by Simon Booker
Mothercare – ground floor.
*
Just over three hours later she’s back in Canterbury, pulling up outside Ben’s house, a sweet-smelling and mercifully well-behaved Charlie asleep in the new baby seat. Installing the harness and navigating the tangle of straps and buckles has tested Morgan’s patience. The infant’s bawling and wriggling rendered the operation ten times harder, so she’s hoping for an easier transition to the new baby carrier. Her wish is granted. Strapped to her chest, Charlie remains asleep, oblivious to his role in the unfolding drama.
Moving in slow motion, Morgan quietly unloads the bags of shopping: twelve cartons of formula; a week’s supply of bottles and teats (sterilising on the run will be too complicated); sachets of purées and yoghurts, plus nappies, nappy bags, wipes and a selection of dummies in case the transition from breastfeeding to formula and solids proves not to the baby’s liking.
Which is pretty much guaranteed.
Morgan feels exhausted by the very thought.
Inside the house, her fears prove well founded. On waking, Charlie immediately starts to cry, exercising his lungs at a decibel level reminiscent of Lissa as a baby at her most implacable. After ten crazy-making minutes of screeching and head turning, half a dozen spoonfuls of mush find their way into the baby’s mouth, but most ends up on his cheeks or the kitchen floor. The bottle of formula is greeted with a similar lack of enthusiasm, forcing Morgan to resort to an old trick – a sugary rusk. Then, as the crying dies down, she cradles the baby in her arms. Several minutes of writhing and snuffling follow before Charlie falls silent and closes his eyes.
Gazing at the slumbering baby, Morgan is transported back twenty years, to the good-old-bad-old days. Life as a single mother. Surges of unalloyed joy mingled with tedium and terror.
She has decided against a cot, opting for another time-honoured technique: clearing out the bottom drawer of the chest in her room. Using a bath towel to line the drawer, she lowers Charlie inside, covering him with the pink blanket. She studies the sleeping baby for several minutes, then tiptoes to the landing and goes downstairs.
Stepping into the courtyard garden she sits at the wrought-iron table, rolling a cigarette. She smokes while gazing at the dwindling daylight and taking stock of what she has done.
As Lissa would say . . . WTF?
Does spiriting Charlie away count as kidnapping? Abduction? Morgan has little idea of the legal definitions, but the answer is almost certainly yes. The baby will come to no harm – she’ll make sure of that – and he’s in safer hands than a few hours ago. But is that the point?
Yes.
It must be.
As for Morgan’s next move, her plan is now coming into sharper focus: she will use Charlie as bait to lure Karl out of hiding.
True, she could tip off the police about Stacey’s intention to collect Jack and Karl Junior from school – her vital role in their abduction – but what good would it do? By now, Savage and Jukes will have discovered that Morgan has taken Charlie; the co-conspirators will have no choice but to rethink their plans. Taking the baby was impulsive, but there is no turning back. A line from an old Bette Davis movie bubbles to the surface of Morgan’s mind.
Fasten your seatbelts – it’s going to be a bumpy night . . .
She jumps.
Fireworks in the street. Bangers exploding, followed by rockets soaring over the rooftops. A burst of distant laughter – teenage boys – then silence.
Morgan stubs out her cigarette, then goes inside to make tea. She checks on the sleeping baby while the kettle boils, then runs a bath. Twenty minutes later, bathed and partially restored, she lies on the bed, listening to Charlie’s breathing.
The thought strikes with the force of a punch.
Nancy.
The twins.
Jerking upright, she grabs her mobile and thumbs Nancy’s number. She hears the chain-smoker’s familiar rasp.
‘What do you want, Morgan?’
She can hear a TV blaring in the background. Shrill music. Cartoons?
‘Are your boys back from school?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘This is going to sound crazy, Nancy, but I need you to keep them at home tomorrow.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Trust me. Please.’
A pause.
‘Is this some kind of terrorist warning?’ says Nancy. ‘Because I didn’t have you down as a jihadi bride.’
‘Nothing like that.’
‘So, what is it?’
‘If I tell you, you won’t believe me. Just don’t send them to school tomorrow.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Totally.’
Another pause, followed by a hacking cough.
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘It’s just one day.’
‘I said, I’ll think about it.’
The woman coughs again, then hangs up.
Morgan feels a surge of guilt. Should she have told the whole story?
No.
The past few weeks have proved beyond doubt that a sure-fire way to be dismissed as a crackpot is to tell the truth about Karl Savage. She has done her best. The rest is up to Nancy.
A noise from downstairs.
Ben’s key in the door.
Tingling with apprehension, she springs to her feet and steps onto the landing.
‘Hi.’
He’s at the foot of the stairs, looking up at her, a smile creasing his face.
‘You’re back early,’ says Morgan, hoping he hasn’t glimpsed the bags of baby food on the table, visible through the kitchen door.
The smile widens.
‘Very pipe and slippers.’
She heads downstairs, following him into the sitting room.
‘I need to tell you something.’
He turns, smile fading.
‘Is this where you say it’s been fun but you’re not ready for anything serious? Because if it is . . .’
A surge of panic. Is he going to dump her? Getting his retaliation in first? If so, she doesn’t want to know. Not now.
‘Nothing like that.’
‘OK,’ he says. ‘I’m listening.’
And so she tells him. About staking out the houseboat and finding Stacey. About abducting the baby. About using Charlie as bait.
Ben listens in silence, framed by the window, studying her face intently. When she finishes, he leaves a moment’s silence.
‘The baby’s upstairs?’
‘Yes.’
He nods, grimly processing the news.
‘So . . . is this the trap?’ He gestures around the room. ‘Are you trying to lure Karl here?’
‘No.’
‘Where, then?’
‘I’m working on it.’
‘And what makes you sure he gives a damn about this particular child? He seems happy to act as sperm donor for God knows how many other babies, why is this one different?’
‘I’m not saying he is. But Karl needs to fund his new life abroad. He’s been planning this for ages. Charlie represents a lot of money – as cover for smuggling cash and drugs, and as a commodity in his own right. Plus, Karl seems to care about some of his kids. Why else would he go to such lengths to get hold of the twins?’
Ben raises an eyebrow.
‘You’re asking me to second-guess a sociopath?’
‘No, I’m trying to answer your question.’
‘So there’s no guarantee he’ll come after your bait?’
Morgan feels her cheeks redden.
‘If you’ve got a better idea, now would be a good time to mention it.’
He blows out his cheeks, then walks into the kitchen. She follows, watching as he takes a beer from the fridge. Studiously ignoring the bags of baby food, he opens the can and takes a long swig.
‘Can I ask a question? Are you out of your mind?’
‘I’m desperate. My daughter lost her baby. She’s an exile. I’ve fled my home. I’m scared of this man and
that’s no way to live.’ She pauses for breath. ‘I want my life back. I want my daughter back. Bringing Karl out of hiding is the best chance I have. I’m taking it.’
And it would be nice if you could be supportive.
Upstairs, the baby starts to cry. Morgan turns to leave.
‘Wait,’ says Ben.
She stops. His voice is stern, his expression hard to read. ‘I really like you, Morgan.’
‘Good. I like you too.’
He’s about to say something about their relationship – or fling, or whatever this is – but changes his mind. Takes another swig of beer. Playing for time.
‘Did anyone see you arrive with the baby?’
She shakes her head.
‘The street was empty when I unloaded the car.’
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘You understand the ramifications for me? My career? My life?’
A knot of disappointment tightens inside her stomach. The baby’s wailing grows louder.
‘I need to see to Charlie.’
He ignores her. ‘Go to the police.’
‘I can’t—’
He interrupts, holding up a finger.
‘Whatever the rights and wrongs, the police will charge you with abducting a child. That makes me an accessory. Don’t tell me your plan. You have twenty-four hours. After that, if you don’t go to the police, I will.’
The disappointment intensifies. But at least he’s giving her a chance.
‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t thank me. You never brought the baby here. We never had this conversation. Clear?’
‘Clear.’
‘Now do something about all that bloody crying before my neighbours get home.’
She turns and leaves the room, wincing at the sound of the kitchen door slamming.
Upstairs, she scoops Charlie from the drawer, cradling him in her arms. For a moment, she feels on the verge of joining in with all that bloody crying. She forces herself to get a grip. There will come a time for release, but not today. Today there is one priority.
The baby hiccups twice in quick succession, then the crying slowly subsides. He seems responsive to Morgan’s attempts to soothe him.
Be glad of small mercies.
She changes Charlie’s nappy. Hearing the shower running, she takes the baby downstairs and prepares a bottle of formula. More fireworks outside. She can’t see them, but she can hear the rockets soaring into the evening sky.
Back in her room, she sits on the bed, rocking the baby in her arms for several minutes before touching the rubber teat to his rosebud lips. The baby turns his head. Morgan tries again. No response, apart from wriggling and squirming. She squirts a little of the liquid onto her forefinger then traces it over Charlie’s lips. The baby writhes, his features wrinkling into a scowl.
Then a breakthrough. As she guides the bottle towards the baby’s mouth, his lips close around the teat. Morgan holds her breath, gently squeezing the bottle as the baby suckles then swallows.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Thank God.
If Charlie will take a good quantity of formula, maybe he’ll go back to sleep and allow time for Morgan to plan her next move. She can hear Ben clattering in the kitchen. The sound of his mobile ringing. He takes the call, the murmur of his voice vibrating through the floorboards.
The baby is suckling at the teat. Morgan’s leg is cramping but she is determined not to move, to maintain her position until Charlie has had his fill. She tends to the dribble, then adjusts the one-piece and lowers the baby into the drawer. Tucking Charlie inside the pink blanket, she straightens up and turns.
Ben is framed in the doorway.
‘Jesus, you scared me . . .’
He casts a look in the baby’s direction. ‘Is he OK?’
‘Yes. It took months before Lissa would eat any. . .’
She breaks off. He’s not listening, chewing on his lower lip.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Just had a work call. I need to get going. Sounds like an all-nighter.’
She frowns.
‘What are you not telling me?’
He looks towards the window, still biting his lip.
‘It’s a weird one. A fire in a graveyard. Someone dug up a coffin. Doused the corpse in petrol. Set it on fire.’
Morgan can feel the hairs prickling along her arms.
‘Whose body?’
But she already knows the answer.
He turns to meet her gaze.
‘Pearl Savage.’
Thirty-Nine
Ninety minutes after Ben leaves, Morgan is still trying to suppress a sense of rising panic. Charlie has been crying for an hour, impervious to all attempts to pacify him. Before the onset of tears, Morgan had bathed him, changed his nappy and persuaded him to eat several teaspoons of banana rice. Then her luck ran out. The baby screwed up his face and launched a marathon of howling that shows no signs of abating.
Now, pacing around the dimly lit bedroom, Morgan is holding him close, gently clasping his head to her shoulder, hand on his back, rocking him from side to side while cooing in his ear, the way she remembers soothing Lissa.
‘Shhh, sweet thing, shhh . . .’
The crying intensifies. Morgan starts to hum, keeping the sound to a low rumble, hoping the vibration will transmit itself to Charlie and prove calming.
Fat chance.
The baby continues to bawl.
‘Shhh, baby boy, shhh . . .’
Her mobile rings.
Lissa.
Morgan hesitates. How to explain the crying infant? Her daughter’s eyes stare from the screen. The phone shrills. The baby’s cries grow louder. Morgan takes the call.
‘Hello?’
‘Mum . . .?’
‘How are you?’
‘OK . . .’ Pause. ‘Is that a baby?’
‘Yep.’
Another pause. Morgan detects an instant change of mood.
‘Whose?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘I’m in no hurry.’
‘It’s difficult to talk . . . there’s a lot of crying . . .’
‘Fuck’s sake, Mum. Whose baby?’
‘Sorry . . .? I can’t hear you . . .’
‘You can hear perfectly. Whose baby?’
Morgan sits on the bed. Holding Charlie to her shoulder, she lets the phone fall onto the duvet and puts Lissa on speakerphone.
‘Before I tell you, I need to know how you are.’
Because when you find out what I’ve done you’ll hang up and I can’t handle more stress.
‘How do you think? I had a miscarriage. I got on a plane. Now I’m in LA and Dad’s having a meltdown over his script. His girlfriend’s a bitch on wheels and I feel like ten sacks of shit. Now, whose baby?’
Time to come clean.
‘Kiki’s.’
A sharp intake of breath.
‘No way . . .’
Charlie is calmer now, the crying less shrill. Morgan transfers him to her lap, wrapping him in the blanket while leaning closer to the speakerphone. Talking softly, she tells her daughter how she comes to be caring for the baby who disappeared weeks ago and whose mother’s body was found at the base of a cliff. By the time she’s finished, Charlie’s eyes are closed and the crying has ceased. But not on the other side of the Atlantic.
‘Lissa? Are you OK?’
Morgan can hear her daughter weeping.
Lissa blows her nose. Her voice sounds small.
‘Who’s been looking after him?’
‘Stacey. And Jukes’s sister.’
‘Is he OK?’
‘He’s fine.’
‘What will happen to him?’
‘Adoption, I guess,’ says Morgan. ‘But I’m not ready to hand him over. Not tonight.’ She hears the click of a lighter and frowns. ‘Are you smoking?’
‘Yep. And drinking beer.’
‘For
breakfast?’
‘What are you, my mother?’
Morgan listens to Lissa sucking smoke into her lungs.
‘Lissa?’
‘Yes?’
‘I keep thinking there’s something you’re not telling me.’
‘Says the woman who kidnapped a baby?’
‘Talk to me.’
‘I am talking to you.’
‘You know what I mean.’
A pause.
‘I’m so sorry, Mum.’
‘About what?’
‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Don’t hang up on me—’
‘Don’t do anything stupid. Call me when it’s over.’
‘Lissa? Lissa?’
But her daughter has gone.
*
Ten minutes later, Morgan straps Charlie into the car seat and sets off for the cemetery. The baby sleeps throughout the drive, calling to mind Lissa’s behaviour as an infant: explosive tantrums followed by merciful periods of deep sleep. Morgan is hoping Charlie will follow a similar pattern.
Just past eight o’clock. The evening rush hour is over, the motorway almost deserted. Morgan is briefly distracted by the sight of fireworks exploding against the night sky – two corner-shop rockets launched by someone unable to wait for the main event tomorrow evening.
Remember, remember . . .
Turning onto the slip road, she guides the Mini up the ramp that leads towards the churchyard. A mile or so along the road, she slows at the entrance to a single-track lane, her attention taken by bright lights visible through the trees. Last time she was here – with Karl Savage – there was precious little light. Tonight, the wooded area is a crime scene: powerful arc lamps illuminate a flurry of police activity. SOCOs in white overalls. Blue and white tape cordons the churchyard from rubberneckers undeterred by the November chill. She drives past the path that leads to the church, registering the sight of Ben’s Range Rover, then pulling to a halt on a grass verge.
The baby stirs, opening his eyes. Humming softly, Morgan gives what she hopes is a reassuring smile, then steps out of the car. Two minutes later she has settled Charlie in the harness around her neck, taking care to ensure the baby is secure. He looks up, wide-eyed and smiling.