Maxim Jakubowski - The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries 6

She blinks, like she’s just woken up. “Come in, you’ll catch your death of cold.”

“Can’t I play out?” I can hear the baby “Wah! Wa-aah!” but it sounds far away.

“You haven’t even got your gloves on! Can’t you do the simplest thing?”

I don’t say anything, ‘cos it just makes her more cross.

“Did Trina walk you home?”

I nod, because I always give myself away if I tell a fib.

She doesn’t say anything for a while, and I’m afraid she’s listening for the baby. But then she turns away from me. “Inside,” she says.

I want a cup of cocoa with marshmallows, but Mummy goes straight back upstairs. Maybe I can make some using hot water out of the tap. But I can’t find a clean cup and the cocoa is in one of the wall cupboards, but I push a stool over and climb up.

BANG!

At first I think Mummy’s fallen over, but then I hear her running down the stairs. Really running. Thud, thud, thud, thud! She pushes the kitchen door so hard it crashes against the wall and the door wobbles and the wall gets a dent in it. I’m so frightened, I just stand on the stool and I can’t move.

“You bloody little liar!”

“Mummy…”

“It’s eleven o’clock in the morning. What the hell are you doing home?” My mouth is dry and my legs are so shaky I can’t even jump down off the stool. “Your clock must’ve stopped,” I say. “It really is-”

Suddenly, my face is burning. I lose my balance, but she grabs me by the arm and pulls me down. “Ow! Ow, it hurts! Mummy, please, it hurts!”

“How dare you lie to me-I just heard it on the radio, you wicked, wicked girl!” Whack! Whack! She smacks me as hard as she can on my bum and my legs and my back.

“Mummy, please!”

Then she pulls me upstairs and it hurts so much ‘cos she’s twisting my arm, but when I try to tell her she whacks me again.

“Bloody liar!”

She throws me onto my bed. There’s toys on it, because I was playing with them before school. I land on them and they dig into my back. “Ow! Mummy!”

“Look at this pigsty! How can you find anything in this pile of filth? You dirty, dirty girl. No wonder you’ve no friends-you make me ashamed!”

“Mummy! I’m sorry!” I can hardly talk because I’m crying so hard. “I-Trina hurt my hand. I had to run away ‘cos she was going to break my fingers off!”

“Stop lying! I’ve had ENOUGH!” She’s screaming so loud I cover my ears, but I can still hear her. “Enough of you. Enough of your lies and your whining, your complaints and demands. You’re never satisfied, are you? ARE you?”

“Yes, Mummy.”

She slaps my legs. “Don’t be insolent! What am I going to say to Miss Irvine? That you lied? That you ran away?”

“Please, Mummy, don’t. Don’t tell Miss Irvine!” I’m sobbing, and Mummy hates that, but I can’t stop. It’s like somebody poured all the sadness in the world into my heart, and my heart is so full it’s spilled into my tummy, and I have to cry or I’ll burst.

Mummy comes up close. Her eyes aren’t like my mummy’s eyes. They’re hard and glittery and I’m afraid to look. “SHUT UP!” she screams and slaps me across the face again.

I close my eyes and hold my breath. I hold it and hold it to stop myself from crying, and after a long time, she goes away.

Mission. Mummy says smacking is a mission of failure.

When she’s gone I cry for a long time, but very, very quietly-’cos crying’s not aloud. I crawl under the duvet and curl up and pretend I’m a dormouse and I’m going asleep till the winter’s over. I’m awfully tired…

“Sweetie?”

I lie still under the duvet. Maybe she won’t notice me. Then I feel her hand on my shoulder, and I make a little sound, which I didn’t mean to make, but I couldn’t help it. “Laura-sweetie-it’s all right. Mummy isn’t cross anymore.” I don’t say anything, in case it’s a trick.

“Mummy’s very sorry.” I still don’t say anything. “Look, I’ve brought you a surprise.” She lifts the duvet a tiny bit to let the smell in. Scrambled eggs on toast. My favourite.

I slide out from under the covers, but I don’t sit close to her. I go and sit on my pillows, instead, so I can look at her. She hasn’t got her angry head on anymore. She looks sad and her eyes are red, like she’s been crying.

“Oh, sweetie!” she leans over and at first I’m afraid, and I duck.

“Shhh…” she says. She was only going to stroke my head this time. I’m all sweaty, ‘cos I’ve still got my coat on, but Mummy doesn’t shout or be mad at me. “Mummy doesn’t mean to be cross,” she says. And now she’s definitely crying, which makes me want to start all over again.

“Won’t you have something to eat?” she says. It does smell lovely. She’s brought it up on a tray, like when I’m sick. I feel like telling her no, but I’m so hungry. It’s already nighttime, so I must have fallen asleep.

I nod, to show I’ll try. It hurts my face, but you don’t have to chew scrambled eggs, and the toast is soggy-the way I like it-so it’s not too bad. She helps me to take my coat off, and looks at my arms and cries again. Then she sits next to me, and I can see that she really isn’t cross anymore and she really is sorry.

“You can have hot chocolate with extra marshmallows and two chocolate biscuits after,” she says, and kisses me very soft on the forehead, and I love her more than the whole wide world. “I’m sorry, Mummy,” I say, and I can’t help crying. My lips wobble and I feel like I’ve got something stuck in my throat, but I haven’t. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s not your fault,” she says. “I shouldn’t have-oh, darling, I didn’t mean it, you know that, don’t you? It’s just, since Joseph…” She never says the next bit. Since Joseph got lost. Since I lost Joseph. Maybe she blames herself for losing him. ‘Cos Uncle Pete says you’ve got to watch kids like a hawk.

Mummy’s fast asleep. It’s still nighttime, but my watch says it’s only eight o’clock, which isn’t even my bedtime. I tiptoe down the stairs to the kitchen. I have to go out to the shed, so I’ll need a torch-there’s one under the kitchen sink. I’ve got an idea-see, the baby is mine, ‘cos I found him fair and square. He is big, though. And heavy. And smelly. And he cries all the time. I can hear him (“Wah! Wah!”) very faintly, as I walk across the grass. And Mummy really likes changing nappies and bath time and all that stuff. I could share him a bit-Mummy says nice little girls share their things-and I wouldn’t mind, so long as I get to cuddle him and dress him sometimes. And maybe take him for walks. I haven’t even given him a proper name yet-just “Baby,” so I could call him whatever I like. It’s a good idea, and I giggle when I think what a surprise Mummy will get.

I open the door and: “WAH! WAH!” Baby will have to stop crying, or he’ll spoil everything.

“Baby, you HAVE to stop!” I say. But of course he doesn’t. I find a dummy in the baby box, but he spits it out. He smells of sick and dirty nappies. “Baby, please.” But that does no good. I take his dirty clothes off and give him a new nappy and everything, but he STILL won’t stop.

“Now just you stop it! You wicked, selfish boy! You’re never satisfied-you always want more more more! Stop it. Stop it RIGHT NOW!”

But he screams even louder.

“I’ve had ENOUGH!”

Mummy’s still asleep when I go back to my room.

“Look, Mummy, I brought you a surprise.” She stretches and sighs but she doesn’t open her eyes. Joseph looks lovely in his clean rompers and bootees. He seems heavier than before. Maybe I’ll just put him next to Mummy so she can see him when she wakes up properly. He’s nice and quiet now. And with all that crying, he could do with the rest.