‘Yeah, and you’re too harsh. He says—’ I debated whether it was worth repeating. ‘He says he wants to help.’
She laughed scornfully. ‘And you believed him? God, Jess, there’s one born every minute.’
‘Did you know he’d spoken to Mum?’
‘When?’
‘A while ago, apparently. Before I had Louis. He said he knew I’d got married.’
‘No. No, I bloody didn’t know. Why wouldn’t she have told us?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t work it out. I mean—well, when it comes to Robbie and her, you never can tell.’
She inhaled crossly. ‘Yeah, I suppose. But whatever, it still doesn’t mean you should trust him.’
‘Look, Leigh, I know he hurt you, but right now I don’t know who to trust. Or what to do. I’m—I feel like I’m hanging on by the skin of my teeth.’
Another drag, another exhalation. Her voice softened. ‘You’re doing brilliantly, Jess. Just hang on in there. We’ll have Louis back before you know it.’
My eyes filled. ‘Yeah, well, I just hope you’re right. All the statistics say that if a baby’s not returned within the first forty-eight hours—well,’ my voice cracked. ‘And it’s been three days now. If he doesn’t come back—’
‘What?’
‘If anything happens to him, Leigh, I won’t—I couldn’t bear to live.’
‘Jessica!’ Shock flooded her voice, ‘Don’t you dare talk like that!’
‘Why not?’ I stared at the floor. ‘It’s the truth.’
‘Jess, you’re a fighter, babe. Come on.’
‘I’m tired of fighting now. I’ve been fighting all my life. I thought this was meant to be the good bit.’
‘Look, nothing’s going to happen to him. What did that note say? He’s safe, thank God.’
‘Yes,’ I said bitterly, ‘but he’s safe with someone who’s snatched him from his own mother. So how safe is that?’
CHAPTER TWELVE
I slipped out of the house when Deb was using the bathroom. Shirl had gone to work and I was meant to be going to the hospital for my own appointment but I honestly found the idea horrendous. I wasn’t sitting down with any therapist, thanks very much, and pawing through my private life. I wasn’t that mad—yet. I put on an enormous pair of dark glasses and Mickey’s old baseball cap, and shrugged myself down into my poncho, though it made me sweat. Just in case Silver was having me followed.
He was sitting at the counter with a pint already half drunk, a whisky chaser by its side. He looked haunted and older than his years, and I felt my heart yearn for him, for all he could have been. I cursed my father silently, I cursed the hurt he did us back then, the scars he left, however often he said we were his darlings. I thought of Robbie following my dad like some small shadow, and my heart went out to him now. Illogically, perhaps I still wanted to protect him, just like I’d done back in those crazy mixed-up days.
On cue, Robbie looked up and smiled at me, and I heard him order a drink. I was touched that he remembered my favourite—but my sentiment quickly went crashing to the ground when he looked appealingly at me for cash—could I pay? I pushed Leigh’s harsh words from my mind and obligingly fished some change from my shorts.
‘Blimey, Jess, you going incognito now?’
I smiled, sort of, and took the glasses off. The pub was dark and there were few drinkers so early in the day.
‘I’m not meant to just do one without letting the Old Bill know where I am. I just fancied a little peace and quiet, you know.’
‘Don’t blame you,’ he said, and offered me a roll-up. I frowned. He grinned goofily. ‘Oops! Sorry, Jessie. I didn’t think. Mind if I do?’ But he’d already lit up. He spat tobacco from his tongue.
‘Just blow away from me.’ I perched on the stool beside him, taking a sip of the vodka that slid down very nicely, tracing a warm path past my aching heart. ‘I haven’t got much time,’ I said, and he checked his watch. It was cheap and scratched and I said, ‘Remember those fake Rolexes Dad got us that time? From Greasy Wilf on East Street?’ and Robbie grinned and I felt an affinity with him I’d almost forgotten, that made me glad—until he said, ‘I flogged mine actually. Some old dear bought it when I swore it was real.’
‘Robbie!’ I admonished, but I was hardly surprised.
‘What? She was a mug with too much money. Anyway, I was, you know, down on my luck.’
‘You’ve been down on your luck since you were sixteen, according to you.’
He downed the end of his pint. ‘Fill her up, mate, can you?’ He shoved the glass at the rotund barman. I shifted a little closer. There was a scrap of paper on the bar beside his tobacco; various phone numbers for someone called ‘General’ scrawled in Robbie’s terrible writing, next to some sums, big figures being added together and divided.
‘Robbie, what’s been going on? I—’
‘You what?’
‘I missed you.’
‘Blimey, Jess, don’t go getting all silly on me now.’ But he chucked my chin just like our dad used to.
I blushed. ‘I’m not. Tough as old boots, you know me.’ I took another sip of vodka to steady myself. ‘I still don’t understand why you’ve been hiding out for so long, Rob.’
‘I haven’t. I’ve just—I’ve been away.’
‘You mean—’
‘No, not that kind of away. Away away. Abroad away.’
‘You’d better ring Mum. She’s been worried sick.’
‘I have now. Now I’m—not away.’
‘I bet she was pleased.’
‘You could say that.’
I struggled with an envy I’d known since Robbie first came home from hospital in my mother’s ecstatic arms. A boy at last—just like she’d always wanted. She’d never forgiven me for not being one, that’s what I’d always thought.
‘So, where was abroad?’ I asked after a pause.
‘Asia mainly. Bit of South America, but mostly Asia. Thailand most recently. Bangkok’s a fucking banging city.’
I thought of sun and sea and exotic smells; of travellers and backpacks—a whole world I’d longed to explore. I thought of five-star Mauritian luxury—the furthest I’d ever been. The all-inclusive Mickey had insisted on when I was three months pregnant: the overwhelming opulence. We hadn’t been allowed to venture far out of the resort. All very nice, thank you, but not really my idea of travel. I’d been planning to see a bit of the world when I’d finished my art course. Another ambition thwarted by my unplanned pregnancy; another thing I’d initially been fed-up about-another nail now in the coffin of my tearing guilt. Now I’d happily live in a shoebox under Lewisham Bridge with Louis, never go anywhere ever again, if he could just come back. I stared at my brother.
‘And you didn’t think to let us know you were all right?’
He pulled heavily on his roll-up. It wilted pathetically in the heat.
‘I sent you a postcard, didn’t I?’
I snorted. ‘Yeah, right. One in five years. Thanks very much. Very reassuring. Most considerate. And how come you rang Mum and not me?’
‘When?’ He looked cagey, hunched his shoulders. I looked at him properly for the first time today. Despite the temperature outside he was still wearing the old leather jacket, sweating very slightly. Droplets skittered and beaded across his pale and clammy forehead. I realised just how ill he looked, and I felt a surge of panic.
‘Robbie, why’ve you let this happen? We were always so—so—’ But I couldn’t finish the sentence. He was no better than my dad, no more reliable. There was a horrible pause. I felt us drifting from one another, like every blood connection had been severed long ago. I’d tried and tried to rein it in, but I had to recognise I’d failed. My life had gone one way and his—his went down the drain, it seemed. Down the drain to ‘fucking banging Bangkok’.
‘Jess,’ he said, then seemed to think better of it, and downed his whisky instead.
‘What?’ I encouraged. He wouldn’t look
at me. ‘What were you going to say?’ I asked again, impatient now.
‘Nothing.’ The leather creaked as he ground out the roll-up, gave it up at last. Then, ‘Are you happy?’
‘Oh yeah, ecstatic. Never been happier. What do you think, you idiot?’
‘I don’t mean right now. I don’t mean since—since, you know, Luke got taken—’
‘Luke?’ I slid from the stool, my anger swelling. ‘Are you kidding me? You say you came because you’re concerned—but you don’t even know my baby’s name. You can’t even remember his name.’
Too late, he saw his mistake; grabbed my arm to stop me going. ‘Louis,’ he corrected hurriedly, ‘I meant Louis, of course. Sorry. Are you happy with Louis, you know, normally? And with your old man?’
I drained my drink, then I stepped up to him and took my brother’s clammy face in both my hands. I looked right into his glazed eyes; they slid away from mine.
‘Rob, you’re wasted, aren’t you? Absolutely fucked. God,’ I dropped my hands in despair, ‘I didn’t realise how wasted till just now.’ I chewed my thumbnail, thinking on my feet. ‘Look, Robbie, I’m happy to help you, I’ll do anything I can—but only if you promise to help yourself too. Robbie?’
But he wouldn’t meet my eye again, just beckoned to the barman instead. So I turned away. I had to. I walked away from my brother, the baby who I had protected for so long, who didn’t want to help me but wanted something from me, despite my own desperation. As I passed back into the sunlight it blinded me, and I fished for my sunglasses again. I racked my brains to think what I might have that he needed. I really wished I knew.
I was halfway back up the hill before I changed my mind. I saw a woman with a pushchair a bit like mine ahead of me, and I started to stalk behind her. As she neared the heath, she stopped to let her toddler out to walk. He dropped something, his pink beaker, rolling into the gutter. The child wanted to retrieve it; the mother wouldn’t let him. He began to stamp his feet and squeal; she grabbed his arm too roughly and pulled him away so his knees dragged on the ground.
‘Hey!’
She stopped and turned, her brow knitted.
‘You’re hurting him,’ I said.
‘Oh yes? And what’s it got to do with you?’ She was well-spoken, her clothes straight out of Boden. Her hands tightened on her handbag.
‘Everything. It’s everything to do with me. You should never hurt a child,’ I whispered. ‘You should be glad of what you have.’ I picked up the beaker and handed it to the tearful child. His warm little hand curled round the cup, and I resisted the temptation to scoop him up and run.
Instead, I turned around and ran back down into the village. Robbie was still skulking at the bus-stop on the other side of the road. I skidded to a halt before he could see me, stepped back into the doorway of Lloyds Bank opposite. The bus pulled up. I thought it would be too difficult to follow him, but he was at the head of the queue, and went straight upstairs. Panting in the sticky heat, I sprinted across the road and through the doors just before they closed. I curled up in the back corner of the lower deck.
The streets we travelled towards town were hot and noisy and thick with fumes. We passed the private gym Mickey and I belonged to, and I thought wistfully of the ice-blue pool. It was one extravagance I hadn’t argued with when Mickey added me to his membership. I loved swimming, was good at it—much better than my husband, who, cat-like, hated getting wet. I thought about how if Louis was with me now I’d probably have taken him there today to escape the heat; his little tummy swelling above his swimming nappy, clapping at the water, splashing and splashing with delight as I laughed, as he chortled at his own cleverness. My stomach lurched just like the bloody bus.
On the Walworth Road Robbie got off, and I plodded after him, dodging between big black women with bags crammed full of fruit and veg, around scrawny pensioners with skinny ankles and tartan shopping trolleys, thick coats on despite the burning sun. Eventually Robbie dropped down into an estate on the edge of Elephant and Castle, not all that far from where we grew up. Who did he know here these days? I dreaded to think. He crossed the kids’ playground, stopping to roll a fag; then he leant against the flaking yellow bars of the roundabout and made a call.
He waited, smoking. Five minutes later, a pretty young black boy with short dreads cycled up on a Chopper. He skirted Robbie, they laughed at something, and then Robbie jumped off the roundabout and walked with the boy, who lightly held my brother’s shoulder to keep his balance. I followed them until they reached a flat that was partially boarded-up, on the ground floor of the estate. A fat white man sat outside on a bashed-up deckchair that had seen better days, reading an old Sunday Sport.
‘Stevo in?’ I heard the black boy call. The man shrugged, then jerked his thumb behind him.
‘Give him five minutes. Annette’s in there—if you know what I mean.’
Some manful leering followed, and I shuddered. A hairy bloke in a white vest rounded the block next to me, holding a pit-bull straining on a metal leash. My heart began to thud. The man carefully chose a spindly tree near me and threw a rubber ring onto a branch, began goading the dog to jump up and reach it.
An emaciated girl came out of the flat in a tiny skirt, zipping up a tracksuit top, her legs mottled and twig-like. She started laughing vacantly, blatantly wrecked, as she crashed into Deckchair Man.
‘All right, darling?’ He slapped her scrawny arse, leering at the other men—at my brother and his mate, but they’d lost interest now. They were heading into the flat themselves. Another youth approached; spotty and pale, he held himself as if he was freezing, shaking despite the heat.
I didn’t think that my baby was in there. I smelt the desperation in the stagnant air: I just knew they must have come for drugs. Behind me, the little dog was still throwing his thick body up at the ring, increasingly frantic to reach it.
I was about to slope away when a young black girl with braids rounded the corner of the block that flat was in. She was shaking her head in time to music from her earphones, pushing a new pram although she looked barely fourteen. I tensed; my heart began to drum so loudly I was surprised they couldn’t hear it. I strained to see the baby. But the pram was empty.
The girl was heading for the flat Robbie was in. Deckchair Man watched her approach, her ebony midriff taut and flat beneath her yellow bikini top and her gold chains, his fat pink tongue practically lolling on the ground amid the fag-butts and the Tennants Super cans. She disappeared into the stairwell; I heard her knock and the door crash shut behind her, and I began to run. I knew the baby was here—my baby. I ran faster than I’d ever run; as if my life depended on it—as if Louis’s did. I sprinted past Deckchair Man.
‘Oi,’ he shouted, but I got to the door, a great metal plate, and I began to bang on it. I made two tight fists and I smashed them on that door, screaming my brother’s name, screaming my baby’s. My hand began to stream blood from my old cut. I kept on banging.
‘Robbie,’ I howled, ‘let me in, you fucker. I know Louis is in there. Let me bloody in.’
Deckchair Man lumbered up behind me just as I heard the bolts inside slide back. He seized my hand, my bleeding hand, as it went back to strike again—but then the door opened and my brother stood there, backlit by the sun streaming through the tiny toilet window behind him. He was framed in pure light like a saint depicted in stained glass. Like the Angel Gabriel in the Annunciation, I thought deliriously, about to deliver my baby to me. I held out my arms.
‘For Christ’s sake, Jess.’ He reached forward and grabbed my wrist. Then he saw the blood. ‘What the fuck have you done to her?’ he hissed in the other man’s face.
‘Nothing, it’s nothing,’ I moaned, launching myself forward, so I stumbled. ‘Is Louis here? Where’s Louis?’
Robbie slammed the door behind me, slammed it in the other man’s face. ‘Shut up, will you, you bloody nutter,’ he hissed at me now. ‘Pull yourself together.’
The black girl ap
peared in the hallway.
‘Where’s my baby?’ I panted, gasping for breath. ‘What have you done with my baby?’
She sucked her teeth at me. ‘You wanna take care who your bredren accusing,’ she spat at Robbie.
I broke free of my brother, pushing past the girl into the room at the end of the hallway. Some of the windows were draped with old bedspreads to keep the light out; two were boarded with planks of wood. There was no furniture at all, just a stack of boxed DVD players right up to the ceiling and an old mattress in the corner, filthy and stained. Music throbbed through the wall from next door—and the pram stood in the middle of the room. As I moved towards it, the girl brushed past me, holding something to her. Holding a baby—a lifeless little baby. I gagged; I moved towards her like I was sleep-walking. In her arms she held a doll. It was only a doll. The girl placed it very carefully in the pram, and covered it with a thin blanket.
I ran back out into the hall, and pushed on the other door that was closed. I could hear low voices, low beneath the music. The door opened a crack. The black boy sat on a bust-up old armchair; the skinny youth and a bloke with a peroxide Mohawk, all covered in tribal tattoos, shared a sofa so old they had both sunk down backwards into it, their four knees almost higher than their heads. The boy was lighting something made from an old Coke can, inhaling deeply, manically Like his life depended on it. A crack-pipe, I realised with a hollow thud. The youth had his eyes shut, scratching at his arm ferociously. The peroxide man looked at me and raised a dark eyebrow. He was preparing something in his lap.
‘Was that you doing all the shouting?’
‘I’m looking for my baby,’ I whispered.
‘Well, he ain’t here,’ he said calmly. ‘And you wanna keep your mouth shut. We’ll have the filth round here with all that noise, and we don’t want that now, do we, love?’ I shook my head soundlessly. ‘So why don’t you fuck off now. Okay?’
Robbie came up behind me. ‘I think you better go, Jess.’
I slithered through his grasp, back to the pram.
‘I just want to know, why are you wheeling a doll around?’ I asked the girl, but I knew now she couldn’t help me. ‘Don’t you have a baby?’
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