Philip Brennan 01 - The Surrogate

by Carver, Tania

  In the dark?

  She blinked. Unaware of how long she had been standing there. She must have blacked out again. ‘It . . . wasn’t dark when I started lookin’ at it.’

  Her husband grunted. You made my dinner?

  ‘It’s . . .’ She looked again at the baby. It wasn’t moving, its breathing shallow. But it was peaceful.

  Well?

  She looked at the kitchen area. ‘I’ll get it for you.’

  Disorientated from her blackout, she pulled the blanket up to the baby’s chin, being careful not to wake it, and ignited the Calor Gas heater. Then she switched on the light over the baby’s head. She had rigged up one of the electrician’s work lamps at the side of the cot, clamping it to the bedhead so she could see the baby from wherever she was in the house. The lamp threw down hard light and heat. It illuminated the baby all right, but she could also see the condensation on the bare brick and stone, glistening and running above the heater. The house would soon be warm enough, she thought. The baby was wrapped well enough.

  She must have been staring at the still baby for a long time. She did that sometimes, stood still, not moving from the spot she was in. Losing all track of time. This time she hadn’t noticed the day slip away, to be replaced by night. And she hadn’t heard her husband enter. But that wasn’t so strange. Usually she just heard him as a voice in her head, a presence, and she knew straight away that he was there.

  She looked at the baby one more time and, satisfied that it was all right, crossed over to the kitchen area. Her husband had built it for her. He had put up plasterboard walls to divide it from the open space, built shelves and cupboards from what he had salvaged on his travels. He had even painted the bare stone and brick walls in the kitchen area white. She liked that. Thought it made the place look more homely. And that was important, now they were a proper family.

  She stood in the kitchen area. She hadn’t prepared anything. She looked round to see what she could make quickly. There were two skinned rabbits on the counter top, some root vegetables in a basket. That would do.

  ‘How . . . how about rabbit stew?’ she said, closing her eyes, hoping her husband wouldn’t see her lack of preparation.

  He grunted again. I’m hungry. Now. Whatever you do, you’d better make it quick.

  She nodded and, as fast as she could, lit the stove, put on a pan of water to heat up. She looked round. The baby was lying still in the cot, making no sound. Good. Knowing no harm could come to it, she made their evening meal.

  Later, after she and her husband had eaten and she had washed up and cleared away, she returned to the baby. She couldn’t keep away. She had been getting up and checking on it all through dinner. She had heard her husband give a few exasperated growls, but he had said nothing. She had smiled inwardly at that. Perhaps he was an understanding man after all.

  While she was staring at the baby, her husband slipped away again, leaving her alone with the infant once more.

  It hadn’t wailed for ages. Once she had changed and fed it, it had kept quiet, slipping into what she thought was sleep as she rocked it in her arms. She remembered, before she blacked out, studying it as it lay breathing shallowly but raggedly in her arms, its eyelids just about closed, leaving only a sliver of milky white showing through as its eyeballs rolled into the back of its sockets. It was so small, so helpless. She could have done anything to it. Cuddled it, kept it warm, squeezed it tight. Or put her fingers round its throat, choked the air out of its tiny, frail body. Anything. She felt a rush of adrenalin as that realisation sped through her. She had the power of life and death. She could play God.

  Power. For the first time in her life. She had smiled at the thought. No wonder people went to such lengths to have babies.

  Hester looked down at it now, deliberating what to do. She wanted to pick it up. After all, that was what mothers did. But it looked so peaceful lying there, hardly moving, hardly breathing.

  That was when she thought something might be wrong.

  She leaned in closer, angled the lamp over to see it better. The pink blotches on its face seemed to be lessening in number. Its skin now had a blue tinge all over and the yellow was increasing. Hester didn’t think that was right. It most definitely wasn’t what they looked like on TV. Something was wrong.

  ‘Oh God, oh God . . .’

  She looked round, panic welling inside her, willing her husband to turn up, but he was nowhere to be seen. She would have to cope on her own.

  ‘Oh God . . . oh God . . .’

  What to do, what to do . . . She looked down at the sleeping child. She couldn’t take it to the doctor, she knew that. She hated doctors, had had a bad time with them all her life. So what, then? Did it need feeding? She checked her watch. No. Changing? She couldn’t smell anything. Should she pick it up? Yes. That seemed like a good idea. Then what? Hold it. Why? Because that was what mothers did, she reminded herself. Because doing that would make it better.

  She reached down, picked the still infant from the cot. She stroked its cheek. It felt cold to the touch, its skin clammy. Just like stroking the walls behind it.

  She held it to her. Warmth. That was what it needed. She got into bed, holding the baby to her chest. Eventually her arms began to cramp up from keeping them in the same position for so long, so she put the baby back in its cot with an extra blanket on top of it. The tin cot was right beside her bed. She lay on her side, looking at the baby.

  And that was how she lay well into the night. Staring at the baby, keeping vigil for signs of a worsening condition. Trying to keep awake but dropping off occasionally. At some point during the night, she woke to find her husband was back.

  ‘The baby’s not well,’ she said.

  He grunted. So?

  She looked at the baby once again. For the first time she voiced the fear and doubt that had built within her. ‘I don’t . . . I don’t think it’s goin’ to get better. Not on its own.’

  It’ll have to, her husband said.

  ‘Can’t we just . . .’

  No.We can’t. Don’t be fuckin’ stupid, woman.

  She nodded. She knew that.

  You’ll just have to hope it gets better on its own.

  ‘Right.’

  If it lasts the night, it’ll be all right.

  ‘What if it doesn’t?’

  Then it doesn’t. Go to sleep.You’ve still got jobs to do in the mornin’. Baby or no baby.

  And he was gone again.

  She took his advice, tried to get some sleep, but couldn’t. Instead she lay there, watching the baby. At some point she plucked it from the cot, held it to her. She could feel something happening inside herself and she didn’t know what it was. An unfamiliar feeling, like it was tearing a hole in her. She didn’t like the feeling but she wouldn’t have wanted to be without it somehow. Not now.

  So she held the baby. Waited for morning.

  28

  Caroline Eades couldn’t sleep. Her husband, lying on his back, mouth open and snoring like an angry lion growling, had no such problem.

  She just couldn’t get comfortable. Every time she did, moving her body around to a position that could accommodate her stomach and the rest of her, somewhere the baby wasn’t lying on anything that would cause her discomfort, it would kick, or stretch, or shift about, and she was back to square one again.

  But she didn’t think it was the baby’s fault. Not entirely. Graeme had come in after nine o’clock, put his briefcase down and announced he was going for a shower. He didn’t want any dinner, which was a good thing, since the M&S lamb shank was ruined by then; said he had eaten on the way home. Then, following his shower, he had downed a can of lager and gone to bed. He didn’t ask how she was, how her day had been, nothing. He barely acknowledged the children, who were putting themselves to bed. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought he was having an affair.

  He had been her childhood sweetheart. Proper Romeo and Juliet stuff. At least she’d thought so until she read
the play and saw what happened to them. She vowed that would never happen to Graeme and her. She would make it work, whatever. Give them a happy ending.

  And she had. In the early days, when he was building up his business, she had put her career plans aside, been there to help him. In fact, the majority of the work involved in drawing up the business plans was down to her. But falling pregnant had stopped all that. Then she’d become a stay-at-home mum, let Graeme go out to work. His business had prospered, selling his recruitment agency to a national company while still being allowed to run the local arm. This had led to the new house, the two big cars, the private schools.

  And now the new baby.

  Unplanned but welcomed, at least by Caroline. Because if she was honest - and lying in the dark awake when the rest of the world was asleep was the time for honesty - she had nothing else. No friends since the move, apart from the other young mothers. Her two kids treated her as their personal servant. Her husband ignored her. So yes, this baby was welcome.

  She looked at Graeme again. The man she had given all her dreams and wishes to. Her heart and soul. Her one-time Romeo, now snoring and drooling from the side of his mouth.

  He had better not be having an affair. That would mean the baby was all she had to look forward to. Please, let him not be . . .

  The baby kicked again. She shifted, tried to get comfortable.

  Sighed. It was going to be one of those nights.

  29

  Phil sat on the sofa in his living room, took a mouthful of beer. Held it in his mouth, rolled it round, swallowed. Head back, eyes closed. The remains of an Indian takeaway on the coffee table in front of him, Elbow playing on the stereo, ‘The Loneliness of a Tower Crane Driver’. He sighed, listening to the song, Guy Garvey singing about there being a long way to fall.

  He had come in from work thinking about the case, particularly Fenwick’s behaviour. But a quick weights session on his home gym had worked that out of his mind. Now, when he should have been formulating approaches, strategies for tomorrow, he found himself thinking of Marina. Only Marina.

  When she had walked out of his life she had broken his heart and he had been bereft. And the way she had done it, cutting him out completely, after all they had meant to each other. No phone call, text, email, nothing. Like he was dead to her.

  His bursting emotions had gone through several recognisable stages. Firstly incomprehension at her actions. A creeping guilt that she blamed him for Martin Fletcher. Then anger when she wouldn’t allow him to explain why he was innocent of her imagined charge. That anger upped to rage as he tried to hate her out of his system, telling himself she was no good for him and failing massively. Finally a numb emptiness as he realised he would be facing the rest of his life without her. All the while playing and replaying conversations with her, inventing and imagining new ones that they might possibly share, different scenarios and possible outcomes.

  His reverie was cut short by the phone ringing.

  He jumped to answer it, thinking at first that it might be Marina, but then in a more professional frame of mind realising it might be someone from the station with an update about the case. Or even another murder.

  God, don’t make it that. Please don’t make it that . . .

  It was neither.

  ‘Hello, son.’

  Phil relaxed. It was Eileen Brennan. The nearest thing he had to a mother.

  ‘Hi, Eileen.’ He flicked the remote, muted the sound. ‘All right?’

  ‘Very well, Phil. And Don sends his love too.’

  Phil had forgotten. He always made a Wednesday-night call to Eileen. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was going to call you.’

  ‘It’s all right. Doesn’t matter.’ She sighed. ‘We saw the news. Those girls . . . terrible. I said to Don, that’ll be our Phil working on that.’

  Phil heard the pride in her voice. Smiled. ‘Yeah, that’s me.’

  ‘And that’s why you had to stand poor Lynn Lawrence’s daughter up.’

  ‘Oh, please . . .’

  ‘Couldn’t you even have met her later? Gone for something to eat?’

  ‘I don’t think I’d have been much company.’

  ‘I know, Phil.’ She sighed. ‘Terrible. We live in a terrible world.’

  ‘Not all of it,’ said Phil.

  ‘Don wants to know all about it. I said you couldn’t tell him. He knows that but it doesn’t stop him asking. So how’s . . .’

  And she was off. Phil relaxed, took another couple of mouthfuls of beer while he talked to her. Hearing Eileen’s tales of friends he barely knew and Don’s troubles with how to work their new DVD recorder was just what he needed to hear after the day he had had. It told him that, contrary to what Eileen might have said, the world wasn’t the terrible place he saw all too frequently, but a place where people went about their normal, everyday lives. He heard some of his colleagues talk about parents and responsibilities as if it was something boring that they hated doing. Not Phil. He loved these phone calls with Eileen.

  She was coming to the end now, building up to her familiar sign-off. ‘I wish you could meet a nice girl, Phil. Settle down.You deserve someone nice. Someone to give you a bit of happiness.’

  He responded in kind. ‘I know, Eileen. But I never get the chance, do I? Never meet any women through work.’ Only dead ones, he thought, but thankfully didn’t add.

  ‘Well, I did try. But you’re a grown man, you can look after yourself. Anyway, Don wants to know if you’re still coming over on Sunday. I think he just wants someone to go to the pub with and watch the football. Don’t know why he wants to do that, either. We’ve got Sky here.’

  Phil could imagine her sitting in the armchair of their big detached 1950s house in Mile End, just beside the mainline station. Mock Tudor, beamed inside and out. Tastefully decorated, torn apart by generations of foster children and lovingly repaired again. He loved that house. A noisy and energetic environment but also a warm, comforting one. It seemed empty now since they had both retired from foster care and there was just the two of them. But Phil still loved visiting. It made his Sundays special.

  ‘I’m still coming. And I’m looking forward to it.’

  They said their goodbyes, Eileen rang off and Phil was alone once more.

  He sighed. Her words had hit a nerve. He looked around the living room of his own home. It was well furnished, with books on shelves, CDs and DVDs. Prints on the walls. It told of an interesting life. A full one. He was happy with his own company. He had been on his own for most of his life. But sometimes, he thought, sometimes he would enjoy having someone to share it with. Someone to come home to.

  He laughed out loud at how self-pitying he sounded.

  ‘Maybe I’ll get a dog,’ he said, to no one in particular.

  He took another mouthful of beer, pointed the remote at the stereo. Elbow started playing again and his mind was immediately cast back to Marina. He had been listening to the album when they first got together. Each track reminded him of some aspect of her, but one in particular stood out. He knew that was coming soon, looked forward to it with both longing and trepidation, knew it would bring back memories he found almost too powerful to cope with, but memories that he wanted to be reminded of nonetheless.

  They had met through work. The Gemma Hardy case. And the attraction had been instantaneous. He had looked up from his desk that day as Fenwick had escorted her across the office and done a double-take that verged on the comedic. She was so beautiful. In an office full of hard-bitten, badly dressed, sweating, cynical police officers, even more so. It looked like she had arrived from another planet, a more cultured and enlightened place. He couldn’t help but stare.

  He vividly remembered their first meeting at the briefing, even down to what she was wearing. He recalled it now. A black velvet dress that accentuated her trim figure and flared out around her legs, plus high-heeled knee-length black leather boots that made her appear taller than she actually was. Thick black curly hair, pus
hed back at one side, held in place with a glittering hair slide that matched her necklace and earrings. Round, expressive hazel eyes. Full red lips. His first thought: he had never seen a woman that looked so perfect.

  And his second: don’t even think it - she’s way out of your league.

  But she’d soon proved him wrong.

  They had been teamed up together in the case, her psychological expertise matching his experience as a detective. They had been left alone to work. At first he found it difficult to speak to her. When he tried to discuss the case he would catch her eye fleetingly, because he couldn’t hold it too long, and find her smiling at him, those beautiful hazel eyes wide and shining. It was unnerving; he felt she was teasing him. The educated university lecturer laughing at the poor, plodding copper. He tried to ignore it, not let it get to him, just concentrate on finding the girl’s stalker.