Extinction

by Carol Anne Davis

  ‘It’s unlikely,’ she said, feeling a new rush of fear and – if she was honest – excitement.

  ‘Well, dizziness can be one of the earlier symptoms so I’ll get you to produce a urine sample before you leave. You can phone in for the results.’

  For the next forty-eight hours, she monitored her own behaviour, tried to second guess the outcome of the test. Was she urinating more often? Was the weariness she felt due to Marc’s boorishness or her boredom at being back in the office? Or was a tiny new life stealing her energy?

  By the time that she phoned for the results, she felt almost ill with anticipation. A negative result meant that she retained her old life – the same husband, same house, same job. A sometimes dull life, but a life of certainty. However, if she was pregnant it could signal the end of her marriage and probably the end of her career as she’d want to be a full-time mum until the child went to school.

  Her heart beating so fast that it seemed to resound within her head, Olivia listened to the phone ring through to the surgery. When the receptionist answered, she gave her name and waited whilst they presumably brought up her file on the computer screen.

  ‘Yes, it’s positive,’ the nurse said in a neutral voice.

  So, after all those years she was going to have a baby. She’d longed, and even prayed, for this to happen – and now, perhaps, her prayers had been answered, albeit in an unusual way.

  ‘Can you tell me the protocol?’ she asked, striving for nonchalance.

  ‘Certainly.’ The woman sounded more cheerful now. ‘You come in for a check-up, and we work out your due date and book you a bed in the maternity unit.’

  Olivia made an appointment, glad she’d have a chance to talk to someone in the medical profession. She was going to need all the support that she could get.

  Determined to be proactive, she bought the local paper and studied the ‘accommodation to let’ section but was shocked at how expensive a self-contained property was, even an unfurnished one. She didn’t want to flat share, not at her age and with a child to raise. And buying was out of the question – Marc paid much more of their mortgage than she did and she simply couldn’t afford to go it alone. Would he readily give her back the money that she’d contributed to this house or would she have to take him to court for her share? Now that single parenthood was becoming an increasing reality, she felt frightened and out of her depth.

  Would he consider raising the baby as his own? It wasn’t such a big stretch, and she’d read of other men who’d forgiven their confused wife a solitary indiscretion. It was the easiest way to maintain the status quo. And look at the upside: he’d have a son to take to football or a daughter to . . . whatever fathers and daughters did together. She was vague on the details as her own dad had always been at work or overtired. Admittedly it wouldn’t be Marc’s biological offspring but no one in the outside world need ever know.

  That would be the ideal, she thought, giving the child the traditional set-up of two parents. It would resurrect her marriage, giving them a fresh focus, a new start. Now that she thought things through, she wondered why they’d both dismissed adoption so readily, been so convinced that they only wanted a baby that was genetically theirs.

  Another month passed and she delayed having the talk, put off making any big decisions. What if he rejected her? She’d gone from her parents house to her first marital home, had never lived independently. If only he’d understand . . .

  She fell asleep on their bed one evening after work and woke up to find him lying behind her, his hands around her waist. She stirred and murmured, ‘Hi, you.’

  ‘Hi sleepyhead.’

  She felt his lips on the back of her neck and instinctively tensed, then she felt his palms sliding down her belly and tensed some more.

  ‘Are you premenstrual?’ he murmured, sounding concerned. Why hadn’t he sounded like that a few months ago? If he’d been solicitous and interested in her life she would never have turned to Adam for solace and sex.

  ‘No.’ She took a deep breath. ‘In fact, I’m pregnant.’

  There was a silence then he said, ‘You can’t be.’

  She forced herself to turn towards him, put her arms around his waist. His face was ashen, his lips trembling.

  ‘I was really stupid, had a one-night stand.’

  She felt him stiffen, start to pull away. She held on, feeling desperate.

  ‘You seemed to have lost interest in me and I was so lonely . . .’

  ‘So you decided to fuck another man.’

  She’d never heard him sound so hurt, so enraged. She could feel the anger in his limbs as he tore his arms from her waist, moved towards the other side of the bed. For a moment he teetered on the edge, and she fought back a hysterical laugh.

  ‘It was just the one night,’ she said again.

  ‘Some bloke at work?’ He shifted a couple of inches, propped himself up on one elbow and glared down at her.

  She forced herself to meet his gaze, wondered if she looked as distressed as he did. ‘No, it was at the end of a girls’ night out, just someone I met in a bar.’

  ‘So he could be diseased, AIDS-ridden?’

  ‘He was a professional, wore a suit.’ She realized how ridiculous that sounded, added, ‘He was quite shy and drunk, probably happily married. I don’t think he’d done this before.’

  ‘And where did you . . .?’

  She tried to envisage where a drunken couple might go. ‘In his car. It was over in minutes and I really regretted it.’

  ‘You thought that I’d never find out.’

  It was a statement rather than a question. If she had indeed been barren, they wouldn’t be having this conversation now.

  She sought desperately to reassure him that it was a one-off. ‘I wasn’t thinking clearly at the time. It didn’t mean anything.’

  She watched his lips tighten. ‘It means the end of us.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to.’ She reached for him again but he was rigid with tension. ‘We could raise this baby as our own, start again.’

  ‘A stranger’s baby.’

  ‘It would be like adopting.’

  ‘No it wouldn’t. This would be your child, not mine.’

  ‘This guy even looked like you. No one would know.’

  ‘I’d know.’

  ‘You’ll love him or her once they’re born, once you hold them.’

  ‘I never want to see this brat. Oh, and I never want to see you again.’

  He got off the bed and began to walk around it, heading for the bedroom door.

  She jumped up, blocked his way. ‘Marc – please. Don’t end it like this. Let’s talk. Let’s go to counselling.’

  ‘There’s no point. It’s over.’ He pushed her away and she watched him leave the room, heard his footsteps pounding the stairs. She sat down again, feeling nauseous, winced as the outer door slammed.

  Hours later, as she curled on the settee feeling drained and dehydrated, her mobile rang.

  ‘Marc?’

  ‘No, is he out at this time?’

  She recognized her sister’s voice immediately, began to cry. ‘He’s left me.’

  ‘No way.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘He had good reason.’

  ‘Are you at home? I’m coming over.’

  ‘Thanks, Cathy.’ She looked around the room, wondering how much longer she’d be able to call it home.

  Cathy took charge when she arrived, making tea and toast, packing the dishwasher, even watering the plants. When the place was shipshape again, she sat down next to her on the settee.

  ‘So, how long has this been on the cards?’

  ‘We just had an argument earlier today.’

  ‘Then it’ll blow over. You two have been together forever. He’s not going to move out because of a few choice words.’

  ‘It’s not . . .’ She realized that it was time to tell her sister everything. ‘I’m pregnant and he knows it’s not his.’

  She watche
d an expression of surprise or shock flit across her sister’s face, saw her visible intake of breath.

  ‘A sperm donor?’

  If only. She shook her head. ‘I had sex with someone else.’

  ‘In order to get pregnant?’

  Another head shake. She felt spaced again, somehow dislocated. ‘Because I was really attracted to him.’

  ‘No wonder Marc’s hurt.’

  ‘I know. But we’ve not been good together for ages, Cathy. He’s either at work or he’s too tired to talk. I felt as if I was on the scrap heap. Then I met this beautiful, intelligent guy.’

  ‘And you had an affair?’

  ‘It didn’t last long.’ She realized that Cathy didn’t have to know that she’d been rejected. ‘He . . . was killed.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ She saw the slow realization in her sister’s eyes. ‘It wasn’t that guy you were doing surveillance on?’

  She nodded. ‘It went beyond work. We got genuinely close.’ She so needed to talk to someone – anyone – about his good qualities, about the special hours they’d shared talking about everyone and everything.

  ‘But he killed two women and drugged others.’

  ‘They think he killed them. They’ll never know for sure.’

  ‘Well, even if he just drugged . . .’

  ‘I know it’s terrible but I think that he really missed his wife, didn’t want to get involved again in case he got hurt. They believe that he picked up a few girls in bars – you know, the type that will go with anyone? They didn’t put in a complaint at the time, only came forward after the recent publicity so we can’t even be sure that they’re telling the truth.’

  ‘Olivia, you’re not defending him?’

  Cathy hadn’t seen his human face, his humour and compassion. ‘No, of course not. I’m just saying that he wasn’t all bad.’

  ‘And do your colleagues know?’

  ‘No, and they’re not going to. I’m going to give up work and raise this baby. They’ll assume that it’s Marc’s.’

  ‘When it’ll really be a killer’s baby.’

  Another wave of nausea swept through her, but she forced herself to look at her sister, keep her voice steady. ‘It’ll be mine as well.’

  She watched Cathy hesitate. ‘Olivia, do you remember the Bensons?’

  She nodded. They’d been her neighbours for a few years when she was a child.

  ‘Well, after we moved away they adopted a baby girl and gave her everything, but, by the time she was twelve, she was causing chaos. She stole, played truant, started trying to seduce anything in trousers. She must have been thirteen when she got pregnant for the first time and she ended up having babies with four different men.’

  ‘I might have a boy,’ she said stubbornly, unwilling to have anyone – not even Cathy – rain on her parade.

  ‘And boys are even harder to raise alone. Listen, love, if we inherit some of our parents’ darker characteristics, you could be raising a psychopath.’

  ‘But I’d love him so much that . . .’ She could only envisage a smiling, contented baby.

  ‘Didn’t that psychologist’s parents love him?’

  Her sister seemed determined to score points.

  ‘Obviously not enough. I mean, he had a brother who seemed to be pathologically jealous. And Adam himself went through hell when his wife committed suicide. He had a lot to contend with whereas our son will have a better start in life.’

  ‘With a single mother?’

  ‘Mum and Dad will help.’ And you, she thought, surely you’ll be there for me?

  ‘Will you get police housing?’

  She shook her head, feeling sick again. ‘I’m going to give up work until he turns five.’ All of her instincts were telling her that this would be a boy and that he would look and sound like Adam. He’d have his boyish charm and intellect but not his controlling streak.

  ‘You don’t have to do this, Olivia. You’ve got time to terminate.’

  Acid filled her mouth and she only just made it to the kitchen waste-paper basket, knelt by it and heaved copiously. But, apart from the toast which Cathy had made for her, there was nothing to bring up.

  ‘I think you’d better go,’ she said, turning around and fetching a kitchen towel to wipe her mouth.

  ‘I don’t want to hurt you. You know that? I just don’t want you raising a stick with which to beat your own back.’

  How could a woman in her thirties use such an archaic term? For a moment, she almost hated her sibling. Then she looked at her white, strained face and could see that she was hurting too.

  ‘I want this baby.’

  ‘You could have another pregnancy. I mean, it looks as if you and Marc weren’t compatible but if you went to a sperm bank or started another relationship . . .?’

  ‘I want Adam’s child. He was so handsome and bright and funny.’

  ‘You know that I’ll support you, but I have to be honest – I think that you’re making a big mistake.’

  ‘You won’t tell Mum and Dad who the father is? I’ll let them think that it’s Marc’s but that the relationship was already over.’

  ‘I won’t tell anyone,’ Cathy said with feeling. ‘Presumably you could get into trouble at work if people knew?’

  ‘Yes, lots.’ Not that she cared anymore. After all, she had what she wanted. Her work now was to have and raise her child.

  Months later, days before she was due, Olivia sat in her rented flat and flicked idly through the Sunday supplements. Mum had been very good, bringing her round newspapers and magazines that she’d finished with, and also bringing along home-made quiches, soup and stews. She’d gained just the right amount of weight during the pregnancy, her blood pressure was stable and the midwife was very pleased with her progress. The scan had shown that it was going to be a boy, so her instincts had been right.

  Shifting around on the settee until she felt more comfortable, she scanned the features on organic chicken rearing, olive-picking holidays in Spain and the challenges of becoming a vegan. Finally, an article about adoption caught her eye. It was a balanced piece, including interviews with happy adopters and adoptees, but one of the sections was chilling, with a seemingly balanced couple having the same experience that the Bensons had had. The boy that they’d adopted at birth had been a pathological liar by six years, an animal torturer by twelve, an arsonist by sixteen and had finally ended up on a GBH charge in jail.

  ‘We tried everything to put him on the right track but had to give up in the end, wash our hands of him. He was destroying the rest of the family,’ the woman – who wished to remain nameless – said. Her statement was followed by that of a geneticist who said that a child could inherit negative traits from their mother or father, though he refused to go so far as to use the term ‘bad seed’.

  Her son would be good, Olivia told herself. She was too positive and caring a person to raise a killer. She kept repeating upbeat messages to herself as the labour pains began.

  FIFTY

  It wasn’t so bad here now that he’d got to know a couple of the other kids, namely the two brightest teenagers. They agreed on one thing – most of the staff here didn’t have a clue, especially the more maternal ones. They were bleeding hearts, convinced that, if their young charges were only loved enough, they would reform and give something back to society. But what could he, with his superior IQ, give to this dumbed-down universe? How could he contribute to a world which was obsessed with talk TV, vapid starlets and anodyne music? He had to stand aside to save his sanity.

  Brandon stamped in the direction of a surprisingly large woodlouse which was foolishly hurrying across his plush, warm, dark brown carpet. This room – and the nearby communal rooms – would comprise his home for the next few years. Because of his psychiatric history, he’d been sent to this secure hospital rather than a juvenile detention centre. If he’d gone to the latter, he’d have eventually been transferred to an adult jail. He was probably destined to spend the rest of his life
in such a facility unless – or should that be until? – he managed to escape.

  The half-squashed woodlouse, now lying on its back, feebly waved several of its legs in the air. He stamped on it again so that it was unrecognizable. He loved – and longed to recreate – the absolute finality of death. Mum and Dad would never again have the chance to give him one of their extensive pep talks, which invariably involved words like ‘responsibility’. Ethan wouldn’t have the opportunity to irritate him with his high-pitched squealing and Adam couldn’t give him yet another pointless test.

  ‘Alright, Brandon?’

  He looked up as one of the nurses popped her head around the door.

  ‘Fine, thanks, Mrs Peters.’

  ‘Dave was wondering if you fancied a game of chess?’

  ‘I’d like that.’ He got off of his bed and carefully stepped over the crushed insect: he’d get rid of it later when there weren’t any witnesses around. Since arriving here, he’d been presenting himself as a reformed character, someone who had been violent due to external stresses but who was very different in a supportive environment and when taking his medication, something which they made him do religiously. He’d lulled them into a false sense of security now, all friends together, so they’d be unprepared for his imminent blitzkrieg attack.

  After much thought – ah, how making plans enlivened his otherwise unexceptional nights – he’d decided to repeat his earlier successes and use a potent mix of arson, stabbing and bludgeoning. This time, of course, he couldn’t go from building to building so would carry out all three acts in the one environment. He’d already managed to procure a knife, brought in from the outside for another patient and he was now persuading one of the more vulnerable boys to make him a cosh in woodwork class. He reckoned that he could take out several members of staff providing that he approached them when they were alone in their offices; the others could literally face a baptism of fire.

  He’d have fashioned a special key by then, of course, so that he could lock the exits, wait outside in the hospital grounds and listen to the mingled screams. It would be further proof of his pathology, underline the fact that he needed psychiatric care.