Cath Staincliffe - Crying Out Loud

‘Didn’t he realize something was going on?’

‘No, he was in his room most of the time. Meant to be cramming in revision for his mocks but it sounded like he’d got some video game playing. We do advise them to revise to music but not that sort of racket.’ She was being sardonic. ‘Heather had to tell him to turn it down. He came downstairs for tea but she let him take it up to eat, so I doubt he noticed the state she was in. Then, at seven, the police came.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘Devastating,’ she said simply.

A waitress began clearing the table. Valerie checked her watch.

‘And when you heard they’d charged Damien Beswick?’

‘Relief.’

‘You never had any doubts?’

‘Good grief, no. He owned up, the evidence fit. Kids like that: dysfunctional family, drugs, crime – sooner or later there’s violence.’ She pushed back her chair. ‘We see it all the time.’

The wind had brought rain with it – not heavy yet, just squalls that spat drops at me. As I walked back through the complex in the direction of the car I felt dwarfed by the buildings lowering over me and a little overwhelmed by the investigation. It wasn’t the complexity of it; after all, it boiled down to one question: was Damien Beswick lying then, or now? But it was the frustration of not being able to tell whether he was guilty or wrongly convicted and the sense that there was no easy path I could follow to clearly establish that. Before his conviction the emphasis had been on proving Damien culpable beyond any reasonable doubt; now the reverse was true. In the balance of probability he had killed Charlie – it would need some stunning evidence to convince anyone otherwise.

Ray had left me a text: clothes – no joy . So I called into Children’s World on my way home. It stocked every possible accessory and accoutrement. I found myself drooling over patterned towelling Babygros and funky baby sweaters, instead of just grabbing the two-for-a-tenner value packs in the dump bins. I could have spent a fortune and stayed all day but I got a grip, reminded myself that Jamie might be gone by teatime and settled on three cheapish cotton all-in-ones in powder blue, dusky rose and white with stars and moons.

The place didn’t sell small sets of nappies; the ones they had would need a forklift truck to shift them. But there was a special offer on starter packs of three reusables. They’d a terry towelling inside and a plastic outer coating, fitted with velcro tabs. I’d used something similar for Maddie when I’d read how it took hundreds of years for disposables to degrade in landfill.

As I negotiated the traffic home, I mused on how the world seemed full of babies: Jamie, Chloe’s little one, Libby’s daughter. How old was Rowena? Due in June, Libby had said, so she’d be three months or so. The possibility stuck in my mind like a fishbone in the throat. I couldn’t dislodge it. With it came a creeping unease, a quickening of my pulse. Why hadn’t it occurred to me before? Because it seemed so unlikely – that a new client would dump her child on me? It was unlikely whoever had done it. It was ridiculous – still I had to ring her, had to know.

Parking in our drive, I pulled out my phone and found her number. I would get myself invited there to give her feedback – explain I understood it would be harder for her to come to me with a baby in tow. If she tried to wriggle out of it, then I’d know I was on to something. Maybe I’d have to ask her outright. My throat felt dry as I entered her number.

Libby answered the phone and I heard the deafening cries of a howling baby close by. Relief rippled through me like a drug. ‘Libby, Sal Kilkenny.’

‘Hi.’

‘Not a good time? I just wanted to fix up a meeting. Are you free tomorrow?’

‘I can do mid-morning, say, half ten.’ The crying became even more frantic. ‘Sorry, I’ll have to go,’ she added.

‘See you tomorrow.’

It was quiet in my house. I peeked in the lounge and found Jamie, wrapped in a blanket, asleep on the sofa. Ray was in the kitchen, reading the paper after his lunch. I was five minutes later than I’d said. Would I get a lecture?

‘Hi,’ I greeted him. ‘I got some clothes. Has she been OK?’

‘Not bad. Just gone off.’

‘You going into work?’

He paused. I looked at him. Was there something wrong? My stomach constricted. He shifted the chair, got to his feet. Then I saw it: the invitation stark in his eyes, the way his lips parted slightly, the rise of his chest.

I walked to meet him. Felt his hands in my hair, the brush of his moustache, then his lips on mine and his tongue, firm and smooth and warm. There was a sizzling sensation in my breasts and belly, the flush of heat between my thighs. I pulled away, hungry, breathless, savouring the intensity of his gaze. Those rich, brown eyes.

‘Your bed or mine,’ I whispered.

He grabbed my waist, pulled me close, then raised his hand to the top button on my shirt. ‘Who said anything about bed?’

With huge consideration Jamie slept for two and a half hours and was still asleep when it was time to fetch Maddie and Tom. So was Ray. We’d decamped to my room for a post-coital rest and now he was lying on his back, snoring lightly, his long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, the curls at the edge of his temples damp with perspiration.

I showered quickly and dressed, scooped up the baby and put her in the buggy, lowered the rain hood and set off.

The rain battered down, drumming on the plastic cover of the buggy, bouncing off the flagstones. The air was fresh, strong with the dark, watery smell of wet stone. I barrelled along, almost enjoying the weather. Still high from love-making, still smitten by the man who I had never imagined I’d fall in love with. And relieved that I had been able to forget, for a couple of delicious hours, that I was no closer to solving the mystery of who had left a foundling on my doorstep.

Jamie shared my bath that evening. I could have washed her in the sink or top and tailed her; after all I’d already showered so I didn’t need a soak, but there’s nothing quite so pleasant and calming as bathing with a baby.

It had been my escape route when I had Maddie. As a single parent, there was no one close by to help me look after her. We had some hard times: days when she’d run me ragged and I’d be in tears at the sheer scale of it all. The lack of sleep, the fact that it took so long to change her, to feed her, that there was never any respite.

When I reached fever pitch, or she did, there was the fail-safe option of the bath. My gas bills soared but it was worth every penny. Afternoons would often find us submerged together. When she was particularly fractious we might end up having two baths in one day. I’d run the water, walking to and fro with her as she cried. Her protests accelerated when I undressed her: her face contorted, red with fury, limbs rigid, her cries so sharp they made my breasts leak milk. Then I would pull off my own clothes, lift her up, climb into the water and lower her in, brace her on my knees so she could see me. As the water lapped at her feet, then her bottom and up to her chest, her cries would falter, shrivel to gusty breaths then fade. The magic of water: a return to the womb.

I was ready for bed by nine thirty and didn’t resist. Jamie had me up at midnight, three a.m. and five thirty. Consequently by the time Libby Hill arrived for our meeting the next morning I felt like death warmed up.

I’d rung Abi Dobson the previous evening and lined her up to look after Jamie while I saw my client. I spun her the same story about Jamie being a friend’s child I was looking after while she had an operation. Abi was delighted. ‘More practise,’ she said. ‘I’m doing loads of childcare at the moment.’