Hush Little Baby, page 11
The children continued to sleep while she sipped coffee in the kitchen, her gaze drawn to the garden beyond. She would miss her outdoor space when she left this place, having spent many years keeping it weed-free and spending money on planters to spruce up a large, concrete patio area. It occurred to her as she stared outside how rarely the children played out there, how Melissa preferred the confines of her room, how having friends around for tea or a picnic on the back lawn was something that other children did. When she did move from this place and got her own house, she would make sure it had a garden: one that was big enough for Melissa and George to play in, for them to run and be happy and carefree – everything that was currently denied to them. She sighed and closed her eyes. It was tempting to sit there, drinking coffee, daydreaming about what could be, but she had a house to clean, dishes to wash, breakfasts to prepare. Life had to go on as usual. Until tomorrow, that is. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.
As quietly as she could, Nancy began the ritual of laying out the dishes for everyone, making sure Roger’s plate was dead centre, his cutlery spotless. She was caught up in her usual regime, her mind honed in on other things, when he appeared and spoke, his voice sending ripples of foreboding down her spine.
‘Why are you up so early?’
She spun around, well versed by now at painting on a neutral expression, making sure her voice was even and calm. ‘Oh, good morning. I just woke up so decided to get cracking with preparing breakfast.’
‘Something on your mind that woke you?’
She wrinkled her brow and smiled, her heart thrashing wildly in her chest. ‘No, not at all. Just thought I’d be better off making use of my spare time in the kitchen getting everything ready before the children wake up.’
Her throat was as dry as sand, her palms clammy. God, this was proving to be so tricky, the constant evasions as he fired questions her way. The attempts at appearing normal when in truth, her insides were leaping about, her innards knotting and unknotting like slithering eels.
A protracted silence as he stood, watching her. Assessing her. Then, ‘I often wonder what goes on in that head of yours, what thoughts wander freely in your brain while I’m out at work every day.’
A hammer bashed at her skull, the pain of it travelling behind her eyes and making her woozy. Another statement designed to trap her. Under the pretence of checking that the pots and crockery were acceptable to her exacting eye, she gripped the table and stared long and hard at the prepared dishes and cutlery to stop herself from losing her balance and falling to the floor. Then she took a breath and turned to face him. ‘Most of the time, I’m focused on George and the house. I really enjoy cleaning our home and caring for our children.’
‘Most of the time?’ he said lightly, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. ‘But not all of the time?’
An explosion of fear in her abdomen. A schoolboy error. Stupid semantics. She had fallen into his trap. He had set that jagged, serrated snare, pulled it wide apart, and she had walked right into it, its teeth snapping shut, keeping her in place.
‘All of the time, darling. I sometimes put half an hour aside to read a book if George is sleeping, is what I meant.’
He didn’t reply, his eyes narrowed, his pupils drilling into her until she felt the need to turn away, pretending to busy herself with locating coffee and teabags and filling the kettle. She felt the burn and intensity of his gaze. He was angling for an argument, longing for an obvious transgression to present itself, and if it didn’t, then he would do his damnedest to find one. The atmosphere in the kitchen was heavy, his presence an overbearing force. Whatever she did or said would be twisted and misconstrued to suit the narrative that was currently raging in his head. It was better to remain silent and only speak when spoken to. To keep her answers brief and non-committal.
‘How lovely, don’t you think? That you have time to read while your husband is at work bringing in the money to pay for this place?’
She nodded and cleared her throat. ‘Every day, I think how lucky I am. You’re a wonderful husband. Generous and hard-working. An intelligent man.’
‘But not kind or thoughtful, eh? Not sensitive or caring or compassionate?’
She swallowed hard and pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand, trying to obscure the tremble in her fingers. This situation was escalating. She knew the signs, recognised them before they presented themselves in all their sickening glory. She needed to defuse the tension, do something unexpected to catch him off-guard.
‘Here you go.’ She handed him a cup of speciality coffee, the one that she knew he favoured. ‘I also got this for you yesterday as I know how much you liked them last time I went to the bakery.’
The croissant was balanced on a small china plate, its top lightly dusted with icing sugar. On the side sat a small, silver dessert fork, precariously balanced across the rim.
Her heart thudded against her ribcage. She smiled and leaned forwards to place a kiss on his mouth. ‘Always kind and thoughtful and everything I could ever want in a husband. I’ll put some bacon on and scramble some eggs for you.’
A silent recital of a prayer remembered from childhood filled her head as she waited for his response. Had she overreached herself? Been too dramatic and syrupy? It certainly felt that way but panic had forced her into a dead-end. She only hoped she had done enough to stave off what usually came next.
His face remained impassive. Unreadable. Without saying another word, Roger took the plate and the cup of coffee from her and left the room, his quiet movements and lack of a reply sending an icy chill over her skin. She was going to have to be careful here, make sure every movement she made, every syllable that passed her lips was meticulously thought out and carefully constructed. No room for error. Just well-rehearsed routines and words that would stop his suspicions from being awakened.
One more day. That was all she had to get through. Only twenty-four hours until she could leave this disturbing atmosphere behind her.
Keeping her breathing in check, Nancy cracked two eggs over a bowl and opened a packet of bacon, the sliminess of the rashers making her gag. She suppressed the reflex and took two long, convulsive breaths before preparing her husband’s breakfast for the penultimate time. That thought made her smile. No more of this sickening pretence. By the time Roger reached the hospital tomorrow morning, she would be almost packed. By the time he saw his final patient of the day, she would be on the train to London, her daughter safely ensconced in her seat while George nuzzled into the warmth of Nancy’s chest. That thought made her smile. Soon it would be over and the rest of her life could begin. She poured the eggs into a pan, took a wooden spoon from the drawer, and began to stir. She and her children were almost free.
18
MELISSA
At the edge of my vision, I see him falter, his eyes locked on Gabriel, who has now begun to wail.
‘Sort it out. Make it stop. That squawking. Make it fucking well stop!’
His body is slightly bent, his feet moving about on the tiled floor, the heels of his shoes grinding up small specks of dust. The gun in his hand, however, remains steady.
‘He’s ill. I need to feed and change him then call a doctor.’
‘No!’ His voice rises in volume then returns to normal, almost a whisper. ‘No doctor.’
I think quickly, deciding to tell him I’m leaving, taking all my things and getting out of here. The further away we are from that weapon, the safer I will feel.
‘Right, well, I just need to take my belongings and we’ll leave. You can have this cottage. You clearly need it more than I do.’
He glares at me, then shakes his head, his eyes darkening again. ‘No. I’ve changed my mind. It’s too late now. You’ve seen my face. You’ll go to the police. Just shut the kid up and then sit over there on the floor.’
I snort at him. ‘On the floor? I’m sixty years old, not sixteen. I definitely won’t be sitting on the floor.’ I’m surprised at the strength in my voice. My heart is being squeezed by an iron fist but I’m not about to kowtow to this man. I’ve met his type before, been beaten down by them. Watched the havoc they wreak with their ruthless, bullying behaviour. Memories of my own father nudge their way into my brain: how he behaved, ruining the lives of those around him. I won’t give in to anybody who thinks they can tell me what to do. Not again. Those days are behind me. I am not my mother.
He watches me for a few seconds, then relents, waving the gun towards the old sofa.
‘Right, on there then. Sit down over there. Do whatever it takes to stop that kid crying. The noise is setting my teeth on edge.’
I pick up Gabriel, lifting him out of his buggy, and place him over my shoulder. ‘A baby’s cry is designed to set your nerves jangling. It’s a way of making sure their needs are met. I have to go and get his bottle from the kitchen, so if you don’t mind?’
He thinks for about it for a second or two, then nods, following a few steps behind me, the gun aimed at my spine. I want to tell him to stop being so ridiculous, that I’m not about to come back in brandishing a knife when I’ve got a baby in my arms, but opt for silence and dark, vengeful thoughts instead. A gun is a powerful tool and controls all aspects of thought and movement when one is pointed at your back.
‘I need to make him a bottle. I don’t have any prepared.’
He doesn’t reply but lets out a low grumble which I assume is his way of expressing agreement.
It doesn’t get any easier, this whole process. If anything, it becomes more and more gruelling, holding Gabriel still as he yells and writhes about, while making up the bottle one-handed. Powder spills on the kitchen counter. Gabriel’s screams grow louder. Sweat coats my back and neck. And all the while, a weapon is being held to my back.
‘Make it shut up! Make that kid fucking well stop!’
I spin around, a sudden rage taking over any fear I have of that gun. Fury at his lack of patience and comprehension of what I’m trying to do under the most difficult of circumstances fuels my anger and frustration. My emotions spill out, my voice a near shriek. ‘What do you think I’m trying to do, for God’s sake! He’s ill. This baby is very ill. I’m trying to do this with one free hand and all the while, I’ve got a man behind me pointing a gun at my back! Now why don’t you bloody well back off and let me get on with it, eh?’
I expect reciprocal rage, maybe even him pulling that trigger and my life slowly ebbing away as I slump to the floor. What I don’t expect is for him to soften and nod, running his fingers through his hair wearily, as if the weight of the world is perched on his shoulders.
‘Right, yeah. Sorry. I get it.’ He takes a few steps back and lowers the gun enough for me to relax a little. I feel relief wash over me. ‘It’s just that noise. I don’t know how you put up with it. It’s fucking unbearable.’
I turn again and get on with making the bottle. ‘Like I said, he’s a baby. It’s what they do. It’s what you once did.’
Another grunt from him. Then, ‘Whatever. Not that anybody would have taken any notice of me when I was a baby.’
And there we have it. A man damaged by his upbringing. I almost laugh out loud. He’s not the only one. If this was a competition, I feel sure I would win. Memories of that day once again bloom in my mind. I ignore them, push them away. It’s all in the past. Here and now is what matters. Getting Gabriel to a safe place, away from this maniac. That’s what matters.
I screw on the lid of the bottle and shake it, Gabriel nestled in the crook of my arm. I watch the man’s expression, keeping a close eye on the angle of the gun, my gaze lowered under the pretence of monitoring my grandson. The barrel of it is there, at the edge of my vision. It’s hanging loosely by his side, but his finger is still wrapped around the trigger.
‘Sounds like you and I have more in common than you realise. I also had a disturbing childhood. Doesn’t excuse you for waving that gun around, though. Everyone has something in their past.’
He doesn’t respond, following me at a safe distance when I walk back into the living room and sit down. I can feel the heat from Gabriel. My stomach knots itself. He needs to see a doctor.
‘I’m Melissa. What’s your name?’
I steel myself, prepared for shouting and contempt for my question. He remains quiet, watching me closely, his expression dark and defiant. Guarded.
‘I saw it advertised, travelled to Edinburgh and paid cash for this place,’ I say quietly. ‘How about you? I reckon the old man who owns this old cottage has made a killing out of us and is sitting at home right now, counting his money and smiling.’
‘Call me Jason. And yeah, same here. Saw the place advertised and gave him the money up front.’
I nod and glance down at Gabriel. ‘Slimy old bastard. He stitched us up good and proper, didn’t he?’
He sighs and nods his head. Slowly, I turn to look at him. No sharp movements. Nothing that will startle or upset him. His dark hair is tousled and greasy looking, his stubble at least two days old.
‘This is my grandson. We’re having a break here. What’s your story?’ I nod my head at his gun and raise my eyebrows. ‘Hunting season in the Highlands?’
He doesn’t reply, turning instead to look out of the window, a shadow briefly flitting across his face.
After taking half of the bottle, Gabriel lets out another scream, his head turning from side to side, his little body squirming and twisting about. I place him over my shoulder and glance at the man whose name clearly isn’t Jason.
‘I need to stand up with him and walk about. It might help to stop him crying.’
I don’t wait for him to give me permission and do it anyway. He’s not going to shoot us. Gabriel’s crying may be annoying him but I cannot see this man taking a gun to a baby and pulling the trigger. Whatever his reaction, I need to do something to calm my grandson. I can see that these fits of screaming are making this guy edgy and nervous.
‘Let’s just say I needed to get away and stay somewhere remote,’ he says gruffly. ‘We’ll leave it at that, shall we?’
I nod and give him a half smile before returning my attention back to Gabriel, who lets out another scream and kicks his legs about.
‘This poor baby really does need to see a doctor.’
Like somebody with a split personality, Jason changes, his temper flaring, his face reddening and nostrils widening as he unleashes his bile on me.
‘I said no fucking doctors, all right? You’ll stay here and make him better. Give him some medicine or something, but there’s no way you’re heading out of here so you can call the police!’ His voice fills the room, bouncing off every surface and turning my skin to ice. ‘You’ve seen my face, heard my voice. I may as well hand myself in right now. No fucking way are you leaving here, okay?’
I thought I had forged a connection with this man but I was patently wide of the mark. He is edgy and unpredictable. A volatile individual with a gun. If I thought things were difficult before, his untimely appearance has multiplied my problems a hundredfold.
My legs feel weak and rubbery as I pace the floor holding Gabriel close to me to try and soothe him. His sobs and screams grow louder. My energy wanes. I am hot and tired and all out of ideas. My throat feels sore. I hold back a flood of tears. This is all my fault. I should never have come here in the first place. I wanted isolation but didn’t bank on anything this remote and definitely didn’t bank on a psychopath turning up with a gun. I’ve put Gabriel in danger. My life may not count for much but he is a child, a baby for God’s sake, and I’ve put him in the line of fire. We’re pitted against an unstable man with a deadly weapon. It doesn’t get much worse than this. I dream of leaving here, driving back to my hometown, to my little apartment, locking us both in, closing all the blinds and curtains and ignoring the rest of the world.
‘I’m going to change him and give him some more medicine. Just so you know.’ My voice is remarkably steady, belying my inner terror and fury.
More incoherent mumbling from him.
‘His things are in the bedroom. I need to go in there to get them.’ It’s hard to keep my emotions in check, to contain them and not tell him exactly what I think of his bullying tactics and disgusting behaviour. A baby. He held a gun to a tiny baby. If I could snatch that weapon out of his hands, put it to his temple and pull the trigger, I would gladly do it.
‘I’ll come with you.’
He stands and follows me into the bedroom, his gaze roaming over the mattress on the floor and the piles of clothes everywhere.
Gabriel’s crying doesn’t stop when I lay him down on the unmade bed. If anything, it heightens, his body stiffening, his small fists clenching together. I scramble around for a clean nappy, a dry vest, and some fresh clothes. My fingers are stiff and unyielding when I attempt to take off his outfit. He is damp, each layer of clothing sticking to his small, hot body. I can feel Jason’s presence behind me, his impatience and growing fury a tangible entity in the room. I manage to remove Gabriel’s undergarments and put a clean nappy on him, and am just in the process of putting him in a different set of clothes when his colour changes from pale pink to a deep shade of crimson. His head tips back and his torse becomes as rigid as stone. I watch, horrified, as my grandson’s eyes roll back in his head and foam gathers at each corner of his tiny little mouth. I begin to cry, my sobs mingling and merging with Gabriel’s screams. I pick him up and spin around to glare at the gun-wielding man behind me.
‘I need a fucking doctor and I need one now! If you don’t let me call one, this child is going to die and it will be your fault. You might be able to cope with having a dead baby on your conscience but I certainly can’t. Now put that stupid bloody gun away and call an ambulance because if you don’t, I swear to God, I will rip that weapon out of your hands and blow your fucking brains out!’
