They appear out of nowhere, the team of bodies that descend, and before I can protest, we are bustled away to a side room. Gabriel is lifted from my arms as a medical professional examines his chest, listening with a stethoscope, her face giving nothing away.

  I stand and watch, my limbs watery with dread. I shouldn’t have come here. Now the questions will begin. The police will be called, a team of social workers will descend and they will snatch my grandson from me. Fear unfurls itself in my abdomen, stretching and reaching out, its dark tentacles slipping inside my veins. They’re going to take him from me, I can see it in her expression. I can’t let that happen. Gabriel is mine. He’s all I have.

  I step forward and shout at the doctor. ‘We have an appointment in town. Can we have some antibiotics and then we can get going. I don’t want to be late.’

  She turns and glares at me, her lips puckered in annoyance. ‘How long has he had these symptoms for?’

  The walls close in. I can’t breathe properly. They’re going to do it; they’re actually going to try and keep him. Visions of George pierce my brain: the feel of him after I gently picked him up off the floor. My mother’s battered and broken body, unconscious at my feet. And then my father, that look on his face, the terror I felt as I watched him stride towards me, his eyes flicking between me and my baby brother. Then that final expression when he realised what he had done, that he had hurt George, knocked him out of my mother’s arms. That there was no going back. He could have killed him. For the first time in my life, I stared at him, holding his gaze until he turned away, an expression in his eyes that I couldn’t fathom. Perhaps it was fear. Or perhaps it was shock because I had dared to challenge his authority by meeting his dark-eyed stare and refusing to break contact. And then I remember what I did before he left the house for the final time. I can still feel the bulk of the knife, the gleam of the blade. The satisfying swish as it slid across his flesh. I wanted to drive it in, to end it there and then, but didn’t possess the physical strength to do it. He was going to kill my mother and I couldn’t stand by and do nothing, but in the end I did what I could and it was enough. And all the while, George lay on the stair, blissfully unaware that our mother was only seconds away from death. I spent the rest of my life protecting my brother, right up until he stepped on that plane with his wife and children. I’ll do the same for my grandson. It’s who I am. A carer. A protector. A grandmother.

  ‘He just needs some antibiotics, that’s all.’ My voice sounds ethereal. It doesn’t belong to me. I’m operating on autopilot, my reflexes taking over.

  My usual reserved demeanour is absent as I rush past her and grab Gabriel, his hot, little body pressed against mine when I snatch him out of her arms. She’s going to keep him. I can sense it. Any sound he makes as I grab him back is drowned out by the voices of the doctor and nurses shouting at me to put him down, that he is very ill and needs to be admitted to hospital.

  I run out of the main doors and into the parking area. A sob erupts out of my chest. I can hear them calling after me as they spill out of the exit in an attempt to catch me.

  I don’t strap Gabriel into his chair. There isn’t time. I lay him on the front seat and push my jacket up against him to stop him falling, then manoeuvre my vehicle out of the car park and out onto the main road, pressing my foot down hard on the accelerator, desperate to leave all the unwanted attention and the accompanying melee behind.

  35

  MELISSA

  He doesn’t scream or cry and, I don’t know which is worse – his usual croaky, ear-shattering howling or this dreadful, haunting silence. I’m not comfortable with what I did. Leaving the hospital, denying him the care that he clearly needs. But I panicked, allowing my emotions to overrule all logic, and now my grandson is seriously ill and I have no proper medicine for him. No antibiotics. Not a damn thing. And I don’t know what to do next.

  I find a quiet, secluded spot and pull over, lifting Gabriel carefully back into his seat. I lean forwards and kiss his cheek. He gives me a half smile and I pray that his fever is breaking. At some point, he has to get better. Children pick up all types of bugs and viruses. They all recover eventually. Don’t they?

  Convincing myself that everything is going to be okay, because the alternative is too dreadful to consider, I set off again, driving slowly, scouring the nearby area for anything resembling a café or a B&B. We pass through a quiet village and I spot a sign next to a small, white building. It’s a community centre set back from the main road, and a board set out on the pavement states that they’re holding a coffee morning. We could lose ourselves in there, use the local amenities and buy some refreshments without anybody bothering us. It doesn’t look overly busy. In fact, a quick glance at the car park tells me it’s almost empty. We’re early. I could use the baby changing area to clean and change Gabriel and then I can feed him and buy myself a coffee. These sorts of places are usually run by volunteers who will be too busy making and serving food and drinks to notice or care about us. We’ll be anonymous in their midst, drifting in and then leaving soon afterwards, refreshed and restocked with supplies.

  With few or no guesthouses around, our choices are limited. This may be the closest thing we will come to having some home comforts for the next few hours. It’s a risk, but one I’m willing to take simply because I don’t know what else to do or where to go.

  I lift Gabriel out of the car. He is still hot and tired. My heart aches for him. All I ever wanted, all I still want, is for him to be happy and healthy. I’ve failed in so many ways. Fighting back tears, I carry him inside and look around at a large hall that is devoid of people. Tables adorned with white tablecloths are set up at the back, but the place is empty.

  ‘Ah, I’m sorry, we don’t open for another forty-five minutes.’

  I spin around at the sound of the voice behind me and am transported back in time when I see him standing there.

  ‘Moussa?’

  His eyes cloud over in confusion before crinkling at the corners as he smiles at me. ‘Mrs Crawford?’ He sneaks a glance at Gabriel, then stares at me, an anxious look on his face. ‘Everything okay? What you doin’ here?’

  I shrug my shoulders and slump into the nearest chair, Gabriel’s cheek close to mine. The wooden seat groans under my weight.

  ‘I could ask the same of you. What brings you to this part of North Yorkshire?’

  He smiles and shoves his hands in his pockets. ‘My aunt helps run this centre. I still live in Stockton but I can drive now and am insured for my mum’s car, so here I am.’

  My heart swells for him. An ex-pupil who came so close to throwing away his future by hanging out with the wrong people, being lured into troublesome situations, and having skirmishes with the police. And now here he is, helping at a community centre, serving coffee and cake with his aunt. A lump is wedged in my throat. I needed this moment to show me that life sometimes does reward those who are prepared to work hard to achieve their goals. Not all dreams are destined to end in pieces.

  ‘That is so wonderful to hear. So how are you getting on now, Moussa? And how is your brother?’

  He smiles at me, such joy stemming from him. It’s like he doesn’t have a care in the world, like his life hasn’t been a path that has been littered with complications and difficulties. I recall his mother falling ill and he and his brother being taken into care. And now his aunt is here, living with them in this country and he has matured into a caring young man. I swallow down tears.

  ‘Oh, I’m really good, Mrs Crawford. I help out here a few days a week and I’m doing a course at college as well. Learning how to be a plumber an’ all that.’

  ‘That’s brilliant, Moussa. So good to hear. And what about Seydou? Is he okay?’

  He rolls his eyes and sighs. ‘Ah, y’know what he’s like. Our mum, she said if he don’t pull his socks up and get a job, she gonna send him to live with our uncle in Dabou.’

  ‘He’ll pull himself round,’ I say quietly, still marvelling at how much this young man has matured, how big and strong and polite he is. The same young man who refused to pick up a pencil almost every day for the two years that I taught him. The same young man who swore at staff and ripped down wall displays if he was asked to open a textbook. All he needed was love and security and a chance to flourish. And now here he is, sitting opposite me, holding a conversation, looking at the world through adult eyes and comprehending it all with a mellowed, measured brain. Only a few years ago, all of this seemed out of his reach.

  He places his hands together, pressing them onto his knees. His feet tap out a nervous rhythm on the tiled floor, the sound echoing around us. He turns and gives me a worried, sideways glance. I can feel the heat from his body. Even now, he still holds me in some sort of high regard, as if I am always going to be his favourite teacher, the person he went to when the world seemed to be set against him. The person who listened and cared. And I did. Still do.

  ‘I saw you on the television, Mrs Crawford.’ The tapping on the floor grows louder. His voice when he speaks is husky and close to breaking. ‘Your photo was on the news.’ He glimpses at Gabriel then back at me. ‘That baby – it ain’t yours, is it?’

  I wait a couple of seconds before replying, a thousand horses galloping through my body, stampeding across my chest, making it almost impossible for me to speak. My voice is reedy when I do finally find the strength to reply.

  ‘Sometimes, Moussa, doing the wrong thing can feel like the right thing at the time. Do you know what I mean?’

  I watch him closely. He isn’t smiling any more but he nods and I can see that he understands what it is I am implying. His rigid posture has softened and his loud, rhythmic tapping dulls, the sound less abrasive, melodic even.

  ‘But even so,’ he says, his head lowered as if he is suddenly too embarrassed to look at me, ‘it’s somebody else’s baby, Mrs Crawford. You need to give it back. His mum will be worried an’ all that. It ain’t right. And I know you’re a big believer of doin’ the right thing. That was what you taught me. You remember?’

  I do remember. I also recall telling him that sometimes, principles trump everything; that on occasion, we must stand alone when we do something we believe to be correct, because not everyone has walked in our shoes or seen the world through our eyes. Experience shapes our desires and values and beliefs. It shaped me.

  He reaches into his pocket and places his phone on the bench next to where I’m seated.

  ‘You do know that Gabriel is my grandson, don’t you, Moussa? I didn’t just steal a random baby off the street.’

  He looks at me, confusion creasing his brow, and with every passing second, I can see that already, our once strong bond is slackening, the fine threads of it fraying and unravelling.

  ‘His mum and da are really worried. They didn’t give you permission to take him, Mrs Crawford. I think maybe we need to call somebody, let them know where you are and that the baby is safe an’ all that.’

  I nod. He is trying to do the right thing. I should be proud of this young man. He is now trying to get me to do the right thing as well, repeating everything I taught him verbatim.

  ‘You’re right.’ I sigh and give him a sorrowful smile. ‘I’ll need to use your phone, if that’s okay, Moussa? I’ll give them a call, tell them where I am and that they can come and collect him.’

  He swings his whole body around to look at me. His eyes are wide and he is nodding, his grin lighting up his handsome, young face.

  ‘That’s all I wanted to hear. I think that would definitely be the right thing to do. You just need to swipe it to the right. There ain’t no code.’

  I give him a long, hard stare and raise my eyebrows.

  ‘I know, I know. Stupid to be so lax, ain’t I. I’ll put one in once you’re done with it, I promise.’

  I pick up the phone and stare at it. Something inside me stirs, a jerking sensation deep down in my stomach. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, Moussa, I’d rather make this call alone. I’m going to ring my husband, tell him where I am. You’re absolutely right; doing the correct thing is always the best course of action.’

  His voice lifts, relief apparent in his eyes, the way they lighten and sparkle as he watches me closely. ‘Well, you should know, Mrs Crawford. You was the one who taught me that rule.’ He stands up and looks as if he has grown a couple more inches in the last few minutes. ‘Tell you what, I’ll go and make us a drink in the kitchen while you make the call. Will a weak coffee do you? We ain’t got too many cakes to spare as they’re all going to be sold later on when we open up, but I do know we got plenty of coffee and milk.’

  ‘Ah, that would be perfect. White, no sugar,’ I say, trying to emulate his happiness and relief. Trying to end our conversation on a high.

  ‘Right. Well, I’ll leave you to it.’ He begins to walk away then turns to face me, his rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the tiled floor. ‘I’m glad we had this chat today, Mrs Crawford. It’s been really good seeing you again. And I suppose maybe he does look a bit like you. The baby, that is. I didn’t know he was your grandson and I’m not that good with little ones or nothing like that – I mean, I like ’em and everything but I can see he’s got the same colour eyes as you.’

  ‘Thank you, Moussa,’ I whisper, guilt for what I am about to do filtering into my bloodstream and clogging up my veins. ‘Thank you for being here and for being so calm and understanding.’

  And not calling the police.

  He flashes me another smile, nods, and then carried along by a wave of relief, he all but dances into the kitchen and closes the door.

  Gabriel is still cuddled into my chest, his wheezing dulling the euphoria I feel at what I am about to do. I push Moussa’s phone away from me, stand and walk over to collect the long broom from the far corner of the room, then as quietly as I can, I slide the wooden shaft of it between the handles of the double doors of the kitchen where Moussa is currently making my coffee. I whisper an apology to the boy who came close to leading a lawless existence and to the man he is now: the young man who made all the right choices in life, then I head out of the building into the soft, morning breeze.

  36

  MELISSA

  I need to leave Whitby and the surrounding areas. I need to leave North Yorkshire. Once Moussa manages to get out of the kitchen, he’ll call the police and they will close in on me. I hope he understands why I did what I did. Keeping Gabriel by my side is my main aim in life. He may not be as healthy as he should be, but this time in our lives will surely pass. Once he is better, we can make a fresh start, be the people I always dreamed we would be.

  I can’t go back to Stockton-on-Tees. Far too risky. The place will be on red alert, everyone on the lookout for us. And I can’t stay here. Even if Moussa doesn’t call the police, then the hospital will have surely alerted them. I can’t go back to Scotland either. The death of the owner of the cottage will be headline news, his link to the cottage under investigation which will in turn lead them to me. I refuse to wonder what happened to the gunman. I refuse to expend what little energy I have focusing on his whereabouts, whether he ever found that weapon and whether Jason lived or died. My focus remains firmly on me and Gabriel, finding somewhere we can hide out. I’m being hemmed in on all sides, events pushing me into a corner. My safe place is no longer safe and going back to my home is out of the question.

  My fingers are cold as I drive, Gabriel’s rasps filling me with dread while I stare at the road ahead. I peer at the sky, begging God for help. Just a chance for my grandson to get better, for this fever to lift. That’s all I want. If he grants me this one thing, I will never ask for anything ever again. I’m an independent, self-sufficient woman. I’ve had a life full of ups and downs. A life beset by trauma. More than my fair share. But I’m not going to wallow in self-pity. Life is short. We need to take opportunities wherever and whenever we can. I took mine, travelling down a road strewn with bumps, potholes and dead-ends. And I haven’t given up. Not yet. I’m still here, putting in the effort and the miles, doing what I can to make a success of it.

  The next half hour is a blur. I hear sirens everywhere and nowhere, and see lights flashing in the distance, a spread of blue across the horizon as they grow closer, giving chase and trying to catch me. I blink and then they’re gone. I take a deep, rattling breath, blink again, and they’re back. By the time I reach Guisborough, I am doubting my own senses and questioning my state of mind.

  I take the bypass road, avoiding the probing eyes of high-street shoppers, all the while aware I’m getting closer and closer to places I should be actively avoiding. This wasn’t and still isn’t, my intention but with nowhere else to go, I find myself being drawn towards old, familiar haunts. I’m like a homing pigeon, always returning to the place where I spent most of my life. The place I should be circumventing. I hope that the police are still out in the wilds of Scotland or lining up along the coast near Whitby and not here searching for me.

  My foot is almost flat to the floor. I’m going too fast but can’t seem to control anything any more. Even above the sound of the engine, I can hear Gabriel. His breathing is a rasp, his chest rattling and rumbling. He’s struggling to breathe.

  I suppress a sob. I’m beyond weeping, my emotions in tatters. There has to be an end to this situation, I just can’t envisage what it looks like. I’m bouncing from one catastrophe to another without any breathing space in between.

  We reach the roundabout and I brake too late, the wheels screeching on the tarmac. I’m acutely aware of my low mood and reckless driving. I’m aware that I need to curb my behaviour, if not for me then for Gabriel’s sake. I’m allowing anger and exasperation to guide my thinking. I take a few deep breaths and drum my fingers on the steering wheel while I wait for the traffic to start moving again. I cast my mind back to the past, my brain firmly secured in that period of my life. My father’s face has taken root in my mind as I slip the car into gear and drive.