Writing in the Sand (20 page)

“A boy.”

“Are you
ill
or something?”

“No.”

“There must be something wrong. Nobody snatches a kid for nothing.”

“This isn't nothing. This baby…” I desperately want to tell her the truth. “Lisa—”

She cuts me off and reaches for one of the mugs. “Here – drink your tea,” she says and pushes it towards me. She takes a gulp from her own mug. “Okay, so you need me here.”

Does this mean she'll stay?

She says, “I'm not promising anything definite.”

“Stay until I've got things sorted.” (
Until I'm certain Gina Smith can't ever be Robbie's mother.
)

She fixes me with a stare. “I'll want to know a few things. You needn't think you can keep me in the dark while I run your errands—”

I stop her. “I'm not expecting that!” I pick up my purse from the table. “But right now this is urgent – can you go into town, please? Get nappies and formula.” I glance at the bag of dog food and decide we've got enough to be going on with.

“How will I know what to get?”

I look at the spare nappy, at the number giving its size – one up from when I last changed Robbie. He's growing so fast! I know what formula Mrs Kelly uses and tell Lisa I'll write it down for her.

She shuts the front door behind her. The phone rings. I worry Robbie will cry, but he's falling asleep, satisfied after his feed. Before I pick it up, I let it ring another couple of times. “Hello?”

It's Kirsty. “Amy. Something
terrible
—”

“What?”

“It's little Robbie – someone's taken him.”

Careful
. “How d'you mean,
taken
him?”

“Last week Mum arranged for Mrs Smith to take Robbie to the shops today. And what does the idiot do this morning? Leaves the poor little thing outside for someone to run off with! Mum's beside herself. Well, everyone is.”

“Mrs Smith left him
outside
?”

“She's mad.”

“God, Kirsty, this is awful.” And then I say – because Mr Beecroft is bound to describe me, and anyway I'll be on CCTV – “I was in the post office first thing.”

“Did you see anything?”

I'm wobbling, feeling for the chair behind me.
What the hell have I done? I'm the mad one – they'll never let me see Robbie again.
“No, nothing.”

“The police are here – trying to get some sense out of Mrs Smith.”

I hear talking in the background and she says, “Sorry, Amy, I'll have to go—” And her phone goes down.

I picture the scene at the Kellys'. The police wanting a description of Robbie. Everyone sick with worry. Mrs Smith a gibbering wreck. Thank God she didn't see me.

I want to change Robbie's nappy, but it would wake him. I wish I'd remembered to ask Lisa to get baby wipes.

Toffee is keeping me sane. I talk to him all the time. Forcing the words aloud – even softly – is like a pain around my heart. I tell him how awful the Kellys must be feeling. And Mr Smith. He'll have heard by now, and be feeling terrible for Mrs Smith. I don't like to think of him suffering again. He's had enough sadness.

Lisa's made record time. She's back with the nappies and formula. Another thing I forgot is something to sterilize the bottle. The
one
bottle. From now on, I'll boil it.

It's like she's enjoying the drama. “Buying all this stuff – I'm dead sure they were onto me in Boots.”

“Don't be daft, how could they be?”

“Bad news travels fast. Everybody's talking in town.” She takes a deep breath, hangs onto my quick glance. We're eye to eye. “This baby's the one they found in the shoebox. This is Robbie, isn't it? The one on the Kellys' doorstep.” She narrows her eyes. “But you knew that, didn't you? Why didn't you tell me?”

How can I feel physically sick and sound almost normal at the same time? “I'm sorry, Lisa, I wasn't ready.”

“Wow,” she says, “we gotta watch the local news. It's bound to be on.” She's bought a bottle of cider and pours us both a glass. I don't usually drink but I can do with something right now. Lisa says, “How did you nick him without anyone noticing?”

I drink some of the cider. “I don't know. It was easy.”

“And no one saw you?”

“I had my hood down. There were some lads outside. It could've been one of them.”

She shakes her head, like she thinks I'm dead thick. I say, “Lisa – Robbie'd been left outside in the pouring rain. I acted instinctively!”

“If you were that worried about him getting wet, why didn't you take him back to the Kellys'? Why bring him here?”

I don't answer.

“Why here, Amy, and not the Kellys'?”

I drink quite a lot of the cider. “There's this woman who wants to adopt him.
She
put him outside the shop. She's not fit to be a mother. I can't let her have Robbie.”

Lisa pretends to look thoughtful. “And you reckon,” she says, “if she doesn't see him for a bit, she'll go off the idea.”

She's putting me through it. I look helplessly at her. “I don't know.”

She drains her glass and pours herself some more. She raises the glass. “Okay – I'll help you.”

She digs deeper. Why
did
I bring Robbie here? When I tell her more – how Mrs Smith wants to let Mr Smith's mother die – she can't see the connection. “Amy,” she says, “you've got to stop spending your life worrying about other folk. Start thinking about Number One for a change.”

“That's what I am doing.”

“No, you're not.” She pauses. “Plus, you're sticking your nose in where it's got nothing to do with you.”

“It's got everything to do with me!”

“Like what?”

I hesitate. “You wouldn't understand.”

“Too right I wouldn't.” She sighs heavily, like she's doing some serious thinking. “Let's look at this one more time,” she says, “before you come to your senses and give the kid back to Mrs Kelly.”

“I've done it now, Lisa. I abducted him.”

“No you didn't, you took pity on him because he was out in a storm.”

“It wasn't exactly a storm.”

“Near enough,” she says, “and afterwards – realizing what you'd done, you just…” She trails off.

“Panicked and forgot to give him back?”

“Yeah, exactly!” she says. “Look – you did what you thought was right, and now you're in shock.” She scratches her head. “Whatever happens, you'll only get a caution.”

“I can't let Robbie go.”

She takes a swig of cider. “For God's sake, you sound like a bloody song!” She leans over and prods Robbie. “Anyway, what's the kid to you?”

I pull him closer. “He's mine.”

She starts using exaggerated, measured words. “You…mean…because you're keeping this baby out of Cruella de Vil's clutches…you're starting to believe he's yours to keep.” She sniggers. “Like, a baby is for life – not just for Christmas.”

I take a slow breath. “He's mine, Lisa. I gave birth to him. In my room, in my bed. On June the third.”

“You what…?”

“You heard me, Lisa.”

“But you…” She dries up like she's forgotten how to speak. A muscle twitches in her jaw. She's not sniggering now. Her mouth opens like a fish. It's as if she wants to carry on, but invisible bubbles come out instead of words.

We're silent. I look out of the window. Two seagulls surf the wind.

She sits down, looks at me like I'm bound to say something if she waits. But my mouth's as dry as dust.

Eventually she finds her voice. “…And you never said anything to Mum?”

“No.”

She starts burbling, wants to know everything. When did I realize I was pregnant? When I tell her I didn't know, she pretends to explode with disbelief: how can anyone be that simple?

She wants every detail, again and again – until I remind her about afternoon visiting; she'll have to take Mum's stamps.

I can't eat anything, but Lisa washes down a bowl of cereal with the last of the cider. I worry about her breathing cider over the nurses, tell her to suck mints from the hospital shop before she goes up to the ward. She can tell Mum I'm not well. Nothing serious; a bug or something.

I make her swear she won't say a word to Mum about Robbie. I promise her she's the only one who knows.

“
They'll
all know what happened,” she says. “The whole friggin' hospital.”

Desperation grips me. “But they don't know Robbie is
my
baby. And they won't, unless you shoot your mouth off.”

She says, “Okay, keep your wool on,” and runs her tongue round her lips. “Does the father know?”

“No.”

She says, “Who was it?” I shrug and she says, “Like I can't guess. That soft kid, Liam.”

Okay, so she knows. But I'm not ready to say his name out loud.

Lisa's back. Mum has heard about Robbie and she's deeply upset. Who could do such a terrible thing? Guilt piles up on me. How could
I
do such a terrible thing? How could I, in the heat of the moment, without stopping to think, do something that's causing so many people such pain?

Lisa says, “Mum sends her love – says she knows how you must be feeling about Robbie.”

I feel awful all over again. “Poor Mum.”

“Poor Mum nothing, she's coming home soon.”

“Oh – what a relief!”

“Yeah – well, she can't stay there for ever.”

Then it all hits me. Robbie and me. Me and Mum. Mum, me and Robbie. It's like I'm up against a stone wall with Gina Smith sat on top, laughing. If only she'd climb down and walk out of our lives and… And what? That's the trouble: I don't know.

Lisa's not too bothered. If it all comes out, it all comes out. And I should stop worrying because there's nothing I can do about it. I don't think I ever wished I was Lisa before. But I do now. Well, almost. For once, she's the one with a clear conscience.

She's gone upstairs to the loo. Robbie (asleep in his buggy), and I are having a quiet moment. I wait for the cistern to flush, but it doesn't. Instead, Lisa's footsteps fly down the stairs – until she trips, swearing, on the last two. “Friggin' police car heading this way!”

My voice is just a squeak. “How d'you know?”

“Saw it from upstairs.”

“How near?”

“Too near.”

Now we both hear it. A car slowing down outside.

“Oh my God, Lisa.” My heart's on a trapeze. “Take Robbie out the back. Keep him out of sight.”

She freezes like she'll never move again. “It's still raining,” she says, “he'll get wet.” I'm about to hit her when something switches her on: “I can pull up the plastic hood,” she says and whips the buggy round and out through the back door into the yard. A moment later I hear the rickety gate close.

I check the kitchen. Stuff the empty cider bottle under the sink. Then, just as there's a knock at the front door, I spot the tin of formula on the draining board and shove it in the oven.

Looking round one more time, I go to the door with Toffee. I don't rush, I need to look calm. There are two police officers, one a woman PC – quite pretty – and a tall man with a pudgy nose and glasses. They show their identity cards. For me their uniforms are enough, but they tell me their names and the police station they work from. Which I immediately forget. They smile. The woman PC bends down to make a fuss of Toffee. “Have we got the right house for Amy Preston?” They know my name. They've come for me.

“I'm Amy.” My heart's still thudding – with the worry that Lisa won't disappear fast enough in her stupid stilettos.

The policeman says, “It's a bit wet out here, all right if we come in?”

I step back and they stand in the hallway, looking around. The woman says, “Are you alone?”

“Only for a minute. My sister's popped to the shops.”

“You won't mind if we ask you a few questions?”

I wonder if I ought to say I've guessed what it's about. That Kirsty called me. But before I can make up my mind, they tell me – like I won't have heard – about a serious crime at the post office; that I'm recorded on CCTV and they hope I might have seen something that could help. Telling them I bought a couple of items, I lead them through into the kitchen.

To say I'm on edge doesn't begin to describe it. Toffee makes it even worse by sniffing at their trouser legs. I pull him back by the collar and twiddle his ears. The woman PC brings out a photograph. “This baby boy is missing,” she says, and holds out the photo. “He was last seen in his buggy outside the post office.” She pauses. “Did you see him at all?”

I don't want to take the photo from her, but she seems to expect it. My hand shaking, I take hold of it. The shiny paper quivers as I stare into Robbie's little face. I say, “I only saw the buggy.” I swallow hard and look her in the eye.

I'm about to tell her about Kirsty calling me, but she's talking again. “It's shocking, isn't it? A little scrap like this—”

I butt in. “Robbie is
such
a gorgeous baby.” Then, because I think I might get trapped in a corner, I say, “Actually…my friend Kirsty Kelly called me earlier.”

“Ah,” she says, “two of our colleagues have been with the family this morning.”

Somehow I think it's good these two aren't the same officers. I give the photo back. She says. “You're clearly very upset,” she says, “would you like to sit down?”

“No, it's all right. It's just I see Robbie quite a lot when I go to Kirsty's. It's awful to think of no one knowing where he is.”