I spent the next ten minutes phoning around friends and friends of friends, trying to find someone, anyone who could give me more information about where Melanie might be. I was out of luck. When she’d left school, she’d cut contact with not just me, but with everyone we both knew. After twenty minutes, I had to admit defeat. Those who did remember her didn’t have a clue as to her current whereabouts. Then I had another idea. I used my phone to check out Facebook. If Mel was on Facebook, maybe I could send her a message or find out if we had any mutual friends who might know her location. But she wasn’t on Facebook either. I tried every variation of her name I could think of – Mel, Melanie, Lanie, Lani, her first name, her middle name and her surname and everything in-between – but still no luck.
I was well and truly stuffed.
I had to get away.
I headed for the front door, the sound of the crying baby wrapping itself all around me. Gripping me. Smothering me. I opened the door, every instinct telling me to run.
Get out of there.
Escape.
But the baby was still sobbing in the sitting room . . .
Slamming the front door, I turned and took the stairs two or three at a time until I reached my bedroom. I flung myself down on my bed, staring up at the Beyoncé poster on my ceiling.
What was I going to do?
I couldn’t just lie there, doing nothing.
I needed to get Melanie to come back and take her child away. But how, when I didn’t have her current mobile number or the address where she was going? I didn’t even have her aunt’s name, never mind any other contact details. The walls were closing in on me and there was nothing I could do about it.
I stared past the ceiling into nothing – and waited.
For an idea.
For inspiration.
For Mel’s return.
For this nightmare to end.
For my alarm to ring and wake me up.
For a way out . . .
And I waited.
After about ten minutes, the noise downstairs finally faded away before ceasing altogether. I didn’t move. I counted every fraction of a second after that, waiting for the clink of metal against metal, for the sound of a key turning in the front door.
7
Adam
‘I’m not going to go, Dad.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ Dad’s grip on the steering wheel tightened noticeably. ‘Adam, you’re just going to have a blood test and a scan. That’s it. Why are you making such a drama out of it?’
‘I’m not going.’
Dad’s sigh was long and heartfelt, but if he thought I was joking, he had another thought coming. Wild horses couldn’t drag me into a hospital again. Did Dad really think I was too young to remember what had happened to Mum in one of those places? If so, then he was wrong. I’d watched my mum waste away in front of my eyes whilst the doctors and the hospital had sucked the life out of her. Dad didn’t understand. Neither did Dante. They had thought I was too young to know what was going on at the time so they’d never answered my questions properly or they’d just fobbed me off whenever I’d wanted to know about Mum and her illness. I’m not stupid. I know Mum died of cervical cancer. I know that. But she’d wanted to come home. She hated it in hospital, she’d told me so. And they hadn’t let her leave.
‘Doctor Planter said she was only sending you for some tests as a precaution,’ said Dad.
‘She also said it was probably nothing, just a combination of the weather, fatigue and the extra stress I felt about my exams,’ I reminded Dad.
‘Yeah, but having the tests won’t hurt,’ Dad argued.
I turned to look out of the window. It was pointless arguing. And anyway, my headaches would probably have stopped by the time we got the scan appointment.
Dad remembered to switch on the radio just as we turned into our road. Why bother when we’d be indoors in under a minute? It wasn’t as if we’d hear more than a verse at most. Dad burst into song the moment he recognized the tune. And it sounded bloody awful. He couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.
‘Dad, your singing sucks,’ I told him.
We pulled up outside the house and Dad switched off the engine. ‘You kids just don’t appreciate my unique musical stylings,’ he informed me loftily.
‘Keep telling yourself that.’ I opened the door and hopped out of the car, unable to take that unbearable racket any more. I looked at our semi-detached house with its dark blue front door, painted-white bay-window frames and its tall wooden gate at the side. Like a well-worn but comfortable coat, our house was special in a way that wasn’t immediately obvious. It was something that couldn’t be seen, only felt. And wasn’t luxurious by any means but I was glad to see it. Even though Mum wasn’t around any more, sometimes when I was at home alone or in a room just by myself, I’d swear I could almost hear her, almost smell the rose scented perfume she used to wear, almost hear her laughter like she was only a room away.
Almost.
That’s why I loved our home. That’s why as far as I was concerned, I never wanted to live anywhere else. I headed up the garden path and turned my key in the front door, with Dad following behind, still subjecting me to his musical stylings. I swear he was making my head hurt worse.
8
Dante
I sat up slowly, my toes curling into the blue carpet.
‘Dante, we’re back.’ Adam’s voice rang out from the hallway. ‘Did your exam results arrive? How did you do? I bet you passed the lot.’
‘Did you pass?’ Dad’s voice followed Adam’s upstairs.
I headed for the top of the stairs, where I sat down. My heart was punching against my ribs. Dad and Adam looked up at me expectantly.
‘So how did you do?’ Adam asked with impatience.
‘Four A-stars.’
‘I knew it!’ said Adam, a huge grin on his face.
‘So you managed to pass, did you?’ said Dad.
I swallowed down the disappointment flaring up inside me. But what did I expect? Praise for getting my A levels at seventeen instead of eighteen? Praise for working my butt off ? Some hope.
‘Yes. I managed to pass.’
‘Good for you.’
Don’t strain yourself, Dad, I thought sourly.
We regarded each other. Adam looked from Dad to me and back again, puzzled – the way my brother was always puzzled whenever Dad and I had a ‘conversation’.
‘You’ll be going to university then?’ said Dad.
I forced myself not to look in the direction of the sitting room. ‘That’s the plan.’
Dad gave a snort before heading for the kitchen. ‘If I had your chances, I’d be a millionaire by now.’
And if I had one pound for every time I’d heard that, I’d be a billionaire by now.
Dad turned back to face my younger brother. ‘Adam, I’m making myself a coffee before I head off to work. D’you want one? You can use it to wash down a couple of painkillers.’
‘No, thanks,’ my brother replied.
‘D’you want a drink, Dante?’
I was an afterthought. ‘No thanks, Dad.’
My fists were clenched, and for the life of me I couldn’t get my hands to relax. Would it have killed Dad to show just a little more enthusiasm?
‘So that means you’re out of here and I get to move into your bedroom. Yes!’ Adam punched the air. Then his hand flew to his temple and he let out a groan. Serve him right!
I frowned. ‘Try not to miss me too much.’
‘Are you kidding? I won’t miss you at all,’ Adam scoffed, still rubbing his temple. ‘Dad, can I repaint Dante’s room when he leaves?’ he called towards the kitchen, before he turned back to me. ‘All those pathetic posters of yours can come down for a start.’
‘To be replaced by what? Posters of butterflies?’
‘Butterflies and hurricanes,’ said Adam, making a reference to a song by his favourite band.
‘Butterflies and kittens with big ey
es, you mean.’
Adam had a quick look around to make sure Dad wasn’t looking, before waving two fingers in my direction. If only Dad could see what Adam, his little angel, got up to behind his back.
And all the time, in the sitting room . . .
This was unbearable – like waiting for the other shoe to drop. A concrete shoe, dropped from a great height and plummeting straight for the top of my head. I glanced towards the slightly ajar sitting-room door. Adam started up the stairs, grinning away at the prospect of getting my bedroom.
‘So what did the doctor say, scab-face?’ I asked.
My brother’s smile vanished. ‘She wants to send me to the local hospital for a blood test.’
‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘Nothing – apart from the fact that you’re my brother,’ Adam replied.
I was about to give Adam the reply he deserved when an unmistakable sound came from the sitting room. Nothing as robust as before, but still just as audible and unwelcome. Adam’s head whipped round towards the direction of the noise. And the fact that the noise had just abruptly started meant it couldn’t be the TV or the stereo. There was no bluffing my way out of this one.
‘What on earth . . . ?’ Dad emerged from the kitchen.
I stood up slowly, my heart leaping and my stomach flipping. Dad headed into the sitting room, closely followed by Adam. I headed downstairs, each step leaden.
‘Dante, what’s going on? Why is there a baby in here?’
I stood in the sitting-room doorway as Dad frowned down at the baby. He turned to me when I didn’t answer.
‘Dante?’
‘It’s . . . Melanie brought it round. Earlier this morning. D’you remember her? Melanie Dyson. Its name . . . the baby’s name is Emma. Emma Dyson.’
‘Melanie’s here?’ Dad looked up at the ceiling with a frown. ‘Is she upstairs?’
‘Ooh! Dante’s upstairs with a girlfriend.’ Adam grinned.
At that moment I really, really wanted to pummel him.
‘She’s not my girlfriend. And she’s not upstairs. She’s gone . . .’
‘Gone where?’ asked Dad.
‘She said she was going for some nappies and other stuff for the baby,’ I replied. ‘But she . . . she . . .’
‘What?’ Dad’s frown deepened.
I swallowed hard. ‘She’s not coming back.’
‘What the hell—?’ Dad looked from me to the baby and back again. ‘Why would she leave her little sister here? Has there been an accident?’
‘It’s not her sister.’ I took a deep breath. ‘It’s her daughter.’
‘Her daughter? Why on earth would she . . . ?’ Dad studied me, his eyes narrowing. ‘Adam, go upstairs to your room and do something.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. Find something,’ Dad snapped. ‘And shut the door behind you.’
Dad’s glare swept over me like a searchlight, leaving me with nowhere to hide.
9
Adam
Dad didn’t often snap at me so I knew it was serious. I looked from Dad to Dante and back again. They were watching each other. Me and my headache were forgotten. But at least my headache was beginning to fade away, thank goodness. And from now on, any more headaches and I’d keep that information strictly to myself.
What was going on?
I headed out of the room, closing but not shutting the door. I stomped up and down on the first two stairs, making my steps quieter and quieter to simulate going all the way up the stairs. Then I tiptoed back to the slightly ajar sitting-room door. No way was I going to miss this. I had any number of questions tumbling in my head and I didn’t believe in wallowing happily in ignorance. I didn’t have a clue what was going on, but I was going to make sure I found out.
10
Dante
Reluctantly, I moved to sit down in the armchair. Dad moved back to the buggy, staring down at its contents as the seconds ticked past. How I wished I could tell what he was thinking. The baby looked up at him just as intently, its arms outstretched. Dad took the now-sniffling baby out of its buggy and held it close against his chest. The crying stopped almost at once. It laid its head on Dad’s shoulder. Dad looked out of the window, his back towards me. Time passed in hollow heartbeats. He finally turned round.
‘Dante, what’s going on?’ Dad asked softly.
‘Melanie came round this morning—’ I began.
‘You’ve already said that,’ Dad interrupted. ‘Why did she leave her baby here? And what d’you mean, she’s not coming back?’
‘Mel left it here ’cause she said . . . she can’t cope.’ I didn’t look at Dad any more. I couldn’t. I was leaning forward, talking to the carpet, almost bent double by the weight on my shoulders.
‘Why would she leave her daughter here, Dante?’
Silence.
‘Dante, I asked you a question.’
‘She said . . . Melanie said . . . she said it’s my daughter too. She said I’m the dad.’
The prolonged, profound silence that followed forced my head up, albeit reluctantly. I sat up slowly. I needed to know what Dad was thinking and feeling at that moment, no matter how painful it might be. Dad stared at me, his eyes wide, his mouth hanging open in shocked surprise. With some effort he got it together.
‘This is your daughter?’ he asked, his eyes locked on my face.
‘I don’t know.’
‘But she could be?’
‘. . . Yes,’ I mumbled.
‘You stupid bloody idiot,’ Dad said with intensity. ‘You stupid, stupid . . .’
His voice was too soft. Too quiet. More. He should shout more.
Dad’s eyes closed and he turned his face away from me. He opened his eyes but he still couldn’t look at me. And damn but it hurt to breathe as I watched him. When he finally looked at me again, his laser gaze pinned me to the armchair. He shook his head slowly.
Come on, Dad. Rant at me, call me all the names under the sun. Moronic . . . careless . . . irresponsible . . . foolish . . . reckless – those were just a few of the words already rattling around in my head.
‘How could you be so damned stupid?’
Ah, here it came. The temperature in his voice was rising.
‘I never worried about you the way I worry about Adam because I thought you had common sense. Your mum always said you were the sensible one. She said Adam was the idealist, the dreamer, and that you were the one with your head screwed on straight.’ Dad’s contemptuous glare had me bleeding internally. ‘D’you want to know something? For the first time ever, I’m glad your mum isn’t around to see this.’
The last barb found its target more than any of Dad’s other criticisms. That one cut deep.
Dad’s voice was unnaturally quiet again. ‘Dante, I don’t know what to say to you. I am so disappointed in you. You’ve let me down, but far worse, you’ve let yourself down.’
Like I didn’t already know that.
Dad shook his head. ‘You just don’t get it, do you? I wanted you to aspire to something higher than having a kid at seventeen, for God’s sake. I thought I’d brought you up to be more than just a cliché.’
Is this really what Dad thought I wanted for myself? I wanted to do something with my life, be someone. I didn’t want any of this. Didn’t he understand that?
Dad looked down at the squirming bundle in his arms. ‘So her mother has run off and left you holding the baby?’
I nodded.
Dad smiled grimly. ‘How ironic.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Doing a runner is usually the man’s province, not the woman’s,’ said Dad. He walked over to me. ‘Go on. Take her.’
‘What?’
‘Have you held your daughter yet?’
I shook my head. Only at arm’s length, when Mel had gone into the kitchen. ‘Not really,’ I said. Nor did I want to. Couldn’t he see that?
‘Take her from me, Dante.’
‘Suppos
e I drop her?’
‘You won’t,’ said Dad. ‘Just hold her like you mean it.’
I didn’t move. I didn’t want to hold that thing. But one of us had to budge and I knew it wasn’t going to be Dad. I took the thing, holding it awkwardly. It wriggled in my hands, on the verge of crying again.
‘Hold her properly,’ said Dad.
How the hell did that work? Terrified I was going to drop it, I brought it closer to my chest and readjusted my grip until its cheek was against my shoulder. Luckily it settled and was still. It brought up one tiny hand clenched in a fist to rest against my T-shirt. It was giving off a baby smell, like baby lotion and milk. Its body was warm against mine. Its hair was soft and silky under my chin.
And I hated it.
Dad sat down on the sofa. ‘Tell me everything that happened this morning,’ he said, his voice steely.
So I told him – the edited lowlights, but even those sounded damning.
When I finished, he shook his head again, his eyes narrowing as he contemplated me. He was beyond angry, but unlike most normal human beings, the more angry he became, the quieter he got.
‘You and Melanie were regularly sleeping together?’
My face began to burn. This was not the sort of thing I wanted to be discussing with my father.
‘It was once, Dad. Just once. At Rick’s party. And we’d both been drinking.’
‘Not too drunk to have sex but too drunk to use a condom?’ said Dad scathingly.
‘It was just once . . .’ I muttered.
‘Once is enough, Dante. You’re holding the proof of that in your arms,’ said Dad. ‘Or is Collette or some other girl going to turn up on my doorstep holding another kid of yours in their arms?’
‘No, Dad. I’ve only . . . done it with Melanie, and it was only the once.’ My voice was somewhere below a whisper. Dad only just managed to hear me. But damn it, my face was so hot I could’ve provided central heating for the whole city. Dad scrutinized me. He obviously decided that I was telling the truth – which I was – because his expression relaxed, but only slightly. ‘I can’t believe you and Melanie had a child and I’m only hearing about it now.’
Boys Don't Cry Page 4
