“It’s your decision, but I will be watching Mr Davenport. If anything goes wrong bring the child to me, but if you do then the child is mine.”
The warning in her voice had scared him, but not enough to make it real. Now it was far too real.
The drive to Mrs Popborski’s house, jutting out from a piece of high ground on the edge of town was relatively short and desperately long. Rebecca stirred in the moses basket anchored to the passenger seat, puckering her lips as if she might have been dreaming of a kiss. Richard placed a hand on her chest, stroking her cheek with his finger and steering the car with one hand and half a mind until the town petered away and left only trees.
Pulling a left turn, he abandoned his daughter to change down gear and draw to a halt, his headlights peering up the long drive through the bars of a high electric gate. The gates opened as if an unearthly force had willed it and Richard manouvered forward spitting gravel out from under the car tyres. The house pulled itself into view, high, heavy stonework and tall gothic windows. Mrs Popborski framed in a glaring arc of light under a Norman arched doorway, tall, slender and immovable.
“Can I say goodbye to her?” Richard appealed, clawing at the last moments of fatherhood.
“Its better that you don’t,” Mrs Popborski reached out, extracting the sleeping infant from his arms. “You should go now,” she barked the order, her expression never shifting as she eased Rebecca to a more comfortable position, turned and passed the threshold. “Goodbye Mr Davenport,” she turned again and closed the door in a sweeping motion that stole the light and sucked the air from Richards lungs.