Chapter Thirteen: Blood Everywhere and The Man of My Dreams

Small pulses of light filtered through to three hundred and seventy eight. It shuddered for a moment, trying to retreat back into the darkness. The rest of the eggs slept on. Now and then it was easy to mistake a flurry of movement as something more important but it was usually the liver trying to process the alcohol that kept arriving in larger and larger doses. Or the heart muscles rallying against the extra dose of caffeine that soon followed. Meanwhile the eggs remained motionless, sucking in their milky breath. It now seemed irrelevant which one made it out next. They were tired. And besides there’d been no grunts, exclamations or the rapid heart beat that signalled something was on the way. Certainly none had felt the tinkling rush of ghost tails swimming nearby. So there was no point doing anything. And perhaps a few of them (three hundred and seventy eight included) recalled a time not so long ago when a force had propelled their movements and made them jostle for position. But for now that force had dissipated and it was as quiet as a museum at night - each egg suspended in its individual cocoon like a fossilised insect in amber.

This baby was weird. It didn’t puke. It didn’t screech. It just had two great, bottomless eyes like a Koala and it clutched onto your sleeve as you carried it and now and then it made cooing noises like a damned wood pigeon and fluttered its eyelashes until all the women in the vicinity wet their pants with joy.
‘He is GORGEOUS! Can I hold him for a while?’ Carla exclaimed reaching over to take the Eyelash-Fluttering-Koala-Boy from my arms.
‘Of course,’ I replied hoping it would pee all over her top or work some of its snot into her hair.
Carla wasn’t even listening. All she could see were those two trembling pools of vulnerability, the eyes of every loveable creature that had ever walked the earth – Dumbo, Pooh Bear, Bambi -all tied into one abnormal little bundle. Weren’t babies supposed to cry? Weren’t they supposed to shout and demand stuff? Was this baby sedated?
‘I hope our baby is as lovely as this one,’ Carla said her eyes shining.
George rested his arm on her shoulder and then reached with the other arm and patted her stomach. It was like some terrible made-for-TV movie.
‘Ours will be even better,’ he said, ‘Not that this one isn’t perfect of course. Just ours will be more perfect. Or at least it will seem perfect to us.’
His shirt had worked its way out of his trousers and his face had a thin sheen of sweat. He looked like a kid that’d just rushed in from the playground after an energetic game of British Bulldog.
‘Will you shut up for a minute?’ I said, ‘You’re jibbering like a bloody idiot. Isn’t it time you went off and served some customers?’
Carla shot me an ominous look and pulled the baby closer to her chest. Before she’d merely been my boss but now she was so much more (boss, sister-in-law, source of future happiness & success, everything I’d hoped for these past months etc) and I needed to be more careful how I spoke to George. It was okay to give him Chinese-burns when we were alone together but not with Carla present. I needed to be subtler in my attacks. I made a mental note to print up his internet history and slip it into Carla’s coat pocket next time I saw them.
‘I mean – be realistic George, it’s not all fun,’ I said, ‘It’s very challenging looking after a baby. This one was literally screaming the place down until I got here. Now I’m going to have to change it’s nappy, feed it and then try and find somewhere quiet where it can take a nap. And it’s not even midday!’
‘He’s not an ‘it’ Kate. His name is Malcolm and he’s lovely. Aren’t you Malcolm? Hey? Look at me Malc! Look here!’ Carla said bouncing it into the air.
And with that she was rewarded with another doe-eyed, Dumbo look and then the cooing started. Yes normal babies had names but this was clearly an IT and lacked any of the everyday characteristics of the baby world.
‘And he hasn’t cried at all,’ George chimed in, a moronic grin on his face,‘ He’s a happy baby. I was a happy baby too.’
I tried to remember some terrible example from the past, a time when baby George had been a monster, the evidence I needed to persuade them both that this baby, Tanya’s baby, was not a real baby, that it was clearly an impostor in a baby’s skin. Then it came to me - the time I’d had to baby-sit and George had screamed and I’d been driven mad and ended up a crying wreck. Yes! In fact there were countless occasions when George had been a pain in the arse – he’d constantly spat food on the floor and then one time he’d managed to drink half a litre of fabric conditioner and Mum had discovered him burping up blue bubbles. But then again perhaps that wasn’t such a good story because I seemed to remember that I’d had been to blame somehow.
‘Yeah well I wouldn’t say you were an angel or anything, I mean there was that time when Mum…’
But it was too late. Carla and George had wandered off to take the baby for a tour of the children’s book department. I could see him wiggling his legs and cooing away in excitement as they picked a baby alphabet book off of the shelf.

This was not how the day was supposed to go at all.

Perhaps I should have pre-screened the baby before I volunteered to look after him for the day. But there’d been no indication that he’d be so useless, so completely un-babylike. Not only had he behaved impeccably all morning, he’d also turned out to be a real charmer and good-looking to boot. As I dumped his baby diaper bag on the floor behind the counter, I looked across to see Carla sitting cross-legged on a bean bag, cradling the baby in her arms whilst George held up a picture of Shrek and made disturbing noises in a high-pitched voice. I wasn’t even supposed to be in the shop today. It was my day off! And the whole morning had been a disaster. Not only had Tanya’s baby persuaded the two idiots that babies were lovely and easy to take care of, it had also made it even more obvious that I HAD TO HAVE ONE OF MY OWN. Pushing the stroller round the Whitgift shopping centre, I’d relished the admiring glances of the other Mums and Grans that passed by and smiled lovingly at the baby and then looked up and nodded like each and every one of them was saying, ‘well done’. I’d never had that feeling before. Okay in other ways you became invisible like I’d noticed that men just stopped looking at you completely like you were a walking sanitary towel. Was that because it was disrespectful to fancy a new Mum? It didn’t really matter anyway, I’d had my fill of men and besides, once my baby grew up, things would no doubt go back to normal and men would ignore me for the usual reasons instead.

‘It’s nice that you’ve given your mate Tanya a day off,’ Simon said sidling up to the till.
‘Yeah well it’s not bloody working,’ I said shaking my head.
Simon gave me a puzzled look. Then I remembered I hadn’t told him anything about the baby stealing plan. This realisation made me sad because I sensed for the first time how far I’d allowed us to grow apart - to the point where he no longer knew the REAL me and still thought I hated babies and just wanted one night stands and a book shop that sold literature that you didn’t have to hide on the tube because you were ashamed to be seen reading it.
‘Do you fancy going out later?’ he asked, ‘My friend Steve’s having a house-warming party. It should be a laugh and it’ll just be the two of us. The other half’s away on a work trip.’
I looked over at George and Carla. If I was going to get anything out of this day, I needed to plant some more seeds of insecurity and at least try to undo some of the mess the darling Malcolm had created.
‘I don’t think I’m in the mood for a party.’
I needed to look up some of those statistics on post-natal depression and file them on Carla’s computer. And then get a few copies of Nuts magazine and leave them lying around George’s bedroom so he had more evidence of the kinds of birds he’d be missing out on when he was cleaning up baby goo with Reaper lady.
‘Come on - it’ll be fun. We’ll just get drunk and have a laugh.’
Malcolm’s gurgles wafted over, making me simultaneously lovesick and bitter at the same time.

Perhaps a party was exactly what was in order.

But as soon as I walked in I realised it was a big mistake. Looking after Malcolm had been completely knackering (despite the fact that he hadn’t made a peep - I’d only had to give him a small feed after I’d left the shop, he’d then fallen asleep for the entire train journey back to Honor Oak Park where I’d handed him back). But I was also feeling really low about the day in general and my period was probably due because my boobs felt like two paper weights hanging off my chest. Steve and all his friends were definitely too young. I usually judge whether I can get over the age - gap by the kind of hair people have. If I don’t understand the hair, then it’s clear the people are too young (rather than the more frightening assumption that I’m too old). And all these kids had mad hair like George had sported before he’d grown up so suddenly- their partings starting really low so they all looked like old men with sweeping comb-overs. On top of this I didn’t recognise the music and most people were on drugs because they all talked and danced at great speed. Simon pushed me into a bit of open space in the middle of the front room and tried to get me going. He did this by raising his hands over his head and then rubbing his chest against mine and through the friction I gradually started swaying from side to side, my heavy breasts swinging like pendulums.
‘Come on Kate, you’re like a dead horse,’ he said.
‘I’m tired.’
But he didn’t hear me and started enthusiastically spinning round, then rubbed up against someone else and they embarked on this complicated dance that was too innovative for me to have a go at.

I took the opportunity to slip away and quickly located the kitchen- it was surprisingly empty because most of the sociable alcohol had gone already. I poured myself a large vodka, almost a whole beaker and drank quickly so immediately my eyes started running and my throat felt like the skin had been stripped off. I then slumped onto a kitchen stool and leaned forward so my breasts were propped on top of the counter and then the characteristic cramps started. I didn’t have any painkillers so would have to ride it out. I poured another drink and tried to screen out baby Malcolm’s darling face, screen out the fact that all I’d done was teach Carla and George how beautiful child-rearing could be, how easy it all was. And then I thought back to the list and it was clear that everything I’d written dimmed in importance once you realised how brilliant having a baby was. Who cared about excel sheets and stupid, mindless, Nuts pin-ups when you had the fruit of your loins- a PART OF YOU- staring back at you? George was right - of course their baby would be perfect. Everyone thought his or her baby was perfect. Except it wasn’t their baby. IT WAS MY PERFECT BABY. The music from next door had grown more intense and my teeth were grinding up against one another as I rapidly supped more and more vodka. I looked down at the label and discovered it wasn’t even a reputable brand. It was the sort of vodka that you’d buy when you were a teenager on your way for a big night out and you had your whole life stretched out ahead of you and everything was exciting and you were dry humping all night and thinking about what you wanted to do with the rest of your life but not actually doing it so you hadn’t realised that most of the doors had already shut in your face. I poured another, then another. Then I calmed down and got very tired. I actually felt like I needed to go home, clamber into bed and just call an end to this sorry day as it was obviously not going to get any better. But I was too tired to walk and unless somebody carried by breasts for me I’d never make it. So I needed to just rest here a little till I got more energy so I leant forward till my forehead was up against the cool Formica and closed by eyes.

I was half way up a tree and straddled between two, huge central trunks. For once I wasn’t scared of heights and was just enjoying the freshness of the air, the quiet, the occasional bird landing on a twig nearby and then flying away again. Then I heard a crying noise - it was actually quite hypnotic like a small, steady wail which had no end, no pause for breath so I gingerly tried to clamber sideways, except the branches that could carry my weight were higher up so I had to climb higher and higher and the crying continued and I was starting to get concerned because it was obviously a baby and it needed some attention and it wasn’t safe if it was just hanging from a branch s so I speeded up a little except climbing had never been my forte and I could feel my muscles were rebelling, not used to such arduous work and they started to shake. I stopped for a bit and then I saw the bundle, it was just balanced precariously on the furthest branch and it looked like any minute it would tumble to the ground. I took a deep breath and reached out, pulling the branch towards me, doubling it back. Then I had the bundle under one arm and I looked down but instead of a baby face, it was George with his taped down fringe and bum fluff chin. It looked grotesque - this tiny body with a clumsy teenage head attached and I decided to put it back (and this time it was really an ‘it’ and not a baby). But just as I was placing it back on the giant leaf that it had been resting on, it started screaming really loud and the noise startled me. Then I felt a hand grip my shoulder. I was convinced it was George the baby-teenage hybrid (or even worse, a Carla version) but I could still see George swaddled up in a blanket in front and I paniced and wriggled myself out of my jacket because the hand felt like it was trying to hold onto me and then I was falling from a great height. It felt like I wasn’t going to hit the ground for ages. I’d never fallen out of a tree before and I made a whooping noise- I just felt I needed to do something to signal the end of my life. Then there was a thump and when I opened my eyes I could see the contents of my handbag scattered around my head including a tampon which was either magnified because it was close to my head or was the size of an aubergine. Just as I was considering this, I felt a terrible shooting pain in my ankle. Somehow as I’d fallen through the branches my foot had obviously caught and I’d left my foot somewhere half way up the tree. I imagined a life with only one foot and thought I’d still rather only have one foot than not have a baby and perhaps it was the one true sacrifice that was needed. It was a test from God and now he’d give me a baby and I’d hobble about on one foot or maybe get a plastic one and I would have somehow tricked God because plastic limbs are really good these days and work just like the real thing.

With great difficulty I moved onto my back and then as I edged my chin down, I noticed a shard of glass sticking out from my ankle. At this stage I couldn’t remember the party or the vodka or even the period pains. In my mind, I’d fallen from a tree and I was just objectively absorbing all the details of the scene, taking it all in – the glass, blood, aubergine tampon, lipstick rolling on its way underneath the cooker, irritating pain coming back, throbbing in ankle getting much worse, pain now migrating into back of head, neck and arms.
‘Don’t move. You’ll be okay,’ a voice said.
As I looked up I realised the man that I’d once wanted as the father of my firstborn was standing over me. He knelt down and pushed the rest of the glass away with a tea towel and then took my jacket (I’d actually managed to get it off at the same time as falling which was a pretty neat trick -one he’d no doubt be impressed by) and he propped my head up with it. Then the Comb-overs came into the kitchen and clustered around staring at the bloody, old soak. Simon appeared looking pale and more energetic than usual.
‘It’s alright, I’ll take care of her,’ he said, ‘Oh it’s you. Hi - thanks, anyway yes I’ll take care of her, she’ll be alright. Just a little too much fun I think. Stand back, I’ll do it. I’m doing it. Yes here we go then.’
The fact that Simon was more speedy than usual worked out for my benefit because he sorted everything quickly, before I could complain or try and stop him. He pulled the glass out, then pressed a clean tea towel against it and wrapped it tight.
‘How the hell did you manage to do this?’ he said.
The kitchen looked like someone had been murdered, then I realised blood was coming out of my nose. Then I remembered that I’d had vodka-induced nosebleeds in the past when I’d been a teenager and it was usually drinking cheap stuff like this. I probably looked like Carrie - my face and hands covered in blood. I tilted my head back and felt it running down my throat then leant forward again and watched it splash on the kitchen floor. Simon pushed my head back again and then pinched the top of my nose with his fingers. His hands were trembling. The blood theme was really taking shape and I just needed my period to start and the vision would be complete. I looked up to see where Medium Brown had gone. But he’d obviously fled in fear. Someone called a taxi and we went off to A&E and I spent the rest of the night on an orange plastic chair with Simon growing more and more paranoid.
‘Do you think they’ll be able to tell I’ve been taking something?’
‘Isn’t it illegal to bring drugs into a hospital?’
‘Perhaps they’ll think this is some sort of domestic.’
‘Is that bloke on the trolley staring or is he dead?’.

The tea towel on my leg slowly grew stiff and I picked little congealed bits of blood out from my hair and under my chin until a nurse came to see us and after looking at the wound on my leg, declared I’d have to get stitches. The pain from the stitches was actually a relief. It gave me something to focus on besides the fact that I’d possibly had the worst day of my life. But then as she finished up and wrapped a bandage around my leg, I remembered the last time I’d been in hospital. And that time would always count as the worst.
‘That nurse was staring at me,’ Simon said as he helped me shuffle out of the cubicle, ‘I think she suspected something. I’ve got to get out of this place before I end up in a police cell.’
‘Can you call my Mum?’ I said wearily.
Simon seemed to jolt out of his drug-induced paranoia and went outside to use his phone. As I sat in the waiting room, I thought about the dream. It was clear I couldn’t go after George’s baby. George was my brother and anyway it was obvious the two of them would make great parents - I’d realised it myself that afternoon. And I’d always know it was George’s baby. Every time I leant over the cot or went to pick the baby up, it would be George’s face staring back at me.

And when it wasn’t George’s, it would be Dad’s.
Because if Dad had been alive, he would have been devastated to find out what I’d been scheming. I thought back to the time George had drunk the fabric conditioner and the way Dad had looked at me then - and I hadn’t even given it to him. It hadn’t been my fault! Okay I’d left it on the floor within arms reach but I’d been busy trying to get my white jeans ready for another night of dry humping to the sounds of Brother Beyond. In fact the whole bleeding out of every orifice was obviously a sign - Dad was showing me how angry and disappointed he was. And that it was my role to keep the family together, not tear it apart. By the time Simon showed up, his eyes darting about the place, checking possible escape routes in case the police turned up, I’d decided to abandon the new plan and potentially go back to the original.

Medium Brown's reappearance had been very timely indeed.