The Great Escape

by Fiona Gibson

‘Well, no, it’s not really Mama,’ Barney explains. ‘It’s just a lady – the farmer’s wife – and she doesn’t look anything like Mama, does she, with that funny bun hairdo …’

  ‘Mama!’ Dylan cries, swiping at the page.

  ‘I think she quite liked me,’ Pete muses.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Amy …’ He grins smugly.

  ‘But I thought you were seeing …’

  ‘MAMA!’ Dylan cries as Barney quickly turns the page.

  ‘No,’ he murmurs. ‘Mama gone …’

  ‘Waaaagh!’ Dylan yells.

  ‘I didn’t mean Mama gone, not real Mummy, she’s only in Glasgow, I mean the book one, we’ve turned the page now …’ He looks down. While Milo is whimpering, Dylan’s mouth has opened in a great circle of misery as he thrashes around on Barney’s lap.

  ‘It was only a casual thing with Christina,’ Pete explains, seemingly immune to Dylan’s anguished cries. ‘And Amy’s cute, don’t you think … God, are babies always like this?’

  ‘Yeah, no, they’re just unsettled … look, could you go to the fridge, top shelf, there are two bottles in there …’

  Pete holds up his bottle of Becks. ‘It’s okay, I’ve only just started this …’

  ‘Not beer! Milk. There are two bottles, defrosted, that I’ve kept in reserve. There’s only a little bit in each but it’ll probably be enough to send them off …’

  ‘Er, right.’ Pete stands up and places his beer at his feet, but doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.

  Barney looks at him. ‘The fridge, Pete. In the kitchen.’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ Pulling his lips tight, Pete gives the wailing babies a worried glance as he hurries out of the room.

  Barney breathes deeply as he hears the fridge door open. ‘Right,’ Pete mutters, as if confronted by a virtually insurmountable task. ‘You mean this bottle on the shelf in the door, right?’

  ‘Yep. Bring two, though. They haven’t got their heads around the concept of sharing yet.’ Despite the now stereo crying, Barney is trying to sound light and jovial for his old mate who’s schlepped all the way out to deepest Cambridgeshire to see him.

  Pete reappears in the living room and thrusts the two bottles at Pete. At the sight of them, Milo and Dylan wail and kick furiously. ‘No, I should have said they don’t like it fridge-cold …’

  ‘Er … what should I do then?’ Glancing down at the distraught babies, Pete takes several steps back. ‘Heat it up in the microwave?’

  ‘No!’ Barney exclaims, louder than he intended.

  Pete frowns. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it could burn their mouths …’

  ‘God, Barney,’ Pete guffaws. ‘I might not have kids, but I am capable of microwaving a couple of bottles without heating them to, like, two hundred degrees …’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ Barney snaps, ‘but the books say microwaves heat liquids unevenly and there can be dangerous hot spots.’

  ‘Right,’ Pete says slowly.

  ‘It’s just …’ Barney shrugs, deciding not to even attempt to talk his friend through the workings of the bottle warmer, ‘it’s safer to run them under the hot tap, if that’s okay.’

  Pete smiles condescendingly. ‘Sure. I think I can manage that.’

  Barney waits, jigging his children rhymically on his knee. It takes Pete what feels like forever to warm the two stubby bottles and thrust them at Barney.

  ‘You couldn’t feed Milo for me, could you?’ Barney asks.

  Pete stands before him, gripping the bottles like a couple of grenades. ‘Well, um … I’ve never actually held a baby before. And babies don’t like me. They think I’m a terrifying, horrible man. Look …’ He focuses hard on Milo and Dylan who are no longer crying but gazing expectantly at Pete.

  Barney laughs. ‘Looks like you’ve bonded already. Here you go …’

  ‘Well. … All right then. If you’re sure …’ Pete hands him one of the bottles, then cautiously lifts Milo from his lap.

  ‘Of course I’m sure.’

  ‘I just don’t know how to … do this.’

  ‘Just sit down with him and pop the teat in. Nothing to it …’

  ‘Okay …’ Pete treads gingerly towards the armchair, carrying Milo as if he were made from the finest glass, and lowers himself into it. ‘Just pop it in?’ he repeats.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘What are you sniggering at?’

  ‘Just this. You and me, feeding a baby each. Who’d have thought …’

  ‘Yeah.’ Pete chuckles as Milo starts to suck vigorously on the teat. ‘Actually, this isn’t so bad. I don’t see what people make so much fuss about. All those books, the parenting classes – God, it’s hardly rocket science is it?’

  ‘Well, there’s a bit more to it than this,’ Barney says with a grin.

  ‘Is there?’ Pete pauses. ‘Yeah, well, I suppose there’s the nappies and being woken up at night occasionally, and maybe not being able to go out as much as you used to …’

  No, Barney wants to tell his friend. Of course there’s all that, but that’s fine, that’s all perfectly manageable compared to what it does to you as a person, and the woman you love, the sexy party girl with feline eyes who suddenly, without warning, decides that you’re a crappy excuse for a father. Not that she says so exactly, at least not with words. But with a look … Barney is chewing this over when Pete cries, ‘Oh, fuck!’ and Milo emits a startled peep as the top plops off the bottle and milk sloshes all over Pete’s left trouser leg.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Barney exclaims.

  ‘What happened?’ Pete cries.

  ‘You mustn’t have put the top on properly!’

  ‘I didn’t touch the top. I just took it out of the fridge like you said …’

  ‘You can’t have, you must have fiddled about with it …’

  ‘Why the hell would I fiddle—’

  ‘Well, it’s never fallen off like that before …’

  ‘Can’t you just make up some more?’ Pete asks.

  ‘No! It’s not actually physically possible …’ Pete peers at him uncomprehendingly. ‘That was one of the reserve bottles,’ Barney snaps over Milo’s cries, ‘the stuff I’d kept back in case of emergencies.’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘Breast milk.’

  ‘What, this is breast milk?’ Pete glares down at his wet trouser leg. ‘Like … out of Sadie?’

  ‘Of course it’s out of Sadie! Who else would it be out of?’

  ‘Well, I …’ He studies the milk stain with revulsion. ‘It just feels a bit weird, that’s all …’

  ‘It is natural, you know …’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry,’ Pete mutters, standing up and cradling Milo to his chest before handing him back to his father.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Barney mutters as Pete picks up a discarded bib from the coffee table and tries to dab himself dry. ‘Just don’t mention this to Sadie, all right?’

  Pete frowns, and Barney notices that a large, damp patch has appeared on the armchair. ‘Why not?’

  He breathes slowly, wondering now if his oldest friend will ever come out to visit him again. ‘Because,’ he says quietly, ‘it took her about four hours to express that milk.’

  FORTY-TWO

  There are three answerphone messages when Spike returns home. One is from his mother who, for some unfathomable reason, thinks he’s keen to hear about Annie Bartholomew, an old neighbour of theirs – correction, not Annie Bartholomew, a joyless crone who’d once knifed a football Spike had kicked into her garden. No, the hot news concerns Annie’s daughter who’d been happily married and then gone off – just like that – with her daughter’s best friend’s father. Nice of Annie to visit … we do like visitors, you know. Breaks up the long days. But Annie’s daughter, you remember the blonde one, big legs, she’s gone off the rails … don’t know what she sees in him, always thought he was a layabout …

  Spike tunes out, removing his footwear and rubbing the sore bit where his
bare left heel has been rubbing violently against the back of his shoe. ‘And on top of all that,’ his mother adds, ‘Annie’s had bother with that catheter.’ Spike shudders, making a mental note to never turn into the kind of person who relishes talking about other people’s malfunctioning internal organs, even if he lives to be a hundred and five, which is unlikely, considering his lifestyle. ‘We haven’t heard from you for a long time, Donald,’ his mum goes on. ‘Why don’t you and Lou come up sometime? We’d love to see you – both of you – and could you please thank her for that brooch she sent for my birthday? It’s very pretty, bit modern for me but I’ll try wearing it on my camel coat …’

  Spike flicks on the gas fire and sits cross-legged on the living room carpet, noticing a smattering of crumbs embedded in it. Why does his mother still insist on calling him Donald? Spike’s real name is Donald Wren. Not just a bird, but the smallest, least significant native bird in Britain – although Spike often consoles himself with the fact that it could have been worse, it could have been Puffin or Tit. Even so, Spike grew up always knowing he’d be a musician, and that Donald Wren was no name for a star. He’s been Spike since he was thirteen years old. As his mother’s voice warbles on, he gets up and flops onto the sofa. The cushions are squashed flat from his earlier lounging, but he can’t be bothered to plump them up. That’s the kind of thing Lou does – plump cushions, wipe the kitchen worktops, place packets of mangetout in the fridge. If she is up to something with that Felix and it splits them up – and by now, Spike’s pretty sure she isn’t – he wonders if living a single man’s life, with no cushion plumping going on, would not be that bad after all. ‘Anyway, bye, Donald,’ his mother trills. There’s a pause, as if she expects the machine to say ‘bye’ in response. ‘Er … I’ll just go then,’ she mumbles, unable to disguise the hurt in her voice.

  ‘Hey, Lou!’ chirps Steph, Lou’s work friend, as the second message clicks in. ‘I know you’re away, hope you’re having an amazing time, just wanted to let you know I’m having a girls’ night round at my place next Thursday, about eight-ish … make sure you keep it free, okay? There’s quite a few coming over …’ Spike frowns at the phone, wondering why thirty-something women insist on referring to themselves as ‘girls’, and why they enjoy clustering together in girly groups whenever they get the chance. It’s not that Spike doesn’t like Lou’s friends. In fact, he always enjoyed being around Sadie and Hannah in Garnet Street, especially when they were drifting around all damp-haired and towel-clad after a bath. Yet he always suspected that, no matter how friendly they were with him, he was somehow hovering around the edge of the group, and never wholeheartedly welcomed in. Perhaps they were in awe of him. That was probably it, he concedes as Steph finishes her message with an irksome ‘bye, sweetie!’

  The third message starts to play. Er, hi Lou, it’s me! Erm … Johnny … At the sound of his voice, Spike springs up as if jabbed with a cattle prod. D’you remember? From upstairs at your old Glasgow flat? God, I know it’s been years. Look, er, I know it’s horribly late and you’ll probably think this is completely bizarre …’ Jesus Christ. Spike thought that hanger-on had disappeared from Lou’s life years ago. This might sound mad but I was out tonight and I noticed these people in this little cocktail place in Bath Street, can’t remember what it’s called, and I looked down to the basement and I thought I saw you! Sitting at a table by the window with two girls who looked just like Hannah and Sadie, and you were there too, at least someone who looked exactly like you, with your boyfriend …’ Her boyfriend? What the hell is she up to? Er … but of course, if you are in Glasgow you won’t be picking up this message … so anyway, bye!

  Spike blinks at the phone, all traces of alcohol instantly evaporating from his bloodstream. He needs to hear that message again to make sure he hasn’t gone stark raving crazy. It’s a clunky old answerphone, and in order to play it again, he’ll first have to listen to his mother rambling on about catheters, and Steph’s girly invitation.

  All through the messages, he sits, tension building in his shoulders and brain until it’s Johnny Lynch again, who just happened to spot Lou and the others sitting in a bar by the window – was he stalking them or what? And who the hell was this ‘boyfriend’ – Felix, the ponce with the truffles? Lou must have been kissing him or wrapped up in his arms at the very least. Spike’s fury morphs into acute anguish as he stands up, swipes ineffectually at the cream plastic phone on the coffee table and marches through to the kitchen – their kitchen, where Lou has cooked him billions of meals, with a slight overreliance on the wok, maybe, while he chatted about the details of his day. The first tear startles him, oozing without warning as he lowers himself onto a chair. He’s crying over Lou and this boyfriend in Glasgow, and he’s crying over sleeping with Astrid, which he should never have done, and the guitar his dad bought him, having saved up the money for months because Spike – sorry, Donald – had begged for one.

  He virtually gave away the guitar to Rick at Sound Shack – let a precious thing go, just like that. And now he’s lost Lou too. It was karma, he thinks bleakly. If he hadn’t sold the guitar, simply so he could spend all weekend having it away with Astrid Stone, then his life wouldn’t be one great bloody car crash right now.

  Blundering back into the living room, Spike looms over the phone, hands bunched into tight fists. Then he picks up the receiver and dials Charlie.

  ‘Hey,’ Charlie says, ‘you all right, Spike? Get home okay?’

  ‘Er, yeah. Yeah. Um … just wondered, d’you have that guy’s number, what’s-his-name …’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘The roadie. The one in the Spanish bar. Henry, was it?’

  ‘It’s Harry … why?’

  Spike purses his lips and exhales, making a noise like air hissing out of a punctured tyre. ‘Um … you know, I was thinking I might go to Glasgow with them in the morning, just for a laugh.’ He chuckles unconvincingly, fixing his gaze firmly on the brandy bottle on the coffee table, as if it might somehow anchor his thoughts.

  ‘You mean you’re going to check up on Lou?’ Charlie exclaims. ‘Just because she put some pissed bloke on the phone to you?’

  ‘No!’ Spike retorts. ‘Of course not …’

  ‘So why d’you want to go, then?’

  ‘I just …’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Just thought I could come along for the ride,’ he adds feebly, ‘so if you could give me that number …’ That’s better. He needs to make it sound like a jaunt, rather than a desperate attempt to salvage his relationship.

  Charlie makes a snorting noise. ‘No need, Spike. He’s right here. We came back to their hotel bar for a little nightcap. I’ll put him on …’

  ‘Hey, Spike,’ Harry says, sounding even younger on the phone than he did in Bar Circa.

  ‘Er, hi. I was just wondering, are you, er … still heading up to Glasgow tomorrow?’

  ‘Yeah, ’course we are …’

  ‘You know what?’ Spike is pacing his living room now, hoping it’ll make him feel calmer. ‘I think I’ll come, if you’re still all right about that. Just for the ride …’

  ‘Right, and your girlfriend just happens to be there on that hen weekend,’ Harry reminds him with a snigger.

  ‘Yes. Yeah, she is! So it’ll be, er … good. To see her, I mean …’ There’s an awkward pause, and Spike feels himself breaking into a sweat.

  Okay,’ Harry says warily. ‘Well, we’ve got room like I said. Can you come over before ten? Know where we’re staying?’

  ‘Yeah, I know it …’

  ‘See you bright and early then.’ There’s a burst of laughter in the background, but Spike doesn’t care. He’s going to Glasgow tomorrow – in an ambulance – to reclaim the woman he loves.

  FORTY-THREE

  Sadie wakes up just before seven, taking in the unfamiliar layout of the room. Pale light filters in through a sash window, and there’s already the hum of city traffic in the street below. Sadie remembers her bespoke cocktail, although sh
e can no longer recall what was in it – something vaguely toffee-ish – and she remembers dancing like she hasn’t danced in years. But after that, it’s all just a blur of somehow making their way back to the hotel and something about the lift being broken … then … nothing.

  Despite her hangover, Sadie is shimmeringly awake. The babies have usually been up for at least an hour by now, and even with a fuzzy head, she is no longer capable of sleeping in. She glances to the left: no Barney, of course. Instead, in the single bed next to hers, Lou is sleeping, her hair fanned out on the pillow, one bare foot poking out from under a crumpled white sheet. Sadie can’t see Hannah but she’s probably still asleep, bunched up under the fleecy blanket.

  Sadie tries to will herself back to sleep, thinking she should make the most of this opportunity. Isn’t a lie-in the thing she’s craved most during the past few months?

  Not today, though. It’s no use. Every time she closes her eyes, they ping straight open again. This is it then, she reflects, studying a ragged crack in the ceiling. She’s spent a whole night away from her children – in another country – and it would appear that everything is okay. The sky hasn’t fallen in, the police haven’t called her; there haven’t even been any panicky phone calls from Barney. Just a brief chat late yesterday afternoon, when he’d been waiting for Pete to arrive. Sadie’s glad that Barney has had adult company. She knows how empty and hollow adult-free days can be and wants his first experience of being in sole charge of the children to be as pleasant as possible.

  With a small pang, Sadie wonders what they’re doing now. They’ll be up, of course – although perhaps not Pete. Barney will probably be feeding the boys, or warming bottles – she hopes he won’t put the boys in their bouncy seats and prop up their bottles on rolled-up blankets, as she once caught him doing. That’s not recommended in the baby books.

  Sadie sits up in bed, now a little anxious at the thought of her precious babies feeding from bottles not being held by actual human hands. No, she’s just being silly. Something else is niggling her, something about last night in Felix’s bar. A wave of anxiety washes over her. Surely she didn’t do anything truly awful. No, Hannah and Lou would have stopped her.