Cry Baby

by David Jackson

  ‘Oh, and before you go home,’ says Cesario, ‘you got some tidying up to do.’

  Doyle pushes up his eyelids to get another look at his boss.

  ‘Tidying up?’

  ‘Alfred. Albert. Whatever the hell his name is. I want him off this floor.’

  Crap, thinks Doyle. He’d almost forgotten about Albert again.

  ‘What am I supposed to do with him?’

  ‘I don’t care,’ says Cesario. ‘Take him home. Leave him on somebody’s stoop with a note to look after him. Whatever, put him someplace that isn’t here.’

  An impulse to resist starts to rise up Doyle’s chest, but fails miserably to reach his mouth. Cesario is right. They’ve got nothing on Albert. He says he killed his mother, but lots of people say lots of things to police officers, an extremely high proportion of those things being untrue. People have passed through this station house asserting perpetration of every crime in the book, from attempted assassination of Donald Duck to sex with an underage muskrat. Doyle would like to believe that Albert wouldn’t lie so baldly to him, but at the same time he wants Albert’s claim to be a figment of his unfathomable imagination. Whatever the truth of the matter, Doyle accepts he has failed to investigate Albert’s story as fully as he might. But hey, things have been kinda hectic around here.

  So is Albert a killer or not? Doyle doesn’t know. What he does know is what Cesario has said to him before. The man has rights. He can’t be kept here indefinitely. If he had a lawyer fighting his cause, he’d have been out of here hours ago.

  Doyle nods wearily. He has failed to stop a serial killer and he has failed to give Albert the commitment he deserves. This whole day has been one of failure.

  Ho-hum.

  9.42 PM

  She’s dead. Georgia. She’s dead.

  Erin can feel it in her bones. It has been almost an hour since she took out her earpiece. She has sat and stared at it lying there on her nightstand, constantly tempted to succumb and put it back in and issue a groveling apology for her outrageous defiance, sorry, sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it, please don’t hurt my baby, please don’t.

  But she hasn’t surrendered. She has stuck to her guns, even though they have been aimed at her own child. In a sense she has also been the one to pull the trigger.

  Do you hear that, Erin? Do you understand what you’ve done? You have condemned your own child to death.

  Yes, yes. I know it. I understand fully. It’s over. It’s done.

  She wonders whether she will kill herself, and thinks that she probably will. Why not? What is left to live for?

  It was the right thing to do. The righteous thing to do. He was always going to kill Georgia, and he was going to find it all the more enjoyable in the knowledge that he had won his mind game with the baby’s mother.

  Well, that’s all been shot to pieces hasn’t it, mister?

  You lose.

  I win.

  And I think now it’s time to go. Time to leave the world.

  Erin stands. Her eyes still on the earpiece, she mouths words at it: Goodbye, Georgia. Forgive me.

  Then she tears her gaze away and starts to think about other matters. How to do this. How to end things. How to take away the pain.

  The noise of the door buzzer seems unreal. A distant drone, unconnected with her location in either time or space. And so she ignores it. It has no meaning.

  But it doesn’t go away. It returns, again and again, each call for attention stronger than the last. And finally it penetrates her bubble. It makes itself perceived by the emaciated part of her consciousness that clings to the real, horror-filled world. It demands to be dealt with before she is allowed to slip completely into comfortable numbness.

  She decides it will be quick. Hello and goodbye, with as little as possible in between. I have to go now, if you don’t mind; I have wrists that need slitting.

  At the door is Mr Wiseman. She might have guessed. Nobody else comes calling here, which says everything about the success of her new start in this city.

  He holds up a Tupperware box. Sloshing around inside it is some viscous pale liquid.

  ‘Chicken soup,’ he says. ‘I made extra. I thought you might like some.’

  How surreal, she thinks. The end of my life marked by a serving of chicken soup.

  She goes to take the container, then thinks better of it. He might never get it back. When the authorities come to clean up after her, it won’t occur to them to go looking for the rightful owner of the box.

  Such a trivial matter, and yet it seems so important.

  ‘It’s very kind of you,’ she says. ‘But actually I’m not very hungry.’

  ‘When did you last eat?’ he asks, as though her lack of nutritional intake today is patently obvious. But his voice is not inquisitorial; it is overflowing with concern. And because of that she finds it difficult to respond. Finds it hard to hurt him with a harsh rejection.

  He presses on: ‘You should eat. You should look after yourself. You don’t… you don’t seem happy.’

  Again, what to answer? I’m ecstatic? I’m delirious? He knows that’s not true. But what the hell does it matter what he knows? It’s over. Take the soup and close the door. Leave the Tupperware to him in your will, if that’s what’s worrying you.

  ‘I’m okay,’ she says. ‘It’s not been a great day, but I’m surviving. Tomorrow will be a better one.’

  Except that there is no tomorrow. There are no more days after this. This is my last conversation, and it’s about chicken soup. That’s funny. That’s hilarious.

  Wiseman looks over her shoulder, as he did the last time he was here. ‘Is… Is your baby home again now?’

  He had to ask, didn’t he? He had to go and ask about Georgia. But when she searches his face she understands why he’s asking. He knows something’s wrong. Shit, it doesn’t take a genius to work out that something is very badly amiss here.

  ‘Yes,’ she lies. ‘She’s sleeping.’ A deep sleep. The deepest sleep of all.

  She can see in his eyes that he doesn’t believe her. But what the hell? It doesn’t matter anymore. Believe me or don’t believe me. I don’t care.

  ‘Erin,’ he says. ‘Forgive me if I’m being intrusive in any way, but… I think you need help. I think you need to talk to someone.’

  Help? I’m beyond help now, but thank you for asking.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Maybe I’ll do that.’

  She doesn’t tell him that she has been talking – or at least listening – to someone almost incessantly for the past twenty-four hours. Her constant companion, always there but never seen. And what a help he’s been. Sure, look what he’s done for me.

  Says Wiseman, ‘Is it about your… your baby?’

  Her eyes widen at the mention of Georgia. She finds herself suddenly on the defensive in response to this sign of someone showing an interest in her offspring. Like a feral animal protecting its young, she wants to bare her teeth and hiss.

  But why? She has already surrendered her child. Georgia is beyond hurting, beyond the need for her mother’s shielding presence.

  ‘What makes you say that?’ she asks.

  ‘Some mothers,’ he begins, ‘they don’t cope too well. Especially with young ones. Please don’t think I’m being disrespectful when I say that. My wife was the same. With Leonard, I mean. She could never understand why this had to happen to us. What did we do wrong? What sins had we committed that made God feel he had to punish us in this way? I don’t think she ever really came to terms with it. I don’t think she would have died as young as she did if she had learned to accept that sometimes life is just like that. You have to take the rough with the smooth.’

  ‘What happened to her? Your wife?’

  ‘A stroke. When she was only fifty-two. She was too stressed, too anxious. Her blood pressure was through the roof. She smoked like a chimney. All the danger signs were there, but she refused to see them. It was like she was driving through every stop li
ght at eighty miles an hour. There are only so many times you can do that without crashing into something.’

  This is news to Erin. All the times she has spoken to Wiseman, and this is the first time she has heard about his wife. Or perhaps not. Perhaps he has related all this to her before, many times, and she has been too strangled by her own affairs to listen.

  ‘So, basically you’ve been looking after Leonard by yourself for all these years?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess so. Did the best I could, anyhow. But that’s what we do, isn’t it? As parents, I mean? We do the best we can. We don’t always get it right, but we try. We give our children everything, because they are the most important things in our lives. They are why we exist, to give life to others so that they can carry forward what we have started. Sometimes, like with Leonard, things don’t turn out as we hoped. But that doesn’t make him any less valuable in my eyes. He is in me, and I am in him, even with his problems. But it’s not always easy. There are many days I’ve cried over what happened to Leonard, and what will become of him once I’ve gone. But I carry on. I do what I can for him. And I hope others will help him once I’ve gone.’

  His old eyes are suddenly a lot more moist, his face sagging with the weight of years of hardship.

  ‘I think what I’m trying to say here, Erin, is that it’s okay to ask for help. It’s okay to admit we can’t do it alone. Being a parent is the hardest job in the world, and sometimes it gets too much. But don’t give up. Don’t lose sight of what’s important.’

  She suspects that he’s talking partly to himself, but it doesn’t dilute his message. He’s right, of course. So fucking right it hurts. The painful truth of it stabs deep into her heart. We live for our children. They come first. Georgia comes first, always. And if there is a chance, no matter how remote that her life can be spared, then that chance should be taken.

  It doesn’t matter if I die, she thinks. It doesn’t matter if I have to spend the rest of my life in prison. And, most of all, it doesn’t matter if Georgia’s abductor wins his stupid game with me. A game, for Christ’s sake! What was I thinking? Why did I feel it important to deny him his prize? Yes, he will probably murder Georgia when this is over, but the key word there is probably. It’s not a certainty. It’s not set in stone. I still have a chance of keeping her alive.

  Or do I?

  She is suddenly in Wiseman’s face. Kissing him on the cheek, much to his surprise. ‘Thank you, Samuel,’ she says. ‘That could be the most meaningful thing anyone’s ever said to me. Thank you.’ And then she’s closing the door on him, giving him smiles that say everything’s all right now, it’ll all work out. And he looks bemused but happy to be of service. And when the door clicks shut she runs into the bedroom. She snatches up the earpiece, makes a point of flashing it in front of the brooch, plugs it back into her ear.

  ‘I’m back,’ she says, her words tumbling out in a rush. ‘I made a mistake, okay? But now I’m back. Forget what I said before. I was stressed out. I lost it. But it’s okay now. I’m on it again.’

  Nothing. Silence. She puts a finger to the earpiece and pushes it in as far as it will go. She strains to hear the slightest sound. But still there is only empty, heartbreaking silence.

  ‘Okay?’ she says. ‘Did you hear what I said?’

  No response. And now her panic is mounting. Has he abandoned his game? Has he decided to find his amusement elsewhere, with Georgia?

  No, no. Don’t let it be like that.

  ‘I was wrong, okay? Is that what you what you want me to say? Tell me what I have to say to you. Tell me what I have to do.’

  Not a breath. Not a murmur. Not a whisper. Just her own pulse pounding furiously in her head.

  ‘TALK TO ME, YOU SONOFABITCH!’

  But it is starting to sink in that her mistake was a fatal one. She offered up her daughter, and her daughter was taken. What could be simpler? Why should she even suppose he would shrink from carrying out his threat?

  ‘PLEEEAAASE!’

  And then:

  ‘Welcome back, Erin.’

  His voice. As welcome now as it was detested before. She has to fight to prevent herself from descending into a wailing state of gratitude and obsequiousness.

  ‘I made a mistake,’ she repeats. Tries to make it sound matter-of-fact. A glitch in the system. Nothing irrecoverable, so let’s pick up where we left off.

  ‘A mistake? Surely not, Erin? Not where your daughter’s life is concerned? Nobody makes a mistake of that magnitude, with that much at stake.’

  ‘I… I’m tired. I’m out of my mind with stress and worry. I didn’t know what I was doing. But it’s all good now. I just want to do what’s best for Georgia.’

  ‘I see. Her welfare is at the heart of this. So when you said I could go ahead and kill her…’

  ‘I didn’t mean it. I thought you were planning to kill her anyway, so I just thought… I misjudged you, okay? I thought you wouldn’t honor your side of the bargain, that you wouldn’t give Georgia back to me even if I did what you asked.’

  ‘But now you suddenly understand how serious I am? Tell me, Erin, what led to this miraculous epiphany?’

  ‘You saw me talking with Mr Wiseman. You heard what was said. He made me realize something. About what’s really important. About why we even bother to go on living.’

  ‘Hurrah for Mr Wiseman. What a saint that man is. Okay, Erin, so now you know I’m a man of integrity, right?’

  Not exactly how I’d put it, she thinks. But…

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you understand that if I say I’m going to do something, then I will do it?’

  Just like how you protected me the way you promised, she thinks. But…

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what did I say I would do if you defied me again, Erin?’

  No. Please. Not that.

  ‘You… you haven’t…’

  ‘What did I say, Erin?’

  ‘I… I don’t know. You’re—’

  ‘Yes, you do know. You remember precisely what I said.’

  She feels his pressure. She is a spineless lowly life-form and he is standing on her, squishing her into a wet mess of protoplasm.

  ‘Is she still alive? Is Georgia alive?’

  ‘You said I was a loser, Erin. You said I would always be a loser.’

  ‘I was angry. I was confused. I didn’t mean it. Please. Tell me. Is Georgia okay?’

  ‘I made it very clear to you how I would punish you, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, you did. What have you done? Is she dead? Please tell me you haven’t killed my baby.’

  The pause. The lengthy silence he always knows when to interject for maximum impact. Several seconds of excruciating agony.

  ‘No, I haven’t killed her.’

  Something in the way he says that.

  ‘Then… what? What have you done to her? She’s just a baby.’

  ‘I told you I would punish you, Erin.’

  ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Let’s just say that there is a lot less of Georgia than there was before.’

  Oh. Oh, Jesus. Oh, God, no.

  Images flashing before Erin’s eyes. Gruesome imaginings of sawn-off body parts and a child who cannot comprehend why this world is so painful and cruel.

  Erin opens her mouth, but the words won’t come. They are replaced by primitive spasmodic sounds of extreme loss and horror and disbelief.

  ‘I tell ya,’ says the voice, ‘that kid really knows how to fill a diaper.’

  At first the comment seems such a non-sequitur that it just sits on the fringes of Erin’s consciousness, unable to push through the barrier she has put up against further demolition of her fragile mind. But gradually she becomes more aware of it, senses the importance of it.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There must be a gallon in there at least. That’s what I was saying. About there being less of her now.’
r />   She rolls this around in her mind, examining it in minute detail for a catch. What is he saying? That it was just a joke? That Georgia is still whole and perfect and unharmed?

  ‘You haven’t… you haven’t hurt her? She’s okay?’

  ‘She’s fine, Erin. I haven’t hurt her.’

  ‘Why? I mean, thank you. But why?’

  ‘Because I knew you’d be back. You don’t need threats from me anymore. You know what you need to do, and you’re too close to give up now. One more killing, that’s all. And then you and Georgia can be back together again.’

  So it was a joke. A twisted prank, about which she should be spitting fire. She should be ranting and raving and filling the air with curses that would make a trooper blush. But she isn’t. She’s grateful, so grateful. He could have hurt Georgia so badly. He had the perfect excuse and he chose not to exploit it. Bizarrely, she feels she owes him something. Even after all he has done to her, she feels somehow owned by him now.

  He says, ‘Would you like to hear your baby? She’s making some cute noises right now.’

  It’s the first time he has offered anything like this. The first time he has been… well, nice. The contrast with his previous manner strikes her so hard it causes tears to form. She should tell herself to stop it. She shouldn’t fall into this emotional trap he has created. But she can’t even think about resisting. She has no willpower left. She will do whatever he asks.

  ‘Yes, please,’ she says.

  And as she listens to her baby one more precious time, she tells herself that this will not be the last of it. It cannot be the last. They will be reunited soon.

  Just one more death.

  That’s all it will take.

  9.55 PM

  He plays it safe with a burger and fries. A plain burger. No mayo, no dill pickle, no tomato, no lettuce, no cheese, no nothing. Just a burger. With fries.

  To Doyle’s relief, Albert seems happy with the choice. He takes a huge bite out of the burger, then puts his finger in the box of fries and swirls them around.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ says Doyle.