The Girl Who Stole the Apple

‘It’s not stealing, is it?’

‘No.’

‘Sam was cross. When he’s cross, he goes really quiet.’

‘Don’t worry,’ she said, before changing the subject. ‘Why don’t you tell me about Mummy?’

Beth screwed up her face as she considered this. ‘She always read to me at bedtime. Even if she was going out, she read to me. I would read to her a bit too, but she was really good at it. She could make a person sound angry or sad, mean or kind. And she was brilliant at animals.’

Maggie sipped at her own cocoa and saw the child mimic her movements. She felt like a fraud. Who was she to sit here and probe this poor child about her mother when she, Maggie, had fallen out so spectacularly with Ellie? She thought back to the hotel, and the moment when Beth had slipped her hand into hers while they were waiting for the lift. She thought about the ridiculous pleasure she had taken from hearing the child call her ‘mother,’ even though it was an act. Mother indeed!

‘The Gruffalo,’ Beth said, cutting into Maggie’s reverie. ‘That was the last story we read. It was my favourite, though I’m getting a bit old for it now. Mum liked it too. She sat on my bed and we took turns to read the words and make lots of silly noises. Then she looked at her watch, gave me a kiss and said, “Got to go. See you in the morning, love.” But she didn’t, did she?’

Beth sipped at her cocoa and Maggie wondered if she should say something comforting or just wait for the child to continue.

‘I waved at her out of the window . . .’ Beth paused. Little wrinkles creased her forehead. ‘But Mummy didn’t see me. She just got into a car and went.’

A car? Maggie was suddenly on full alert. Sam hadn’t mentioned any car. ‘What sort of car was it?’ If Sam wouldn’t talk to her, then Maggie would have to quiz Beth, as long as she did it tactfully.

‘It was a lovely big black car, but the windows were all dark so once Mum got in I couldn’t see her. I wanted her to wave back at me through the window. Perhaps she did and I just couldn’t see her.’

Beth pushed her mug towards the centre of the table. ‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘Do you mind if we watch Frozen another time?’ Her tone was far too old and sensible for her years.

Upstairs she brushed her teeth and got into bed without a murmur. ‘Can you say a prayer for me? Like Mummy.’

And so Maggie, who had never in living memory said anything approaching a prayer, made something up. Then she sat by the bed until the girl’s breathing settled into the unmistakable rhythm of sleep.

* * *

The rendezvous was typical of Sam. It took place in a filling station that had been razed to the ground. Sinead arrived fifteen minutes early. He was twenty minutes late. She wasn’t in the slightest bit surprised. Same old, same old.

‘Any problems getting here?’ he said, as if it was he who had been kept waiting.

‘No.’

He stepped closer and put his arms around her. For several seconds they stood there like that. She hugged him back, surprised all over again at how good it felt to have his body pressed against hers, how strong her feelings for him were, in spite of everything.

‘So it went well this morning?’

‘Sure.’

‘You gave Beth the bracelet?’

‘Yes.’

She felt his arms tighten around her, more like a vice than a hug now. ‘Sam!’ she squeaked. Anxiety flared within her. Had she misjudged him? What was he playing at? ‘Sam!’ Her voice rose. ‘You’re hurting me.’

He grunted and released her. He stepped backwards. ‘I knew I could rely on you.’

‘Now we are quits. You did me a favour and I did you one. I have my own life to live.’

‘Not so simple as that, sweetie.’ His right hand went to her jacket. She flinched. He slid the zipper up until it reached her neck. She knew he was using her. Buttering her up so she would do something else for him. She had been on the receiving end of his techniques enough times in the past.

‘So what do you want me to do?’ she said, brushing his hand away and stepping back a pace. She had had enough of his games. She wanted to cut to the chase and get it over and done with — whatever ‘it’ was.

Sam pulled a wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. The sky was clear and the moon was full enough to show her that it was fat with cash, but what he gave her was a debit card and a piece of paper with a four-digit number.

‘Drive north until you get to Penrith. Go to a cashpoint and withdraw three hundred pounds from it. Then chuck the card away. Make sure you park at a distance from the cashpoint because the chances are there will be CCTV. Make sure you can’t be recognised. Wear the anorak I’ll give you. Drive home by a different route. Forget you ever knew me.’