Don't Say a Word

by A. L. Bird

  ‘OK, but I really think –’

  ‘Of course, of course, it’s up to you. Just think about it, OK? Keep your options open.’

  ‘Thanks, Tim. I appreciate it.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I don’t want us getting off on the wrong foot, you know. I’m looking forward to having your input on this case. We’ll catch up when I’ve spoken to Rhea again. And we can use that murky past of yours, yes?’

  I feel a chill again. I laugh. He laughs back.

  ‘Good, you see – we can laugh about it now. I’m such a chump. Always misjudge situations. Look, I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good evening.’

  ‘Thanks, Tim. I’ll type up my notes of the con tomorrow.’

  ‘Good stuff. Say hello to the little one for me.’

  And so we part.

  I haven’t had enough vodka to feel a warm fondness for him. But I am grateful. Again. There was a glow with Dan. If I had a child minder – or even a babysitter – I could have stayed there a little while. And if he does call me (about me, not about the case) I could do something other than lunch or an invitation to read a bedtime story to a ten-year-old. So yes, I’ll think about it.

  Back at the office, I put the Rhea Stevens file in the boot of my car. On a whim, I flick again to her photo. I stroke it with one finger. ‘We’ll help you,’ I say.

  Tim, Dan, and I. We’ll make a good team. I know we will.

  Chapter 9

  That night, after Josh is in bed, I’m just dimming the lights and putting my feet up on the sofa when my mobile phone glows. You know, my proper mobile (not the one under the bed). A call in.

  Oh. It’s that number.

  I hate these calls. Like a pointless routine doctor’s appointment – a waste of everyone’s time.

  I’d better answer, though.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, my voice hushed. Josh wouldn’t go to sleep until we’d read about a million chapters of The BFG together. The last thing I want is to wake him. I’ll need matchsticks under my eyes tomorrow as it is.

  ‘Ms Sutton?’ It’s the woman this time – Sarah.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Hi, Ms Sutton, it’s –’

  ‘I know who you are.’

  A pause.

  I can hear her think ‘Rude ungrateful bitch’ then regather her professionalism.

  ‘Well, Ms Sutton, I’m just checking in, to see everything’s OK.’

  ‘All fine,’ I say.

  I don’t tell her about the shop windows, the notes on dashboards, the strange comments today at work.

  ‘Just the odd bit of paranoia,’ I say. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary.’

  ‘Do you need another medical referral?’ she asks.

  ‘No,’ I tell her. ‘I don’t.’

  That’s how they coped with me in the first two years. Doped me up on Valium and Seroxat and God knows what else. Sang the old lullabies to get myself through, never mind the baby. Hush little baby, don’t say a word, Papa’s gonna buy … a hitman to come and kill us if he or his housemates ever find us. Postnatal depression my arse. Justified fear for your own life and the life of your child. Horrified at what desperation had driven me to – the fear not just of Mick, but also of having no future to offer my little baby. Hunched on the sofa, terrified that Chloe would turn up.

  But do you know what? I fucking missed Chloe. I missed her every day. Even though the thought of her surfacing again, some time, scared the shit out of me. That’s what happens when you’re ripped away from someone, even when it’s for your own good. And Mum. Of course I missed Mum. After everything, I just wanted a hug from her.

  ‘Well, if there’s anything you do need, or if you think there’s anything unusual, let me know, won’t you?’ says Sarah.

  ‘I’m thinking of getting a child minder,’ I tell her.

  A bit of a pause. Consulting the manual, maybe?

  ‘Right,’ she says. ‘Well, we can arrange that for you. Obviously, you can’t be placing any advertisements. You won’t get extra funding, I’m afraid.’

  Of course. The deal didn’t come with ‘You can live your life’, just ‘You can live.’

  ‘I’ve got a recommendation from a colleague,’ I say. I don’t want some State-endorsed child minder in six months’ time. I want an easy route, a known person, soon.

  ‘We’ll have to vet them on the security files. You’ve still got the address haven’t you, to send information through? We’ll need their full details and –’

  ‘Forget it,’ I say. ‘It was just a thought.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m sure,’ I lie, crossing my fingers. I’ll rely on my own security vetting when I meet the child minder – my gut. After all, no one here in Luton would connect me with Chloe. Anyone who would want revenge for what she did is safely locked away in another part of the country. For the first time in my life, I’m safe, and so is Josh. We can get a fucking child minder.

  ‘Well, if you change your mind, Ms Sutton, please let me know. Better safe than sorry.’

  ‘Of course. Is there anything else?’

  ‘No, not at the present time, Ms Sutton. We’ll keep you posted if there are any developments.’

  The same sign-off to every call. What developments would there be?

  Well, obviously, one. But I don’t need to worry about that yet. Not for a good five years or so.

  She rings off and I’m alone again.

  Except not. The phone glows again. What, new developments already?

  No.

  Unknown number.

  Is the woman calling me on a different line?

  I accept the call, and let the caller do the talking.

  ‘Hey,’ says a voice.

  Dan!

  ‘Hey,’ I say back.

  ‘So Tim is busy preparing his opening line to use on Rhea,’ Dan jokes.

  ‘Oh God, don’t,’ I respond, groaning. ‘If that’s him trying to build trust, imagine him trying to ask someone out.’

  ‘“You like to drink, don’t you – let’s mutually assess whether you’re an alcoholic at The King’s Head at 7.”’

  ‘“I hear you think you can dance. You can’t. I’ll train you if you come to Flame at 8 on Sunday.”’

  ‘Oh, come on, Jen, even Tim would know better than to ask a girl to a gay nightclub!’

  ‘He probably just thinks it’s the pretty rainbow-coloured bar outside the Magistrate’s Court.’

  ‘You don’t get to be a criminal litigator by being totally naïve,’ Dan tells me.

  ‘Ah, so you’ve been in Flame, then,’

  ‘I reserve my rights to have been there. Great night out, I hear.’

  ‘Hmm. So come on, you’ve dissed Tim’s opening lines, let’s have your best cringeworthy one.’

  ‘Are you asking me to ask you out, Jen Sutton?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Then how about a drink on Friday evening?’

  ‘That’s not cringeworthy, Dan. What a let-down.’

  ‘I’ll wear a rose between my teeth. Better?’

  ‘It’ll do.’ I laugh.

  Then the real world hits. ‘Listen, I don’t know, Dan, I’ve got the little one; it’s difficult.’

  There’s a slight pause. Shit, I think. Blown it again.

  When Dan speaks he is sheepish. ‘Actually, Tim, um, told me he was giving you the contact details for a child minder. I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.’

  Ah, so Tim is now running a dating agency.

  ‘Yes, but I can’t arrange a child minder by Friday. I don’t even know how I’d go about it.’

  ‘You interview them, I guess.’

  ‘I guess,’ I say. This is when a girl needs her mum. Or school-gate mum friends. Or friends.

  Shit, I’ve been lazy over the last decade. Lazy or scared. Couldn’t find it within myself to return nods or hellos that could have led to friendship. You put down roots, rig
ht, when you move? Chloe would’ve. She’d be the most popular girl in the town. I can see her now, up in Donnie, being the life and soul. Or maybe that’s just a favourable image. Distance makes the heart grow fonder. Maybe she was sat in a corner, her eyes narrow, drink in hand, watching it all unfold, waiting to strike. Waiting to fuck everyone up.

  Dan again: ‘Look, if it’s too much bother –’

  ‘It’s not too much bother, I just don’t know if I can get a child minder set up before Friday. I’ve never left Josh with anyone before. I have to be sure.’

  ‘I know. I was going to say: if it’s too much bother sorting out childcare, I’ll just come over to yours with some wine and Ribena. Or just Ribena.’

  ‘Oh, you know how to treat a girl! All that money you’re earning on Rhea Stevens?’

  A pause. Have I offended him?

  ‘Actually, I’m doing the Rhea case pretty much pro bono.’

  ‘What? You’re doing it for free? How come?’

  ‘Goodness of my heart?’

  ‘But I don’t understand. Why aren’t you using Legal Aid – surely the firm is?’

  ‘Tim talked me into it,’ Dan tells me. ‘Joking aside, he can be pretty persuasive.’

  ‘Jesus. But it must take up your time. How can you afford it?’

  ‘By offering women Ribena,’ Dan counters. ‘Come on, how about it – if you have childcare we’ll go out, otherwise I’ll come to you.’

  ‘It’s a date.’

  ‘Finally.’

  We both take a beat. Yes, finally.

  ‘OK, well I’ll see you then,’ I say. ‘Text me your mobile number; this one’s blocked.’

  ‘Will do,’ he says. ‘Just let me know what works for you.’

  ‘Great,’ I tell him.

  We end the call.

  Wow. So. A date. Have I ever even been on a bona fide date?

  Mick didn’t count.

  Mick picked me up from the trash.

  Literally.

  And I don’t count the ensuing cup of tea in the caff as a date. I certainly hadn’t shaved my legs.

  But before that, I need to look into childcare. I’d rather not have to introduce Dan and Josh just yet. They do that later on, in the films, those yoga-fit airbrushed mums (yes, I’ve seen the Hollywood version of my life. Doesn’t it all just turn up roses?). Date five or something, you go to a picnic by a lake and everyone falls in and it’s really funny. You’re not meant to introduce your kids to every man you meet or they’re weighing them up as a potential dad. Which is particularly unfair when your kid doesn’t know his real dad. Thinks he’s dead.

  I pull out my blackberry. I’m about to message Tim about the child minder details. But I see they’re already there.

  Chapter 10

  The child minder comes to the law firm offices on Thursday lunchtime. It is Tim’s suggestion. I’d been shilly-shallying about inviting her to my home, with Josh there.

  ‘Look, just make the best misuse of the office space,’ he tells me. ‘Everyone else does.’

  I don’t know what he means; I haven’t heard any tales of late-night shagging on the photocopier, or skinny-dipping in the kitchen sink. But maybe they all think I’m too innocent to share that stuff with. Tim is corrupting me now though. Tim and Dan combined.

  ‘Ah, Louise!’ Tim greets the potential child minder with the warm grace of an old friend. ‘Come in, make yourself at home. Tea? Coffee? Jen, get yourself something too.’

  The woman who may look after my child is helped to a coffee. Two sugars. They match her comfy waistline. A mum-like figure. Does that make her more trustworthy? Mums can be bad people too.

  I choose a still water and sit down.

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you two ladies to it,’ Tim says. ‘Jen – I’m off to interview our friend. Got some good lines worked out!’

  I think back to the joshing with Dan about lines Tim would use to ask someone out. How I ended up being asked out, and in this interview scenario in the first place. None of it seems very funny now – our poor client facing Tim’s crass questions, the would-be child minder facing my inexperienced ones. I should just have let my minders vet someone and have done with it.

  Tim closes the door, leaving Louise and I alone.

  ‘So,’ I say.

  ‘So,’ she says, beaming at me.

  ‘I haven’t done this before,’ I tell her.

  The moment reminds me of when Chloe first arrived at the children’s home. A tough face, chin jutted up. But behind that, I’m sure there was the same vulnerability I feel now; the alarming sense of newness, not wanting to be mocked.

  This woman isn’t mocking, just disbelieving. You can see it in the arch of the eyebrow, which she may think is hidden behind the sip from the coffee cup.

  ‘Don’t worry, love. We’ll go slow.’

  I try out a laugh. I can do this. I can be a woman who laughs with her child minder at clichéd innuendo over their child’s head.

  Yes, Josh. This is about Josh. Not me.

  ‘So, what qualifies you to look after my son?’ I ask her.

  This time it’s Louise’s turn to laugh. ‘You don’t take it slow then!’

  ‘I’ve only got twenty minutes. And I’ve only got one son.’

  Louise nods. ‘Fair enough. Well, I’ve been looking after kiddies for the best part of twenty years.’

  ‘My son is ten.’

  ‘So you’ve half the experience I have,’ she says. I think it’s a joke, but it sounds like a challenge.

  ‘What I mean is, my son is ten. He isn’t a kiddy. How would you entertain him? How would you get him to sleep? He’s used to me.’

  ‘Love, as you said, he’s not a kiddy. He can get himself to sleep. Besides, he’ll be used to a babysitter, or your mum.’

  I shake my head. ‘Just me.’

  Another raised eyebrow, another sip of the coffee. ‘He likes Lego, doesn’t he?’ she asks.

  I stiffen. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He’s ten,’ she says. ‘I bet he has a Lego bedspread, doesn’t he?’

  I nod agreement. Is this the twenty years’ experience talking? Or something else? Like a webcam on my son’s ceiling?

  ‘What are you like on security?’ I ask her.

  ‘As in …?’

  I don’t know what I mean either. I can’t ask, ‘Will you steal my son, or hurt him, or hand him over to the bad guys’? So instead, I say, ‘Oh, you know, keys and things. Keeping the doors locked. Not letting them talk to strangers.’

  ‘I’ve not lost a child under my care yet, Ms Sutton.’

  I don’t like the yet.

  In fact I don’t like this at all. Can’t Dan just bring round a bottle of wine every Friday, and my bosses respect my working arrangements?

  I change tack.

  ‘So, tell me about yourself generally, Louise.’

  She shrugs. ‘Born and bred Luton. Oldest of four. Five if you count the one who didn’t make it. My mum always worked. I bounced them up, got a taste for it, nothing else, got my childcare diploma along with maths and English. Bob’s your uncle, Louise your maiden aunt.’

  ‘You’re not married?’ I ask her.

  ‘Are you?’ she retorts.

  I ignore the question. ‘No kids of your own then?’ I ask her.

  She shakes her head. ‘Can’t,’ she says. One word, leaves it at that.

  Ridiculous, a woman who has a child paying a woman who can’t have her own to look after him. Or maybe not ridiculous. Maybe a weird kind of social justice.

  ‘You could adopt,’ I tell her. ‘Or foster.’ Because there’s more than one kind of social injustice.

  ‘I do emergency foster care sometimes,’ she says. ‘Twenty-four hours, little kids there’s no other place for.’

  I nod. I’ve been there. Kind, well-meaning women. Hard as nails.

  ‘But it doesn’t pay the rent,’ she says.

  As I sa
id. Hard as nails.

  I continue asking her questions but it’s pointless now. She’s got the gig. If she can deal with kids who turn up on one hour’s notice on a Friday night because they have no other hope – literally, no other hope, unless you call sleeping rough a hope in which case you’re a moron – then she can deal with Josh. Good, stable, biddable Josh. You would never call him a ‘handful’.

  ‘What about your last family?’ I ask her.

  ‘Security,’ she says. ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  Touché.

  But she carries on. ‘I’m messing with you. It was a little girl. Daughter of a friend of Tim’s friend. They go way back.’

  ‘And why did they ask you to leave?’

  ‘They wanted an au pair so the girl could learn French.’ She looks at me a second, smiles. ‘Different class, right?’

  I smile back. She’s judged me correctly. ‘Right.’ Then my smile fades. ‘If that was your last job, your expectations must be …’ I trail off. I work in a law firm but I’m not rich, I want to say. I literally make the coffee.

  ‘It’s about need,’ she says. ‘I go where there’s a need. Regular Mary Poppins. Sure, I’ve got to pay the rent, but there’s a balance, right? And Tim said you were in need.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, but …’

  ‘Look, don’t overthink it. To be honest, with a ten-year-old, if it’s just pick up through till supper a few days a week it’s not my main income. I can work other jobs during the day, at the weekend. Keep my head above water, but not drown in commitments.’

  She’s right, of course. Good, sound advice, like your mum would give. I guess. We agree on a trial session this Friday evening. Then if all goes well, and Josh likes her (and she likes him) I can take her on properly, three afternoons a week.

  As we’re saying goodbye, I ponder that saying – if it seems to good to be true, it probably is.

  But what’s that other saying? Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth?

  How is it that I am calling ‘a gift horse’ the ability to sign over care of my son to a stranger on the cheap?

  Because I might finally have a chance to be my own self again. Not my old own self. A different one, a new one. One who still has Josh. But who also goes on dates. Who can leave her flat. And who doesn’t have to keep looking over her shoulder. Because this child minder seems good. She seems sound. And most of all, she seems safe.