Ann Cleeves - The Baby-Snatcher

‘That’s not very kind.’ It was the old Mark, disapproving, self-righteous.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Well I don’t feel very kind.’

She thought for a moment. She knew he wouldn’t give up. ‘I suppose I could see you Saturday lunchtime. Brian’s working and Claire doesn’t mind coming up during the day. Where shall we meet?’

‘You could always come here. To the house.’

She thought of the Otterbridge house full of Sheena’s books and Sheena’s pictures, still smelling somehow of Sheena and always cold. She shuddered.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Not there. A pub. Somewhere halfway between here and Otterbridge so it won’t take me too long to get home.’

‘The Lamb in Puddywell,’ he said. He hadn’t had to think about it and it surprised her that Mark, who hardly ever went into pubs could come up with a name so easily. ‘Twelve o’clock. I’ll see you there.’

Before she could answer he rang off. She pushed the button on the phone and set it on the floor. She wished she’d had the courage to stand up to him. She shouldn’t have said that she’d see him.

The bathroom door rattled. The noise startled her and she realized her hands were shaking. Brian shouted.

‘What are you doing in there?’ He sounded amused, not irritated, which made a nice change.

‘Bathing Helen.’ What do you think I’m doing? she thought.

‘Why the locked door? Teaching her modesty at an early age?’

She smiled despite herself. ‘No. Habit I suppose.’

She stood up, holding the shrouded baby against her shoulder and let him in. He kissed her lightly on the lips. He’d been making more effort lately and she was aware of a sudden and surprising surge of affection. They stood together in the steamy room, the baby between them. The smell of talcum powder and the heat made her feel quite faint.

He began to undress. Carefully, as he always did. He hung his jacket on a hook on the door with the children’s dressing gowns, threw his shirt into the wicker laundry basket and folded up his trousers. He turned on the taps. He took Helen from Emma, pulled away the towel and held her in the air, so he could press his lips on her stomach to make the farting noise which always sent the boys into hysterics. Then he said, in the gurgly voice he saved for babies, ‘You don’t mind, do you, Sweetie? You don’t mind if Daddy uses your bathroom?’ To Emma he said, ‘Why don’t you stay here? We can talk while you dress her. Before he climbed into the bath he locked the door again. ‘Mark hasn’t been round lately.’ He was lying right back so she couldn’t see his face. The words seemed to come from nowhere.

Helen was on the changing mat on the floor and Emma was bending over her, fixing the sticky tapes on the disposable nappy. She kept her eyes on the baby as she answered.

‘No. I suppose it’s a while.’

‘Not since David’s birthday,’ he persisted. ‘Why don’t we invite him round for lunch on Sunday?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I suppose we could.’

He sat up, sending a tidal wave into the toys strung from the taps and continued enthusiastically.

‘There’s a new place just opened round the corner from the office. It’s brilliant. A real old-fashioned toy shop. I bought some presents for the boys. Kites. Not those dreadful plastic ones that tear as soon as you look at them, but the sort we used to have when I was a kid. Canvas and bamboo. You put them together yourself. If there’s any sort of wind on Sunday we could fly them. Mark would enjoy that.’

‘Brian!’ Emma had to interrupt him. ‘Listen. There’s something you should know about Mark.’

Brian had been soaping his back. He stopped. ‘No,’ he said.

She kneeled up. They stared at each other.

‘I don’t need to know anything about Mark. He’s my friend. He’s been through a rough time. I want him to be happy. In the same way I want you to be happy.’

He reached out and put an arm covered with bubbles around her shoulder and pulled her towards him. When he kissed her she smelled the baby shampoo he’d used on his hair.

‘I don’t care what Mark’s been up to. You have to understand that, I don’t mind. As long as he’s happy I don’t mind.’

It was as if he expected her, absolutely, to know what he meant.

Because Brian was home early they ate with the boys in the kitchen. Pepperoni pizza from the freezer and baked potatoes in the microwave. Emma prepared a salad, which Brian made into a joke. He put his hands by the side of his head to form ears, pulled his front teeth over his lower lip and said,

‘Lettuce. That’s rabbit food. Men don’t eat that. ’

The boys made rabbit faces, too, then collapsed into fits of giggles. Even Emma joined in, despite her disapproval. He knew how difficult it was to get them to eat properly. The laughter made her realize how tense they had been in the previous months, and remember that once they had got on very well.

After supper Brian sat her in an armchair in front of the television with a large glass of wine and took the boys up to bed.

‘Don’t wind them up,’ she said. ‘Not before bedtime.’

‘Of course not.’ His voice was solemn but when she looked up he was making the rabbit face at the boys who were waiting in the doorway and as he chased them up the stairs they whooped and screamed with delight.

They’ll wake Helen, she thought, not really caring if they did.

She’d finished the wine when he came downstairs.

‘Two stories each,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘And they’re fast asleep.’ He fetched the bottle from the fridge and poured her another glass.

‘Don’t you want any?’

‘I thought I’d pop out to the club. Just for a quick half.’

A quick three pints, she thought, and why do I have the feeling that he’s running away? But she was so grateful for his kindness, so frightened of spoiling the evening, that she let him go without a fuss.

Inside the club it was as cold as always. Brian kept on his overcoat and put on the pair of gloves he found in his pocket, making a show of it, so the regulars all laughed.

He was halfway through his second pint when Kim Houghton turned up with a new man in tow. Brian watched her from his seat by the bar. He’d had his own fantasises about Kim Houghton in the past. He’d imagined what it would be like to knock at the door of the little house in Cotter’s Row, to be taken inside…

The man was a jerk in a sheepskin jacket and black patent shoes. When he wasn’t drooling over Kim he was trying to sell Les a second-hand Cavalier. She’d been in with car dealers before. Perhaps she was trying to work her way through the motor trade. Or perhaps she fancied a little motor herself. The bloke wouldn’t have much joy selling to Les, Brian thought with satisfaction. Les had lost his licence the month before through drink-driving. That had given them all a shock, made them watch their step.

Brian wondered what Kim had done with the little girl. Being a single mum didn’t seem to cramp her style. He’d seen them together occasionally, the child immaculately dressed, colour co-ordinated, a scaled-down version of her mother. Poor little bastard, he thought. It couldn’t be much fun. He’d have to get Em to invite her up to play. Perhaps she’d enjoy flying kites too.

He’d just rescued Les from Kim Houghton’s boyfriend by demanding another pint, when the door opened and two police officers came in. They were in plain clothes but everyone knew what they were. It was the flash young man and the bonny woman with red hair. They stood for a moment, looking around them. All the conversation in the place stopped.

Les rubbed his hands together. He always did that when he was nervous.