Bye Bye Baby

by Allan Guthrie

"And you always thought I was wrong," he said.

  "That's because you're always losing."

  "Well, not this time."

  "You smug bastard, James." She smiled. "How much did you win?"

  "Enough to pay for this cruise." And then some. The cruise cost six thousand. Which left him with precisely one hundred and nineteen grand.

  "How much?" she asked again.

  "Just what you've got there," he lied. "Plus a couple of grand spending money."

  "You've spent it all on me?"

  "On us," he said.

  She leaned forward and kissed him. "Sometimes," she said, "you can be a very nice man."

  ###

  Author's Note

  The original short story now follows.

  Bye, Bye, Baby by Allan Guthrie

  Banging at the door again. It's the police.

  They're going to tell me my son's dead, I know it.

  While they were gone, I've emptied the drinks cabinet, downed most of what I can find. Vodka, whisky, sherry. Couldn't face the crème de menthe.

  Me and alcohol. Shouldn't have the stomach for each other. I'm still sober enough to appreciate the irony of that.

  More banging.

  Maybe they'll tell me to calm down again. Like that'll help. Your child goes missing, you don't calm down.

  And do they care anyway? No, they left me here on my own while they hightailed it to talk to the teachers. As if those bastards were ever going to be of any help. And Lyle? Even less.

  Jesus, I could use another drink. Only let booze back into the house a couple of years ago. I did bloody good, all right?

  I think I said that, though. To the police. Not about the alcohol. About the teachers. About them being liars. Did I say that? I don't know what I said. Not got Bruce to remind me, have I? He's gone. Gone, sweet Jesus.

  That pounding again. My pulse throbbing in time with it. They're not going to go away. They know I'm at home.

  "Mrs Wilson?"

  That'll be me. I should answer. But my legs won't move.

  If the police tell me he's dead, I don't know what I'll do.

  ###

  A couple of hours earlier the two officers were sitting in my living room. A male and a female, can't remember their names. I'm not so good with names these days. I hadn't offered them tea like I was supposed to. Maybe that was rude. But a cup of tea was neither here nor there, surely.

  "In your own time," the policewoman said. "What happened?"

  "I went to pick up Bruce from school." I looked at them, one after the other. The woman rested the end of her pen against her chin, her mouth slightly open. Her male colleague scratched his cheek. He looked crumpled, from his face to his shoes. I kept it simple for them. "He wasn't there."

  "You usually pick him up where, exactly?"

  "No," I said, shaking my head.

  "No?"

  I kept shaking my head, aware that I must look daft. "Not 'usually'," I said. "Always. I always pick him up outside the school gates. I'm always there when the bell rings."

  "And he wasn't there today?"

  "That's right."

  "He wasn't in his classroom?"

  Give me strength. I didn't even bother answering that one.

  "Maybe one of the other parents …?"

  I was shaking my head again, so the policewoman stopped talking, wrote something in her notebook.

  After a while, she said, "How can you be so sure?"

  "I stay out of their business. They stay out of mine."

  Caught a look between the officers, as if I'd said something important. Maybe I had. Nobody wanted to hear about tragedy. People wanted to get on with their lives and tragedy held you up. Even someone else's tragedy could hold you up. It could infect you like some kind of wasting disease. Surprised no one's asked me to wear a bell round my neck so they can hear me coming.

  Didn't want to think about bells. Could still hear the school bell ringing.

  "What about the boy's father?"

  Of course, they didn't know. Course they didn't. Talking about it didn't hurt quite so much now. I'd learned over the years how best to handle it.

  "John's dead," I said. Caught another look between them, this time with a touch more sympathy in it. "Car crash," I continued. "Got ploughed into head-on by a drunk driver. Bastard took a corner on the wrong side of the road." These days I didn't even bother adding that he'd survived. "Killed John." Sometimes I think I don't blame anybody, but I'm not fooling myself. I blame everybody.

  "I'm very sorry to hear that." Strangely enough, it was the bloke who replied. He pressed his thumb into the crease above his lip as if it helped him think. When his hand moved away, I noticed his scar. Maybe he'd fallen and punched a hole through the skin with a tooth when he was a boy. It was the sort of thing kids did, wasn't it? "How old was your son at the time?" he asked.

  "It happened seven years ago in March," I told him. "Bruce was just a baby. Eight months old."

  Look at me! Dry eyes. There's progress.

  The police officers didn't know what to say. One after the other, they cleared their throats. I almost felt sorry for them.

  Eventually, the male officer said, "Do you have a photo of Bruce, Mrs Wilson?"

  "Bruce is camera shy."

  "It doesn't have to be a good photo. Anything will do. Just so we have a likeness."

  I said, slower this time, "Bruce is camera shy," and waited for the next question. But they liked this one.

  "You don't have any photos?" the bloke asked again.

  "He doesn't fucking like having his photo taken," I said, probably a little too sharply judging by their wide-eyed response. I said it again, softer, without swearing, eyes downcast like a good fucking girl.

  "What about a school photograph?"

  "What is it you don't get?" I said, getting to my feet and banging my shins against the coffee table. I used the pain to help me focus. "I won't put Bruce through any kind of an ordeal. I won't do that. He's suffered enough, losing his father. Can you imagine what that's like? I know he's too young to understand, but the older he gets, the more it shows and he acts out and … and I let him, I suppose. Maybe I spoil him a bit. But he hurts. I know. I feel it." And now I was crying and angry with myself for losing control. I shook the tears away. "My boyfriend says Bruce is damaging our relationship. Can you believe that? Blaming my baby?"

  "What's your boyfriend's name?"

  "I should have said ex-boyfriend," I said. "I got fed up with Lyle's jealousy. I finished with him about a week ago. Told him to leave us alone. And that's what he's done."

  "Lyle who?"

  "Whittaker. Lyle Whittaker."

  "Do you have his address?"

  I gave it to them. The female officer wrote it down in her notebook.

  "I'm sorry to have to ask this," her colleague said. "But did your relationship with Mr Whittaker end amicably?"

  I shrugged. "He called me a 'mad bitch'. But he didn't throw any punches. Is that amicable?"

  "Might Mr Whittaker have picked up Bruce from school?"

  "Lyle wouldn't dream of it."

  "I think we should talk to him anyway."

  "Whatever you think."

  We sat for a bit, staring at each other. Then the woman said, "Could we see Bruce's room?"

  "Why not." I got to my feet, led them down the hallway and up the stairs. I swung Bruce's bedroom door open and stepped inside.

  They followed me in, started to look around. I half expected them to make a note of the titles of all the books in his bookcase, list all the games stacked in the corner, the toys in their boxes. I could offer to do it for them, blindfolded.

  "No TV?" the male officer asked.

  "I don't like him watching too much TV."

  "Computer?"

  "He's not old enough to be interested."

  "Really? My two were into computers from before they could speak."

  "You have two boys?"

  "Yeah. Older one just had his thirteenth bir
thday. His brother's ten."

  I was about to ask their names when the female officer asked, "Have you tidied up in here?"

  "No need. Bruce is a neat little boy."

  "Very," she said. "Noticed anything missing? Clothes, maybe? Money?"

  "Money?" I said.

  "I just wondered," she said. "Kids sometimes have a bit of cash stashed away."

  "Not Bruce," I said. "He doesn't need money."

  She looked at me again, waiting for something. "Clothes?" she said. "Any clothes missing?"

  I shook my head.

  "Can you take a look, please, just to make sure?"

  Sweet Jesus. I pulled out the drawers, pretended to scan through the wardrobe. A couple of minutes later, I said, "Everything's here. Apart from what he's wearing."

  "Let's go over that once again," she said.

  I told them he was wearing his school uniform, and described it, and mentioned the Hearts scarf he liked, which he wasn't allowed to wear in class. He always took it off outside the school gates and stuffed it in his schoolbag.

  The male officer said, "And there's really not a single photo of him?"

  If I wasn't such a nice person I'd have leapt across the room and choked him.

  Instead, I looked into his narrow blue eyes and said, "John was the positive one." The officer looked puzzled for just a second.

  Fuck it, I wanted to make him feel bad. I wanted some company.

  "Bruce's dad," I said, and then added, "My husband. Remember?"

  The poor bloke winced and nodded and said, "Yes, yes," and mumbled, "John, of course."

  I was a bitter, twisted bitch.

  But I was paying for it.

  Memories faded and vanished. It was only a question of when.

  "You know what it's like not being able to say sorry?" I said. I felt my fists clench. "We'd argued, me and John. Just before … It was a silly thing, didn't know it would become important. He hadn't shaved for a couple of days. I asked him if he was growing a beard. He was already stressed out, rough day at work. I didn't realise how much until he told me to shut up. Told me to stop nagging him. That was the day before the accident. And I never apologised to him, and now I can't tell him I'm sorry. Can't tell him that he looked just fine." I couldn't picture his face any longer, couldn't see the offending stubble. "I was a total fucking idiot! I've lost John. I can't lose Bruce too."

  "I think you should sit down," the female cop said. "Calm yourself. And don't jump to conclusions."

  "Yeah," I said. "Okay." I was out of breath. I'd been walking up and down, pumping my fists. I needed a drink.

  ###

  So here they are back from talking to the teachers, speaking to Lyle. If I didn't know better I'd say from the sound of the banging at the door that they're annoyed. Maybe Lyle said something bad about me. And no doubt the teachers were no help. Nothing new there. Should have warned the police before they left. The school doesn't like me.

  The banging. Annoyed banging. Not urgent.

  Annoyed, yes.

  It'll be okay.

  I get my legs moving, stumble to the door, and when I open it, the police officers stare at me like something terrible's happened.

  God, let Bruce be okay.

  In a voice that sounds more formal than earlier, the male officer says, "Can we come in?"

  I lead them back to the sitting room, walking carefully so they don't spot I've been drinking. I want to ask them what's happened to Bruce but I'm afraid of the answer. I offer them tea, remembering my manners. No, that's not true, I'm trying to postpone what they're about to tell me. But they don't want tea. Or coffee. And then I notice the empty bottles lying around and start to clear them away. Then I realise all I'm doing is drawing attention to them, so I just leave them where they are. Hidden in plain sight.

  Although they're not hidden at all.

  Everything's out in the open now.

  The officers are looking at each other. Seems as if they're egging each other on to say something but neither of them has the courage.

  I hear myself say, "How did you get on?"

  "To tell the truth, it was a bit of an eye-opener," the male officer says.

  For a moment, I'm thinking this is a good thing, but then I see his face and realise it's not.

  "We spoke to Mrs Lennox, the headmistress."

  I nod.

  "And Bruce's teacher, Mrs Carruthers."

  I nod again.

  He looks as if he wants to say more, but can't.

  His colleague takes over. "They told us about the accident, Clare."

  Oh, God. Oh, God, no. I was right.

  "An accident?" I whisper. "Bruce has been in an accident?" I shouldn't have answered the door.

  "They told us how you and John and Bruce were in the car that night."

  "Yes." Yes, we were. But I wonder what that has to do with Bruce being missing.

  "Your ex-boyfriend, Mr Whittaker … Lyle … he told us too. How John … how John died on impact."

  Died on impact. Sounds so much better than 'crushed to death'.

  "They told us how you suffered terrible injuries and almost died."

  "But here I am." My skull had shattered. Bone fragments pierced my brain. Apparently it was a fine old mess in there. "Good as new, see?"

  "They also told us about Bruce."

  "They told you what?" I ask. "They know where he is?"

  The policewoman presses the heels of her hands against her temples. You'd think I was screaming at her."I can't do this," she says.

  "If they know where he is, you have to tell me. Take me to him. Please," I say. Why the hell do they want to keep it a secret? What's going on? Maybe I should scream after all.

  "You really don't know," the male officer says before I have a chance to fill my lungs. It's clear from the way he rubs his hands together, as if he's washing them, that he's not asking a question. "We were considering charging you with wasting police time." He pauses, his hands still, and I try to digest what he's just said. It makes no sense.

  "Wasting your time? My son's gone missing. You're supposed to help me find him. Isn't that what you do?"

  "Mrs Wilson," he says. "Your son was in the car the night you were hit by the drunk driver."

  "I know," I tell him. I know. I know. Me and John and Bruce. We were all in the car.

  "Your son died that night."

  Oh, listen to him, will you? "Ask for help and this is what I get?" Sweet Jesus. Sweet fucking Jesus.

  "Bruce died that night," the female officer adds, as if saying it enough times will make it true.

  The driver's face is all I can see. It's a white blur. I close my eyes just before the cars smash into one another. I wake up in hospital two days later with a terrifying headache.

  That's what I remember.

  I wipe my eyes.

  "I think you should go," I say.

  "Is there anyone we can call?"

  "I really think you should go. Now."

  "Mrs Lennox said you were seeing someone. A psychiatrist."

  "Get out. Get the fuck out."

  "We're just trying to help."

  "Get the fuck out!" The female officer approaches me and stretches out a hand, but I bat it away. I know what they're trying to tell me. They're not the first. And they won't be the last.

  But they're wrong. My baby's alive and well. I make him a packed lunch every day. I take him to school. I pick him up from school. I take him to the park. I play with him. I have dinner with him. We talk about his daddy. I bathe him. I put him to bed. I read him stories. I do bloody good, all right?

  "The bond we have," I tell the police officers. "It's special. And nobody's going to break it."

  They look at one another and turn to go. "Clare," the female officer says. "You need help." Her colleague grabs her arm, tugs her towards the door.

  "No, I don't," I whisper. "I'll find Bruce on my own. I'll find him. I will."

  ###

  Allan Guthrie is an award-winni
ng Scottish crime writer. He was born in Orkney, but has lived in Edinburgh for most of his adult life. His debut novel, Two-Way Split, was shortlisted for the CWA Dagger award and went on to win the Theakston's Crime Novel Of The Year in 2007. He is the author of four other novels, Kiss Her Goodbye, Hard Man, Savage Night and Slammer; and three novellas, Kill Clock , Killing Mum and Bye Bye Baby.

  Visit Allan at www.allanguthrie.co.uk

  Or follow him on twitter at http://twitter.com/allanguthrie