Don’t You Cry: The gripping new psychological thriller from the bestselling author of In a Cottage in a Wood
‘You don’t need to know anything.’ Angel directs this at me. ‘It’s better that way, OK?’
I think of the blood crusting Lucas’s hands when he arrived. My mouth floods with saliva and I swallow again, forcing the sickness and panic down. I see then that Angel has put the gun on the table and I think for a mad moment about making a grab for it. But this isn’t some crime drama on telly. I’m a middle-aged English teacher. I’ve only ever fired a gun once before, at Sam’s Scout camp on the rifle range. And I don’t want to see what happens if Angel or Lucas start to panic. I make myself breathe slowly, in and out, in and out, until the nausea subsides.
‘Can we please just get these baby things?’ I say tightly. ‘We can all stay calm if we can get him comfortable.’
Angel probably imagines people like me always know where to find things in their attics.
The truth is that if you had asked me a week ago to find Sam’s baby stuff, we’d have been in trouble. But I found myself up there just after Ian told me about the baby, and almost ripped the place apart trying to find the blue canvas holdall I knew was there somewhere.
I’d spent an hour in tear-soaked reminiscence, smoothing out the small sleepsuits and dungarees, shuffling my pack of memories. Later, I somehow got through three-quarters of a bottle of wine and almost fell over on the way to bed.
It had been a bit of a low point.
I pat the squirming baby in my arms now and try to make reassuring noises as I gaze up at Angel’s long legs above me on the stepladder. I direct her to the bag near the entrance.
She calls for me to mind out of the way, and throws it down.
Back in the kitchen, Lucas is sitting at the table, hands flat against the surface. He is apparently just staring into space, but his right leg jiggles up and down as though keeping time to some crazy beat inside his head. He watches silently as I begin to dress the baby. Thank goodness for this bag of stuff.
The best find is a swim nappy that somehow ended up in the bag. It is a little bit too big, but a definite improvement on the kitchen towel, which has already almost disintegrated from handling and the movement of the baby’s kicking legs.
There is a vest with poppers at the bottom that is almost the right size and a small pair of leggings that will do, rolled up. I’m so relieved to see the baby bottle there. At least I can get some water into this little chap now.
One-handed, I fill the kettle to the brim with water. I will have to boil this bottle in a pan, and I’ll use the rest of the water as a drink, once it’s cooled enough.
The baby is still chuntering miserably throughout this process. I can’t tell if he is lethargic. He does feel hot, but despite the rain, the air still feels thick and warm.
Lucas now sits with his hands buried in his hair, head down. Angel is furiously flicking through something on her phone. She pauses once only to say, ‘Fuck,’ and then, ignoring Lucas’s plea to show him what she is looking at, she keeps on scrolling, shaking her head slowly.
It is still raining outside; I can hear it. I stare back at my reflection in the black window, my face a pale oval and my eyes wide and frightened looking.
The baby bottle rattles loudly against the side of the pan as it boils. Will five minutes be long enough? I never did it this way in the past. I used a machine instead, which has long since gone.
The lack of milk looms large in my mind. What are we going to do about feeding this baby?
The windows are misting up with the water boiling on the stove now; combined with the heat of the night, it feels claustrophobic in here. I hesitate for only a moment before leaning over to open the top of one of the windows, feeling four eyes drilling into me as I do it. What do they think? I’m going to haul my body out of that tiny window and escape?
When I turn back, Angel is frowning, chewing on her thumbnail, apparently deep in thought.
‘So,’ says Angel. ‘We need money. You have to get it for us.’
‘I’ll happily give you money,’ I say, carefully. ‘But I already told you. I only have about ten pounds here.’
‘Cashpoint,’ says Lucas, coming alive suddenly. ‘Where’s the nearest one?’
‘There’s one along the dual carriageway,’ I say. ‘A Tesco garage.’
Angel and Lucas exchange a glance, then look back at me. It’s unnerving, like twins communicating silently, despite the difference in age.
‘I’ll give you my PIN number,’ I say. Angel shakes her head vigorously.
‘No,’ she says. ‘They have cameras on ATMs. I don’t want them taking our pictures. You have to go and get it yourself.’
My heartbeat quickens. Surely, they won’t just let me go? But then I’d have to leave the baby here with them. The two thoughts collide unpleasantly.
As if sensing this, Angel says, ‘We’ll keep the baby here.’ She glances at the wriggling child in my arms and says, ‘You know we don’t want it to come to any harm.’
The open-ended way she says this is chilling and I realize I’m holding the baby too tightly. He squirms.
I’m grateful for the distraction of the bottle, still rattling in the pan. The water in the kettle must be cool enough now.
‘I need some help with this,’ I say curtly.
Lucas looks at me for a moment. I force myself to meet his eyes, which are the same golden-toffee colour as his sister’s, thickly fringed with black lashes. I realize, belatedly, that he is quite beautiful, despite the hollowness of his eyes and sallow complexion. Much better looking than his sister, whose features are similar but have a heaviness to them. It must have been hard for Lucas to be the prettier of the two. Then he turns his face away from me, pointedly. Right, so no help will be forthcoming there then.
With a theatrical sigh that any of my Year Elevens would be proud of, Angel comes over and says, ‘What should I do then?’ in the tone of one who has been horribly inconvenienced.
The baby starts to wail again and a look of pure distaste passes over her face.
‘Wash your hands carefully,’ I mutter. ‘Then take that bottle out of the water and fill it with water from the kettle. Put it on the windowsill to cool off.’
She follows these instructions well enough. I watch her all the time, as I murmur to the baby. He is rooting at my shoulder now, small mouth pursed, trying to find a breast. Water is not going to be enough. I hope to God the Tesco garage has formula milk.
The craziness of this whole scenario hits me again. I shift the position of the baby boy, so he is lying on my forearm, stomach down. I remember an afternoon when Sam wouldn’t stop crying, and the health visitor had arrived to find us both inconsolable. She had shown me this move and it had worked magically when Sam was grumpy with colic.
But it’s not working now. The baby screams on. I hurriedly rearrange him back on my shoulder. He’s becoming surprisingly heavy, the longer I hold him, especially in this heat.
Finally, the water, the bottle and the teat are cool enough. I instruct Angel to put it all together. When I hold the bottle to the baby’s lips, he sucks greedily with noisy slurps. The hydration calms him for a moment, but it doesn’t take long for the realization to come that this isn’t what was wanted.
He starts to cry again, a miserable mewl. I look up, anxiously.
‘Look, he needs milk. I’ll go to the garage and get your money. I won’t tell anyone. But please, please be careful with him. He’s so little.’
Angel