Cry Baby

by David Jackson

  Okay, next step…

  She begins to lower her hand. Gently, gently does it. Keep the brooch upright and level. Keep its beady little eye fixed on that crack in the ceiling. Down, down, ever so slowly down.

  And it’s there, on the bed. Oh my God, it’s there.

  She tries to release her grip, but her fingers have locked in position. Please don’t make a cracking noise, she thinks. Not that close to the microphone. It’ll sound like a gunshot to him.

  But she gets them open, and pulls her arm away.

  Free! I’ve actually managed to free myself. I did it!

  Her heart is pounding furiously now. Practically bouncing off her ribcage. She feels like she’s just run a marathon instead of moving a few inches on a bed.

  She’s right on the edge of the bed. She shifts a little more. It’s easier now that both hands are free. She twists her body, drops one leg into space, feels touchdown on the soft carpet. Then the other leg. Then her body. Sinking below the level of the bed like a predatory river creature lowering itself into position to grab the next passer-by. Finally she pulls down her head, her eyes still wide and unblinking, until she is lying on the floor.

  She is still wearing the earpiece. She presses on it with her finger, forcing into her ear canal. No voice. No noises at all. He hasn’t seen.

  He hasn’t seen!

  She takes a deep breath. She can smell carpet and dust. It makes her want to cough, and she has to bring a hand to her mouth to stifle it. She doesn’t know how sensitive the brooch microphone is, but she’s taking no chances. One tiny noise might be all it takes to ruin this.

  She looks over at the bedroom door. It’s open – probably enough to squeeze through without opening it further. Things are going her way for once. If she had closed the door, she doubts this would be possible.

  She thinks about squirming across the carpet on her belly, like a soldier trying to stay below enemy fire, but is worried that it will make too much noise. Instead, she gets into a kneeling position, her front half supported by her forearms. She can move much more quietly this way, but…

  Will he see?

  She lifts her head above the parapet that is her mattress. The brooch sits there, staring, watching, waiting. She has no idea what its field of view is, but surely it can’t detect anything this low down?

  The ceiling, yes. It will see the ceiling. Maybe even some of the walls. But down here, no. Hell, she thinks, I could probably stand up and walk out of here and he wouldn’t know.

  But she’s not going to do that. She’s not going to jeopardize her scheme now after all this effort.

  So she stays on her knees. Moves slowly and surely and, above all, silently. A strange, ungainly hunter with its eyes locked on its prey. The door. If she can just get to the door.

  A thousand things could go wrong. A million. An unexpected noise, perhaps. Sirens from outside, or the gurgling of a radiator – the heating in this old building makes odd noises sometimes. She could press on the one floorboard that squeaks – she has never noticed the floor do that before, but this could be the one and only time it does. Or maybe her robe will come undone and the belt will catch on a shoe under the bed and nudge it against the bedpost. Or maybe—

  Stop it, Erin! Your belt’s fine. The floor is fine. Nothing will go wrong. Believe it.

  But he could just decide enough time has passed. He will have become hungry for more killing – ravenous even. The demon will need feeding. It will have to summon its servant to bring its fast to an end in the only way it knows.

  What will I do then? If he speaks to me now, what will I do?

  He’s not going to, Erin. You’ve got plenty of time. And even if he does, you say nothing. Pretend you’re fast asleep. He can’t question it. He knows how exhausted you were. Now get a fucking move on!

  She gets to the door. This is going to be tricky. It’s going to be tight. Just a nudge and the door will move. And unlike the floorboard, this probably will squeak, because doors always squeak. And even if it doesn’t, the light will change. There are lights on in the living room – stronger than the lamp in here. If the door moves, shadows will shift in the room. They will pan across the ceiling and he will know.

  She pulls her elbows as close together as she can manage while still allowing her to move. She edges her shoulders through the gap. So far so good. But now there are my hips. My fucking huge hips that I have always hated and that are now going to take out their revenge in retaliation for my neglect of them.

  I promise. Get me through here and I will diet, I will exercise. I will turn you into the most shapely hips known to man. Please, just do me this one little favor.

  She moves, the pain of expectation written on her face. She waits for the door hinges to betray her presence, squealing treacherously away. She waits for the boom of his voice in her ear – the school principal’s roar, demanding to know what the hell she thinks she’s playing at.

  But then she’s through. She looks back to make sure. The door hasn’t moved. He has no idea she has left the bedroom.

  You did it, Erin! You fucking did it, you crazy bitch!

  She rolls to one side, away from the door, and leans against the wall – let him try to see through a fucking wall! Only now does she allow herself to breathe just a little more deeply.

  Don’t get cocksure now. Don’t get blasé. Don’t ruin this.

  But she breathes. At least she can do that. She can suck up the oxygen of freedom, just as she imagines a prisoner of war might have done on emerging from an escape tunnel.

  You can’t linger, though, Erin. Time isn’t limitless. You have to act, and you have to do it now.

  And then she almost wants to burst into laughter. Mad, humorless laughter.

  Act? I have to act? Okay, so tell me what the fuck I’m supposed to do.

  Ha! Jesus Christ! You didn’t think this through, did you, Erin? You were so obsessed with casting off those technological shackles, you gave absolutely no thought as to what you might do with your newly gained liberty.

  There had been a vague intention somewhere at the back of her mind to get to the phone and call the cops, telling them her story in hushed but frantic tones. But now that she gets that idea out into the yellow lamplight, its flaws and cracks are all too obvious. Call the cops? Really? You want them to know what you’ve been up to for the past few hours? Yes, Ma’am, this child abduction story is all very interesting, but you mind if we get back to these murders you mentioned?

  So if not the cops, then who? Tick tock, Erin. He’s gonna come calling soon. Was this all for nothing? Are you just going to slink back onto the bed without doing a damn thing?

  She gets to her feet. Panic is starting to creep up on her. She needs help, and she doesn’t know a soul in this damn city. Here almost a month and she doesn’t really know anyone.

  Kind of your own fault, though, don’t you think? You haven’t exactly gone out of your way to make friends here, have you? You and Georgia – that’s all you’ve thought about. Happy to exist in your own little bubble. Well now the bubble’s burst, Erin. Somebody’s poked a big fat finger into it, and left you exposed and alone.

  Think, Erin, think!

  And then her feet start moving. Carrying her across to the apartment door. She’s got to talk to someone and she needs to do it fast. And the only person she can think of who is near enough and sympathetic enough to approach is good old Mr Wiseman. She doesn’t know what he can do, doesn’t know if he’ll even understand what she’s telling him, but what choice does she have? She’s out of time, goddamnit, and she can no longer think straight, but she has to talk to someone, has to let somebody know what she’s going through. She can’t do this alone anymore. Somebody has to help. Please, Mr Wiseman, please understand, please believe, please know what I should do.

  She opens the apartment door as quietly as she can, telling her fingers not to fumble with the locks, not to permit the escape of any metallic snaps or rattles. She pulls open the door –
not too wide, because she still maintains the belief that all doors have a perverse tendency to squeak when you least want them to – and slips out into the hallway.

  It’s cold out here, made colder by the single naked light bulb casting a deathly glow. Pulling her robe tightly around her, she pads over to Wiseman’s door. She takes a deep breath and thumbs the doorbell. Hears the urgent jangling inside the apartment.

  Come on, come on. Wake up. Open the door. I haven’t got long.

  She wants to pound on the door. Yell at Wiseman to get his lazy ass out of bed and open this fucking door, doesn’t he know there’s a girl here in trouble, doesn’t he realize he’s the only one in the world who can help her?

  But there’s no sign of him. Not the slightest noise from inside. So she raises her hand again. Puts her thumb out in readiness for leaning on that doorbell. Prepares herself for the sounds inside the apartment, the insistent alarm that is her only voice right now. Her cry…

  Her cry.

  Georgia’s cry.

  That’s what she hears. Over her earpiece. Georgia crying. Georgia screaming.

  It comes as a terrifying jolt that threatens to blast her apart. And in the split-second it takes for all her wily plans to drop into the infinite blackness that has just opened up beneath her feet, the horrifying, petrifying implications strike into her heart.

  He has seen something or he has heard something.

  He knows.

  He knows!

  6.32 AM

  So now he’s interested, thinks Doyle.

  His lieutenant. Cesario.

  Marching into the squadroom with this sudden sense of urgency in his step. Where was that when Vern was at the center of interest? Who was hitting the panic button back then?

  He knows how Cesario would answer. He’d say the same thing that all the white shirts above him would say: It’s not about who the victims were, or what they did. In our eyes they get equal treatment. It’s about numbers. The fact that we’ve now got two connected homicides, maybe more.

  Yeah, right. All equal in the eyes of the law. Homeless black wino and respectable looking white businessman who owns a car and wears a suit. Both the same. Right. It’s purely the numbers that’ve made Cesario leap out of bed and hightail it over here.

  Still had time to dress, though. No throwing on the nearest things to hand for Cesario, oh no. He’s as immaculate as ever and smelling of roses. Not a crease or a stray hair to be seen. No chance of him being mistaken for one of the disheveled, unshaven bums under his command, some of whom haven’t seen a bed in what feels like a week.

  But maybe I’m being too hard on him, thinks Doyle. Maybe I should give him the benefit of the doubt. I should stow the cynicism, at least until he does something more to deserve it.

  Cesario barely breaks step as he barks an order. ‘Everyone. My office. Now.’

  Which is nice. Which is a great way of thanking his loyal detectives for the hard hours they’ve put into this so far.

  Cynicism, you can come back in now.

  6.34 AM

  So what she does now is to drop everything. Her thoughts of escape, of seeking help, of talking to Wiseman – all gone, all abandoned in a bat of an eyelid. All she can think about now is saving her baby, her Georgia, God what have I done, what danger have I put her in?

  And then she’s running. Back into her apartment and flinging the door closed behind her. Dashing across the living room, into the bedroom. Flying onto the bed and grabbing hold of the brooch. Bringing it to her face. Showing him that she’s here, she’s right here where she’s supposed to be, and she’s not causing any trouble, not calling the cops or doing anything that would endanger her baby, because that would be stupid, wouldn’t it, and why would I do such a thing?

  ‘Stop it!’ she yells. ‘Don’t hurt her. Please. Don’t hurt her. I’m right here. I didn’t mean anything. I didn’t talk to anyone. Please. I just needed to… I just needed a little freedom, okay? Just a little time to myself. Please.’

  ‘Erin? What—’

  ‘Is she okay? Please tell me she’s okay.’

  ‘Erin. You broke the rules, Erin. You know what happens when you break the rules.’

  She can still hear Georgia’s wailing in the background. It’s breaking her heart. She doesn’t know what he’s doing to her baby, but the sound is killing her.

  ‘No! Please don’t. I won’t do it again. I promise. Stop hurting her. Stop it!’

  ‘Where did you go to, Erin? Did you make a phone call, is that it?’

  ‘No. I swear. I thought about it, but I didn’t. I couldn’t bring the police into this. They’d find out about the people I killed. I didn’t call them or talk to anyone.’

  ‘I don’t believe you, Erin.’

  Again she doesn’t know what he does next, but Georgia’s screaming suddenly intensifies. How can he be doing this?

  ‘NOOO! I’m begging you. Stop! In God’s name, stop. She’s just a baby. I swear I didn’t do anything. I took off the brooch, that’s all. That’s all I did.’

  And then she loses it. Despite all the crying she has done in the past few hours, she manages to step it up now. She sobs so hard it feels her chest could burst. It’s like a huge fist is gripping her heart and squeezing every last bit of emotion out of it.

  ‘Erin,’ says the voice. ‘Listen to me. I’m not hurting her. I’m not doing anything to Georgia. I should, because of how you’ve behaved, but I’m not. She’s hungry, is all. That, and I think her diaper needs changing, judging by the stench in here.’

  It takes a while, but the words eventually percolate through to Erin’s consciousness.

  ‘What? You’re not… She’s not hurt?’

  ‘No, she’s not. No thanks to you, Erin. You put her in danger. Maybe I should do something about that.’

  ‘No. Please don’t. I’ll be good.’

  ‘You’ll be good? You won’t try anything like that again?’

  ‘No. I swear. She’s all right? She’s really okay?’

  ‘She will be when I feed and change her. What were you thinking, Erin?’

  What was I thinking? I don’t know. I didn’t think, did I? Not properly. I had no idea what I was doing. More importantly, he doesn’t know either. He has no idea. Georgia crying – it was just coincidence. She’s all right. He hasn’t hurt her. Oh, thank Christ for that.

  She almost wants to laugh with the relief. From the most profound sorrow to the most maniacal laughter in a heartbeat. That’s the control he has over her. That’s his power. She knows that now. There’s no escape.

  ‘I don’t know. It was stupid. I just wanted to run away from all this.’

  ‘If you run away, then you run away from Georgia. You do understand that, don’t you?’

  ‘I… Yes. Yes, I understand. I’m sorry.’

  She means it. She’s not saying this just to mollify him. She feels sincerely apologetic and grateful and all the things she hoped and promised herself she would never feel toward this man.

  ‘All right, Erin. Just this once, I won’t punish you. But you have to—’

  He is interrupted by the sound of a buzzer. In Erin’s apartment.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Oh, God, no. Not Mr Wiseman. Please don’t ruin this after I’ve just mended it.

  ‘It’s… there’s somebody at the door.’

  ‘Who? Who’s at the fucking door, Erin?’

  She can hear his anger building, his distrust of her returning. That can’t happen. For Georgia’s sake she has to forestall it.

  ‘It’ll be Mr Wiseman. My neighbor.’

  ‘Why? Why’s he here?’

  ‘I…’

  ‘Erin.’ Stern now. Threatening. A simple utterance of her name that drips with the promise of harm to her daughter.

  ‘I called at his apartment, okay? While I was out of the bedroom.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘I… It’s okay. He didn’t answer. I changed my mind. I came straight back.’
/>
  ‘Oh, Erin. You weren’t going to tell me that, were you? What else haven’t you told me? Because I swear, Erin. If you—’

  ‘Nothing. There’s nothing else. I didn’t mention Mr Wiseman because I didn’t think it was important. He didn’t answer his door when I called. That’s the truth.’

  The buzzer sounds again. More insistent, it seems.

  ‘All right. Answer the door. Get rid of the old Jew. But before you do that, pin the brooch back on. No more games, Erin. No more slack.’

  Erin puts the box of tricks back in her pocket and re-attaches the brooch. Wiping the tearstains from her face with her sleeves, she gets off the bed and walks through to the apartment door.

  The buzzing starts up again. Cuts out when she noisily puts the chain in place. She doesn’t want him barging in here. If he seriously believes she’s in trouble, he might push his way in and search the place. He would find the bloodstained clothing, and wouldn’t that give her some explaining to do?

  She opens the door the few inches the chain allows. It’s Wiseman, all right, and he’s wearing the edgy expression of someone who’s on the verge of calling in all the emergency service personnel in the city.

  She smiles at him. The most reassuring smile she can muster in the circumstances.

  ‘Samuel! Hi. It’s so early. Is everything okay?’

  This throws him. He was probably planning to ask her the exact same thing.

  ‘Okay? Yeah, I’m okay. What about you? I thought I heard…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I… Someone just called at my door. That wasn’t you?’

  ‘Me? Call at your apartment? No. Why would I be trying to see you at this time in the morning?’

  Look at me, she thinks. Ignore the red-rawness in my eyes and see instead how they emanate pure innocence. How could someone like this be guilty of lying?

  He appears flummoxed. He tries to see past her into the apartment, but he’s got only a few inches of space to push his gaze into, and she’s blocking most of it.