Hide and Seek

by Amy Bird

  She looks at me intently. “He will always be my little boy. And I will always protect him. Always.” She takes a step closer to me. “Whatever, whenever, however.”

  I feel the same shiver as I did when I saw the child-size coffin Will brought into the garden. I’d love to take a step back, away from Gillian. But that will give her a little victory. Which she is not getting. We can’t end this argument, though. We are both too used to knowing best. Or in Gillian’s case, thinking we know best.

  “Fine, think what you like,” I tell her. “But you have to go when he gets here. We need some time alone with Leo. While we have him.”

  Gillian looks at me hard. Her eyes narrow a little. “He’s on his way, then?” she asks.

  Fuck. Own goal. She’ll know I spoke to him. Part of me wants to say, of course he’s bloody on his way, of course I spoke to him – his son is here, he needs to see him! But she’ll suspect then that I told him other things too. And her mention of the vow earlier is creeping me out. Even though she cannot do anything. She is not, after all, fate.

  “I asked one of the midwives to call him,” I say. “So yeah, hopefully, he’s on his way.” Hopefully, my husband who attacks people with hammers will be home soon. Oh good.

  She continues to stare at me. But then she just says “How nice. He’ll be able to see his son.”

  One of the doctors comes into the room, to check on Leo.

  “He’s doing his best,” he says. “He’s stronger than he looks, this little chap.”

  “Like his father,” I say, thinking of the hammer. When he was just four. Four! He is going to need some counselling. Maybe professional counselling, not just mine.

  “Is his father…?”

  “He’s on his way,” says Gillian. “The midwives called him.”

  Good. She seems to have bought my lie. I excuse myself while the doctor fiddles around with the tubes and the monitors. I could really do with a loo-break, but I hadn’t wanted to leave Gillian and Leo alone. I don’t know why. I just don’t. But I’ll only be quick. I don’t even bother putting my robe back on as I flit along the corridor. OK, maybe not flit. The old belly is still a bit postpartum. And the stitches a bit store. But I move as swiftly as I can.

  It’s only as I’m washing my hands after using the bathroom that I realise I left my mobile in the pocket of my robe. And that Gillian may find it.

  I tear back along the corridor as quickly as I can without ripping my stitches. If she finds the phone, if she looks at it, she will know from the French number that I called Sophie. She will guess that I spoke to Will. That I told Will the truth. And then she will do whatever she thinks she can do to Leo, armed with that stupid pillow she has been lugging around.

  Oh God. The pillow.

  A sudden chill comes over me. I don’t want to think what I am thinking. Sod the stitches – I run back along the corridor to Leo. I must defend Leo. I must earn my SuperMum cape.

  The doctor has gone. Gillian is alone in the room. Alone, with Leo. And she is holding the pillow over the incubator.

  Chapter Thirteen

  -Will-

  I will not hear Max’s rhythm. I will not join in with the train. That must go now. I must focus on the future, maybe, I think – but the past… I killed my father. How, how, how do I start to accept this? But more, how do I accept that I do not really remember this? I mean, now I am told, the pieces, they start to fit together. But how can I not have remembered it for so long? How can there be this whole huge important murderous thing in my life, part of my own fabric of being, and me not have known about it? A tantrum, Ellie said. Was I so enraged, then, by not being given enough attention, that I didn’t know what I was doing? Or did I know full well, by the age of four, that taking a hammer to someone’s head is bad, naughty in the extreme? I must have known afterwards, because of the slaps, and the shouts, from Sophie. Is that the bit I found traumatic? Is that what made me repress the memory? And then, after he died. Did four-year-old me connect it to the hammer-blows? Did I understand what I’d done? Have I buried that guilt?

  Do I feel guilt now?

  It’s me, four-year-old me, that is to blame. That’s another person. Someone separate from me, thirty years ago. In a totally different life. A life I robbed myself of. A life with a fantastically talented father, following him around the concert halls of… But no. That is a fantasy. I must stop that. Fantastically talented pianist he may have been, but talented father he was not. Said Sophie. I can imagine, now, the obsession of a genius. Interested only in his music, not in the mewlings of a child. Not surprising, then, that there were tantrums. Not surprising about the hammer.

  So – what? Am I blaming Max now? It was his fault that I killed him? Maybe I am saying that. But Sophie. Whose fault was what I just did to Sophie? The mother who ran from me, who couldn’t bear to look on the son who had killed her beloved genius. That is my own fault. Nobody else’s fault – just mine. Understandable, maybe. Or is it? Was that me, too, who took a hammer to France to smash in the skull of a woman whom adult me had never met? Is that understandable? And if it is, does that make it excusable? To kill a woman who has spared you death, who has spared you the truth? Because you are so obsessed with the father you hardly even knew? Is it genetic? Do I have a predisposition to kill? Have I passed it on to this son of mine?

  This son. Train, stop playing Max and move faster, will you? Put Paris behind me and just move on, move on back to England, back to Ellie, back to Leo. I will not – please Sophie, please French police – I will not be the absent father that Max was. I will be there for you, Leo. I will do for you, well, I will do for you what I guess John tried to do for me. Give me stability. Give me normality. Give me ice-lollies from Sainsbury’s and stickers from the zoo. Be always, always there. Even though he always, always knew, that I was a little boy who killed fathers. And Gillian, too, she must have known. She must have wanted to protect me from this – from myself – for a lifetime. Even my own memory tried to protect me, finding ways to blame other people, not me. Would I have wanted to know? Would I rather never have followed hammers and water and pianos to where they led me? Would I rather the pretence had continued forever, that I would never have known about Max, about Sophie?

  No. No. Because they are who I am. I am who I am. I am William, wife of Ellie, father (still, I hope) of Leo, adoptive son of Gillian and John, son of birth father Max who I killed, and of birth mother Sophie who I (may, I hope not) have killed. I am all these things. I have to move forward with that knowledge and just accept it. Accept it and focus on what I do have, for now, but have so nearly destroyed. A life with Ellie and Leo. They are key.

  Because Ellie. Ellie protects more than anyone. Ellie, who found out my thoughts, my plans, I don’t know how, and phoned to warn me, to tell me. Ellie who hasn’t renounced me. Ellie who still wants me home to see Leo, despite what she knows I was doing. She will be a good mother, if when I arrive we still have a son. She will find out his secret desires without him knowing, and help him safely through. I can only hope those secret desires don’t include… Well, why would they? Like father, like son? Lesson number one of parenting: do not put hammers within easy reach. Lesson two: do not allow tantrums. Lesson three: do not allow either parent to be alone for too much time with the child. Lesson f— no. I can’t be paranoid about this. Can I? No. I must go to that hospital as an already talented father. I must return home with some fatherhood instinct in myself. I must put my child first at all times. I must not be frightened of its power over me, when it grows. I must just hope that it does.

  Finally, the train is out of the tunnel and speeds on, on, on towards London. Sights that must have been there on the way out begin to appear. But I didn’t see them, then. I was going in a different direction, I suppose. Now, I see them fully. Not just for the first time on this journey, but for the first time in months. Where have I been? How have I missed the birth of my first child? I begin to cry. I don’t care who sees me, who hears me. Apart from Ellie
. She will not see any of this when I arrive. I will be strong, I will be protecting. I will be what I have not been since the day I found out I was adopted. The last two months of her pregnancy, I have been elsewhere. My own private made-up world of blame, of anger, of resentment. Following the false trail of a type of fatherhood that never existed. But I must find my own fatherhood now. That nursery, I will need to repaint it. Or else, I will need to let the zebra become zebra again, not walking pianos. The piano itself, my old new best friend, I will try to think of as a commodity, learning from Sophie. And I will sell it, to pay for Leo’s – well, whatever it is that small babies need. I haven’t even read any parenting books, for Christ’s sake. I don’t know what they need, what to do! Apart from that you have to be present. Always present, and always noticing things, them, what they do. For self-preservation as much an anything.

  And Ellie, Ellie does not need to get a job. Have I really, for the sake of a piano, been making her schlep around Kingston and London looking for work? Has she really been willing to do that? Who am I, that she would do that for me?

  The train screeches into St Pancras. Will the Tube be quicker than a cab? Maybe, maybe not. But I cannot risk to be delayed, stuck underground, when I need to be on the surface, in the air, pushing quickly forward on my way to Leo. Because who knows? With every moment that passes, he may be growing weaker. Any moment might be the moment that he dies.

  Chapter Fourteen

  -Ellie–

  I stare at Gillian and the pillow. But I don’t know what I am seeing. Am I seeing a woman who is just about to put a pillow over my son’s face? Or one who already has? Or just a woman holding a pillow?

  Gillian looks up. “You remember what you swore, Ellie?”

  Oh no. Oh no, I’m right. The pillow was meant for my son. For little Leo.

  I rush towards the incubator, expecting to see Leo blue, or purple. Airless.

  But no. There he is. Breathing. Alive, just. As he was before. Or is he looking a little frailer, since I saw him last? More troubled? The little hat on his head slightly out of place?

  I look at Gillian. At the pillow. Am I imagining things? Am I tired from the birth? Or has she really been trying to… No. Surely not. Even for Gillian, that would be insane.

  Gillian leans down to Leo, pillow behind her back. I want to push her away. But why? Some newfound mother instinct? She plants a gentle kiss on his forehead. Then she stands up again and starts rubbing the pillow, kneading it almost. Gently, at first, them more forcefully.

  “I remember it too, Ellie,” says Gillian. Her voice is low, but powerful. “If you promise me something, to protect Will, and you breach that promise, you need to know I’ll call it in. Sometime.”

  And before I can respond, she simply walks away.

  Straight into Will.

  Will is back. Daddy is home.

  Gillian and Will stand facing each other. They don’t speak for a moment. Then Gillian places one hand on Will’s shoulder.

  “Congratulations, Will,” she says. “You’re a father.”

  Gillian’s hand is on Will’s shoulder still. I see him look at it. I wonder if he will brush it aside. Or whether he still has the hammer.

  But there is no need for violence because Gillian removes her hand.

  “I’ll leave you, for now, then,” she says. “But I’ll see you soon.”

  Will nods his head. I want to tell him to stop. To tell him about what Gillian has nearly done. Or maybe nearly done. Or at least, what she refused to stop him from doing. “Perhaps,” Will says.

  And Gillian walks from the room. Or almost does. When she gets to the door, she turns. She puts her fingers to her eyes and then to me and Leo. Like the gesture I made when we left the house, when we found out Will was adopted. When I heard what I heard. To show she’ll be watching us.

  Will has his back to her, so he doesn’t see this display. I gesture to him to turn round. He does, but too late. Gillian is smart. She just gives a little wave, winks at me, then leaves.

  Will turns back towards me.

  “What?” he asks.

  “She’s always going to be watching us,” I tell him.

  He shrugs. “Maybe she can help us. Make up for the past.”

  I shake my head. He doesn’t understand. “When I came in, before, she had a pillow over the incubator. I thought she was going to… Well, I thought maybe she would smother him.”

  Will frowns at me.

  “What! Why on earth would she do that?”

  I don’t want to tell him that I swore on our son’s life. So instead I ask the big question. “I don’t know, Will. Why do people walk in off the street and try to murder someone?”

  Will blinks and swallows. He looks offended. He doesn’t look like a man who kills people with hammers. Or tries to. He just looks like my Will. Pale, tired, maybe. But my Will. Old Will. And yet… He has done what he has done.

  “I wasn’t well, Ellie. It was just, the grief, and the anger, and I was confused. And you know, you should hear, the blood, what it’s like, when it pumps in your ears.”

  I clasp my arms across my chest. I can understand more, the less he explains. His reality is too other. Too much from an ill mind.

  “But it’s gone,” he says. “I’m better now. It was just…a…I don’t know. An episode. But I’m better.”

  So. He was just a bit fucked up, confused. Like I told Gillian. And I get it, in my heart. If I don’t think about it too much. He was going through a lot. He was in crisis. But he’s shocked himself out of it. And it’s over. He says.

  “Can I see Leo?” Will asks.

  I cannot keep a boy from his father. Even though the father will need close scrutiny. For a while, at least. Until we see if this was just an isolated incident. Two isolated incidents.

  “Of course,” I say. I put out my hand. Will takes it, and kisses it. Then I lead him to the incubator.

  Will leans over it, and stares down.

  “Gillian was right,” he says, very gently. “I’m a father.”

  I look into the incubator too. There he is, our son. He has even opened the other eye. A special treat, for Daddy. Will bends down and kisses him gently on his little hatted head. When Will pulls away, there is a little bead of moisture, like a tear, left on Leo’s face. I pretend not to notice. Instead, I enjoy a moment of standing united as parents. Whatever the future may bring, for now I have brought Will back. Engaged, interested, loving Will. I have kept – and I will keep, oh yes, I will – Leo alive. I imagine my SuperMum cape flapping out behind me, and Mum standing next to me, hers doing the same. Perhaps I would live up to her standard, after all. We don’t need Sophie now.

  Will is staring into the incubator. There isn’t the doting look on his face I would expect. The look that I am sure has been on mine these past hours. No, it is the look that there was, those times, with the hammer. The fear look. The look that started it all.

  I squeeze his arm. “It’s natural to be frightened,” I say.

  “Is it?” He looks at me. “Of something so small?”

  “Not frightened of him. Frightened for him. Frightened about being his father.”

  Will nods.

  “Unless there’s something, you know, genetic, that should frighten me? Do I need to defend myself, from this?”

  I try to understand Will’s question. I think maybe he is getting at what he did to his father. To what he may have – and I pray to God he hasn’t – done to his mother. But it sounds like his question is: will I one day need to harm my son, if he tries to harm me?

  I hope that isn’t his question. Because if it is, I will be ready with an answer. Will is not the only one round here who can wield a hammer. Leo’s life will never again be risked to Will’s.

  But it probably wouldn’t do to tell him that. About the shifting loyalties. That the need to protect has layers. And that while I hate Gillian, I can understand her.

  So instead, I just say: “You are defenceless now, Will. You are a
father. Surrender to it.”

  And he seems to understand. Because he gazes down into the incubator. The doting look is there now. In the shadow of a frown.

  Chapter Fifteen

  -Will-

  Apparently I am not allowed to take home my own son unless I have a car seat. If someone had told me this, in the days we stood over Leo’s incubator, that I could have been doing something useful, I would have got one then. Or at least brought something here to put a car seat in. Maybe I was supposed to know all this stuff. Perhaps I would have learnt it at the antenatal classes I made Ellie cancel for the sake of the piano. But I didn’t. So at the moment we don’t even have a car at the hospital – it is back in Kingston. I head out of St Thomas’ intent on public transport back home, then in again, via some kind of baby car seat warehouse. I haven’t bought one yet, you see. I’ve been distracted.

  The first thing I do when I get outside the hospital is check my phone. I’ve managed to hide the nervous tic from Sophie. But out here, I will check it all the time. I can already feel the OCD developing. It’s combined with a sort of tinnitus that makes me hear my phone ringing, even when it’s not. Because it may ring at any moment. With news. From Paris. About whether I’m a double murderer. Whether I killed both my parents. Or just the one. And even if I didn’t, whether Sophie is going to press charges, or whatever they do in France. Still nothing, though.

  The second thing I do is almost walk straight into Gillian’s Audi. It’s sitting there, on the curb, engine running. How can it possibly still be here? It’s been days. I daren’t walk past the car. I’m not sure that I could control myself, now Ellie isn’t here – once a mother killer, always a mother killer, right? Or not. Not a killer, I hope. But there doesn’t seem to be a route round. Plus I see I have been spotted. A waving hand is protruding from a wound-down window. But it doesn’t look like Gillian’s hand. I take a step closer.

  John. Relief seeps through me, and I feel my shoulders sink back to their natural level. Safe, reliable John. John, who tried to be the stable father that I never had, but who bought into Gillian’s desire for lies. But then the shoulders go up again. I haven’t had any contact with him since the night I found out I was adopted. We haven’t talked since I learnt the truth about Max. What I did to my other father. Does he even know that I know? How do we begin to have that conversation? I don’t know, but it’s probably one we need to have.