‘Kirsty, it’s too soon. You should rest. Isn’t that what the doctors told you to do?’
She stopped moving. Jamie could see how stiff her shoulders were. She was tensed up like she was afraid the world intended to hurt her. A single tear rolled down her face and landed on the blouse she was ironing.
‘I can’t stay at home. If I stay at home I’ll have nothing to distract me. And I’ll know that they are close by.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Listening to me.’ She looked up. ‘I have to get out of here, Jamie. We’re going to put this place on the market. You can go into town tomorrow and do it, OK? We have to get out. I don’t want to live above them any more.’
‘But…’
‘No protests, please. I’m too tired to argue.’
‘OK. But shit, Kirsty, your uniform!’
She had been holding the iron down on it while they were talking, and now it had started to smoke. She pulled the iron away and a cloud of pale smoke rose upwards, making her cough.
‘Oh fuck.’
She picked up the blouse and studied it. There was a brown scorch mark where she had burnt it. She held it against her face and began to cry. Jamie came around to her side of the ironing board, unplugged the iron and put his arms around her. They sat on the sofa and cried together for the first time since the accident. They sat there until it grew dark outside.
Jamie stood up and fetched a bottle of wine from the fridge. They both needed alcohol, to numb the pain, if only for one evening. Kirsty sat with her head on Jamie’s shoulder, her feet curled under her. She kept touching her belly, as if she was testing to see if it was really true, if it had really happened.
‘You will go to the estate agent tomorrow, won’t you?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘There’s no point trying to fight them, Jamie, you do know that, don’t you? We’ve already lost. And I just want to get away, start again somewhere else. We’ll buy a house, somewhere quiet. Outside London. You can commute. I’ll get a transfer. We’ll be OK.’
He nodded and kissed her forehead.
‘I take it the police weren’t interested,’ she said. There was so much weariness in her voice. Jamie wondered if she had taken anything: sleeping pills, tranquillizers, downers. He wouldn’t be surprised if she had.
‘They weren’t interested at all. “Just an accident, sir.” That was their line.’
‘That’s what I thought they’d say.’
They were quiet for a while. The TV was still flickering away silently. There was some kids’ programme on now: humanoid puppets in primary colours, dancing around. Jamie found them quite creepy with their mock-human gestures and huge, unblinking eyes. He looked away.
They finished the wine and Kirsty said that she was going to take a bath. Jamie ran it for her, adding loads of bath oil and lighting scented candles around the perimeter of the bath.
‘Can you leave me alone?’ Kirsty said as she stepped into the warm water.
‘Really?’
‘I’m not going to drown myself, Jamie. I just want to lie here in peace for a while.’
‘Okay.’
He went back into the living room and put the ironing board away. The wine was all gone so he opened a can of beer. He thought about what he and Mike had discussed earlier. He felt a shudder of revulsion, a spasm of nausea in his gut. He hated violence, had always abhorred it. But it had to be done. They deserved it. They needed to be punished.
It was important that Kirsty didn’t find out. She hated them too, but he knew she wouldn’t approve. To her, escape was the only solution. But why should they be the ones to flee in terror? Let’s drive Lucy and Chris out. Watch them run.
He listened to her splashing in the bath. He loved her so much, but there were things she didn’t understand: things like masculine pride. There were times when it had to be right to fight. Kirsty had said they had lost already, but he wouldn’t – couldn’t – accept that. They hadn’t lost. Shit, they hadn’t even started fighting back yet. And no, this battle would not be in vain.
He sat down with his beer. As he lifted the can to his mouth he noticed his hand was trembling. He gripped his wrist with his free hand. He reminded himself that he was a man, that he had to be calm. It didn’t help.
He called in sick the next day and drove Kirsty to work. They had both slept deeply, helped by the alcohol, although that hadn’t kept the bad dreams at bay. Jamie woke up and realised he’d had Paul’s coma dream: the birds (he was sure they were birds, not bats) swooping down at him, chasing him, terrifying him. How could a dream be passed from person to person? It made him feel like his grip on reality was even more tenuous than he feared.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ he said.
Kirsty nodded. ‘I’m certain.’
‘Alright.’
He kissed her cheek and she got out of the car. She waved and then vanished into the hospital. He had told her he would go straight to the estate agents, and that was what he planned to do. He didn’t want to lie to her, so he drove across the city and parked outside the estate agents where they had first seen the flat advertised. He remembered that day so clearly. The estate agent had told them what a fantastic property this flat was, that it had just come onto the market, that it was sure to be snapped up really quickly.
‘The seller said she hoped it would go to a young couple,’ the agent said. ‘It’s a perfect first home. A great place to build a little nest.’
He sat in the car and looked at the pictures of houses and flats in the estate agent’s window. He wondered if the estate agent had been telling the truth when he said that the seller hoped a young couple would buy the flat. It didn’t really make sense. If Letitia and David had suffered at the hands of Lucy and Chris, why would they want another young couple to undergo the same fate? Maybe Lucy and Chris hadn’t driven them out like he suspected. Or, most likely, it had just been the estate agent spinning them a line, a bit of spiel, like estate agents do. He considered going inside to ask. But what was the point? He doubted if they would remember, or tell the truth. And it wasn’t important anyway. The matter was in hand.
He drove away, back to the flat. He was sure Kirsty would understand eventually. Once Lucy and Chris had been dealt with, there would be no need to move out. They could build their little nest in the flat after all. They could still win.
Later that afternoon, he went to pick Kirsty up from work. She wasn’t waiting outside, so he parked the car and went in. He checked the children’s ward but he couldn’t see her. He spotted Heather over the far side of the ward and went over to her.
‘Hi Heather.’
‘Oh, hi Jamie.’
He hated the way she looked so sorry for him, like he was some pathetic loser. When would people realise, he was going to win? He would show them. He wasn’t weak. He would show them all.
‘Where’s Kirsty?’ he asked.
‘She finished about fifteen minutes ago. I thought she’d be waiting outside.’
‘She’s not.’
Heather’s eyes widened. ‘Oh God, do you think she’s alright? You don’t think she’d do anything stupid, do you?’
He felt a fluttering in his stomach. That was exactly what he’d thought last night when she said she wanted to be left alone in the bathroom. That she would try to harm herself.
‘Come on, follow me.’ Heather led him towards the doctor’s offices. She knocked and entered. ‘Have you seen Kirsty Knight?’
Nobody had.
‘Jamie, I’m sure she’s OK.’
‘So why did you ask me if I thought she’d do something stupid?’
‘I don’t know. I was just…’ She broke off. ‘Come on, she’s probably in the canteen.’
They set off at a jog towards the staff canteen. It was half-empty. Jamie scanned the room quickly. She wasn’t there. He could feel the cold tentacles of dread spreading out, flexing themselves inside him. He could picture her in some store cupboard somewhere, half empty jars of pills ly
ing beside her body. Or her body in a shower, wrists slashed, blood running into the drain. He pinched himself, twisting the skin on his arm until it bruised, trying to expel the visions.
Heather grabbed his arm. ‘Come on. I’ve got an idea where she might be.’
He followed her again: down the stairs, along a corridor, up another long corridor. It was so bright, so stainless. But the smell of death was less noticeable down here; it was replaced by a different scent. In the distance he could hear a baby crying. He suddenly realised where they were heading.
The maternity ward.
They found Kirsty standing against the glass, looking at the babies in the premature baby unit. There were six or seven babies in incubators; a couple of nurses moving among them. Kirsty leant against the glass, gazing in.
‘They’re so tiny,’ she said. ‘Look at them. That one over there was two months premature.’
Jamie put his arms around her and slowly led her away. Heather placed a hand on her back.
‘I was so worried,’ he said softly. ‘We were scared.’
She broke away from him. ‘Scared of what? That I’d kill myself. Or, hey, maybe you thought I’d try to snatch a baby?’
‘No, Kirsty.’
‘Leave me alone!’
She ran down the corridor. Jamie chased after her, their footsteps echoing through the sterile spaces. He caught her at the bottom of the stairs and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly until she stopped struggling and went limp in his arms.
Heather caught up. ‘Is she alright?’ she asked.
Jamie nodded. ‘I’ll take her home.’
He led her out to the car. People gave them strange looks. He could read their minds. How disgusting – that nurse was clearly drunk. And what was wrong with the fellow who was holding her up?
Why was he crying?
Twenty-four
Jamie awoke with a start. He had been dreaming again: dreaming this time that there was a baby crying in the flat. It had been so real he could still hear it.
‘Jamie.’ Kirsty woke up and gripped his arm.
He blinked in the darkness. The loud, shrill cries of a hungry, attention-seeking baby were still audible. But why? Why could he still hear it?
Kirsty sat upright. Her breathing was heavy and quick. She threw the quilt aside and jumped out of bed, flicking the light on, looking around the room wildly. She ran out of the bedroom and into the nursery. Jamie got out of bed and followed her. It was freezing in the flat but he barely noticed. He could still hear the baby. What the hell was going on?
Kirsty was standing in the nursery (spare bedroom, spare bedroom – that’s all it is, Jamie reminded himself, until he could persuade Kirsty to try again) staring into the empty cot. Above the cot, a mobile rotated. Farmyard animals – a pig, a chicken, a cow – spun slowly left then right, then left again. The room was lit by moonlight, and the animals cast lifesized shadows on the walls. Jamie switched on the light.
Kirsty turned to look at him. ‘Jamie, can you hear it too?’
‘Yes.’
She clamped her hands over her ears. ‘I thought it was in my head. But you can hear it too? You promise?’
‘ I promise. Come on, let’s get out of here.’ He took her hand and led her back to the bedroom.
The baby’s cries were so clear. Short bursts of treble-heavy crying, followed by long wails that seemed to get louder and louder before suddenly falling silent. For ten seconds, the crying stopped altogether, and Jamie and Kirsty stood in their bedroom, clutching each other, just the sound of their chests beating in the darkness. Then it started again, even louder than before.
Kirsty fell onto her hands and knees. ‘It’s coming from downstairs.’
Jamie had known that already. Had known the moment this started.
‘They’ve got a baby down there,’ Kirsty said in a hushed tone, her eyes wide. ‘Jamie, they’ve got a baby – Lucy and Chris – they’ve got a baby.’
Jamie knelt beside her, leant forward and put his ear to the floor. He tried to think: how long was it since he had seen Lucy? Had she had a bump? Could she have been pregnant?
No – it didn’t make sense.
‘It’s a recording,’ he said. ‘That’s what it is. It’s a fucking recording.’
‘No!’ Even now, after all this time, Kirsty acted as if she was shocked by the lengths Lucy and Chris would go to. She pummelled the carpet with her fists, weak blows which would have been barely audible downstairs, especially over the cries of the baby. She punched and punched, until she collapsed on her front and lay still.
The recording stopped. Halfway through a cry of distress, the baby was hushed. Jamie pressed his ear to the floor again. His whole body was tense, like a spring, waiting for the crying to begin again.
He didn’t know how long he knelt in that position for. Eventually, he became aware of a pain in his neck – a muscular spasm – and he sat up and rubbed it, tried to ease the ache. Kirsty was still lying on the carpet, her face turned away from him. He stroked her hair, pressed his face against the back of her head, whispered in her ear, ‘It’s alright.’
She didn’t move. He leant over so he could see her face. She was just lying there, staring into space, unblinking. She looked lifeless, like a mannequin. It scared him.
‘Kirsty.’ He touched her cheek. ‘Kirsty, talk to me.’
For a horrible, irrational moment, he thought she was dead – for the second time in twenty-four hours. But then she stirred. She blinked and looked up at him. But she still she didn’t speak.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you back into bed. Come on, sweetheart.’
She allowed herself to be helped up. He walked her over to the bed and she crawled beneath the covers, burying her head beneath the quilt. He got in behind her and lay with his arm over her, holding her hand. They lay like that all night, neither of them falling fully into sleep. At one point Jamie heard a bird cry outside, and he felt Kirsty flinch. He shushed her and kissed her. The pain and hatred swelled up in him.
They got up as soon as it was light. Kirsty had a bath and Jamie made breakfast. They sat on the sofa and ate, although neither of them had an appetite. Upstairs, Mary had her radio on, and every so often a muffled snatch of recognisable music would break through. The volume must have been up loud.
‘How long do you think it will be before we can move out?’ Kirsty asked. ‘What did the estate agent say?’
‘He said he was sure he could get a quick sale.’ He felt sick. He hated lying to her, even when it was necessary. Actually, he only lied to her when it was necessary.
‘Good. Because I don’t care about the price. I just want to get out.’
‘They’ll have to come round to do a valuation.’
‘When?’
‘I don’t know He said it could take a week – or two.’
‘Jamie, that’s not good enough. I’ll call them today, tell them they’ve got to make it sooner.’
He felt a flutter of panic in his gut. ‘No – I’ll do it. Don’t you worry.’
‘Don’t forget.’
He put down his coffee before she could see his hand was shaking.
‘Are you going in to work today?’ she asked.
‘Yes. I think I’d better. Just to show my face. What about you?’
‘I’m not staying here on my own in the flat. Not with them downstairs.’
‘Well, I could call in sick again and stay at home with you.’
‘No. No, it’s better if we both go to work. We can’t hide away. We have to get on with our lives, Jamie.’ She shook her head. ‘God, I feel so pitiful. I hadn’t even had the baby. Every day I see people whose children are ill. Some of them are dying; some of them do die. Those people have given birth; they’ve seen their children grow, seen them speak and walk.’
‘But you’ve had a miscarriage. That’s like…’ He couldn’t say it.
‘It’s not exactly the same, Jamie. My whole life with this baby was
imagined. It was something in the future. A promise – a promise that has been broken.’ She looked up at him. ‘We can have another baby, can’t we? Can’t we? And this time we’ll be somewhere safe.’
She pressed her face against his shoulder.
‘Yes. We will.’
I’m going to make this place safe, he thought. And then we’ll try again.
He drove Kirsty to the hospital, then on to work. His knuckles were white where he gripped the steering wheel so tightly. He had the radio up loud. The people outside the car – walking along the streets, coming out of shops, getting off buses – seemed like phantoms, blurs of pink and brown, colours running into one another, like rain on a chalk pavement drawing. The music was loud but he couldn’t hear the tune; the lyrics were a babble. It was just noise.
He strode into the building, into the lift, up to the fourth floor. He looked at himself in the lift’s mirror. His face was the colour of undercooked fish; his hair was sticking up in tufts; his tie was crooked, his shirt only half tucked in. He ran a hand through his hair, tried to straighten his tie. It was a half-hearted attempt, and a second later the lift chimed to announce its arrival at his floor. He stood there for a second, looking out. Everyone seemed very busy, moving around in fast-motion, industrious worker bees droning among the humming computers. Above the hum, Jamie could hear the cries of the baby from last night, a sound buried at the back of his brain, pulsing beneath the surface of his skull. How could they have done it? How could anyone be that sick, that cruel? He felt anger boil up inside him again. He breathed deeply.
There was Mike, sitting at his desk, sorting through his in-tray. Jamie strode over to him.
‘Mike.’
He looked up. ‘Jamie, hi. I didn’t think you’d be in today. Are you alright?’
‘I’m fine.’
Mike didn’t let him speak. ‘It’s all been going on around here. The takeover’s been finalised. It’s happened already. The new manager’s been brought in and George Banks has been given the push, with a nice pay-off I expect. After all that rumour and build-up, it practically happened overnight, like some sort of military coup. Still, they say we won’t be affected much.’