Julie Shaw - Bad Blood

Panicked now, Christine strained to see but couldn’t. She well remembered what Josie had said about what might happen if she didn’t push hard enough; if she couldn’t get the baby out by herself. That was what had happened to Josie. She was too tiny. Much too tiny, so they’d used things called forceps. Enormous forceps, forced inside her, bigger than the baby’s entire head …

‘Christine! It’s going to peak now! Christine, look at me! Baby’s coming. Baby needs to come, now . Do you understand me, Christine? So this time you have to push. As hard and as long and as strong as you can. That’s the way, lovey. Coming now. I can just see the head now.’ Her voice grew hard then. ‘But Christine, I mean it. You have to try . You have to give it everything you’ve got left, okay. Everything. You have to PUSH!’

It had been a pair of scissors, that was all. Not forceps, just scissors. Just to help. And they had helped, and she had pushed, and it had finally worked. The baby had been expelled from her so fast it was if it was entirely outside her control. Expelled and scooped up, and hung momentarily by its ankles, the face puckering, the mouth contorting, and then that single plaintive cry. And there it was – there he was. Her perfect child.

‘It’s a boy!’ someone had said. ‘You have a son! You clever girl, you!’ And then the nurse by the scales had said ‘bless her’, though not to her. She’d said ‘bless her’ to the doctor, in tones not meant for Christine. ‘She’s only just seventeen.’ She’d sighed then. ‘No more’n a child herself.’

They’d sounded relieved, though, which had helped. And here he was on her chest now, staring up at her from his swaddling of blue cellular blanket, her blessing; her little coffee-coloured son.

Sister Rawson was standing beside her, beaming, pulling off her plastic apron. ‘A beautiful baby boy,’ she said as she balled it in her big pink hands and deposited it in the bin. ‘Well done, lovey. Seriously. You were a brave girl. Well done.’

She reached across then, her expression strange, and swept a strand of Christine’s wet hair from her eyes. It was an action so gentle that it made Christine want to cry. The sort of tears you couldn’t help, because someone was being nice to you. And for a moment, she almost let herself give in to them. ‘And your mum’ll be here soon, I’m sure,’ Sister Rawson said softly. ‘Not too long now, eh? And, aww, he’s beautiful, isn’t he? Just look at him. A little stunner, he’ll be. Look at those lovely, lovely eyes.’

Christine looked – it was all she could do not to, ever since she’d been handed him. And tried to find something in the baby’s eyes that reminded her of his father. But no. There was nothing. He was perfect. And he was hers. And she knew in that instant that she would always, always love him. That her bond to him, unlike her mam’s, would be unbreakable.

Yes, his existence was about to cause hell for her, she knew that. So she was scared. She could imagine her mum’s face, and she was scared.

But in that moment she didn’t care. He was hers and she was his. No one else could matter more. She felt blessed.

Josie held the phone receiver away from her ear. And then brought it quickly back again, mindful of a nurse hurrying past her. Lizzie Parker was known for many things, and one of the chief among them was the way she could scream and yell when she lost her rag. ‘Calm down, Lizzie,’ she hissed. ‘I’m only the pissing messenger! And anyway, all I’ve told you is that he’s black. That doesn’t automatically mean it’s Mo’s.’

Lizzie laughed down the line, the bitterness in her voice evident. ‘Course it’s fucking Mo’s kid. Who else’s would it be? I fucking knew there was something going on. I knew it. And don’t pretend you didn’t. She’s a fucking little slut, she is. Just you wait till I get my fucking hands on her.’

In the end, a while earlier, it had been Josie who’d seen the baby first. Knowing Lizzie wouldn’t be at home when she and Imran had left the hospital she’d had him drive down to the Mecca and made him wait outside, planning to let Lizzie know that Christine had been admitted and, if she wanted, that she could use the cab to hurry back there. But she’d missed her. She’d already gone to the pub.

Josie could have gone looking for her at that point – there were several pubs locally Lizzie and her cronies frequented – or she could have gone home and tried again later. But knowing how far gone Christine had been, and that Paula was safe round her own mam’s, she paid Imran and this time walked back to St Luke’s. No, they wouldn’t let her in till the baby was safely born, but it felt all wrong that there was no one there for her, and once it had been she’d be grateful for a friendly familiar face.

And Josie was glad she’d come back, because the baby was born just as she’d been finishing up her WRVS sandwich and, as all was apparently well, she’d been allowed in almost right away. And right away, the suspicions she’d had for a while had been confirmed.

‘So it is his, then?’ she’d asked. Though she hadn’t really needed to. Christine’s drawn, anxious expression had said it all, really – said in an instant what she’d been unable to say for the whole sodding pregnancy. But which Josie had worked out all by herself.

But had Lizzie? It hardly bore thinking about.

Christine sniffed, a single tear running down one pale cheek as Josie peered into the little plastic cot beside the bed. ‘Isn’t he beautiful?’ Her voice wobbled. ‘Oh, Josie. What the fuck am I going to do ?’

Josie found herself overcome with a terrible rush of fury. The bastard. The sodding bastard. She had to work hard to keep her voice light because it was all too close to home for her. ‘He is, mate. He’s gorgeous. No thanks to his twat of a father. Doing the mother and then the daughter? That’s pretty low. Chris, what happened? You have to tell me. Come on, truth. Did that bastard rape you?’

This suggestion only produced a fresh bout of tears. ‘Oh, Josie …’ Christine started.

‘He bloody did, didn’t he?’ Josie fumed. ‘Fuck, Chris, why didn’t you tell someone?’

But Christine was shaking her head. ‘It wasn’t …’ she began again. ‘Josie, I … Josie, I let him. I can’t lie. I …’

‘You what ?’ Josie could almost sense her pulse throbbing in her temples. She sat on the edge of the bed and tried to calm herself. It was always like this. ‘How exactly did you let him, Chris? Was this a thing that was already going on with you? Please don’t tell me you –’

‘No! Josie, God , no. He’d never been like that with me before. Which was why it was all such a shock. He was just like there, and Mam was out, and we had some wine – he’d brought some wine with him – and …’

‘And one thing led to another? Christ, mate. What were you thinking ?!’

‘I was drunk, Josie.’

‘I’ll bet you were. I’ll bet he saw to that bit for you.’

‘And it was like I was kind of there but not there … and …’ She trailed off, remembering, and put her hands to her face.

‘Great. So he slipped you a pill as well, did he? Christine – Jesus .’ She sighed heavily. ‘That utter, utter bastard. He did you good and proper, didn’t he? What were you thinking ?’ she said again, because that was what she kept coming back to. ‘No, scrub that. You weren’t thinking, were you? Incapable of thinking, more like. The bastard.’