Best British Crime 6 - [Anthology]

by Edited by Maxim Jakubowski

  I’m not aloud ‘cos there might be Bad Men, waiting to pounce. But I can be quiet as a whisper. I’ve had lots of practice, ‘cos Mummy needs me to be quiet when she has a headache. My mummy is sick and she gets headaches a lot.

  Like a steel band around my head! Like someone’s hammering nails in my skull!

  Steel bands make a lot of noise—I know ‘cos they had one at the harvest festival and they’re VERY aloud, so no wonder they give you a headache.

  The path is glittery and some of the twigs and stones are white, like a tiny bit of snow is on them. I hear a noise. It might be a lion or a wolf or a Bad Man. But if I tiptoe very softly and don’t look, it’ll be okay. Only I don’t feel okay, ‘cos my heart feels very big and it’s bashing my chest so hard I can see it through my jacket. I’m wearing my new one that I got for Christmas, with the fur trim, so I really hope it isn’t a wolf, in case he thinks I’m a nice juicy deer to eat.

  I look in front and behind and on the left and on the right, but there’s nobody, ‘cos me and Trina was already late and all the kids are in school and all the mummies and daddies are at home or in work. I cross my fingers and hold my breath and walk very quiet and pray to God that the wolf won’t eat me.

  The sound comes again, and I jump. It doesn’t sound like a wolf, it sounds like a cat’s miaow. What if a kitten has got lost and can’t find her mummy? I take a big deep breath and hold it again, only this time, it’s so I can listen. There it is!

  The miaow is coming from under a bush quite near the end of the path where there’s a gate onto the street, so maybe the kitten just wandered off.

  “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.” The kitten doesn’t come out, so I kneel next to the bush. It isn’t very muddy and I don’t get dirty at all, because anyway it’s all frozen. “Here, kitty.”

  It’s all wrapped up in a yellow blanket. The blanket moves and I’m a bit scared in case the kitten scratches me. But there’s nobody else to rescue it, so I take one corner, where the silky bit is, and lift it very carefully.

  “Oh!” It isn’t a kitten at all—it’s a baby. I look around, but there’s no mummies about who might have dropped it—and anyway, you don’t just drop a baby and not know about it. Then I remember Mummy said when you have a baby you have to go out and find him. And the most popular place is under a bush.

  It’s my baby ... For a minute, I just kneel there, smiling because I’m so happy. Its cheeks are pink, but its lips are a funny colour. It isn’t miaowing, it’s crying, but very softly. Maybe that’s ‘cos it’s not aloud, like I’m not aloud when Mummy’s feeling Bad, Or you’ll get a SMACK and locked in your room, my girl!

  “Miaow,” it goes.

  I pick it up. It’s bigger than my Baby Suzy doll, and much heavier. Heavy and squirmy, but I’m quite strong for my age, and once you get the hang of it, babies are easy. I go the back way, so nobody sees me. The baby gets warmer from the exercise and doesn’t look so funny anymore. Its lips are normal lip colour, and it just stares at me, like it knows I’m its mummy.

  I take it to the shed and cuddle it for a bit. If Mummy looks out, she won’t see me, ‘cos I’m too far away at the bottom of the garden and Trina won’t tell them I ran away, ‘cos if she does I’ll tell them she was going to snap my fingers off and she’ll be in Big Trouble.

  There’s three reasons why a baby cries: if it’s hungry, if it’s sick, or if its nappy needs changing. —Oh, and if it’s tired, but mostly they just go to sleep if they’re tired.

  My baby needed its nappy changed. I have to find a clean nappy, which is easy, ‘cos my mummy put all the baby things in the shed after she lost her baby. I don’t mind changing its nappy, ‘cos I can hold my breath for ages and anyway, Mummy showed me how to change Joseph’s nappy, before he got lost. My baby’s a boy as well—I would have liked a girl better, but a boy is almost as good.

  The nappy’s cold and the baby cries a bit until I put a vest on him, and a fluffy suit that has feet in it like little bootees, and a hood so he’s warm and toasty.

  “Hush little baby, don’t say a word, Papa’s gonna buy you a mock-in bird.”

  My daddy used to sing that to me when he lived with us. He doesn’t live in my house anymore—he lives in an apartment, because Mummy and Daddy need some time apart. When Daddy comes, they don’t look at each other, like they’re not friends anymore. Mummy always cries when he’s gone, though, so I know she wants to be friends again.

  And now the baby’s crying again—not miaowing anymore—he goes “Wah!” quite loud. I think he must be hungry. Babies drink special milk, only out of a tin, instead of a bottle. You’ve got to mix it up with hot water and put it in a bottle with a teat on it. I tried it once, before Joseph got lost, and it’s disgusting, but babies like it. There’s some in the baby box, only I’m frightened of going inside the house for the hot water, ‘cos Mummy’s having a Bad Day, and I’m not supposed to be home yet.

  “Shush, Baby. You’ll just have to wait.” But he won’t wait. He goes “WAH!” even louder.

  If my baby was like the Baby Jesus, he wouldn’t cry. For a minute, I think what if it is the Baby Jesus, ‘cos it’s Christmas, and the Wise Men are supposed to come today, and I found him all on his own, like a miracle.

  But Mummy says all babies are miracles, and anyway, there wasn’t any Star of Bethlehem, with it being in the daytime, and there wasn’t any shepherds as well. Also, the Baby Jesus was born in a manger, which is like a stable, only with cows and sheep, and my baby was under a bush, like a normal baby.

  “Wa-aah!” And Baby Jesus was a good baby.

  “Now, you’re just being naughty!”

  It makes no difference, he goes, “Wah! Wa-aah!” until I’m fed up of it and take the milk stuff and close the shed door, so no one will hear. The kids next-door have got a swing, but there’s nobody on it, so it mustn’t be lunchtime yet. They always come home for lunch and they always get to play on the swing. It isn’t fair. But today it’s covered in frost, so they mustn’t be home yet, and I look up into the sky and cross my fingers and make a prayer there’s enough in the clouds to make it snow.

  The back door is open, so Mummy must be in. I leave the door wide, so I can sneak out if I hear her coming downstairs. The tin is open from last time Joseph had some. I put the bottle on the table and take off the lid. You have to put the powder in with a special spoon called a scoop. Then you add boiled water. Mummy won’t let me use the kettle, so I use hot water from the tap, instead. Then I put the lid on and shake and shake and SHAKE!

  Mummy must be asleep, ‘cos she doesn’t hear me. Sometimes, she sleeps all day when she’s Bad. Being Bad isn’t the same as being naughty. Being Bad is when you’re sick and it makes you cry all the time and you don’t want to make a costume for the school play about Baby Jesus. And This isn’t all about you, you know! This whole bloody world doesn’t revolve around you! Miss Irvine said it didn’t matter and gave me an old one from the box under the stage but it smelt of cobwebs and Trina said she didn’t know angels were stinky. Trina’s horrible.

  I’m starving because I didn’t have time for breakfast, and anyway there wasn’t any milk. There’s peanut butter in the cupboard so I push the dirty dishes out of the way and make two sandwiches, with peanut butter on both of them. Then I stick my finger in the jar and have a bit extra, ‘cos nobody’s looking.

  There’s nothing on TV, so I put a DVD on instead and watch Shrek for a bit. I have to cover my mouth so I don’t laugh too loud and wake Mummy up. Daddy says Mummy’s like an ogre when she’s got her angry head on. Only she isn’t funny, like Shrek, and she isn’t green. I don’t like Mummy’s angry head.

  I hear a flump. It’s coming from upstairs, and I think it might be Mummy. I switch off the TV and run to the door. If you open it a tiny tiny bit, you can see out with one eye. The toilet flushes, but Mummy doesn’t come downstairs.

  I know where the floor creaks, so I can get down the hall quieter than a mouse with slippers on. The baby’s bott
le isn’t hot anymore, but maybe it won’t mind. Because it’s my baby, I’m the only one that can give it a name, but the only name that keeps coming into my head is Joseph. I frown and frown like Mummy, to stop it coming back. Maybe that’s why Mummy frowns—to keep her baby’s name out of her head?

  I have to run to the shed and hope Mummy isn’t watching. She isn’t, because I count to fifty and she still doesn’t come. The baby is very, very quiet.

  “Good boy! Look what Mummy’s brought you.” I cuddle it while I give it the bottle. It sucks and sucks and sucks until all the milk is gone, then suddenly, bleurgh! It’s sick everywhere.

  “Naughty boy!” I have to get a wet wipe and clean his face and his fluffy suit, but it still smells of sick and he starts to cry.

  “Wah! Wah!” Looking after babies is HARD.

  Mummy should be glad she doesn’t have to look after Joseph. It’s his own fault if he got lost, ‘cos you should always hold your mummy’s hand if you don’t know how to get back.

  “I’m going to count to five. If you don’t stop crying I’ll give you a SMACK!” Mummy says smacking is a—something—of failure. I forget what. But she hasn’t got Joseph going “Wah! Wa-aah! Wah!” And he won’t stop.

  “Laura?”

  My heart stops. Then it starts again, really fast, like it’s trying to catch up. I cover the baby’s mouth but it’s all wet and snotty and anyway it doesn’t stop.

  “Laura!”

  I come out of the shed and close the door. The baby goes “Wa-aah!” So I run halfway across the lawn. Maybe she won’t hear.

  “Are you home already?” she says.

  “You forgot my dinner money.” This is true, but Mummy looks at me like I’m trying to hide something behind my back. “I had to come home,” I say, which is also true, but not in the same way.

  She blinks, like she’s just woken up. “Come in, you’ll catch your death of cold.”

  “Can’t I play out?” I can hear the baby “Wah! Wa-aah!” but it sounds far away.

  “You haven’t even got your gloves on! Can’t you do the simplest thing?”

  I don’t say anything, ‘cos it just makes her more cross.

  “Did Trina walk you home?”

  I nod, because I always give myself away if I tell a fib.

  She doesn’t say anything for a while, and I’m afraid she’s listening for the baby. But then she turns away from me. “Inside,” she says.

  I want a cup of cocoa with marshmallows, but Mummy goes straight back upstairs. Maybe I can make some using hot water out of the tap. But I can’t find a clean cup and the cocoa is in one of the wall cupboards, but I push a stool over and climb up.

  BANG!

  At first I think Mummy’s fallen over, but then I hear her running down the stairs. Really running. Thud, thud, thud, thud! She pushes the kitchen door so hard it crashes against the wall and the door wobbles and the wall gets a dent in it. I’m so frightened, I just stand on the stool and I can’t move.

  “You bloody little liar!”

  “Mummy...”

  “It’s eleven o’clock in the morning. What the hell are you doing home?” My mouth is dry and my legs are so shaky I can’t even jump down off the stool. “Your clock must’ve stopped,” I say. “It really is—”

  Suddenly, my face is burning. I lose my balance, but she grabs me by the arm and pulls me down. “Ow! Ow, it hurts! Mummy, please, it hurts!”

  “How dare you lie to me—I just heard it on the radio, you wicked, wicked girl!” Whack! Whack! She smacks me as hard as she can on my bum and my legs and my back.

  “Mummy, please!”

  Then she pulls me upstairs and it hurts so much ‘cos she’s twisting my arm, but when I try to tell her she whacks me again.

  “Bloody liar!”

  She throws me onto my bed. There’s toys on it, because I was playing with them before school. I land on them and they dig into my back. “Ow! Mummy!”

  “Look at this pigsty! How can you find anything in this pile of filth? You dirty, dirty girl. No wonder you’ve no friends—you make me ashamed!”

  “Mummy! I’m sorry!” I can hardly talk because I’m crying so hard. “I—Trina hurt my hand. I had to run away ‘cos she was going to break my fingers off!”

  “Stop lying! I’ve had ENOUGH!” She’s screaming so loud I cover my ears, but I can still hear her. “Enough of you. Enough of your lies and your whining, your complaints and demands. You’re never satisfied, are you? ARE you?”

  “Yes, Mummy.”

  She slaps my legs. “Don’t be insolent! What am I going to say to Miss Irvine? That you lied? That you ran away?”

  “Please, Mummy, don’t. Don’t tell Miss Irvine!” I’m sobbing, and Mummy hates that, but I can’t stop. It’s like somebody poured all the sadness in the world into my heart, and my heart is so full it’s spilled into my tummy, and I have to cry or I’ll burst.

  Mummy comes up close. Her eyes aren’t like my mummy’s eyes. They’re hard and glittery and I’m afraid to look. “SHUT UP!” she screams and slaps me across the face again.

  I close my eyes and hold my breath. I hold it and hold it to stop myself from crying, and after a long time, she goes away.

  Mission. Mummy says smacking is a mission of failure.

  * * * *

  When she’s gone I cry for a long time, but very, very quietly—’cos crying’s not aloud. I crawl under the duvet and curl up and pretend I’m a dormouse and I’m going asleep till the winter’s over. I’m awfully tired...

  “Sweetie?”

  I lie still under the duvet. Maybe she won’t notice me. Then I feel her hand on my shoulder, and I make a little sound, which I didn’t mean to make, but I couldn’t help it. “Laura—sweetie—it’s all right. Mummy isn’t cross anymore.” I don’t say anything, in case it’s a trick.

  “Mummy’s very sorry.” I still don’t say anything. “Look, I’ve brought you a surprise.” She lifts the duvet a tiny bit to let the smell in. Scrambled eggs on toast. My favourite.

  I slide out from under the covers, but I don’t sit close to her. I go and sit on my pillows, instead, so I can look at her. She hasn’t got her angry head on anymore. She looks sad and her eyes are red, like she’s been crying.

  “Oh, sweetie!” she leans over and at first I’m afraid, and I duck.

  “Shhh...” she says. She was only going to stroke my head this time. I’m all sweaty, ‘cos I’ve still got my coat on, but Mummy doesn’t shout or be mad at me. “Mummy doesn’t mean to be cross,” she says. And now she’s definitely crying, which makes me want to start all over again.

  “Won’t you have something to eat?” she says. It does smell lovely. She’s brought it up on a tray, like when I’m sick. I feel like telling her no, but I’m so hungry. It’s already nighttime, so I must have fallen asleep.

  I nod, to show I’ll try. It hurts my face, but you don’t have to chew scrambled eggs, and the toast is soggy—the way I like it—so it’s not too bad. She helps me to take my coat off, and looks at my arms and cries again. Then she sits next to me, and I can see that she really isn’t cross anymore and she really is sorry.

  “You can have hot chocolate with extra marshmallows and two chocolate biscuits after,” she says, and kisses me very soft on the forehead, and I love her more than the whole wide world. “I’m sorry, Mummy,” I say, and I can’t help crying. My lips wobble and I feel like I’ve got something stuck in my throat, but I haven’t. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she says. “I shouldn’t have—oh, darling, I didn’t mean it, you know that, don’t you? It’s just, since Joseph...” She never says the next bit. Since Joseph got lost. Since I lost Joseph. Maybe she blames herself for losing him. ‘Cos Uncle Pete says you’ve got to watch kids like a hawk.

  * * * *

  Mummy’s fast asleep. It’s still nighttime, but my watch says it’s only eight o’clock, which isn’t even my bedtime. I tiptoe down the stairs to the kitchen.
I have to go out to the shed, so I’ll need a torch—there’s one under the kitchen sink. I’ve got an idea—see, the baby is mine, ‘cos I found him fair and square. He is big, though. And heavy. And smelly. And he cries all the time. I can hear him (“Wah! Wah!”) very faintly, as I walk across the grass. And Mummy really likes changing nappies and bath time and all that stuff. I could share him a bit—Mummy says nice little girls share their things—and I wouldn’t mind, so long as I get to cuddle him and dress him sometimes. And maybe take him for walks. I haven’t even given him a proper name yet—just “Baby,” so I could call him whatever I like. It’s a good idea, and I giggle when I think what a surprise Mummy will get.

  I open the door and: “WAH! WAH!” Baby will have to stop crying, or he’ll spoil everything.

  “Baby, you HAVE to stop!” I say. But of course he doesn’t. I find a dummy in the baby box, but he spits it out. He smells of sick and dirty nappies. “Baby, please.” But that does no good. I take his dirty clothes off and give him a new nappy and everything, but he STILL won’t stop.