticed any issues with the front and back doors but I couldn’t say whether anyone had tampered with the windows because I hadn’t checked them.

At that point we were interrupted by a ginger-haired police officer who stuck his head around the door and announced, ‘The husband is here.’ I slumped back in my seat. Finally! Max would corroborate everything I’d said and I’d be let go. But DS Merriott wasn’t done with me. He dismissed the ginger-haired police officer with a nod, then continued questioning me for another five or ten minutes. Only then did he conclude the interview. I was asked to remain in the room for a couple of seconds while the two officers left. I could hear them talking in low voices in the corridor but couldn’t make out what they were saying. The female PC returned to the interview room and sat down opposite me.

‘We’re just going to sit here for a while,’ she said, ‘while DS Merriott talks to your husband. Normally we’d return you to a cell but,’ – she raised a hand when I gasped – ‘given your medical condition I think it’s for the best if we remain here. If you feel unwell at any point I will call for the Duty Doctor. OK?’

I feel faint with fear. My husband is on a plastic-backed chair on the other side of the custody suite with our daughter fast asleep in his arms, and I’m back in front of the Duty Sergeant with DS Merriott standing beside me. I have no idea whether I’m about to be charged or not.

‘Mrs Joanne Blackmore?’ the Duty Sergeant says. He is a tall, thin man with a long nose and a prominent Adam’s apple that juts over the collar of his shirt.

‘Yes.’

A clear plastic bag containing my purse, mobile phone and jewellery is pushed towards me, along with some kind of iPad and a stylus.

‘Sign where indicated, please.’

I pick up the stylus. It quivers across the screen as I write my signature.

‘Mrs Joanne Blackmore,’ the Duty Sergeant says as he takes it from me, ‘I’m going to release you on police bail for the officers to carry out further enquiries. You must return to this police station at 2 p.m. on the first of March unless you are informed in writing that the date or time has been changed or the bail cancelled. If you don’t turn up to answer your bail you’ll commit a further offence which could result in you being fined, imprisoned or both. Do you understand? If so,’ – he hands me the tablet again – ‘sign here.’

Charter 15

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘For offering to sleep on the sofa tonight.’

Max shrugs. ‘I couldn’t let you two stay here alone, could I?’

We are sitting side by side on the sofa. The television is off, the curtains are closed and the house is silent, save the occasional crackle from the baby monitor on the windowsill whenever Elise coughs or grunts in her sleep as she turns over. Naija told me she stopped using one for her boys when they turned one but I’m not ready to give up ours yet. I used to think that I’d be a chilled, laid-back parent, but when you’ve lost one child, that innocence is gone for ever. You can never truly relax. Not when you know how fragile life is, how a strong heartbeat can stop, almost overnight.

My fingers twitch against the rough wool of my work skirt. Work. It feels like a hundred years ago since I was sitting at my desk, answering emails from students, keeping one eye on the clock so I wasn’t a second late to collect Elise from nursery. But it was only four hours ago. I still can’t process what’s happened. I tried to talk to Max about it on the way home but he shushed me, telling me to wait until we’d got Elise home and in bed. I want to get a glass of wine so I can dull the sharp edges of my nerves but I’m worried that Max will judge me if I do.

‘You do believe me, don’t you? That the drugs weren’t mine.’

He crosses his arms over his chest and tips his head back, resting it on the top of the sofa.

‘Yes,’ he says to the ceiling. ‘That’s why I came to collect you.’

We both fall silent again. I can tell Max doesn’t want to discuss what happened but I have to. It’s the only way I can make sense of it.

‘I checked all the windows when you were getting Elise ready for bed. They were all locked.’

Max doesn’t respond. Instead he continues to stare at the ceiling.

‘So if all the doors and windows were locked while I was at work how did Paula get in?’

Max shakes his head wearily. ‘I don’t know, Jo.’

‘Aren’t you worried?’ I can hear the tight whine in my voice but his lack of reaction is niggling at me. He’s an investigative journalist. Why isn’t he ringing round all his contacts to find out who Paula is? Why isn’t he trying to protect us from anything else happening?

‘It’s because you don’t believe me, isn’t it? You think they’re my drugs?’

‘No, Jo.’ He turns to look at me. ‘I don’t think they’re your drugs.’

‘But you lost it when I told you about Dad’s muscle relaxants. Why aren’t you freaking out about this?’

‘Because one of us needs to stay rational. We can’t both lose our shit.’

‘I’m losing my shit? Max, someone broke into our house and planted drugs in our toilet. Possibly the same woman who threatened Elise! Of course I’m losing my shit. I’m scared! What’s she going to do next?’

‘Jesus!’ Max lurches forward and rests his face in his hands and inhales deeply through his nose. His shoulders and upper arms shake as he tries to steady his breathing.

‘Look.’ He sits back again but his hands remain on his knees as though he is readying himself to jump to his feet at any second. ‘The police are dealing with it, OK? I gave them a list of all the cases I’ve covered recently and all the people who might hold a grudge against me. They’re going to look into it.’

‘Shouldn’t they give us police protection while they do that?’

‘Not if they don’t think we’re in any immediate danger.’

‘But we are in danger! Paula knows where we live. She was on the corner of Brecknock the other day.’

‘Christ!’ His eyes widen with shock. ‘Was Elise with you?’

‘She was with Naija. I talked to Paula alone but I … I did something stupid.’

Max goes very still. ‘Go on.’

‘I …’ I rub my palms back and forth on my skirt. ‘I pushed her.’

‘What?’

‘I pushed Paula. She was standing too close to me and I panicked. We were on the corner, next to the bus stop, and there was a small crowd of people waiting. They saw me do it. One of them got their mobile out. I think he was going to ring the police.’

‘Jesus Christ, Jo,’ Max wipes a hand down the side of his face. ‘Why didn’t you tell me any of this?’

‘I was going to. But then I forgot to collect Elise at nursery and—’

‘I came round the next day. You could have told me then.’

‘I was going to but …’

But why? Because I didn’t think he’d take me seriously? Because I thought he’d have a go at me? Because I didn’t think he’d care?

‘I don’t know why I didn’t tell you, Max. I should have, I’m sorry.’

He takes a deep breath, rests his head against the top of the sofa again, then exhales slowly.

‘You’re pissed off with me, aren’t you?’ I say.

‘No.’ He closes his eyes. ‘I’m … fuck … this is all so fucked up.’ He opens his eyes and turns his head to look at me. ‘Paula was waiting for me outside work yesterday.’

‘What?’ I stare at him in horror. ‘What did she say?’

‘The same thing she said to you, I imagine. That I had something of hers and she wanted it back.’

‘Did you recognise her? Do you know who she is?’

He shakes his head. ‘No, but she was convinced she knew me.’

‘Are you sure? You’re a hundred per cent sure you didn’t recognise her?’

‘Honestly, if she hadn’t called out my name I wouldn’t have given her a second glance.’

‘If you don’t know her why is she doing this?’

‘Psychiatric problems? Who knows? Possibly she’s become fixated with me because of something I wrote in the paper. I really don’t know, Jo.’

‘But you believe me? That’s she’s dangerous?’

Max twists round and shifts one leg onto the sofa so we’re looking directly at each other. ‘I don’t know. I hope not, but she’s come after us three times now. Four if you count planting the drugs. I gave DS Merriott a description of her when he interviewed me. He said we need to keep a record of everything – every sighting, everything she says, everything she does. And if we ever feel threatened we’re to ring 999 straightaway.’

‘Oh my God.’ I press a hand to my throat. I was so desperate for Max to believe me but now he does I feel genuinely scared.

‘It’s going to be OK, Jo.’ Max reaches for my hand and presses it between his. ‘We can get through this.’

‘Can we? What if the police press charges about the drugs? I’ll have to go to court.’

‘I don’t think that’s going to happen. The police only found a small amount. “Personal use”, that’s what the DS said. I think you’ll be let off with a caution whether they find Paula or not.’

‘But why did she do it, Max? Why go to all the trouble of breaking in just to plant drugs? Why didn’t she ransack the place if she’s convinced you have something of hers? It doesn’t make sense.’

The TV is still in the alcove to the left of the fireplace, with the DVD player and PlayStation 4 on the shelf beneath it. Elise’s iPad is propped up against her box of toys. All the DVDs and games are still on the bookcase. I went through every room in the house when I checked the windows and nothing was missing, nothing was out of place.

‘What are you doing?’ Max asks, following me as I walk into his study next door. His desk looks the same as it always does – strewn with papers, CDs, coffee-stained mugs and pens. His books are still on the shelves. His records are still in the racks. I open the doors to one of his cupboards and look inside: more documents, more paperwork, more folders.

I turn back to look at him. ‘Is anything missing?’

I watch his face as his eyes flick from the desk to the shelves to the racks to the floor. ‘No. Not that I can see.’

‘Do you swear on Elise’s life that you’ve never taken anything that doesn’t belong to you?’

‘I swear.’ His eyes don’t leave mine as he shakes his head. ‘I swear on our daughter’s life.’

Charter 16

Why did you do it, Max? Why did you take something that wasn’t yours? Because you could? Because you were greedy? Because of Elise? Or all three? You tell yourself you did it for your daughter, but is that the truth – really? If it is, why are you having trouble sleeping at night?

You knew the police were on their way so you acted fast. You grabbed what wasn’t yours to take and you ran. You thought you’d got away with it. You thought the police would arrest everyone who knew what you’d taken, but you were wrong. You missed someone. Someone you believed wasn’t a threat. You stupid man. You stupid, arrogant man …

Charter 17

Mum is making lunch, bustling around her small kitchen in her worn-down slippers and Cath Kidston apron, filling the table with bowls of salad, bread, crisps and a quiche, fresh from the oven. I told her to let me make dinner but she wouldn’t hear of it. So, while Elise ‘helped’ Mum in the kitchen, I sat with Dad and watched a quiz show with him on the small TV in the corner of his bedroom. He fell asleep partway through and I’ve been sitting here ever since, listening to the dry wheeze of his breathing and watching the laboured rise and fall of his chest.

We arrived an hour ago. There was no sign of Max when Elise and I got up, just a crumpled blanket on the sofa and a half-empty glass of water on the coffee table. There was no note, nothing. After our conversation about Paula, and Max’s apology, I couldn’t bring myself to discuss a separation so we spent the rest of the evening silently drinking wine as we watched a sci-fi/horror thing on Film4. I was grateful for his company – there’s no way I would have stayed in the house alone – but an apology wasn’t magically going to put right everything that was wrong with our relationship. It was too little too late. Or was it? Should I fight harder to save our marriage? It would make Max and Elise happy but what about me? I went to bed early, just to get a bit of time to myself. If Max was upset he didn’t complain.

This morning I didn’t feel safe, being left alone in the house, and I couldn’t face going to work, so I rang Diane and told her my back was playing up again then I texted Max to tell him I was going up to Mum and Dad’s for the weekend and I’d speak to him soon. He’ll be gutted that he won’t get to see Elise for a couple of days and I know I’m running away from talking to him about our marriage but I need to think. I don’t want to make a hasty decision I regret.

‘Will you come and have your lunch, Joanne?’ Mum calls from the kitchen.

Dad doesn’t stir. I kiss his rough cheek and creep from the room, gently pulling the door closed behind me. As I do, my phone vibrates in my pocket and a tinny tune fills the air.

I don’t recognise the number that flashes up on the screen but it’s got a Bristol code. My heart quickens. It must be the police with an update on the drugs investigation. I didn’t expect them to get back to me this quickly.

‘Hello?’ I press my mobile to my ear. ‘Jo Blackmore speaking.’

‘Hello, Jo,’ says a friendly-sounding female voice. ‘My name is Lorraine Hooper. I’m a senior social worker in the Child Protection team in South Bristol and I was wondering if I could schedule a visit to—’

‘You’re a social worker?’

‘That’s right. I’m a senior social worker in the Child Protection—’

I feel myself sway and have to hold onto the door frame of Dad’s room to keep myself upright. ‘What’s this about?’

‘It’s nothing to worry about, Jo. I’d just like a little chat. Are you and Elise home this afternoon?’

I try to speak, to frame a coherent question in my mind, but I can’t. My brain is anaesthetised by fear. I can hear Mum shouting that the quiche is getting cold but the sound is distant and echoey, as though it’s being shouted from the base of a deep well. The police must have informed Social Services about the drugs bust. And now they think I’m an unfit mother.

‘There’s no need to worry. I’ll explain more when we meet,’ Lorraine says. ‘Is this afternoon any good for you? I have a free appointment at 3 p.m. You’re number 37, Brecknock Road. That’s right, isn’t it?’

‘I … I’m not there. I’m at my Mum and Dad’s house in Chester.’

‘With your daughter Elise?’

‘Yes.’

‘And when were you thinking about coming back?’

‘In a couple of days. Sunday. In the afternoon. I haven’t decided for sure.’

I don’t ever want to go back to our house but I can’t tell Lorraine Hooper that. Or can I? If I tell her what’s happened maybe she’ll understand. All I’ve done is protect my child from someone who threatened her. I haven’t done anything wrong. None of this is my fault.

‘I have an appointment for the same time on Monday,’ Lorraine says.

‘Do you need my husband to be there too? We’re currently separated but I could ask him to come home if he needs to be there.’

‘Yes, we do legally have to include both parents.’ I hear the sound of paper rustling on the other end of the line.

‘OK. I’ll tell Max to be there too. He’ll have to get time off work but that should be OK.’

‘Great, so 3 p.m. on Monday?’

‘That’s fine.’

‘OK, I’ll see you then, Jo. Take care.’

The line goes dead. I stare at the phone as it quivers in my palm. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m a good mother. So why this feeling of dread?

It’s Monday afternoon and my nerves have been building the whole way back to Bristol. Elise distracted me for the first hour, demanding her iPad, a snack or her Frozen CD, then insisted that I sing ‘The Wheels on the Bus’ over and over again until I’d covered windscreen wipers, doors, horn, children, mummies, daddies and the driver on the bus saying, ‘Move on back.’ Finally she fell asleep. But with the silence came fear. I spent last night Googling different permutations of the words ‘drugs’, ‘drug use’, ‘drug possession’, ‘social services’, ‘children’ and ‘care’. I found a lot of posts in forums, mostly from women whose partners used drugs and were worried that their children would be taken into care, but I couldn’t find anyone who was in the same situation as me. I did find a website that said that if someone had alerted Social Services to potential drug abuse, then a social worker would carry out a basic assessment to decide if there needed to be a more detailed investigation. I barely slept for worrying.

Mum could tell that something was wrong when I joined her and Elise for lunch when I got off the phone, but I distracted her with questions about Dad and his consultant, then I excused myself to the toilet and rang Max. I told him that Elise and I would be coming home today and that Social Services wanted to meet with us. He sounded so alarmed I burst into tears and it took him ten minutes to calm me down. He told me over and over again that no one was going to take Elise from us. They were just following protocol as a result of my drugs arrest and all we had to do was tell the truth and be co-operative and we could get back on with our lives.

I couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so gentle and caring. It was like having the old Max back, the one who’d come round to my house in the early days with hot soup and tissues when I had a grotty cold, and sent me flowers at work when he knew I was having a tough day. After Henry was born Max changed. He was supportive initially, in the hospital, on our return home and then at the funeral. Afterwards he closed down. He stopped talking to me. He stopped touching me. He stayed late at work or locked himself away in the study as I sobbed in front of the TV. I made excuses. I told myself that he’d shut down emotionally as a way of dealing with his grief. I waited for him to heal, to come back to me, to open up again, but he got worse. He started snapping at me about small things. Why had I left potato peelings in the sink? Why didn’t I answer the door to the postman? Why did I watch so much mindless reality TV? I felt like a burden. A lost cause in day-old pyjamas with dirty hair. He’d lost a son too but he was going to work every day to make sure we had food to eat and a roof over our heads. Why couldn’t I pull myself together, like he had – in appearance if nothing else? And then he threatened to leave me if I didn’t go and see a doctor. It took every ounce of strength to step out of the front door and get into his car but I did it. I nearly fainted twice in the waiting room. The doctor diagnosed me as suffering from agoraphobia and anxiety and she prescribed an SSRI and a course of CBT. The antidepressant made me feel sick and gave me blurred vision but slowly, slowly, with the help of my counsellor I started to feel better. I was able to leave the house if I knew exactly where I was going and if Max came with me. Eventually I was well enough to go back to work. Max seemed to have respect for me again. Fancied me even. And then Elise was conceived and I became scared and neurotic and my agoraphobia returned with a vengeance.

Guilt gnawed at my heart as Max asked me over the phone if I’d had any time to think about the three of us moving to Chester. He’s made mistakes and he’s acted selfishly but so have I. And now he wants to put things right. How can I possibly ask him for a divorce when he’s trying so hard? Maybe I shouldn’t go to Helen’s after the meeting. Maybe I should stay in Bristol and talk to Max?

I glance at the digital clock on the dashboard – 2.11 p.m. I’ve got 49 minutes to turn onto the M32 and get across Bristol. I’d planned on getting home by lunchtime so I could clean the house but Dad had a funny turn this morning and I could tell that Mum wanted me to stay and wait for the doctor with her. I could see the worry in her eyes as she told me that it was OK, that I should go if I was in a hurry.

Shit. The brake lights on the car in front flash red as it slows to a halt. A traffic jam. That’s all I need.

Elise is still groggy as I lift her out of the car and onto the pavement. She grizzles as I set her down on her feet; the last thing I want is for her to be crying when Lorraine turns up. I look in desperation toward Naija’s window, hoping that I can distract Elise by pointing at the twins, but there’s no light on behind the closed curtains. Of course, she told me they were due to go on holiday this afternoon.

‘Come on, sweetheart.’ I pick her up again and carry her to the front door. No point bringing in our bags. As soon as I’ve seen Lorraine we’ll be right back in the car and on our way to Helen’s. I need to talk to her. I’ve been going round and round in circles in my head, trying to decide what to do about Max, and I haven’t been able to reach a decision. Helen’s known me for years. She knows Max too – not as well, obviously, but well enough to give me advice. I just hope Max will understand when I tell him that I need a bit more time.

I fit the key into the lock, turn it and push at the door with my shoulder. It opens a few inches but there’s resistance, as though something, or someone, is behind it, pushing back. I push harder. I must have knocked a few of Elise’s jackets off the peg in my hurry to get out of the house and into the car when we left three days ago. The door opens wide enough for me to fit through, but I don’t take more than two steps into the hallway. The smell hits me first – faeces, off food and sour milk – and then I see it, a bin bag crammed behind the front door. It’s ripped and torn and there’s a trail of dirty nappies, wipes, food scraps, packets, screwed-up envelopes, tissues and tins from the hallway to the kitchen. It looks like someone’s attempted to take the rubbish out but the bag split en route.

‘Max!’ I lift Elise into my arms and step through the rubbish, leaving the front door open behind me. ‘Max, are you home?’