Don’t You Cry: The gripping new psychological thriller from the bestselling author of In a Cottage in a Wood
brother and he needs a bloody minute.’
Little brother.
Lucas looks only a few years younger than Angel, maybe early twenties. His face is much finer-boned than his sister’s, his shoulders hunched and narrow. He’s slightly built but looks like he has a wiry strength. His eyes are what frighten me the most though; they’re wide and staring as though he is watching something playing out in his mind and doesn’t like what he sees.
Lucas murmurs something then and that’s when I become aware of another sound, coming from somewhere about his person. It’s a sort of creaky puttering noise; familiar but so out of context I can’t place it. I move a few steps closer, drawn to its source, and that’s when I see what is causing that odd bulge in the coat.
‘Oh Jesus!’ I cry out.
Tufty, reddish hair pokes up from a head the size of a grapefruit.
The baby stretches its neck backwards, revealing a scrunched face. It’s so small; surely only a few weeks old; possibly new-born. The little twist of a mouth puckers and forms a square and the unhappy creaks turn into an ear-splitting wail.
All instinct, I cross the room and reach for it, hands outstretched.
‘Get back!’ Lucas yells and flails his arms and I stumble back. Lucas’s eyes are wide and a little unfocused. Is he on something? He lifts his hands up and says, in a strangled voice, ‘Just give me space! Don’t crowd me. I just need space, that’s all!’
‘Get away from him,’ shouts Angel. ‘Can’t you see what a state he’s in?’
She has the gun in her hand again now and is waving it around wildly, horribly close to the baby’s tiny head. Barely breathing, I peel my gaze back to Lucas and the shrieking bundle in his coat.
He wipes his face with a hand that’s battered and cut, the knuckles raw. I can see what looks like dried blood on his fingers and the backs of his hands. His nails are rimed black. When he places a filthy hand on the baby’s tiny head, I experience an internal mushroom cloud of pure horror.
The blood. The gun. The baby squirming visibly at the opening in his coat. Any combination of these things is wrong.
‘Lu babe,’ says Angel over the wailing. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘What’s wrong with you?’ I shout then. ‘Don’t you care more about that baby?’
‘The kid looks fine to me,’ says Angel sharply.
‘Oh, you know that, do you?’ I say. ‘Because I don’t think that’s a given right now.’
Angel stares at me and, for a second, she looks unsure.
She gives her brother a slight smile. ‘It is OK, isn’t it? Lucas? Can I just …?’
Lucas is breathing heavily, almost panting, as she approaches him, her movements slow and careful. When she reaches out he whimpers and steps back. But with shushing, comforting sounds she begins to open his coat. The baby is straining hard against the makeshift sling, which appears to be made from a man’s shirt. The sleeves are tied around Lucas’s back, the back of the shirt bagged into an unsatisfactory pouch. One of the baby’s legs, encased in a white sleepsuit, protrudes and dangles awkwardly.
Lucas closes his eyes as Angel reaches behind him and tries to unknot the sleeves. The baby screams on, jolting downwards with every tug of Angel’s arms. It is unbearable to watch. I bite back helpless tears and wrap my arms around myself. I can’t stop shaking.
‘Please,’ I whisper, ‘be careful.’
Somehow, I know this baby does not belong to either Angel or Lucas. So where is its mother?
Angel now has the baby, who is puce-faced, drawing knees to chest. She looks like she is carrying a bag of sugar rather than a squirming child and she places it on the table, not exactly roughly, but with little care. Then she peels off Lucas’s coat, speaking in a quiet, fussy tone all the while, before dropping it onto the floor.
I can’t stop myself from lunging for the child. But Angel is faster and with a yell she slaps me, hard, around the face. My cheek rings, hot with pain. Tears spring to my eyes and, for a moment, Angel looks almost contrite.
‘Look, it doesn’t have to be like this,’ she says, defiant again. ‘I don’t want to have to hurt you?’ She pauses. ‘But I will if I have to. Do you understand me?’
I nod dumbly, holding my cheek.
Angel sighs and says, ‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’ She snatches the baby up. ‘Happy now?’
She holds the hot, angry face to her shoulder, as the baby shrieks on. Lucas emits a small moan and wraps his arms around himself, rocking gently.
Somehow, I find my voice again. ‘Please, please, Angel,’ I say. ‘I won’t do anything. Just please be careful! Can’t you see how little he is?’ I’m sure he is a boy.
Angel meets my eyes, her expression toxic with resentment. ‘It’s all going to be fine if you don’t do anything fucking stupid, alright?’ She begins to jiggle the baby a little roughly, and then, in what is presumably an attempt at a softer tone, says, ‘It’s OK, it’s OK.’
The very words said by Angel in the restaurant after she saved my life. It seems so long ago.
Who, what, have I brought into my home?
The baby isn’t showing any signs of quietening.
‘Please make it stop?’ Lucas’s voice is plaintive, his accent more plummy than Angel’s flat London vowels. ‘I can’t stand this fucking noise! It won’t stop. It’s getting inside me!’ He presses his fists against the sides of his head and lets out a moan of despair.
Dread throbs through me. What is wrong with him? Whether it is drug-induced or simply how he is wired is unclear. But it doesn’t really matter which. What matters is that baby not being injured in any way. I look at the blood on his hands again. I desperately want to examine the child to see if it’s hurt but must tread carefully. Neither of the other two adults present seems to be stable.
‘Come on, babe,’ soothes Angel. ‘It’s just pissed off. Babies are always grumpy, aren’t they? It’ll settle soon, you’ll see.’ Her tone is gentle, cajoling, and it seems to work because he moves his hands away from his head.
‘Now get those wet things off, right?’ she says briskly. ‘Then we can all calm down.’
Lucas shucks the wet black T-shirt over his head and stands there shivering like a whipped dog. His chest is almost concave, delicate, like a boy’s. He has bruises on his ribs. The shape of him reminds me of Sam but the sharp, fearful smell of sweat is adult.
‘Where can he get dry clothes?’ demands Angel. ‘Which room?’
It seems challenging to think of the right answer to this question.
‘What, oh uh … upstairs, second door on the left,’ I say, then, ‘Shall I go?’
But Angel shakes her head. ‘No, not you,’ she inclines her head at Lucas. ‘Find all the landlines while you’re at it, yeah?’ As he begins to walk out of the room she calls out again. ‘Hey?’ He turns to look at her.
‘Wash your hands up there,’ she says gently, then gives a small, tight grin. ‘Your pits too. You stink.’ Lucas’s mouth twists and he leaves the room.
The baby screams on, hoarse now with misery. Every nerve end cries out to take over as Angel jiggles it roughly and says, ‘It’s OK,’ over, and over, again in a voice lacking any warmth at all.