The Choice Page 6

  ‘A ransom?’ Tessa said. ‘You’re saying your kids are being held for ransom?’

  ‘Right,’ Matt said. ‘For ransom.’

  In the silence that followed Annabelle started to feel numb. It was a welcome break from the fear and panic. She supposed she might be in shock, her body trying to defend her from what was happening.

  ‘OK,’ Mike said, eventually. His voice was calm and measured. ‘Someone has the children, and they want a ransom. How much is it?’

  ‘It’s not money,’ Matt said.

  ‘Then what is it?’ Tessa asked.

  Annabelle looked at each of them in turn.

  ‘It’s me,’ she said.

  2

  Mike looked her in the eye.

  ‘What does that mean?’ he said, his voice even.

  ‘It means that the kidnapper wants Annabelle in exchange for the kids,’ Matt said.

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ Mike protested. ‘There’s no way that can happen. No way.’

  ‘I know,’ Annabelle said. ‘But I’m starting to think it might be the only option.’

  ‘No,’ Mike said. ‘There’s another way.’

  ‘What exactly did the messages say?’ Tessa asked.

  Matt picked up his phone and read out the text messages. Annabelle watched their eyes narrow and their frowns deepen. It had been shocking enough watching events unravel over a few hours, but they were getting the full impact in minutes.

  The kidnap, the threats, the revelation of what the ransom was.

  ‘They want you,’ Tessa said. ‘So it’s someone who knows you. Any thoughts?’

  ‘Have you been through everyone?’ Mike said. ‘Your colleagues at the law firm? Friends?’

  ‘Everyone we can think of,’ Matt said. ‘And we still have no idea.’

  Annabelle shifted on the couch. ‘There’s one possibility,’ she said. ‘Perhaps a fan. A crazy fan.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Mike said. ‘So if that’s it, it could be anyone.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Matt said.

  Tessa folded her arms. ‘What about the police?’ she said.

  ‘No,’ Matt said. ‘Too risky.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ she said. ‘They have protocols for these situations. At least, I assume they do. When I work with them at the hospital – if there’s been an incident where lives are in danger – they always have methods and systems to deal with it. They would keep it confidential.’

  ‘What if they can’t?’ Matt said. ‘That’s what the messages say. The kidnapper will know.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ Mike said. ‘At this point anyway. No police. They might not be happy to stay in the background. They might show up here or where the car was taken from. And then there’ll be no hiding their involvement. We can’t scare the kidnapper away. They’re the only link to the kids.’

  Annabelle listened in silence. The messages had been clear. Crystal clear. I will start sending pieces of them to you.

  She closed her eyes. Somewhere out there her children – her babies – were in the care, if you could call it that, of a man – or woman – who had threatened to cut pieces off them and send them to their parents.

  And who had also said no police.

  I will know.

  It could have been a lie, a way to make them fear the consequences of involving the authorities.

  Or it could be true. Maybe the kidnapper had a contact in the police, or another way of knowing. Plus, like Tessa said, there was no guarantee that the police would do what she and Matt asked them to do.

  And then she would never see her children again, which was unbearable.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘We’re not telling them. I’m not putting the kids in danger.’

  Tessa nodded slowly. ‘Then what do we do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Annabelle said. ‘But not that.’

  ‘Are you going to tell Dad?’ Mike said.

  ‘No,’ Annabelle said. ‘It’d only upset him.’

  ‘I guess so,’ Mike said. ‘He’s living with me now, and he’s getting pretty frail.’

  ‘You brought him back from the care home?’ Tessa said.

  ‘Yeah.’ Mike shrugged. ‘Could be unnecessary, but with this new virus, I thought it was best.’ He came to the couch and hugged Annabelle tight. ‘This is a mess,’ he said. ‘But we’ll sort it out. Don’t you worry. We’ll sort it out.’

  The words were comforting, and she wanted to believe them, but she didn’t. She didn’t believe them at all.

  They will be at the fear and panic stage now. That idiot husband of hers will be thinking how powerless and useless he is. It is probably a familiar feeling for him.

  He’ll be wondering who would possibly go to all this trouble just to get Annabelle, thinking through all the possibilities, all the people he knows and all the people he’s met. Anyone, anyone at all who might fit the bill.

  He will never figure out who it is. Or why. He will think it is obsession, or revenge, or the product of a sick and twisted mind.

  It is none of those. It is something far greater.

  Even if, by an odd fluke, it crosses his mind, he will dismiss it.

  And if he doesn’t, I have my defences in place.

  And in the meantime, I wait, and he waits.

  But we are not the same.

  He is waiting to find out what happens next. I am waiting to collect my prize.

  Birmingham, October 2004

  1

  It had not worked out with Sammy and Annabelle, thank God. And Zeus. And Thor. And any other deity past, present or future. He had never been so relieved about anything in his life.

  Not my type, Sammy said, after their first and only date. We had a laugh but that was it. No spark. She wants to be a writer. Nice dream, but no chance.

  She wanted to be a writer. What Sammy saw as a naïve dream, Matt thought was thrilling. Why not try to be a writer? The worst that could happen would be you’d fail, which was no different from any other walk of life.

  And now – both blissfully unattached – he and Annabelle were going out. That evening. He’d finally worked up the courage, two days earlier at the bar.

  What are you doing Saturday?

  Nothing.

  Want to go somewhere?

  Depends where.

  I could surprise you.

  She looked uncertain for a moment, then laughed. You could try. But I’m not sure any of the usual haunts would be that much of a surprise.

  He nearly shouted in triumph, but he managed to keep it to a smile. I’ve got an idea, he said, hoping an idea would present itself in the next few days. So Saturday it is.

  He’d said he would surprise her, and he was going to do exactly that. This wouldn’t be one more lame evening in the corner of a smoky pub, or watching a shitty mass-movie. No – he was going to come up with something different. Edgy. Cool.

  What would she like? What would impress her? She wanted to be a writer, so she liked cultural things. Theatre. Galleries. Music.

  He looked for pop concerts. There were none on. He walked around the student union, looking at the flyers. There was a debate about whether Tony Blair was really a Labour politician. A student performance of a Russian play. A sit-in for peace.

  No, thanks.

  And then he saw it. A poster for the Birmingham Touring Opera. They were doing something called The Two Widows at 7 p.m. that evening.

  He had no idea what it was, but it was perfect. They could meet at four, go for a drink and an early meal, then head to the opera. Surprise me, she’d said. Well, she’d be surprised all right.

  I didn’t know you were into opera, she’d say, impressed.

  Oh, you know. I dabble.

  Yes, this was perfect.

  2

  They met in the foyer of Chamberlain Hall.

  ‘So,’ Annabelle said. ‘What are you thinking?’

  He was thinking My God you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen and I can’t believe how I feel just l
ooking at you, what the fuck is going on? But he wasn’t sure that was the right answer in the circumstances.

  That was how he felt, though, and it made his head swim.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I heard that the opera was in town.’

  The opera was in town? Was that what people said. It made it sound like the circus.

  ‘The opera?’

  ‘Yeah. The Birmingham Touring Company. They’re doing The Two Wives.’

  ‘By Smetana?’

  Was it? ‘Yeah. Smetana.’

  She frowned. ‘You mean The Two Widows?’

  He felt his face and neck flush with heat. ‘The Two Widows. That’s it.’

  ‘And you want to go?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She smiled. ‘I shouldn’t judge by appearances, but I didn’t take you for an opera fan.’

  ‘Oh, you know. I dabble.’

  ‘We’re not really dressed for it.’ She was wearing dark blue jeans and a red V-neck sweater. ‘I might be OK, but’ – she looked him up and down – ‘I don’t think Doc Martens, jeans and a T-shirt are going to cut it.’

  He felt himself flush even deeper. He hadn’t thought of his clothes.

  ‘You think I should change clothes?’

  ‘It is the opera. That you dabble in.’ She smiled. ‘So which operas are your favourites?’

  He tried to think of one he knew. ‘I like most of them.’

  ‘Any in particular?’

  There was only one vaguely opera-like thing he could think of.

  ‘Barcelona,’ he said. ‘I like that.’

  She frowned. ‘Barcelona?’

  ‘You know. By Freddie Mercury and’ – he realized he did not know the name of the other singer – ‘the opera woman.’

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Any others? Don Giovanni, The Magic Flute? Aida?’

  ‘Love them.’

  She folded her arms and looked at him with a wry, amused expression. Was she making these names up? It was possible.

  And he really had no idea.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I know nothing about opera. But you said to surprise you.’

  ‘This is certainly a surprise.’

  ‘Then it worked,’ he said.

  She laughed, long and hard. Even though she was laughing at him it was the best sound he’d ever heard.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘That was kind of weird. But cute. In a desperate way. Maybe we should just go to the pub instead.’

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘I’ve bought the tickets. And I want to find out why these wives—’

  ‘—widows—’

  ‘—widows are so merry. Let’s go and change into our opera clothes. I’ll meet you here in twenty minutes. And I’ll be in my shirt and tie, OK?’

  3

  He had no idea what was going on, why the widows were merry, or how they made the noises that came out of their mouths, but he could tell that the opera was spectacular.

  And he felt – in a way he never had before – grown up. He was wearing a shirt and tie. They had sherry at the bar. And Annabelle looked unbelievable. She was in a knee-length black dress and in his mind they were Brad and Jen or Frank and Ava or some other famous couple.

  At the interval they sat at a small marble-topped table in the corner of the bar and had another glass of sherry.

  ‘You like it?’ he said.

  ‘I love it.’ She smiled at him and he thought Oh God, a smile for me. For me. We’re together. We’re actually together. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t really know what’s going on,’ he said. ‘But it’s still totally captivating. It’s weird – if you put an opera CD on for an hour I’d be totally bored, but watching it – it felt like it was ten minutes.’

  ‘I know. Captivating’s the right word.’ She sipped her sherry. ‘And so stylized. They have to act, but while singing. It’s amazing.’

  The bell rang to signal it was time to return to their seats. As they headed for the double door that led to the concourse, he put his arm around her waist. He felt the heat of her body through her dress, and then, in a moment he would never forget, she put her arm around him.

  And it was obvious they fitted.

  It was, to that point, the best thing that had ever happened to him.

  4

  When he woke, the first thing he thought was When can I see her?

  After the opera they had gone to the lake where she had kissed him. There was a bench; it was damp and he had brushed it down, then put his jacket on the wooden surface.

  Don’t be soft, she said. You’ll ruin it.

  You’ll ruin your dress.

  It cost me ten pounds in the River Island sale, she said. Your jacket is much more valuable. It’s quite cool, actually.

  It’s my dad’s. He had it in his wardrobe. It’s pretty old.

  They call that vintage. Your dad had good taste.

  They sat and talked for a while. Her mum had died when she was eleven and she and her brother had been raised by their dad, a physics teacher. He was an opera fan – along with hiking, model-making, jazz and woodwork – and had taught her a bunch about opera, along with how to make furniture, how to navigate in the thick fog of the Howgill Fells and how to bivouac overnight if you got lost, but, most importantly, he’d taught her to trust in her own abilities and skills and follow her dreams.

  He told her about his parents, not that there was much to tell. He felt colourless and drab next to her.

  Around two in the morning she shivered.

  I’m going to bed now, she said. You can walk me back to my room.

  They parted at the door to her building.

  See you soon? he said.

  I can’t wait.

  Those were the last words she had said before turning and walking through the door, and he thought of them now.

  He had heard them and said them countless times, but never understood they could be literally true. The thought of waiting to see her was unbearable.

  When he got down to the foyer of Chamberlain Hall there was a note stuck to the outside of his letter box. He grinned. It must be from Annabelle, telling him where they should meet.

  It wasn’t. It was from the university office.

  Please phone Lindsey Daley.

  Just those four words. Lindsey must have called the university and left a message for him.

  His euphoria was swept away by a feeling of dread. He did not want to call and speak to her – he was pretty sure she would want to give it another try, reconcile, get back together. But that was not on the cards.

  He wasn’t sure why she thought it would be.

  He might as well get it over with. He went to the phone boxes and put a couple of coins in. She answered on the second ring.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘I got a message from you.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Right. How much money did you put in?’

  ‘Twenty pence. That’s all the change I have.’

  ‘I’ll call you back. What’s the number?’

  ‘What’s going on, Lindsey?’

  ‘I’ll call you back.’

  He gave her the number.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘I have news.’

  ‘Right.’ He paused. ‘What is it?’

  She gave a little cough.

  ‘You’re not going to like this.’

  ‘Like what?’ The sensation of dread deepened.

  ‘Promise me you won’t be angry.’

  ‘Why would I be?’

  ‘Promise you won’t.’

  ‘How can I, if I don’t know—’ He stopped himself. This was pointless. ‘I promise.’

  ‘That’s not a real promise. You’re only saying it.’

  ‘Lindsey, tell me what it is. Please!’

  There was a pause. ‘I’m pregnant.’

  It took a few seconds for the meaning to sink in.

  ‘Pregnant? With a baby?’

  ‘Yes. With a baby. Your baby, before you ask.’

  ‘How?�
� he said. ‘We used protection. Condoms. Every time.’

  ‘They’re not one hundred per cent.’

  He tried to think of a time something had gone wrong. There were none. ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘It happens. Nothing is foolproof.’

  He couldn’t think of what to say. He couldn’t think of what to think. All he knew was that this was not good. ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘I know this is weird, but you need to call your sister.’

  ‘Tessa?’

  ‘Unless you have another sister, yes.’

  ‘What’s Tessa got to do with this?’

  ‘I can’t tell you. I don’t want you to shout at me. And I think you’ll listen more to her. So please, call Tessa.’

  The phone went dead.

  Call his sister? She wasn’t friends with Lindsey. They were in the same year at school, but they only knew each other through him.

  He dialled home. His sister picked up immediately.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. She sounded uncomfortable. He could picture her expression; when she was about to say something that might be controversial, she got a look on her face that was part tentativeness, part determination.

  ‘I’m in a phone box. Call me back.’

  The phone rang a few seconds later.

  ‘So,’ he said, when he picked up. ‘I just talked to Lindsey. She told me – something – and said I need to call you.’

  ‘I know. She said she’d ask you to call me.’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t get it. Are you guys friends now?’

  ‘Good friends. We go out every weekend.’

  He closed his eyes. For fuck’s sake. He simply couldn’t shake her.

  ‘You do? And she told you what happened?’

  ‘Of course she did. She told me earlier this week at college.’

  ‘And you didn’t call me?’

  ‘She asked me not to. She wanted time to think before she talked to you.’

  ‘Right,’ he said. He looked over his shoulder. A girl with dark red hair was waiting to use the phone booth. He gestured to his watch and gave an apologetic shrug. ‘What did she want to think about?’

  ‘About her options.’

  There were options? Other than an abortion. His mouth was dry, and it wasn’t a hangover.