Watch Over Me: A psychological thriller with a jaw-dropping twist Page 5

  But he was a great dad. The best. It had brought out a whole new side to him she hadn’t even suspected was there. He just loved being with Beckie. He loved everything about her. He even looked forward now to Strictly and Bake-Off, programmes on which he’d previously heaped vitriol, because he loved watching Beckie watching them.

  And who knew he was so good at stories?

  Ruth couldn’t help being a little bit jealous of this. It was hard not to feel rejected when Beckie sleepily requested ‘a Daddy story’ in preference to the book Ruth had selected. Her favourites were Alec’s stories about the Wanderers, a family who lived on a boat in Viking times. It was, Alec assured them, based on fact, or at least on stories handed down through the generations on the west coast, and from his grandma to Alec and Pippa, and now to Beckie.

  ‘And I’ll tell my children if I have any,’ Beckie would promise, snuggling down with an anticipatory smile as Alec started the next instalment with a recap.

  ‘So last time, Fiona and Donald were sheltering in the cave on Wild Dog Island. Left behind when the others set sail.’

  ‘Their mum thinks they’re asleep in the cabin, but they’re not!’

  ‘Yep, and Fiona’s really angry with Donald now.’

  ‘But it’s Fiona’s fault too! She should have said No, it’s really dangerous and stupid. We mustn’t.’

  ‘Mm. Probably if she had, Donald wouldn’t have gone sneaking out to the cave on his own, you reckon?’

  ‘No. He wouldn’t. He’d have been too scared.’

  Beckie loved playing Wanderers whenever they went to the Loch, pretending that she was Fiona and one of her toys was Donald, and Alec was maybe a Viking chasing them, or their dad, or their annoying older brother Kenneth. She wanted nothing more than to be allowed to have sailing lessons so she could be like the Wanderers. This was good leverage to encourage her to keep attending her hated swimming classes – you can only have sailing lessons, Alec and Ruth had told her, when you can swim well enough for it to be safe.

  In the oral histories of the west coast, the Wanderers were families displaced by the Vikings, running from them, or rather sailing away in their boats, but never settling on other shores, always hankering after their own beach, their own turf house, their own lost lives. Their homes had become their boats. They might land on a lonely island or come in to a harbour for a day, a week, a month, but sooner or later they’d be back in their boats and away. Everything had happened in those boats: babies were born, young folk were married, old folk sickened and died and were buried at sea.

  Alec had never told Ruth any of his grandmother’s stories.

  He had never told her a lot of things – although those omissions hardly even registered on the scale compared with hers. Alec’s weren’t really omissions at all. It was more as if Beckie had made him more completely himself, as if the complete Alec – the whole, rounded, wonderful man he was always meant to be – was only now emerging.

  It helped, of course, that Beckie was Beckie. She had proved Alec wrong in his stereotyping of adopted children in that she was very bright, with a particular aptitude for puzzles and games – even chess, at the age of seven! – and shared Alec’s curiosity about life, the world and the Universe. And she was very sweet and good, although Ruth worried a little, still, that she was too eager to please.

  She worried that, with her compliant nature, she might be a target for bullies. But so far so good. She loved school, and her little group of close friends were cheerful, easy-going girls Ruth trusted. That being said, Emma could be a feisty little thing, especially in the face of a perceived injustice, but this was a positive in Ruth’s opinion: Emma could be counted on to protect Beckie from the other children if need be.

  ‘I don’t want to ride,’ Beckie was insisting now, even though riding Hobo was her favourite thing in the world. She was leaning back on the fence getting her breath, one arm hugging a post, as Emma, Hobo and Alec trotted up.

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Emma.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Beckie undid her pink riding helmet and balanced it on the fence post. ‘Absolutely sure.’

  Absolutely was a new favourite word.

  Ruth looked at her daughter, drinking her in, feeling her stomach plummet and a shiver run through her. It was as if love for your child was a terrible physical force that swept through you and left you weak, frozen on the edge of a terror you couldn’t name.

  Sara had been right – Ruth had never felt love like this before.

  Or hatred.

  How could those people have hurt her? How could they?

  ‘Aren’t you tired out?’ Alec asked, doing a comical stagger. ‘Personally, I’m knackered.’

  Beckie laughed. ‘We can have a rest if you want? I’m not, like, really tired. But my head’s hot. I don’t need to wear my helmet if I’m not riding, do I?’

  ‘Yes you do, Beckster.’ Alec picked it up and plonked it back on her head. ‘What if you tripped up and Hobo stood on your head?’

  Both girls for some reason found this scenario hilarious. For several minutes all they could do was laugh, Emma staggering to the fence and supporting herself on it and then on Beckie, the two girls clutching each other as they shook, eyes streaming.

  All three adults laughed with them.

  Then: ‘Now, come on, girls,’ said Ruth when it had gone on long enough and showed no signs of abating.

  ‘Sorry Mum,’ Beckie gasped, leaning back on the fence and trying to make her face serious.

  ‘Emma,’ said Pam.

  The girls were both gasping, more exhausted by their laughter than by any amount of running around the field. Ruth remembered how it had felt, this hysterical prolonged hilarity with friends, the agony of trying to stop. There was something almost desperate about it, something not really enjoyable at all.

  ‘Come on now,’ she said again.

  But they couldn’t stop. They would sober for a while but then erupt in fresh paroxysms of mirth whenever they looked at each other, made all the worse by Alec’s, ‘It wouldn’t be so funny if it actually happened.’

  When they seemed finally to have laughed themselves to a standstill, Alec looked over at her. ‘Mum, Beckie needs to wear her helmet, yes?’

  In fact, Ruth considered this unnecessary – Hobo wasn’t going to step on Beckie if she fell over, the pony was far too sensible – but she said, ‘Yes. Let your head cool off a bit and then put it back on. Better safe than sorry.’

  Beckie’s mouth twitched.

  And then Emma was gasping, ‘Imagine you all sorry,’ and Beckie was making a sad head-squashed-by-Hobo face, and Emma was wailing ‘… wee myself!’ and running for cover in the broom.

  6

  Jed rolls over on the settee when I put on the telly and goes, ‘Load a pish.’

  But I’m having my Bargain Hunt. I’ve been sweating on that fucking exercise bike for a fucking hour while that prick’s been swadging on the settee wasting space as fucking usual.

  ‘Get to your bed if you’re wanting to sleep,’ I says, getting comfy in my chair with my wee bit scone and my cup of tea. The Rotty comes and shoves his gob at me, slavers swinging, and I says, ‘Beat it.’ The kids feed the dug crap and that’s why he’s in your face twenty-four-seven.

  I get my tablet on my knee and navigate through to FAF: the Forced Adoption Forum. I cannae post after that wee fucker EagleHasLanded got me banned, and I cannae open the ‘Members Only’ section, which is the best bit, but I can still read the other posts. I can still see how my pal Big Bertha’s doing trying to stop her lassie’s bairn getting taken off her. I dinnae have an email or nothing for Bertha, so I cannae get in touch with her. I registered again under a different email and username and sent Bertha a wee PM asking for her email, but then I cannae help myself, I’m getting sucked in to a thread on hearings, and some bastard goes ‘CoopyBird is Bekki’s Gran back’ and that’s CoopyBird’s arse banned before Bertha’s had a chance to reply to the PM.

  I dinnae want on their
fucking forum anyway.

  Fucking bastards banned Bekki’s Gran the first time for telling MrMan to get his babby’s photy on Facebook like we’ve got Bekki’s, and get the media involved and try and find your wee laddie. Fucking FAF is meant to be helping folk who’ve had their bairns taken off them, and I get my arse banned for that? All the other bastards were just giving it ‘I know it’s hard, but at least you’re allowed to send your son birthday and Christmas cards and get photos three times a year’ like MrMan was gonnae turn round and say ‘Aye that’s fine then thanks very much’. The poor guy has lost his wean because the wean’s ma wanted it adopted, and she got pregnant by MrMan when they were both jakied, and the court says the poor guy isnae fit to look after the babby, even though he’s at uni and that, and his ma and da are gonnae help, because he’s on the sex offenders’ register because that wee hairy was fifteen? When I says about Facebook and the media he’s all ‘But I don’t want to get in trouble and have them stop the little contact I do have’ and I’m ‘Couple of fucking cards a year?’ and he’s ‘Yes, you’re right, Bekki’s Gran, what have I really got to lose?’ and I’m ‘Go for it, MrMan,’ and my arse was banned for that?

  I open the section ‘Contact with the Child’.

  The latest thread, ‘Help! Council mistake gives contact details!!!’, was started by JennyPenny.

  Hi all, got a bit of a strange one here, the County council (not going say which one) sent our son’s Ex-Partner a copy of the adoption order for their child after she wrote them to ask them to send it because she’s entitled to see it by Law but they’ve made a mistake and the details of the couple our GD is being placed with havent been sensored.

  So… We now have their names and address!!

  What to do? Obv we’re not going to alert the council that we now have this info, my son is all for making contact but I’m worried this might be held against him. My son’s Ex doesn’t want to do anything.

  Thoughts, anyone?

  Thanks, JennyPenny

  EagleHasLanded was straight in there:

  JennyPenny, you MUST NOT do anything with this information, you must send the documents back to the Council, alerting them to the problem, and forget you saw this. Any attempt to contact your granddaughter will have serious repercussions for you and your family and could compromise your prospects of contact at a later date.

  Then all them that always sook up to EagleHasLanded:

  Fran: JennyPenny, Eagle is right, you must forget you saw this. Hard I know. Hugs.

  KJ: God Almighty, what next? Bloody idiots. But yes, you can’t do anything with the info. Sorry if that’s not what you want to hear, but I have to say I’m a bit worried by your reaction:

  Obv we’re not going to alert the council

  Why ‘Obv’? This sounds like you’re intending to take some kind of action. Just because they’ve made a mistake doesn’t give you the right to make contact if the courts haven’t said you can.

  Stitcher: Oh dear. I have to agree with the others, Jenny. You don’t want to jeopardise anything by using this. You don’t want to alienate the APs by hassling them or trying to make contact with your GD. Also, think about your GD – could really upset/traumatise her. You are making a big mistake IMO which could hurt a lot of people. Please think long and hard about this.

  Then in comes Bertha: Hey, am I missing something here or has JennyPenny done nothing wrong? Get off her case, people.

  JennyPenny: Thanks Bertha :) Everyone, I’m not going to do anything, it’s my son I’m worried about he is an adult and I cant stop him going round there if he wants. But what would happen if he did? Could he get arrested?

  EagleHasLanded: Yes he could get arrested.

  Bertha: Yes he could get arrested. And get a slap on the wrist.

  EagleHasLanded: Big Bertha, I hope you’re not suggesting that JennyPenny’s son SHOULD make contact with his daughter and/or her adoptive parents. He should NOT!!!

  And you need to be very careful what you say on here. Suggesting that someone should defy the courts is dangerous and wrong. Please remember what happened to Bekki’s Gran when she posted similar advice.

  Bertha: Bekki’s Gran, if you’re reading this, miss ya babe :)

  OK Eagle, pull your horns in. Am I allowed to say that JennyPenny and her son and his ex could use this info to look on Facebook etc. and see if the APs have anything up on the net? That way they could maybe see photos of their girl and find out how she’s doing etc. without breaking the court’s conditions. How would anyone know you were doing that anyway?

  Miss ya too, babe. Bertha’s spot on, as ever. What a woman.

  I read out the posts to Jed and Connor, who’s just come in to get the end of Bargain Hunt before his shift at PC World. He looks like he’s back at the school in that fucking uniform, black trousers with a belt and a short-sleeved blue shirt with ‘Currys PC World’ in red over his tit.

  Jed goes, ‘Ya beauty’ when I read out Bertha’s first post. Jed’s Bertha’s number one fan so he is.

  I goes, ‘Mair might have made a mistake an’ all. Left those bastards’ details on a document.’

  ‘Naw,’ says Connor. ‘Me and you’ve read through that shite how many times? I think we’d mebbe have noticed a minor detail like the folks’ names and address?’

  ‘Aye, well, we need to check again. And we need to check we’re no missing any documents – anything where Mair might have left crap uncensored. We need to check we’ve been sent everything we’re entitled to. Connor son, get all the shite out, aye?’

  He goes to the sideboard and gets out the pile of papers and dumps them on the table next my chair. ‘Right then. See yous later.’

  ‘Throw a sickie, son, and gies a hand here. Get on the net and check what all we’re entitled to get sent.’

  Connor sighs but he gets out his phone.

  On top of the pile there’s my scrapbook with our articles. While Connor’s coughing down the phone, I take a wee look at the Daily Mail one with the big photy of me and Jed on the settee. Settee looks dead nice. That was right after we got it and it’s like something out a showhome, pure white and shiny. I’m in a black Laura Ashley top with lacy bits and Jed’s washed and shaved and in a brand new black cashmere jumper that covers his tats, most of them, and we’ve both got our sad faces on us. The caption says: ‘Devastated: Lorraine and Jed Johnson.’ The article goes on about how our wee angel was torn from our arms, just because our daughter was mentally ill, and quotes me saying how Social Work failed to inform us of meetings and that.

  Media campaign turned out pish but.

  And brought the nutters out the woodwork, mad bastards giving it You people should all be sterilised, and there was this Holy Mary kept posting on the Get Bekki Back page on Facebook wanting to know if we’d been saved by Jesus and saying we should pray for Bekki and trust in the fucking Lord.

  I sort out all the letters and documents sent us by the Council, and Connor gets a list of what all we’re entitled to, and we read and cross-check all through the One O’Clock News and Reporting Scotland. I dinnae even bother turning over for Home and Away. I dinnae even stop for my lunch.

  ‘Looks like we’ve got everything, Maw. And there’s no address or that on any of this. That’s for definite.’

  I goes, ‘Fuck it.’

  ‘Worth a try though, eh?’

  ‘Aye. Fuck it, but.’

  Jed wakes back up and turns over and reaches for his fags, effing and blinding. Was a time, eh, when he’d no just limit hisself to mouthing off – he’d come at me. I was a fucking doormat by the way, daft wee bint that I was, but the first time he made to raise his hand to a babby I told him – you fucking touch that wean and we’re outta here. Aye he maybe skelped them when they was older, but only when they was out of order. Anything more than that and he knew I wouldnae stand for it. And any road, most of the time the kids were growing up, thank Christ, his arse was under lock and key in Barlinnie.

  ‘Wait a wee minute,’ I says
to Connor. ‘Wait a wee fucking minute! This could still be the way to go. Forget Facebook. Forget the press. It’s the fucking system has what we want, aye? It’s the fucking system can tell us where Bekki is?’

  Jed flicks his lighter, and says round his fag: ‘Like they’re gonnae go, “Oh aye Lorraine-hen, here you go, here’s Bekki’s address, you only had to ask, hen.”’

  ‘Shut it, you! What I’m saying is, we can get it out them if we’re a wee bit sleekit-like.’

  ‘Aw Christ, Maw.’ Connor’s sitting on the carpet with the Rotty, pushing his fingers through the dug’s hair. ‘Next time it’ll no be just a caution, eh?’

  A couple years back I phoned up Mair pretending to be those bastards who’ve got Bekki, all Hello Ms Mair, sorry to bother you, it’s Bekki’s mum, I just wanted to check you’ve got our current address. But Mair goes To whom am I speaking, please? and course I didnae know their fucking name. And they traced the fucking call.

  Jed goes, ‘Never mind all that shite. Give me five minutes with Mair. Five minutes. I swear to God.’

  ‘Aye, and that’s Mair got another excuse to get the polis on us.’

  ‘She’ll no be making any calls to the polis after I’ve paid her a wee visit.’

  ‘You cannae touch her, Da,’ says Connor.

  ‘No wonder folk cannae credit he’s a Johnson, eh? If he didnae have your fucking ears’ – I point at Connor – ‘I could maybe fantasize I’d been Rohypnol-ed by some fucker on this scheme whose DNA’s half way to fucking normal.’ I eat a bit scone. ‘Right then, listen up. The most successful scams, they Nigerian email scams and that – what is it they’re counting on?’