Stuart MacBride - Twelve Days of Winter - Crime at Christmas

‘When you going to get me some more vodka then?’

‘You’re supposed to be looking after that baby, not boozing it up.’ She squared her shoulders and put on her prison guard voice. ‘That’s long enough. We’re going back to the ward.’

‘But I don’t want to!’ Whining and petulant. Like a child. ‘I’m fed up of this shite!’

‘You should have thought of that before you got pregnant, you selfish little. . .’ Val rubbed a hand across her face. Took a deep breath. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean that. It’s been a long week.’

Geddes shrugged and headed back out into the rain.

Oldcastle Royal Infirmary sulked on the south-east corner of Castle Hill – the ancient building a testament to Vic-torian civic pride. The sort of place red brick and long, winding corridors went to die. Sometime in the late sixties the city council had added an extension: two massive wings in glass, steel and concrete.

The maternity ward was in the older part.

They’d put Kathy Geddes in a private room: somewhere secluded, where she wouldn’t upset the other mothers with her convictions for assault, lewd behaviour, drunk and disorderly, soliciting, robbery, and the piece de resistance : attempted murder.

She didn’t deserve to have a baby. She was a terrible mother to the three kids she already had, never mind a new one – drinking, smoking, doing drugs. . . Not like Val. Val and her husband did everything they were supposed to, followed the doctor’s instructions to the letter, but could she get pregnant? No. Geddes was like a bloody rabbit and Val couldn’t even have one.

She sat in the uncomfortable visitor’s chair and watched the cot while Geddes ate crisps and stared at the television.

‘Rolf’ – that was what she’d called her little baby boy. ‘Rolf Ainsley Schofield Geddes’ She shouldn’t be allowed to have children, torturing the poor kid like that.

It was obvious to anyone with half a brain that he wasn’t a ‘ Rolf ’. He was a Brian, or a Donald. . . Yes, definitely a Donald.

He yawned, showing off a little pink mouth and tiny pink tongue. Donald Macintyre. It had a lovely ring to it. Donald Philip Macintyre. Philip after her father, who went to his grave without ever having a grandchild.

Geddes stuffed in another handful of crisps, chewing with her mouth open.

It just wasn’t fair .

A nurse came round with the tea trolley at ten pm, wearing brown felt antlers and novelty-snowmen earrings that flashed on and off. Geddes curled her top lip. ‘Bloody tea tastes like warm pish. And how come you can’t get any decent sodding biscuits on the NHS?’

The nurse ignored her, gave Val a cup of coffee and a long-suffering sigh, then disappeared off to spread cheer among the other mothers.

Now they were all alone: Geddes, Val and little Donald.

‘Right,’ Val put her empty cup down on the bedside cabinet, ‘are you sure you’re feeling up to this?’

‘Bloody right I am.’ Kathy levered herself out of bed. ‘Driving me mad, sitting here all day.’

‘What about the stitches?’

‘Bugger the stitches.’ She peeled off her hospital-issue nightie and stood there in a baggy bra and grey pants, stomach swollen and saggy at the same time. ‘You going to help or not?’

Val nodded, took a deep breath, and helped Kathy into a brand-new set of clothes. Then stood back as she stared at herself in the mirror. ‘Isn’t that better?’

‘Jesus. . .’ Geddes pulled at the top Norman had picked up from the big Marks and Spencer on Dundas Road, ‘Is your bloody husband blind? What the hell’s this supposed to be?’

‘You look fine.’

‘I look like a bloody frump.’

Val stripped down to her underwear then clambered into a pair of tan chinos and a pink sweatshirt, and pulled a baby sling on over the top. It still had the price tag from John Lewis dangling from one of the straps. She stuffed their discarded clothes and a few supplies into a large grey holdall. Nappies, cotton buds, surgical gloves, baby wipes, that kind of thing.

She handed Geddes a green ‘Oldcastle Tigers’ baseball cap. ‘Are you ready?’

‘You’ll have to carry the little bastard – my arse is giving me gyp.’ Geddes peered out through the blinds at the corridor. ‘You sure we’ll no’ be seen?’

‘Come on darling, come to your aunty Val. . .’ She lifted him out of his cot, wrapped him up in a snugly new blanket, then slipped him into the baby sling. Warmth spread through her like sunshine as she looked down at Donald’s little pink face. He was perfect. Utterly, utterly perfect .

‘You finished sodding about? Cos I’d like to get the hell out of here!’

Val pulled on a long overcoat, fastening it over Donald in his sling: hiding him from sight. Another baseball cap topped off her disguise. Not even her own mother would recognize her.

There was no one in the corridor, just the low gurgle and hum of the hospital’s heating system to keep them company as they walked past the antenatal rooms, examination suite, and birthing pool.

The nurses’ station was empty – ten-past ten, right on schedule. The duty nurse would be away getting things organized for tomorrow’s rounds. No witnesses.

They pushed out through the ward’s outer doors, keeping their heads down to avoid the cameras.

Five minutes later they were outside in the crisp December air. Sunday night, one week before Christmas, and everything was going perfectly. . . Val stared out at the car park, then the road beyond the iron railings. The whole pace was deserted, no sign of Norman or the car.

Val checked her watch: ten twenty-one. ‘We’re four minutes early. Don’t worry, he’ll be here.’

‘He better be. I’m not going back to that bloody prison!’

‘Shhh! What if someone hears you?’

‘I’m not going back: if I go back I’m telling them all about you!’

‘He’s. . . He’s. . .’ Come on, Norman. He wouldn’t let her down like that, he wouldn’t . He was just having trouble parking, or-

A pair of headlights flashed on the other side of the railings. ‘There!’ She grabbed Geddes by the elbow and hurried her down the wheelchair ramp and out onto the road. Helped her into the back of the Volvo estate. Val sat up front with Norman and little Donald.

Geddes kicked the back of Norman’s seat. ‘About bloody time you showed up! And what the hell do you call these clothes then?’

Norman stole a glance at Val. ‘There’s a suitcase in the back: lots of different things. I didn’t know what you’d like so-’

‘Not more of that frumpy shite!’

‘They’re perfectly good clothes.’

‘Yeah, if you’re bloody sixty .’

Val fastened her seatbelt, making sure it didn’t squash little Donald inside her coat. Really he should be in a car seat, but that would give the game away. Besides, it would mean letting go of him, and Norman was a very careful driver. ‘Can we just go please?’

The last train to Aberdeen didn’t leave until ten past eleven, so they sat in the North Station car park on Blackwall Hill, eating fish and chips.

Geddes kicked the back of Norman’s chair again. ‘What time is it?’ The words mumbled through a mouth full of chips.

‘Ten fifty.’

‘For fuck’s sake. Where’s my ticket?’

Norman sighed and handed it over. ‘I’ve booked you into a little B amp;B for tonight, and a taxi in the morning to take you to the ferry, so-’

‘And my money?’

Another sigh, only this time it came with an envelope.

Geddes ripped it open and counted the contents. ‘Where’s the rest of it?’

Val twisted as far round in her seat as she could without disturbing little Donald. ‘That’s all of it. That’s what we agreed.’