Cry Baby

by Mark Billingham

  ‘Just nice to sit and have a natter, isn’t it?’ The bloke laughed at nothing in particular. ‘Even if you’ve got to shout a bit to make yourself heard.’

  The bloke didn’t look much like a journo. The ones Dean had met so far all looked fucked, basically: fat sods in shit suits or middle-aged women with long nails and dye jobs. This one was a bit younger and fitter-looking, like maybe the paper or the TV station or whoever it was had deliberately sent a reporter who wasn’t like the rest of them and could maybe catch Dean off guard a bit. Only it wasn’t going to work, because they didn’t know how smart Dean was.

  ‘So, like I was saying, I reckon there’s still loads of stuff you haven’t told anyone. I’m right, aren’t I?’

  Dean turned slowly on his bar stool, squinted at his new friend. ‘Right about what?’

  ‘You been keeping stuff back, yeah?’

  ‘Well, that’s for me to know and other people to find out, isn’t it?’ He raised the glass in salute. ‘Cheers . . .’

  The bloke touched his own glass to Dean’s, though Dean had noticed he hadn’t bought himself a fresh pint. He’d been drinking them slowly, one to every couple Dean had been putting away. The bloke nodded then tapped the side of his head. ‘Good thinking, mate. You spunk it all away early doors, you’ve got nothing left anybody’s going to want.’

  ‘Oh, there’s plenty I haven’t told anyone,’ Dean said. He swallowed down a belch, put out a hand to steady himself against the bar. ‘Plenty.’

  The bloke grinned and shook his head like he was impressed. ‘I knew it.’

  ‘All the stories about me and Cat at school . . . how I went off the rails when she cut me out of my own son’s life. All the sex stuff, obviously, and that’s red hot, I swear.’ He looked across at the girls in the corner, who were still eyeing him up.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ The bloke looked a little shocked. ‘People are definitely going to want to know about that,’ he said. ‘I know I do.’

  Dean looked at him. Like the bloke had just happened to recognise him across the pub and decided to spend all night chewing the fat. Like they just happened to be talking about this stuff with Cat and what have you.

  Like Dean was an idiot.

  ‘How much?’ Dean asked.

  ‘How much . . . what?’

  ‘Don’t piss me about, mate. Plenty of others in here happy to get my next drink in.’

  The bloke raised his hands because he knew he’d been rumbled, then leaned close, sober as a judge. ‘Enough.’

  ‘What, enough to get myself a decent curry or enough to buy a new BMW?’

  ‘Somewhere in between,’ the bloke said. ‘Enough to make sure you don’t talk to anyone else. It’ll need to be an exclusive.’

  Dean took a drink, pretending to think about it.

  ‘We can talk numbers later on, but it’ll be worth your while.’

  ‘Yeah, all right,’ Dean said. ‘What you after?’

  ‘Just the kind of thing you were talking about before. The background about you and Cat when you were at school together, all that. What she was like back then. How things changed when you grew up and how the bitch wouldn’t let you see your boy.’

  ‘Cut me out of his life.’

  ‘Exactly,’ the bloke said. ‘Cut you out.’ He downed what little was left in his own glass. ‘It’s a proper human interest story, Dean. A missing kiddy, that’s always going to be popular, and it never hurts if there’s a bit of sex thrown in. What readers want, isn’t it?’

  ‘So, when do you want to . . . ?’

  ‘No time like the present.’

  ‘Well, yeah . . . I suppose.’

  ‘Your place isn’t far away, is it?’

  ‘Ten minutes’ walk.’

  ‘Sod that, we’re on expenses. I’ll get us a cab.’

  ‘Sweet,’ Dean said.

  The bloke heaved himself off his stool. ‘Right, I’m just going to have a quick piss and call my boss to give him the good news.’ He snatched two twenty-pound notes from a bulging wallet and slapped them on the bar as he reached for his jacket. ‘Drink up and I’ll see you outside.’

  FORTY-TWO

  It wasn’t just his regular glass of wine before bed that was making him feel somewhat . . . maudlin. He’d not been himself an hour or so earlier either, when he’d taken the boy into the woods. Normally he was energised and chatty during their outings, pointing out things he thought might be of interest – a particularly ancient tree, perhaps, or some animal tracks – but he’d been distracted and, in the end, he’d cut it short and apologised to the boy because their walk hadn’t been as much fun as usual.

  He hadn’t been as much fun.

  This was no long, dark night of the soul, though, and he certainly wouldn’t have gone as far as to say he hated himself, because he didn’t. It was about a healthy degree of self-awareness, no more than that, about taking stock and admitting that – looked at objectively – what he was doing was not entirely normal. It was entirely abnormal, of course it was. It was right, though; he knew that absolutely. Entirely the right thing for him and for the only other person he loved, but he wasn’t mad or stupid, so he knew very well that others might struggle to see it that way.

  Those who upheld the law.

  Those who reported these things and passed judgement.

  Those who would cheerfully burn his house down given half a chance, who would sneer and spit and hold their children close, when they weren’t slapping them in supermarket aisles.

  So, no . . . he was not ashamed of what he’d done, or who he was, but there were one or two regrets, certainly. Or maybe he was being a little hard on himself. It was probably just the wine and the silence and the darkness outside, combining to make some things feel like mistakes, when the truth was there wasn’t a fat lot he could have done differently.

  His hand had been forced, simple as that.

  He hadn’t wanted to use that shackle and chain, for heaven’s sake. Same as he hadn’t wanted to take the TV away. He’d really not wanted to take such drastic action, but the boy had been getting slightly too jumpy and even though everything was fine now as far as the noise was concerned, that busybody postman had made him jumpy, too. It wasn’t how he’d wanted things to go at all. He’d only kitted out the cellar as a last resort, because he’d guessed there was a chance the boy might play up a bit, but it wasn’t ideal. It was always Plan B. On a magic island, the boy would have adjusted to his new situation a little faster, been a bit more enthusiastic all round, and if he had . . . well, they’d be sitting up here in comfort together right now, wouldn’t they?

  Laughing, playing, whatever.

  Yes, he’d been a touch optimistic, but he wasn’t going to beat himself up about it. The best-laid plans and all that. He’d adapted, even if the boy hadn’t, and it would all be worth it in the end.

  His intentions had been good; were still good.

  He just wanted to make someone he loved happy and why the hell should he apologise for that?

  God, he was tired . . .

  He’d always been a light sleeper. Never one of those jammy buggers who could sleep through a thunderstorm, or a bombing raid. The slightest noise might easily have him lying awake for hours, besides which he often struggled to get comfortable. Top-of-the-range mattress and fresh cotton sheets . . . 500 thread count, it didn’t matter. He could always feel the smallest lump or irregularity underneath him, any wrinkle in the duvet cover, and he was especially sensitive to extraneous material on his pillowcase.

  Grit, feathers, anything.

  He was all a bit . . . princess-and-the-pea, that’s what one woman had said to him once. Shaking her head while he tossed and turned. Laughing at him before she’d turned over and gone to sleep herself, and all the time blissfully unaware that she was what was making him uncomfortable.

  She was the grit. A hulking great bag of the stuff.

  He sat back, feeling a little more relaxed than he had ten minutes earlier, less fretful. Th
e wine tasted better and the silence was comforting. He’d finish the glass, perhaps have another, then call it a night. He’d wander down and say sweet dreams to the boy, then head up and hope that tonight he might get some of his own.

  On the street six floors below her, Cat could hear them celebrating.

  The incessant honking of horns and the bellowing. England chanted with an extra syllable in the middle and that song she kept hearing everywhere.

  The night was still and muggy, and the waves of sound floated up easily from the Holloway Road, but it wasn’t the incessant racket Cat was finding hard to bear. It was the fact that something so unimportant could make people as happy as this. Yeah, drink had plenty to do with it, but still.

  Something so daft, so fucking trivial . . .

  When she was just a dead thing, shambling around.

  Fact was, her Kieron would have been every bit as happy as they were; jumping about, singing along with everybody else and getting the words mixed up. He’d been getting excited about the tournament for weeks, looking at the pictures on the backs of the newspapers and putting up a wallchart in his room. Cat had bought him a replica shirt specially and he’d insisted on having one with a number 9 on the back, because Alan Shearer was his favourite player. Little as he was, he’d already had several of the bloody things. Billy had bought him a Babygro with a flag of St George on it, for pity’s sake.

  ‘He’s a cracking little player already,’ Billy had said. ‘A natural, I’m telling you.’

  Cat remembered shouting at him one day when he was kicking a ball against the lift doors, telling him to stop, because she knew someone would come out and complain. She remembered the look of concentration, his tongue between his teeth, as he ran towards the ball. The glee each time he made contact. She could still hear the echoey slaps of the ball hitting those metal doors; punches to her heart.

  She got up and walked slowly across to the window, opened it as far as it would go and shouted at the people on the street to shut up. Screamed her pain into the night. A few seconds later she was answered by a slurry voice from a window a couple of floors below her own.

  ‘Shut up yourself, you miserable cow.’

  She stepped back inside and lay back down. She rubbed the soft nylon of that small, brand-new number 9 shirt against her face and wondered how long it would take. The fall from six floors up.

  She would never know for sure, of course, not with bits of herself spread all over the place like sick on the concrete, but she guessed that might shut them all up for a while.

  FORTY-THREE

  They didn’t say a lot on the short taxi ride to Dean’s flat on Kingsland Road, which suited Dean fine. He was happy to let the cabbie do most of the talking – the weather, the match, the IRA scum – because he just wanted to lean as close as possible to the open window in the hope that he might start feeling a little less dizzy, and in case he threw up. He’d been drinking most of the day and hadn’t eaten since lunchtime. Now he just needed to get home and get this interview out of the way, trouser some more cash and go to bed.

  ‘Neighbours must be excited.’ The reporter-bloke was staring up at the darkened windows of the other flats in the house, while Dean fumbled in his pocket for the door keys. ‘Living this close to someone who’s in the papers.’

  ‘Never seen them,’ Dean said.

  ‘London, right?’

  Inside, the reporter shifted a pile of dirty clothes on to the floor and perched on the edge of Dean’s sofa, while Dean necked a glass of water in the kitchen and rummaged unsuccessfully in the cupboards for something quick to eat. When Dean came back into the living room, the reporter had a notebook and pen in his hand.

  He said, ‘Just start wherever you like.’

  Dean sat down and did exactly that. He talked about meeting Catrin Coyne on their first day at school, how they got on because she wasn’t soppy or snotty like some of the other girls, because she was . . . sparky, you know? Because she was up for a laugh and would take the piss or whatever. He talked about how they became mates. Yeah, they’d got off with each other at parties a few times, he said, school discos and all that, but they were never a proper couple or anything. Not until later, after Cat’s old man had been put away.

  ‘This is gold,’ the reporter said. ‘Just what we’re after.’

  When he got to how Kieron had come along, Dean exaggerated the sex with Cat a little bit – how many times they did it, where and for how long – and because he guessed the paper probably couldn’t be very explicit, he tried telling it in a way they’d be able to print. Made love instead of shagged, passionate instead of dirty. He thought that was pretty clever and showed how he was really getting the hang of these things.

  ‘You were right.’ The reporter nodded. ‘Hot stuff.’

  Dean shrugged. ‘Well, you need to know what happened, right? All the ins and outs.’

  ‘That’s funny,’ the reporter said. ‘I might use that.’

  ‘You getting it all, though?’ Dean pointed towards the notepad. ‘You’ve only written a couple of things down.’

  ‘Shorthand,’ the reporter said.

  ‘Oh, course,’ Dean said.

  They had been talking for about twenty minutes, and Dean was describing his anguish at being excluded from his son’s life. He’d said it all before to other papers, so he tried to find different ways of describing things to make it all sound a bit . . . fresh, or whatever. To tart it up a bit. He was just telling the reporter about walking the streets at night in floods of tears, and how upset he’d get if he saw other dads out and about with their kids, when the doorbell rang.

  The reporter stood up. ‘They wanted to send a photographer. That all right with you?’

  ‘Yeah, whatever.’

  The reporter walked over to buzz open the front door while Dean stood to check himself out in the mirror above the electric fire. He was still wearing his replica England shirt, which would be fine, he decided, because he hadn’t worn it in pictures for any of the other papers, on top of which he thought it made him look pretty cool.

  He turned when the photographer walked in and laid down a shoulder bag.

  ‘This do you?’

  ‘Looks great.’ The photographer eyed him up and down. ‘Patriotic is always good.’

  The reporter put his notebook away and picked up his jacket. ‘Right, then, I’m about done, so I’ll leave you to it.’

  ‘You sure?’ Dean asked. ‘You got everything you need?’

  ‘Plenty.’

  ‘Don’t forget that stuff about how upset I got seeing other dads.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘The crying and all that.’

  ‘No worries.’

  When the reporter had left, Dean stood waiting with his hands in his pockets. He nodded at the photographer’s bag and said. ‘Doesn’t look like you’ve got a lot of gear in there.’

  ‘Got one of these flashy new digital cameras.’

  ‘Yeah, seen them in the shops,’ Dean said.

  The photographer opened the shoulder bag. ‘Cost an arm and a leg, but they’re tiny.’

  ‘Cool.’ Dean turned to adjust his hair in the mirror. ‘So, where d’you want me?’

  ‘What you were saying when I came in about getting upset? Crying or whatever.’

  ‘Yeah. Broke my fucking heart not seeing Kieron.’

  ‘That’s really powerful, so I was thinking about a shot of you looking out of the window, out into the night kind of thing. Show everyone just how gutted you really are.’

  ‘Atmospheric, like,’ Dean said.

  ‘Right. All moody, like you’re upset, but hopeful. Because you know your son’s out there somewhere.’

  ‘I like it.’ Dean walked across to the window. ‘It’s a bit different . . . arty or whatever.’ He stared out beyond the blur of his own reflection, thinking that a few yards of his shitty patio and the roofs of the warehouses on the other side of the fence were not exactly what he’d call arty, but that i
f offers like this one kept rolling in he might be able to move to somewhere with a slightly nicer view.

  ‘Yeah, that’s nice.’

  ‘Looking out like this?’

  ‘Perfect. Stay like that . . .’

  Thinking that, whatever the picture looked like in the end, he really had no idea if Kieron was out there. If he was anywhere. Yeah, he was milking it all a bit because he needed to and that’s what the papers wanted, but honest to God, he did feel bad. A weird, empty sort of feeling, and he knew it would be ten times worse for Cat, and the truth was he had really liked her, once upon a time.

  They had been mates.

  Reflected, he could see the photographer stepping across and moving into position behind him and Dean pressed a hand against the glass because he thought it would be dramatic, which was when he saw that it was not a camera the photographer was holding.

  ‘Fuck are you—?’

  Meade turned quickly, but it only meant that the knife went into the side of his neck as opposed to straight through the back of it. In, one-two, then out again, wet-sounding. He staggered back, his hand scrabbling at his neck and his head cracking the window pane, before he dropped hard to his knees, then tumbled on to his side.

  He tried to speak, but it was just a silly gurgle.

  The photographer did have a camera, but it wasn’t remotely flashy. A crappy Polaroid borrowed from a friend, because the pictures were needed fast and they weren’t going to be the kind of snaps you could just pop along to get developed in Boots.

  It’s not what it looks like. We’re making a horror film . . .

  The first few came out very well, nice and colourful, especially when they’d been lined up alongside each other on the sideboard.

  ‘Looking good, Dean . . .’

  Meade cried out, or tried to. His feet pedalled slowly against the floor as he began to drift away. He turned his head and coughed up a thick red mist on to the carpet.

  There was an awful lot of blood already, of course, starting to pool beneath his shoulder and pouring through his fingers; spurting between a couple of them like a knackered water fountain and soaking into his sleeve. Still, something extra a bit lower down, just a couple of decent splotches, would really stand out, the photographer thought. A simple red stain or two, spreading nicely against the white of that stupid football shirt. They would show exactly how the fucker had died, bit by bit.