by C. J. Skuse
White and Nerdy: Train delayed Hard thinking about 2nite, babe X
Sweetpea: I know, Kam. I can’t wait to see you too.
White and Nerdy: See you at 6pm x
Sweetpea: Will you bring me some flowers?
White and Nerdy: Of course baby. Anything for my girl X
*
This city is CCTV mad – like pigeons, they’re on every rooftop – but this hotel isn’t for some reason. I checked it out on Google maps before I said I’d meet him here. Google maps is a good friend to someone like me. The hotel’s your bog-standard Premier Inn on the outskirts of the city – three storeys high, car park peppered with wind-blown litter and backing onto a care home. There’s a leafy walkway through to the care home. Nicely dark, nicely quiet.
I have exactly one hour until our coach leaves the pub one mile away. Operation: White and Nerdy has begun.
Please don’t do it, Mummy.
*
My new Big-Ben-synced wristwatch tells me it’s precisely 6.25 p.m. White and Nerdy is twenty-five minutes late. He may have pussied out.
*
6.39 p.m. Still no sign of him. I’m not giving up yet. This is too good an opportunity and I’ve come too damn far.
*
It’s 6.43 p.m. I’m now hiding with my shopping bags behind a sign advertising ‘Sunday lunches’ and ‘Kids eat free.’ Someone has daubed an S in front of ‘kids’, hilariously. My steak knife vibrates in my pocket. What a waste of time and effort. Bloody paedophiles are so unreliable.
It’s not safe. Go back to WOMBAT. The coach will be leaving soon.
*
6:46 p.m. – I hate this guy. The old feeling is back in the centre of my chest – acid reflux and pure unfettered rage are a bad combination. And I’ve left my Gaviscon in the magazine pocket on the coach.
Stop, Mummy, go back to the coach park, this isn’t safe.
*
6:48 p.m. – Some loud people have just walked past the hotel entrance and gone into the Hungry Horse. They’ve spooked him perhaps. Or if, as I initially thought, he was bullshitting me about being on the train and hasn’t even left the comfort of his laptop in his parents’ spare bedroom.
I was going to go easy on him. Now I want to eviscerate the bastard.
Please don’t do it. You don’t know the area. Anyone could see you. It’s too risky. GO BACK TO THE COACH.
*
6:51 p.m. – A man’s appeared on the leafy path. He’s wearing a red hoody and jeans, scuffing his trainers. He has no arse in his jeans – classic paedo sign – and he’s got a rucksack on. I wonder if it contains the alcohol I requested. He’s checking his phone. Can’t see his face. I have to make sure it’s him.
Don’t get your phone out. Don’t switch it on. The police can triangulate it. They’ll know you were here.
But at that second, the man turns around. He’s carrying flowers.
Sweet peas.
Bingo.
Please don’t do it, Mummy. Please. Please.
‘I wouldn’t put us in danger unless I was sure.’
My heart starts to thump. I can’t catch my breath.
PLEASE! What about me? I might get hurt.
‘Pipe down. Momma’s got work to do.’
No, I won’t let you. Go back to the coach, now! GO BACK! GO BACK! DON’T DO THIS!
*
The coach was late leaving anyway, thanks to a burst colostomy bag and an accident on the bypass which meant the driver had to recalibrate his satnav. Now we’re pootling along in heavy traffic – my heart’s still thumping, my face still sweating. The chatterings include choruses of ‘Oh, Wasn’t York Minster Lovely?’ and an encore of ‘None Of Our Husbands Understand Us’.
I, Rhiannon Lewis, walked away from a certain kill tonight. From certain happiness. I’ve never done that before. Reserves of unused adrenalin have flooded me and I feel so sick. My heartburn has ignited but I’m out of Gaviscon. The air conditioning has completely broken.
And there’s this pain in my stomach.
Sunday, 12th August – 14 weeks exactly
We had to stop twice on the motorway for me to vom. I would be embarrassed but I’m too angry. And my stomach still hurts.
I thought it would have eased by the time I got into bed last night but it got worse. In the toilet at the services I saw blood on my pad. Only a tiny bit but it was unmistakeable. I couldn’t put it down to the light in the toilets or my tired eyes – it was red.
It’s pitch dark and raining outside my bedroom window – the rain’s pattering on the leaves of the horse chestnut. I need the loo again but I daren’t. Last time I went there was more blood.
‘Please stop hurting me,’ I said.
I don’t like it when you kill people, Mummy. You have to stop.
‘I didn’t kill him. I stopped.’
You’re going to lose me like you lost Daddy. You’ll have to wrap me in a bedsheet too when I bleed out of you.
‘Stop hurting me. Stop that pain.’
No. You have to learn. This isn’t good for me. Your adrenalin rushes, your blood pressure rises and I get scared. You have to keep me safe.
Radiating pain racked my lower body so deeply I could feel it in my knees. I took two paracetamol and felt a throbbing sensation in my knickers. I clamped my thighs shut tighter.
I put bath towels on the bed and lay as still as I could. ‘Am I losing you?’
You will lose me if you kill people. I don’t want to do that. I don’t like it.
‘You TOLD me to cut your father into pieces not so long ago. Did you grow a conscience when you formed eyelids or something?’
That was to get you out of a situation. You’d already killed him. I couldn’t stop that. But I can stop you now. You get caught, I get caught and that can’t happen.
‘I won’t get caught. You need to trust me. You know how I get when I don’t kill. I suffer, you suffer. Stop that pain, please.’
I held my breath for as long as I could before letting go. I kept doing it until I couldn’t hear the voice. Within an hour, the pain had dissolved to an ache, then a wisp of discomfort, before disappearing altogether.
‘Thank you.’
He didn’t answer.
When I woke up this morning, I had to wee but I didn’t look in the toilet. I knew a lot of liquid had come out. Heavy liquid. I flushed. I caught a brief glimpse of my pad – redder.
‘Talk to me. Say anything. I need to know you’re still there.’
Nothing.
I think it’s gone. I think I flushed it away.
Monday, 13th August – 14 weeks, 1 day
My appointment was twenty minutes ago but they’re running late. I’m not as annoyed as I could be. I can wait a bit longer to be told I’ve lost my baby. For a person who has few actual feelings, I’m feeling a hell of a lot right now.
Guilt. Anger. Acid reflux, of course. Adrenalin. Fear. Emptiness. So much emptiness.
I don’t want this to be the end. Okay, so I hadn’t planned this baby, nor was I enjoying pregnancy but I liked it being there. I liked lying in bed watching my belly, knowing I wasn’t alone. Now faced with being told I’m empty, I ache. I know I don’t deserve it. I know if anyone deserves to sacrifice their kid for their sins it’s me, but I’d rather be dying myself right now than lose it. I’ve brought my Bible with me to the hospital. I thought it might help. I haven’t been able to focus on it for long – my mind keeps wandering to What’s Coming Next – but I figure just holding it could help. There’s a Qur’an on the bookshelf. And a Torah. Might try them as well in a minute.
‘Rhiannon Lewis?’ the woman said, appearing as if from nowhere rather than the door I’d been staring at for the past half hour. A water balloon burst in my chest. I didn’t notice anyone looking over but I heard the whispers ‘Is that her from the news?’ ‘Priory Gardens.’ ‘Boyfriend’s in prison… ’
I was ushered into the same dim little room with the gurney where I’d had my twelve-week scan two
weeks ago. The sonographer was pretty nondescript – brown bob, chunky heels, chin wart, wedding ring. How do people with chin warts get husbands? Beats me. She sat down beside the gurney.
‘Right if you’d like to hop up on the bed and get comfy. Can I pop your t-shirt up and tuck your trousers over? That’s it.’
‘Pop’ and ‘tuck’. Such sweet words – such an abominable prelude. By this point, my heart was doing somersaults.
‘Are you all right? Feeling a bit weepy? Okay, let’s get this done, shall we?’ She tucked some scratchy tissue paper under my bra and waistband, squirted the gel on my tummy then pressed the probe around.
I looked up at the ceiling. I didn’t want to see that black screen.
Chin Wart pressed over my abdomen and I’m lying back, counting the ceiling tiles, tears trickling into my ears. The screen reflected in her glasses.
‘Don’t you want to see it?’ she asked.
‘What happens now? What do I do?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Where does it go?’
There was this noise. Thumping.
‘Is that my heartbeat?’
‘No, it’s your baby’s heartbeat.’
Chin Wart showed me the screen. It was there. It was still there. It had a head, a skull, a spine. Long legs, little stubby arms. And a heartbeat.
‘It’s still there?’ I gasped. ‘I didn’t piss it out?’ I was crying freely by now.
‘No,’ she frown-laughed. ‘You thought you’d miscarried?’ I nodded – it was all I could do. ‘It’s right there, look.’
The image warped and went all underwatery, like we were going into a different world, but there it was – this little alien thing. With long legs like AJ’s. I’ve been wondering if it will look like AJ when it comes out. If it comes out. If it doesn’t dissolve in my acidic juices in the meantime.
‘I can’t believe he’s still in there,’ I said, and Chin Wart laughed too as though Duh? Where else would he be?
‘Ah love,’ she said, handing me a tissue. ‘It’s all right. It’s all good.’
Bloody feelings again. Bloody this feeling again. This horrible ache. This horrible surging ache. ‘I can’t believe it.’
I noticed the little throbbing in the middle of the alien. It wasn’t just a blob – a Grain of Rice, a Fig, a Lime. It was a tiny human who’d survived all the shit I’d put it through. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Millions of scans are done all over the world, every day, and to every woman when they see their baby it’s the most fascinating thing. The only difference here was that this was my baby. How was this murdering body nurturing this living thing?
‘How big is it now?’ I asked, wiping my eyes on my sleeve, ‘I’ve been sort of measuring it in fruit and veg.’
‘Oh fruit-wise I think we’re talking about a lemon now.’
We’ve come a long way from the poppy seed. I could see arms, legs, eye sockets, brain, bones. I’m doing something right amidst all the wrong.
‘You’re sure it’s okay?’
‘I’m as sure as I can be,’ she said. I told her about the bleeding. ‘Speak to your doctor about that. All looks fine here as far as I can see.’
I’ve never been good with trusting people but I guess I have to. Chin Wart’s the one with the qualifications and I thought I’d thrown out my own baby with the piss water. She said the pains last night could have been ‘practice’ contractions.
‘If all goes well, there’s nothing to suggest you won’t carry to full term.’
There’s a troubling phrase – if all goes well. Nothing certain in this game.
‘Is there anything I can do to keep it happy?’
‘Keep taking your Pregnacare vitamins. Eat the right foods. Take it easy. Don’t do anything too strenuous, nothing that’ll raise your blood pressure.’
Catfishing paedos and baiting rapists definitely off the agenda then.
‘I’ll be a good girl, I promise.’
The Lemon was going ballistic on the screen, bouncing around like he was on a little trampoline. It made me laugh.
I strode out of the hospital like I was in a Beyoncé video. I stopped at the Tesco Metro to buy some health shit – chia seeds, curly kale, all that Pinterest crap The Thinspirators swear by. I stopped by the hardware store and bought the smoothie maker in the window. I walked up to the Well House, feeling as springy as when I’d killed that taxi driver, that rapist in the park, that guy in the canal. What if Marnie was right – maybe being a mum is my bliss? Maybe giving life is better than taking life after all?
As I was walking the Cliff Road, I heard a voice…
I’m back.
‘You sneak… where did you go?’
Just giving you a scare, that’s all.
‘Unbelievable.’
Yeah I know. But you had to be taught a lesson, didn’t you?
‘You were right. It’s all about me and you now. I’m going to be good.’
Sure?
‘Yeah. I feel fantastic. I haven’t felt this good in ages. Now I know I’ve still got you, I don’t need to kill anymore. You’re all I need to get by.’
Are you sure I’m going to be enough for you, Mummy?
‘Yes.’
What about Sandra Huggins?
‘I don’t need her.’
What about Patrick Edward Fenton?
‘I don’t need anyone.’
I stood outside the front gate, stopping to take in the breath of sea air on the clifftop. I breathed in the scent of the wisteria on the back wall. I kicked off my shoes and climbed up onto the raised bed where I’d buried AJ, scrunching my toes so the soft earth ran through them like sand. It felt like coming home.
I think this is all I need. This is enough. This is my bliss.
Ten weeks later
Thursday, 27th September – 20 weeks, 4 days
1.Jim and Elaine and their utter inability to watch any news bulletin, TV programme or film without providing a joint commentary on it.
2.People (Jim) who scroll through TV channels too fast.
3.Jim and Elaine’s neighbour Malcolm who is converting his attic and banging wood from dawn to dusk – I hope you fall off your scaffolding and break your fucking neck.
So I guess it turns out that being good means being BORING.
Nothing has happened. Seriously. It’s all been pretty pass-the-noose. I have spared you updates on my bowel movements, trips to the garden centre with Jim and Elaine and TV marathons of Call the Midwife and some war saga Jim likes. I have become a dried up husk version of my former self.
On the plus side, the baby is still okay. Also - I’m hairier; yet another side effect nature has thrust upon me without warning. I’ve given up shaving. There’s no point going to bed dolphin-smooth just to wake up looking like Hagrid. For a while, it was easy. My focus had shifted. Now, it’s shifted back again.
Physically, I’m feeling better. No more sickness or chronic thirst, energy levels are up. I’m getting the odd headache and spate of constipation and my breasts feel like two tenderised beefsteaks but my moods are, on the whole, as level as they can be. I’ve been doing a preggo yoga DVD with Marnie in the front room (which usually turns into a game of The Floor is Lava or we collapse into hysterics from all the farting), I’m practising my breathing with the help of YouTube tutorials (well, I’ve watched ten minutes of one video) and I’ve been trying my best to avoid situations likely to make me angry (i.e. people).
In short, I have kept to my word and been a good girl. Ish.
Until today. Today has pushed me to the edge and dangled me over it.
First thing this morning, Elaine walked in on me having a wank. They said they were going to Sainsburys and both called out ‘Goodbye’ and I could have sworn I heard the front door close behind them. As it turned out, Jim had only gone out to put the bags for life in the boot. Elaine then took it upon herself to come back upstairs for her Nectarcard and then ‘popped my head round to say goodbye’ only to see me, legs
akimbo.
It’s not as though I could pretend I was doing anything else because I was butt-naked and the vibe was going at top speed. I didn’t even hear the door open – she just apparated at the bottom of my bed. And though I threw my vibe across the room, it was still switched on and juddering across the carpet like a maniacal worm – I had it on the ‘Tongue’ setting.
Damn woman.
When they came back from shopping it was slightly awks for a bit but, my hormones had settled down and I joined them out in the garden – Jim was picking lettuces, Elaine drinking her coffee and doing her Sudoku, and Tink was chewing her squeaky duck. I sat cross-legged under the Japanese maple listening to them chit-chat while I read my pregnancy book. We were a family again.
Until after lunch – roast lamb for them and onion and feta tartlet for me, followed by rhubarb crumble. We then sat down for a cup of tea and the afternoon movie – Forever Young, starring Mel Gibson.
Now I might be packing more manic than your average street preacher but I think even the mildest person would get irritated watching a film with Jim and Elaine. I was also bone-tired after a massive pastry-heavy meal – the kind of tired where you feel you’re constantly dragging around a dead bear whenever you move – and I kept falling asleep only for these sodding World War II fighter planes on the surround sound to keep waking me up.
But if there’s one thing an irritable pregnant psychopath who’s had her daily wank interrupted doesn’t need it’s to spend the afternoon explaining the plot of a movie to a pair of halfwits, one of whom was knitting and the other whose eyes were on twenty-two down ending in LY.
It all started when Mel Gibson came out of his suspended animation chamber at the army barracks.
