Don’t You Cry

11

Nina

‘You don’t need to know anything.’ Angel directs this at me. ‘It’s better that way, OK?’

I think of the blood crusting Lucas’s hands when he arrived. My mouth floods with saliva and I swallow again, forcing the sickness and panic down. I see then that Angel has put the gun on the table and I think for a mad moment about making a grab for it. But this isn’t some crime drama on telly. I’m a middle-aged English teacher. I’ve only ever fired a gun once before, at Sam’s Scout camp on the rifle range. And I don’t want to see what happens if Angel or Lucas start to panic. I make myself breathe slowly, in and out, in and out, until the nausea subsides.

‘Can we please just get these baby things?’ I say tightly. ‘We can all stay calm if we can get him comfortable.’

Angel probably imagines people like me always know where to find things in their attics.

The truth is that if you had asked me a week ago to find Sam’s baby stuff, we’d have been in trouble. But I found myself up there just after Ian told me about the baby, and almost ripped the place apart trying to find the blue canvas holdall I knew was there somewhere.

I’d spent an hour in tear-soaked reminiscence, smoothing out the small sleepsuits and dungarees, shuffling my pack of memories. Later, I somehow got through three-quarters of a bottle of wine and almost fell over on the way to bed.

It had been a bit of a low point.

I pat the squirming baby in my arms now and try to make reassuring noises as I gaze up at Angel’s long legs above me on the stepladder. I direct her to the bag near the entrance.

She calls for me to mind out of the way, and throws it down.

Back in the kitchen, Lucas is sitting at the table, hands flat against the surface. He is apparently just staring into space, but his right leg jiggles up and down as though keeping time to some crazy beat inside his head. He watches silently as I begin to dress the baby. Thank goodness for this bag of stuff.

The best find is a swim nappy that somehow ended up in the bag. It is a little bit too big, but a definite improvement on the kitchen towel, which has already almost disintegrated from handling and the movement of the baby’s kicking legs.

There is a vest with poppers at the bottom that is almost the right size and a small pair of leggings that will do, rolled up. I’m so relieved to see the baby bottle there. At least I can get some water into this little chap now.

One-handed, I fill the kettle to the brim with water. I will have to boil this bottle in a pan, and I’ll use the rest of the water as a drink, once it’s cooled enough.

The baby is still chuntering miserably throughout this process. I can’t tell if he is lethargic. He does feel hot, but despite the rain, the air still feels thick and warm.

Lucas now sits with his hands buried in his hair, head down. Angel is furiously flicking through something on her phone. She pauses once only to say, ‘Fuck,’ and then, ignoring Lucas’s plea to show him what she is looking at, she keeps on scrolling, shaking her head slowly.

It is still raining outside; I can hear it. I stare back at my reflection in the black window, my face a pale oval and my eyes wide and frightened looking.

The baby bottle rattles loudly against the side of the pan as it boils. Will five minutes be long enough? I never did it this way in the past. I used a machine instead, which has long since gone.

The lack of milk looms large in my mind. What are we going to do about feeding this baby?

The windows are misting up with the water boiling on the stove now; combined with the heat of the night, it feels claustrophobic in here. I hesitate for only a moment before leaning over to open the top of one of the windows, feeling four eyes drilling into me as I do it. What do they think? I’m going to haul my body out of that tiny window and escape?

When I turn back, Angel is frowning, chewing on her thumbnail, apparently deep in thought.

‘So,’ says Angel. ‘We need money. You have to get it for us.’

‘I’ll happily give you money,’ I say, carefully. ‘But I already told you. I only have about ten pounds here.’

‘Cashpoint,’ says Lucas, coming alive suddenly. ‘Where’s the nearest one?’

‘There’s one along the dual carriageway,’ I say. ‘A Tesco garage.’

Angel and Lucas exchange a glance, then look back at me. It’s unnerving, like twins communicating silently, despite the difference in age.

‘I’ll give you my PIN number,’ I say. Angel shakes her head vigorously.

‘No,’ she says. ‘They have cameras on ATMs. I don’t want them taking our pictures. You have to go and get it yourself.’

My heartbeat quickens. Surely, they won’t just let me go? But then I’d have to leave the baby here with them. The two thoughts collide unpleasantly.

As if sensing this, Angel says, ‘We’ll keep the baby here.’ She glances at the wriggling child in my arms and says, ‘You know we don’t want it to come to any harm.’

The open-ended way she says this is chilling and I realize I’m holding the baby too tightly. He squirms.

I’m grateful for the distraction of the bottle, still rattling in the pan. The water in the kettle must be cool enough now.

‘I need some help with this,’ I say curtly.

Lucas looks at me for a moment. I force myself to meet his eyes, which are the same golden-toffee colour as his sister’s, thickly fringed with black lashes. I realize, belatedly, that he is quite beautiful, despite the hollowness of his eyes and sallow complexion. Much better looking than his sister, whose features are similar but have a heaviness to them. It must have been hard for Lucas to be the prettier of the two. Then he turns his face away from me, pointedly. Right, so no help will be forthcoming there then.

With a theatrical sigh that any of my Year Elevens would be proud of, Angel comes over and says, ‘What should I do then?’ in the tone of one who has been horribly inconvenienced.

The baby starts to wail again and a look of pure distaste passes over her face.

‘Wash your hands carefully,’ I mutter. ‘Then take that bottle out of the water and fill it with water from the kettle. Put it on the windowsill to cool off.’

She follows these instructions well enough. I watch her all the time, as I murmur to the baby. He is rooting at my shoulder now, small mouth pursed, trying to find a breast. Water is not going to be enough. I hope to God the Tesco garage has formula milk.

The craziness of this whole scenario hits me again. I shift the position of the baby boy, so he is lying on my forearm, stomach down. I remember an afternoon when Sam wouldn’t stop crying, and the health visitor had arrived to find us both inconsolable. She had shown me this move and it had worked magically when Sam was grumpy with colic.

But it’s not working now. The baby screams on. I hurriedly rearrange him back on my shoulder. He’s becoming surprisingly heavy, the longer I hold him, especially in this heat.

Finally, the water, the bottle and the teat are cool enough. I instruct Angel to put it all together. When I hold the bottle to the baby’s lips, he sucks greedily with noisy slurps. The hydration calms him for a moment, but it doesn’t take long for the realization to come that this isn’t what was wanted.

He starts to cry again, a miserable mewl. I look up, anxiously.

‘Look, he needs milk. I’ll go to the garage and get your money. I won’t tell anyone. But please, please be careful with him. He’s so little.’

Angel looks at Lucas and then back at me.

‘He’ll be fine,’ she says flatly. ‘But that’s entirely in your hands.’

When he has drunk as much of the water as he seems prepared to take, I reluctantly hand the baby over to Angel. Then I go to find outdoor shoes and a light jacket, watched by Angel the whole time. I’m trembling as I pocket my wallet and a small torch. I’ll need it for the darker bits of the road.

‘Right,’ says Angel, when I am ready to go. ‘You had better think very carefully about contacting anyone while you’re out, do you understand me? I mean it. I’ve told you I don’t care about this baby. Do you understand?’

‘Yes!’ I snap, then, ‘Look, you know I can only get a limited amount of money from a cash machine, don’t you?’

‘Three fifty,’ says Angel. ‘That’s the daily limit. That will have to do.’

She pats the baby’s back, her eyes cold. Is she too rough? It’s hard to tell. I feel like a tuning fork, vibrating with every sign of possible aggression around this vulnerable infant.

My instincts scream at me that I can’t, mustn’t, leave. But what choice do I really have?

Angel unlocks the kitchen door and then says my name.

‘It’s three am now,’ she says. ‘I think, what, forty-five minutes is plenty long enough, don’t you?’

‘There might be queues,’ I say, a thread of desperation running through my voice. ‘It’s always busy in there. And it’s a good ten-minute walk too.’

Angel regards me, her eyes cold.

‘Fifty minutes,’ she says. ‘If you’re not back by then, we’re going to have a problem.’ She holds the baby away from her, considers his face and says, ‘Aren’t we?’

Then she pats her pocket and her meaning is clear. I can see the outline of the gun through the fabric.

12

Angel

There is a loaded pause of a few seconds and then she can’t hold it in any longer.

‘What the fuck, Lucas?’ she says and her voice is too loud even to her own ears. ‘Why the shitting hell did you bring that baby here? Are you actually insane?’

He doesn’t reply, merely hangs his head and Angel is suffused with a mix of intense frustration, fear, and love that makes her cross the room and hug him fiercely.

She feels him wince and he doesn’t reciprocate. A bit stung, she drops her arms and turns away.

‘Well, we’ll just have to work something out,’ she says and there is a tremor in her voice now. She wants to cry and she hates crying, so she swallows the feeling down like a bitter drink.

It’s only now that she remembers she hasn’t eaten anything apart from some garlic bread on her shift earlier. Her limbs feel weak and watery, her head filled with cotton-wool.

She goes to the fridge and begins gathering items of food, suddenly ravenous.

Lucas moves to the table and sits down, burying his hands in his curls, and closing his eyes. Angel glances at her brother as she puts houmous and cheese onto the table.

She feels a burst of resentment that he hasn’t answered any of her messages for ages, then presents her with this hot mess. But when she sees the tremor in his hands as he runs them through his hair her heart contracts.

‘You know I love you, whatever, you big drama queen,’ she says.

Lucas looks up and is surprised into a weak smile.

‘I love you too,’ he says and then something about this exchange causes a shift and he suddenly jumps up and begins to pace up and down the length of the kitchen, scratching at his arms. It hurts to watch. It’s like he’s trying to escape from his own skin or something. He used to do it when they were little and Marianne once made him wear gloves in bed.

‘Stop doing that,’ says Angel and he stops abruptly.

The baby over on the sofa starts to cry again. God, the sound of it is unbearable.

‘I hope she won’t be long with the milk and stuff,’ she says. ‘He’s doing my bloody head in.’

Lucas tears his gaze away and sees the radio by the sink. ‘Try putting the radio on,’ he says. ‘See if that helps.’

Angel darts him a startled look at this but says nothing as she moves to the counter. She switches on the radio and pop music burbles out. Angel twists the dial so for a minute it drowns out the sound of the shrieking baby lying on the sofa.

The baby is evidently startled by this and he stops crying. She gradually turns it back to a more comfortable level.

‘Well, aren’t you the expert,’ she says drily.

‘Angel, don’t,’ says Lucas, much more sharply than he intended.

Angel slaps her hand on her thigh. ‘For God’s sake, Lu! Why won’t you tell me what really happened? Don’t you trust me or something?’

Lucas stares at his sister and for a moment she thinks, this is it.

‘Why would I call you if I didn’t trust you?’ he says in a weak voice. ‘Anyway, I have told you everything.’

The siblings stare at each other across the kitchen while in the background Little Mix sing about shouting out to exes.

‘Right,’ says Angel, turning away. ‘Sure you have.’ She wants to slap him. ‘Why don’t you go and lie down or something,’ she adds as she goes to hunt for bread in the cupboards. ‘This could be a long night and you look like shit.’

Lucas hesitates for a moment and then silently leaves the room.

13

Nina

The air is pleasantly warm outside, but shock must be catching up with me. I start to shake, so hard my knees almost give way, and I’m forced to stop, panting lightly, hands resting on my thighs.

I can’t believe this is happening. It’s all so surreal. Her barging into my home like that. Then him arriving, covered in blood. And that tiny baby … Oh, the baby.

As the shivering becomes less violent, I start to walk, glancing over at the cars on the bypass, which are present even at this time. I wish I could get into any one of them and be carried far away from this situation.

I could do it. Or at least flag down a car and ask for help. But what if the police go storming in there and the baby gets caught up in it all?

I picture again the blood riming Lucas’s nails and think about his reaction when I’d asked about the mother. What has he done? And what might he be capable still of doing? That’s not even taking Angel into account. She feels utterly unreadable to me.

It’s a strange sensation, to be walking away, ostensibly free, but yet trapped all the same. I hurry on, reaching the dark part of the road, and then follow the bobbing light of the torch. The road feels so long in the dark. Like it is never-ending. I would usually be scared, walking here at night. But I only feel frightened of the dangers currently in my home. What an irony it would be, if I was attacked tonight, of all nights.

When I finally reach the end of the road, I turn left at the roundabout there and start walking along the side of the bypass. Obviously, it isn’t designed for pedestrians, so I am forced to walk in a semi-ditch at the side. Cars thunder past now and then, so close I feel the gusting force blowing into me. I’ve never walked along here before; never had any reason to. My heart leaps every time a car passes. I’m intensely conscious of my breakable body, so close to speeding weapons of steel and rubber.

The long, wet grass whips and clings at my lower legs and my shoes are soon soaked through.

I wonder whether a police car would stop if I was seen walking along such a dangerous road. It might even be an offence. I don’t think I’d be able to stop myself from blurting out the whole sorry story, if they did pull over.

I turn my ankle in a hidden dip in the grass and swear. Sweating from both effort and stress, I finally see the welcoming lights of the garage ahead. It seems no distance in a car but it’s much further than I realized. I look at my watch and hasten my pace.

Thank goodness, the garage is on this side. Hopefully I can get in and out, quickly.

It’s surprisingly busy, for the middle of the night. But this road is a main artery leading, ultimately, to London, so I guess the traffic never stops.

There are two cars and one van filling up as I emerge onto the forecourt, blinking at the sudden harsh lighting. The normality of it, white light reflecting off wet car roofs, a man yawning widely as he walks briskly from the pumps, a snatch of grime music drifting from an open car window, brings sudden tears to my eyes. I have a fervent longing to go back to my life before tonight. It seemed so complicated, but it was so simple, really. Why did I complain? Things weren’t so bad, were they?

I’m suddenly overwhelmed by a hot urge to run into the centre of the forecourt and yell at the top of my lungs, ‘I’m a hostage! I need help!’

But even as I picture myself doing it, another image comes to mind: the outline of the gun in Angel’s pocket. Even if she wouldn’t actively hurt the baby, I picture her panicking and dropping him onto the stone floor, his unfinished skull cracking like an eggshell. This thought makes me shudder and I hurry to the cashpoint first, which is located outside the shop. But my hands shake and I fumble the PIN number. There’s a second of total panic that I can’t remember it. The thought of going back with no cash makes the world spin for a moment until the four digits float, blessedly, into my mind. I tap them in and opt for three hundred and fifty pounds in cash.

This done, I enter the shop and scan the shelves for baby products. The section is small and there are only nappies for ages three to six months and toddlers. Even the smallest packet is going to swamp that tiny body. But they will have to do.

When I spy the small selection of ready-prepared formula milks, including two cartons for new-borns, I feel quite weak with relief. A thought floats into my head from nowhere and I pause, then realize how ridiculous it was. For a moment there, I had worried about giving the baby formula when he may be conditioned to his mother’s breast. As if that was important, now.

Who is his mother? This question keeps coming to me, over and over again. What happened to her? Why did Lucas have blood on his hands?

Have to focus. I place both cartons in my basket, then grab a Snickers bar, suddenly craving a hit of sugar. Maybe it will stop me from shaking. I look around, anxiously, sure I am conspicuous, that eyes are roaming and picking over me, even though I know logically that people are just going about their business, bleary with fatigue and their own problems.

When I join the short queue, I become aware of a commotion.

There is only one till, where two girls are arguing with a middle-aged man in a Sikh turban.

The white girl has blonde hair in a ponytail so tight that her thickly mascaraed eyes almost bulge from her face. She is in a skimpy dress, stretched tight over rounded hips and thighs. Her black friend is almost bursting out of jeans and a crop top that finishes above a roll of flesh. Her hair is dyed a brassy ginger with a heavy fringe almost meeting her eyelids.

‘Yeah but what’s your problem?’ says the white girl. ‘There’s no need to give us all this fucking grief, is there?’

‘You get out of here with your filthy mouth,’ says the garage attendant in a raised voice. ‘I’m not selling you cigarettes without ID.’

‘Didn’t we just give you that, towel-head?’ says the black girl and she and her friend dissolve into giggles that make them sound five years younger than they look.

The man behind the counter is shouting now.

‘You give me your fake bloody ID and I give you a trip in a police car! You think you like that, hn? Get out of here, you little sluts, before I call the police. And stop doing that!’

‘You sexually harassing us?’ says the white girl, who is now holding up a mobile phone in a silver sparkly case. ‘I need evidence.’

I shift from foot to foot, uneasily. Please don’t call the police. Please let this nightmare end so I can get out of here.

There are three other people in the queue: a young man who is studiously avoiding getting involved by staring into his phone screen, an elderly woman clutching a loaf of bread and some beans, and a suited man about my age, sighing with irritation. The old lady casts her eyes around and tuts at intervals. She throws a few disgruntled looks at the man behind her but this obviously doesn’t satisfy her because she then manages to snag my gaze before I can avoid it.