Crying Out Loud (9 page)

They'd pulled the old cinema down. Cine City. The iconic building, originally called The Scala, had been the third picture house to open in the whole of the country but it had fallen into neglect, failing to compete with the multiplexes and all attempts to save it had floundered. Now there was a gaping hole. Ongoing wrangles between the developer and the city planners had delayed the start of building work. I'd seen some of the designs in the
South Manchester Reporter
, our local free sheet – apartments above shopping units: glass, wood and steel, like a thousand other buildings in a thousand other towns. It made me want to weep. The White Lion pub, with its distinctive round clock tower, stood alongside the gap at the junction of the main roads and marked the southernmost end of the high street. The pub was boarded up, too. Would that be next?

Along the high street some work had been done to improve the area, creating wider pavements and parking bays, but there was no disguising the fact that Withington was a struggling centre. The stretch of shops was punctuated by empty units bristling with To Let and For Sale signs. The businesses that survived were a mix of discount outlets, low-cost hair and beauty salons, newsagents and the odd gem, like the vegetarian café and the chemist. The health food shop had gone, succumbing after years. It was where I had spent much of my hard-earned cash on tofu and lentils and the like. One sector was thriving: rental agencies. There were tons of them, set up to find accommodation for students and young professionals. Match single people with the plethora of flats and apartments built in the boom years. Would they find takers for the ones that would be built on the old cinema site?

When we reached the far end of the shops, I wheeled the buggy up the ramp into the library. My books were overdue and I'd gathered together two of Maddie's that had been mislaid.

The assistant took the pile of books and noticed Jamie in the buggy. ‘Congratulations.' She beamed. I was a regular in the library so she knew me by sight. ‘I'd no idea. How old?'

‘No,' I rushed to correct her, ‘not mine. A friend's.'

She laughed, scanned my books on the machine. ‘Sorry. Does it make you broody?'

‘Maybe a bit,' I admitted, ‘but I don't know if I could start that all over again.'

‘My eldest is expecting his first,' she confided. ‘I'm going to be a grandma.' She gave a little shiver of delight. ‘That'll be one pound twenty.'

I congratulated her and fished for change.

‘Can't wait.' She returned to her theme. ‘And best of all I'll be able to hand the baby back at the end of the day!'

Her question stuck with me as I walked home. Was I broody? Was having another child a possibility? It hadn't really been an issue before; Maddie filled all my maternal cravings – and then some. And I'd not been in any relationships that grew serious enough to think about having a baby.

Ray and I were different: still new enough to be unsettling, exciting, consuming, but based on several years of living together, on friendship and looking after our children together.

When I'd first slept with him, I'd no idea where it would lead. Fearful of jeopardizing what we already shared I had tried to resist the attraction that had sprung up between us. He had made a pass, I'd stalled; he'd wooed me, and teased me, sulked, waited, wooed me some more. My best friend Diane finally told me to go ahead and sleep with him and get it over with, scratch the itch. Reckless – more her style than mine. But I did.

Oh, boy.

The weeks had become months, the sky had not fallen. So what was next? Did there have to be a ‘next'? Would he be interested in fatherhood again? He was a great dad. The idea made my stomach flip, like driving over a bump in the road. The idea lodged there then, tickling at the back of my mind. Something daring, almost forbidden. Something to sneak out later and puzzle over.

We passed Christie's, the big cancer hospital. Always busy with staff and visitors, patients and builders, the latter involved in a seemingly endless programme of expansion. It wasn't unusual to see people strolling up this bit of the road clad in pyjamas and pushing a drip, soaking up the precious chance of fresh air and a change of scene. And there were always a bunch of people having that fag before going back in through the glass entrance doors.

Jamie woke; she gave a little crow and screwed up her nose. I chatted to her and she watched my lips, scrutinized my face with great solemnity. Where was her mother now? Missing her, surely. Tonight would be the third night apart. My theory about the number of nappies equalling the duration of her absence had bitten the dust. When would she be back? Was she there now, at my place waiting for us, full of gratitude and compelling explanations? What if she never came back? My throat tightened at the thought. What then? How long before I'd have to tell someone about Jamie? See her removed into the care of social services? They'd never let her stay with us. We hadn't been vetted or approved. Would we even want her to? A foundling without any history; a child with no biological connection to either of us. Could I love her? Love her like I loved Maddie? And Ray, could he? How long? Ray had asked the same question. A week? Three?

As if catching the souring of my mood, Jamie started to fret.

‘Soon home,' I told her, ‘and then we'll give you a nice feed.'

Chloe Beswick rang me that evening. She had spoken to her brother and still wanted me to visit him again. Had I thought about it?

‘I only saw him yesterday,' I objected.

‘I know. But I told him you needed more details and he says he remembered something else. Said he's been racking brains all night and it came back to him.'

This, I doubted. It sounded like a ruse to get me back inside. Why? To brighten his stay, break up the routine? Chloe's belief in Damien's innocence seemed genuine but Damien's belief in himself  . . . I still hadn't got the measure of it. Would another visit make things clearer? Hard to tell. Now that I'd spoken to Geoff Sinclair not only did I have more understanding of the forensic evidence but I'd also picked up some tips on advanced interviewing techniques. It would be interesting to try them out.

‘OK,' I agreed. ‘I'll ring the prison tomorrow—'

‘I've booked you in,' she said, quick as a flash. ‘Ten o'clock.'

‘Really?' I was disconcerted. Suddenly Chloe was arranging my work diary?

‘It can be a right pain getting appointments,' she said unapologetically. ‘Thought I'd save you the hassle. If ten's no good—'

‘It's fine,' I said, though I still felt railroaded.

‘I've warned him – whatever you want to know, he tells you. And if you tell him to shut up he does that an' all – no messing, innit.'

‘Chloe, can I ask you something?'

‘Free country.'

‘Why couldn't he have been more cooperative yesterday if he's serious about making an appeal?'

She sighed. ‘It's how he is: brain like a frog, all over the place. The drugs don't help.'

‘He's on medication?'

‘Stuff to calm him down – makes it hard to concentrate.' Christ, I thought, if that was calm, I'd hate to see him agitated. And he'd talked to me as though he'd no medical help at all.

She carried on: ‘Plus whatever else he can get his hands on.' She was nothing if not honest. ‘There's more drugs in there than there is out here,' she said. ‘So, you're all right for tomorrow?'

‘Yes. I'll let you know how I get on.'

Abi Dobson was sorry but she couldn't take Jamie the next morning – she had an antenatal appointment. I couldn't ask Ray; he wouldn't take more time off work to help me out. His mother, Nana Tello, used to stand in sometimes when the kids were smaller as long as it didn't impinge on her other plans. She used to hum and haw and show such reluctance that it got so I disliked asking her. She would not be in the market for babysitting a strange child.

Taking my life in my hands, I rang my friend Diane. Diane is not child friendly. Even though we are very close she has rarely looked after Maddie, though Diane's more relaxed in her company as Maddie gets older. Diane hasn't any kids herself and has no desire to have any. She falls into sexual relationships every so often. Fall being the operative word. She plummets like a rock. Diane's liaisons are a bit like elephant traps: rare, unexpected, dangerous, difficult to get out of. Aside from them her real passion is her work – she's an artist.

I thought of Geoff Sinclair as I waited for her to answer the phone. Like him, Diane had fought cancer. Breast cancer. She'd had a lumpectomy and chemo. They thought they'd got it all. She takes pills every day.

‘Hello?'

‘Diane, I need to ask you a huge favour.'

‘Oh, God,' she groaned.

After the kids were in bed Ray came into the living room where I was feeding Jamie. I smiled across at him but his face remained impassive. He sat down on the armchair. Perched on the edge; ready to strike. I concentrated on the baby and studied her eyes. Felt her feet pedal in time to her sucking. I'd one hand supporting her and the other holding the bottle; not enough hands free to rub her feet, which I used to do when I was breastfeeding Maddie. Ray took an audible breath. I waited.

‘Still no word,' he said. ‘This is the third night.'

‘Yes, I know.' And I wasn't looking forward to yet more fragmented sleep.

‘Don't you think you should consider contacting the authorities?'

‘No.' I stared across at him, my face warm. ‘Not yet.'

‘When?'

‘Ray, I said before, I'm not setting a deadline.'

‘I think you should,' His face was tight; I could feel his disapproval, palpable in every cell of his body.

‘You've made that clear.'

‘So what, the situation just rolls on and on?'

‘It's only been a couple of days,' my voice rose. The baby stiffened. I spoke more quietly, tried to relax my body, fighting against the tension. ‘She's happy, she's safe.'

‘She's not yours.'

‘I know that!' I glared at him. He was talking to me like I was some deranged woman living in a fantasy. ‘And I'll be more than happy to see her mother show up. Meanwhile, I'll carry on looking after her as best as I can.' I lost the struggle to keep calm; my voice shook, my heart was thundering in my chest. I wanted to throw something at him. Jamie had stopped sucking.

He watched me for a moment, then looked away exasperated, his jaw muscle tautening. He turned back, about to speak, I thought, but then he got to his feet and walked out. I called after him but he didn't return.

There was no pattern to the nights. Jamie was still awake at ten so I fed her then. She slept through until half three. Five hours. I could have had five hours unbroken kip if I'd gone to sleep myself but I probably wasted two hours tossing and turning, feeling anxious about Ray, about the baby.

The tension remained with me the following day, aggravated by tiredness. My shoulder was stiff and my neck ached. There was a knot of worry in my stomach.

Maddie got into a panic at breakfast – she couldn't find her PE kit. Jamie was bawling and I was hurriedly mixing a feed.

Tom put his hands over his ears. ‘Shut up, shut up, shut up,' he chanted.

‘It's not in my drawers,' Maddie insisted, ‘you look.'

‘Try the cellar,' I said. ‘It might be in the dryer.'

Her face fell.

‘For heaven's sake, Maddie,' I snapped. ‘It's broad daylight, there's a window down there and you can put the light on too if you need.' The dark is one of Maddie's fears.

The baby cried louder. ‘I can't go,' I explained. ‘I need to feed Jamie.'

‘Ray can feed her,' Maddie whined.

Ray slid a look my way, mutinous, critical but nevertheless moved closer and held his hands out for Jamie. She was in full throttle, face tomato red, back arching with frustration, twisting her head this way and that. Her cries were agonizing to hear. You are more at risk of being killed in the first twelve months of life than at any other time. It was a fact I could understand, horrible though that sounds. We arrive in the world completely vulnerable, utterly dependent on others and furnished with vocal chords that shred a listener's nerves to bits.

When I opened the cellar door, Digger emerged, gave a foolish little woof and wove about my legs, wagging his tail.

‘Digger's here,' I called out to Ray who looked after him. ‘Been shut down the cellar again. I'll let him out.'

I'd actually brought the dog home when his owner, a young homeless man who'd been helping me trace someone, had died. I was ambivalent about keeping the animal but Ray and Digger hit it off.

I ushered the dog out of the back door and into the garden at the back. The sun was bright again and mist steamed off the grass, along the top of the garden fences and the roof of the shed. The dew had been heavy and swags of spider's web trailed silver beads among the foliage. I closed my eyes and drew in the air, cool and moist, felt a ripple of fatigue run through me. I took another breath and opened my eyes. Watched the coal tits on the bird feeder for a moment then dragged myself back inside.

In the cellar, I found Maddie's shorts and T-shirt. I put another load of dirty clothes in the machine, emptied the reusable nappies out of the bucket they were soaking in, holding my breath at the stink, and added those to the wash, sealing the velcro tabs carefully so they wouldn't claw at everything else.

Down there, beneath the kitchen, Jamie's crying was muffled and stopped suddenly; quiet followed. All I could hear was the water running into the machine and Digger's bark, asking to come in from the garden.

I went up to let him in and caught sight of the squirrel running along the fence. He'd already dug up most of the winter flowering bulbs I'd planted in a trough by the patio. I'd have loved to escape, stay out there and potter about: rake up the leaves and bag them for compost, clip back the bare lavender stalks and the straggly water mint that fringed the small pond. If only.