Stolen Child by Laura Elliot

always longed for children, had, probably, recently lost a child. She would protect Isobel, keep her warm and safe. Orla spoke as if she had a direct line to this unknown woman, whom Carla could only imagine as a monstrous, faceless creature. Amanda displayed the same impassive confidence as she helped Carla pump milk from her aching breasts. It would be kept fresh in the fridge until Isobel was returned to them.
    Robert, ashen-faced, rain dripping from his hair and eyelashes, kept entering the ward and holding her, then leaving again, as if he could not cope with her fears. She sensed his desperation to be at the heart of the official search, but he was not allowed to participate. Official procedure, Orla told her. He was emotionally involved.
    Raine and Gillian arrived, followed by Carla’s parents. Staring at the empty cot, they strove for words of comfort. Janet’s hands fluttered. Helpless tears rolled down her cheeks. Happiness, she believed, was contained in nothing more substantial than a fragile bubble, and now her greatest fear had been realised. Unable to endure her distress, Carla begged her father to bring her home. Gillian left with them, her pallor more pronounced than usual.
    The day darkened. Spotlights illuminated the courtyard and the raindrops swirled like fireflies before splashing on the cobblestones. Raine sat on the arm of Carla’s armchair and held her hand tightly as the new fathers, arriving with flowers and fluffy toys, were directed to another entrance. The car park remained empty. Figures moved over the grounds still. Flashlights lit the shrubbery. Police cars entered and left between the black, wrought-iron gates.
    A television van was driven up the avenue. The phone rang shortly afterwards.
    ‘No comment.’ Orla replaced the receiver with a clang. ‘I’m sorry, Carla. The media have got wind of the story. Don’t worry. We’ll deal with them.’
    ‘If I talk to them now, it’ll be on tonight’s news.’ For the first time since she awoke and saw the empty cot, Carla’s mind focused. She understood optics, publicity, the projection of an image. ‘I want to appeal directly to this woman.’
    ‘Leave the media to us,’ advised Orla. ‘We have procedures in place for dealing with such incidents.’
    ‘Incidents!’ Carla bent forward and clutched at her stomach. Her flesh felt flabby, empty. ‘How dare you call my baby’s kidnapping an incident!’
    She brushed aside the policewoman’s attempts to apologise but Robert agreed with Orla. It was too early for interviews. The media already had Isobel’s photograph. If she was not found soon – he winced and closed his eyes – then a press conference would be organised. Suddenly, the strength left his legs. He collapsed on the bed and lay back, his hands over his eyes. Carla lay beside him. He gathered her close and she, hearing his laboured breathing, his desperate attempts at self-control, became the comforter. She repeated Orla’s assurances, soothing him with false words until he felt strong enough to rise again.
    It seemed impossible to imagine time moving, yet the hands on the clock turned past midnight and another round of waiting began. Sleep, Amanda assured her, was necessary if she was to cope. When Carla did manage to close her eyes, it was a drug-induced slumber and she sank into a dreamless void until it was time to awaken again into the nightmare.

Chapter Seven
Susanne
Three days later
    Go to her , they whispered when I saw her in the papers. Isobel Gardner – a baby with no distinguishing features to set her apart from other newborns who slide into the world a fortnight before their time. I resisted at first. I deadened my ears to the whispering and went to bed instead, pulled the pillows over my face.
    The pain awakened me in the small hours. Clockwork precision each month, the bleed so heavy that I’m always nervous going anywhere for the first two days. It was still dark outside. Another hour before dawn