by Ben Cheetham
She left the motorway behind for the dreary urban landscape of Stretford, passing rows of tightly packed terraced houses shadowed by tower blocks. The streets became leafier as she headed into the more affluent surrounds of Chorlton-cum-Hardy. She arrived at Naomi’s school just in time. Children and parents were streaming out of the gates. Butterfly spotted Naomi chatting to her friends. Slowing the car to a standstill, she waved and called to her. Breaking into her usual toothy smile, Naomi ran to the car. Her raven black hair streamed across her pale, delicate face. She swept it aside as she ducked into the front passenger seat.
“Hi Mum.”
Butterfly’s heart gave a squeeze of pleasure. Naomi had only recently started calling her mum. Butterfly had always made it clear that she wasn’t trying to replace Rebecca. She simply wanted them to be friends. But one day a few weeks ago, during the normal course of conversation, Naomi had called her mum. There had been a little silence afterwards as if neither of them were quite sure what to say next. Then, with a sheepish look in her big blue eyes, Naomi had asked, “Is it OK to call you Mum?”
Butterfly had smiled and replied, “Of course.”
From then on Naomi had seemed to relish calling her it every chance she got. It was as if in the three or so years since Rebecca’s death, she’d been storing up a surplus of the word ready for use. No one had ever called Butterfly mum before. It was still taking a little getting used to. Mostly it gave her a deep warm feeling to know she was loved and needed. But behind that there lurked something else – a queasy mixture of fear and uncertainty. Fear because at any given moment the bullet lodged in her brain might shift position and finish the job it had started. She wasn’t so much afraid for herself – she’d come to terms with living in the shadow of that possibility – she was more afraid what effect it would have on Naomi to lose another mother. The uncertainty was a more nebulous thing. In the space of ten months she’d gained not only a new identity, but a family. She had no real sense of who she’d been before the bullet erased her memories. Nor did she have a firm grasp on who she was right now. At first, she’d been swept along on a wave of circumstance with hardly a moment to consider where she’d come from or where she was going. But now the wave was slowing, she was left with the feeling of being adrift in a strange sea, not knowing which direction to swim in.
On the way home, Naomi chatted about her day. Butterfly was content to listen. It was far preferable to thinking about what had happened at the nursing home. By the time they pulled into the driveway of a modest semi-detached house, her headache had once again receded to a nagging ache. Charlie woke up as he was lifted out of the car. A smile lit up his rosy-cheeked face at the sight of Naomi. He stretched his hands towards her. Butterfly unhesitatingly handed him over. It took a lot for her to trust people with Charlie, but Naomi had proved herself more than capable of looking after him. She was a dab hand at feeding him his bottle, changing his nappy and rocking him off to sleep. She would sit with him for hours, playing, reading to him, watching Cbeebies. Butterfly had remarked many times that she wasn’t sure how she’d cope without her.
Holding Charlie’s hands, Naomi walked him into the house. The pair of them went into the living-room. Butterfly smiled at the sound of them playing. She headed for the kitchen and set about preparing a meal. Jack had been called into the office early that morning. It wouldn’t be long before he was home.
Chapter 2
Jack slung his laptop bag over his shoulder and all but dashed for the exit. It had been a long day. He’d been called out to a fatal stabbing in the city centre at 5 AM. A student walking home from a night out had made the mistake of resisting a mugger. His reward had been multiple stab wounds to the neck and chest. He was dead long before the paramedics got to him. The mugger had been caught on CCTV near the scene of the attack. Facial recognition software had identified him as one Darren McNeill, a well-known local scumbag with a history of petty criminal activity as long as Jack’s arm. By midday, McNeill had been picked up at home out of his skull on Spice, the synthetic drug that was taking Manchester by storm, leaving its users slumped semi-conscious or making them hyper-aggressive. McNeill fell into the latter category. He’d ferociously resisted the officers who rammed their way into his Rusholme flat, punching, kicking and biting until they finally subdued him. The dead man’s wallet and phone were subsequently found in his bedroom. By mid-afternoon he’d been charged with murder and the case was all but wrapped up. A criminal mastermind he was not.
Steve followed Jack out of the door. “Another delightful day at the office,” he said sarcastically. “Don’t you just love meeting so many wonderful people?”
Jack barely cracked a smile at the comment.
“What’s up with you?” asked Steve as they got into a lift.
“I’m knackered that’s what.”
“Yeah well, babies will do that to you.”
Now a smile slid across Jack’s lips. “How many months gone is Laura?”
Steve’s handsomely grizzled face contracted into a grimace. “Fuck you, Jack. You know exactly how far gone she is.”
Jack broke into a laugh. “Sorry mate.” He gave Steve a commiserating pat on the back. “I still can’t believe I’m going to be an uncle. I was starting to think it would never happen.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought too.” Steve shook his head. “I’m still not sure how it did happen.”
“Well it’s a bit like getting inoculated. All it takes is a little prick.”
“Fuck you, Jack,” repeated Steve.
Jack laughed louder, dodging out of the lift as Steve made as if to take a swing at him. They made their way along a corridor buzzing with colleagues coming off and going on duty. A glass door led them to a large carpark enclosed by a tall wire-mesh fence.
Steve took a deep breath of the rain-scented air. “God, I’m gagging for a pint.” His phone pinged. He glanced at it. “Your sister wants me to pick up some pickled onions on the way home. She’s been eating a jar of the sodding things a day.” His nose wrinkled. “I used to like them, but now the smell makes me want to puke.”
Jack gave him a more serious look. “How are things going between the two of you?”
Steve shrugged. “Pretty good, all things considered. I mean five months ago we were both living on our own, not looking for anything more than a good time. Now we’re living together, expecting a flippin’ baby.”
Jack resisted the temptation to raise an eyebrow. Not looking for anything more than a good time. That might have been the case for Steve, but Laura had long been hankering for something more serious. She was heading into her forties. Her biological clock was ticking down. A fact of which she’d been acutely aware. She’d contented herself with looking after Naomi whilst Jack was working, but Butterfly’s arrival had lifted that responsibility from her shoulders.
Jack wasn’t blind. He’d seen the half-happy, half-sad way Laura looked at Charlie. That was why he hadn’t been blown off his feet when she announced that she was pregnant. That’s not to say he wasn’t surprised. Steve was in his late forties with a failed marriage and two kids in the rearview mirror. He loved to get his hands on Charlie, but he loved to hand him back too. He took great pleasure in ribbing Jack over the bags under his eyes and the baby sick on his tie. He saw his own teenage son and daughter once in a blue moon. He was at his happiest chucking back pints in the pub. The idea that he would willingly plunge back into the crucible of parenthood was as absurd as it was irresponsible. But nature had taken its course and, despite taking the usual precautions, it looked like it was going to happen. Laura had tearfully confessed to Jack that it felt like some kind of miracle. Steve had drunkenly told Jack that he sometimes wondered if he was being punished for sins from a past life.
As if reading Jack’s expression, Steve said, “I know what you think of me, Jack.”
“I think you’re a good bloke.”
Steve smiled lopsidedly. “Yeah, a good bloke to have a laugh with down the
pub. But not the sort of bloke you want knocking up your sister, eh?” He held up his hands, palms out, as Jack frowned. “I’m not having a go. I agree with you. I’m not father material. I never was. I royally fucked up my marriage and my kids are paying for it. But I’m going to do things differently this time. I’m going to be there to change the nappies and feed the little blighter. I’m going to be there for Laura too, no matter how many jars of stinking pickled onions she stuffs down her throat. I promise you that.”
“You don’t have to promise me anything, Steve.”
“I know but I want to. And if I don’t keep my word you’ve got my permission to kick my arse.”
Jack’s smile returned. “I’ll look forward to that.”
“Yeah, I bet. Right, I’d better get to the supermarket.” A cheeky twinkle came into Steve’s eyes. “But first things first, I’m going to grab that pint. I deserve it after the day we’ve had.”
Jack glanced at the ultra-modern glass and concrete facade of Greater Manchester Police HQ where Darren McNeill was effectively beginning a minimum twenty-five-year sentence. He thought about McNeill’s victim – a nineteen-year-old student. One life cut short before it had really begun. Another destined to rot in prison. McNeill deserved every one of those twenty-five-years, but still… what a waste. He sighed. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
Steve nodded. He knew exactly what Jack was getting at – should anyone even be bringing another life into this shitty world?
“See you tomorrow, mate,” said Jack. “Say hello to Laura for me.”
“Will do.”
As Steve headed for his car, Jack called after him, “Oh and don’t forget the pickled onions.”
Steve flipped him the finger in reply.
Chuckling, Jack ducked into his car. As he drove across Manchester, he brought down a mental shutter on the last ten hours. After Rebecca’s death, he’d made himself a promise not to bring his job home. It wasn’t easy, especially on days like today when the job rested on his shoulders like a slab of concrete, but he was determined not to burden his family with that weight. He skirted the city centre, heading south through Hulme and Moss Side. The nearer he got to home, the lighter he felt inside. He knew it was selfish, but he hoped Charlie hadn’t gone down for his afternoon nap. A few minutes spent playing with him was all he needed to wash away any lingering traces of his day.
When he pulled into the driveway, Naomi came to the front door. She was carrying Charlie in her arms. The smiles they gave him made everything – getting up at 5 AM, spending half the day in an interrogation room with McNeill – worthwhile. “Hello you two,” he said, smiling back.
“Hi Dad,” said Naomi.
Charlie burbled, excitedly flapping his hands. Jack lifted him from Naomi’s arms and nuzzled his soft cheeks. Jack’s smile faltered as Butterfly emerged from the kitchen. She looked washed out, but she summoned up a small smile for him. He stooped to kiss her, then drew back giving her a concerned look. “How did it go with your grandma?”
“She was having one of her bad days. Even Charlie couldn’t get a smile out of her.”
“And how about you? How are you feeling?” As Jack spoke, his gaze rose to the round red indent on Butterfly’s forehead.
“Tired,” she admitted, somewhat self-consciously lifting a hand to sweep her hair down over the scar.
“Any more headaches?”
Butterfly glanced meaningfully at Naomi. “We’ll talk later.”
Jack went into the living-room with Naomi and Charlie, picking his way across a jumble of building blocks and soft toys. Peppa Pig blared from the television. A half-eaten rusk was encrusted to the sofa. Jack peeled it off before lying down and hoisting Charlie overhead. Charlie screamed with delight as Jack manoeuvred him around making aeroplane noises.
“I’ll go see if Mum needs any help,” said Naomi.
Jack smiled at her. Butterfly didn’t like to talk about her headaches in front of Naomi, but that didn’t stop Naomi from picking up on what was going on. She had Jack’s eye for reading people, coupled with an acute sensitivity to their needs. If Butterfly was struggling, Naomi would instinctively recognise it and do what she could to help out. Her mother had been the same. In the end that sensitivity had become too much for Rebecca to cope with, pushing her over a cliff’s edge. Jack was constantly watching for signs that Naomi was going down the same path, but she didn’t seem to suffer in the same way her mum had. She’d apparently also inherited her dad’s capacity to endure and survive.
After a while, Naomi returned to tell Jack tea was ready. They went into the kitchen and Jack strapped Charlie into a highchair. As they ate, they chatted about light topics – the changing weather, a new tooth Charlie was cutting, Naomi’s homework. Jack divided his time between feeding himself and spooning a whizzed-up vegetable concoction into Charlie’s mouth – much of which the ten-month-old spat straight back out. Jack cast an occasional worried look at Butterfly. She was smiling and chatting along, but he knew she was in pain. There was a telltale tightness to her face.
By the end of the meal Charlie’s highchair looked like a crime scene. “I’ll bath Charlie and put him to bed,” said Jack.
Butterfly gave him a grateful smile. He took Charlie upstairs, leaving her and Naomi to clean up the carnage. He ran a shallow bath. Charlie splashed about delightedly in the water. Afterwards, Jack powdered him with talc and put him in a clean nappy and baby-grow. The routine was comfortingly familiar. When Naomi was a baby, Jack had made a point of putting her to bed every night no matter how exhausted he was from work. Partly circumstance had obliged him to do so – Rebecca’s post-natal depression had often left her wiped out by the end of the day – but mainly it was because those moments spent watching Naomi playing in the bath or drifting off to sleep as he sang to her were the ones he treasured most.
Jack fed Charlie his bottle, before laying him down in his cot and reading to him softly from the ‘Hungry Caterpillar’ book that had been Naomi’s favourite. Charlie’s eyelids slid shut. Jack closed the book and crept from the room, leaving the door ajar.
“Is he asleep?” Butterfly asked as he entered the living-room. She blew out her cheeks in relief when he nodded.
“Where’s Naomi?”
“Doing her homework in the kitchen.”
Jack started to tidy away the toys, but thought better of it. He dropped onto the sofa beside Butterfly, sighing contentedly as she curled up against him. “So come on, tell me about it,” he said after they’d both taken a moment to drink in the precious silence.
“The headaches are getting worse,” she said. “But it’s not just that…” She hesitated as if unsure she wanted to say more.
“What else is it?” Jack gently pressed.
“Today at the nursing home I lost my temper with Charlie.”
“It happens.”
“No I mean I really lost my temper.” Butterfly’s eyes dropped away from Jack’s, heavy with shame. “I almost hit him.”
Jack frowned. “But you didn’t.”
“No,” Butterfly replied quickly, shaking her head for emphasis. “I’d never…” She faded off into uncertainty. “Would I?” she murmured as much to herself as Jack.
“Of course you wouldn’t.”
“You weren’t there this afternoon, Jack. It wasn’t only Charlie I lost it with. I was ready to swing for anyone who came near me. It was like…” She searched for the right description. “It was like I wasn’t myself… Or maybe I was myself. Maybe that’s who I really am.”
Now it was Jack’s turn to shake his head. “It’s the bullet. Doctor Summers said that if you experienced these kinds of mood swings you should contact him at once. Have you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m sick of it. The scans, the blood tests, the medication. What good does it all do?”
“If the bullet’s moved there might be a chance they can operate and take it out.”
A stran
ge, troubled light flickered in Butterfly’s eyes. “And what if they can take it out, Jack? What then?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if when they take the bullet out it changes me? Changes me back to who I was before. I might become a person you don’t know. Someone you can’t love.”
Jack took Butterfly’s hands in his. “I’ll always love you.”
She looked at him with a questioning hope. “Are you sure of that?”
In answer, he leaned in to kiss her. He kept his lips pressed to hers until he felt the tension leave her. “Promise me you’ll call Doctor Summers,” he murmured.
“I promise.” She pulled him in for another kiss. Then they held each other, listening to the blissful silence.
Chapter 3
She was running through a gloomy wood – or rather, she was trying to. Her movements were maddeningly slow, as if she was wading through glue. She was gasping for breath, not simply from exertion, but from terror. Her breathing became even more strained as a voice rang out, “Run, run as fast as you can.”
She tried to do so, but her limbs refused to obey. She sobbed with frustration.
The voice came again, “Stop! We want to eat you.” Laughter followed, growing louder, until it seemed to be coming from all around her…
Charlie’s cries yanked Butterfly out of the dream. Her heart was going like a runaway train. Her eyes goggled, trying to work out where she was. Then she remembered and exhaled in relief.
She slid from beneath the duvet, grabbed the bottle of milk that had been prepared for such an eventuality and hurried to the nursery. Shushing Charlie, she lifted him out of his cot and placed the bottle’s teat between his lips. He sucked on it hungrily. After he’d finished feeding, she walked around the room, rocking him until she was sure he was fast asleep. As gently as if she was handling high explosives, she lowered him back into the cot.
