matter to her.
‘Look,’ I say, trying to quell the shaking in my voice, ‘he’s just going to scream even more if he’s uncomfortable or unwell.’ I pause, letting that sink in. ‘I can quieten him down if you let me get the stuff out of the attic.’
Eyes still narrowed, Angel regards me carefully. Lucas comes back into the room, now wearing a shirt of Ian’s. An old, tatty one. All his good ones were packed up and taken away a few months ago. He hasn’t picked up everything yet – apparently Laura’s flat isn’t big enough for that. He said this with an apologetic air that made me want to scream.
The shirt swamps Lucas, although oddly enough Ian’s jeans almost fit; Lucas is all legs, it seems. His eyes dart around the room, never settling on any of our faces for long. He walks over to the kitchen window and peers out cautiously, before moving towards the back of the room again.
I turn my attention to the baby, who is mewling miserably now, gathering his resources. His skin is hot and dry to the touch as I hold him to my shoulder, the awkward nappy bundled up, cringing at the scratchiness of it against such delicate flesh.
‘Look, for God’s sake,’ I say now. ‘This baby could die without a proper drink of water! At the very least we can do that for the poor little thing!’
Angel and Lucas exchange looks. His eyes seem to communicate something.
‘Alright,’ says Angel. ‘Let’s get the stuff out of your attic. You can get him what he needs, alright?’
‘What he needs is his mother,’ I mutter. ‘That’s who he should be with.’
Lucas screws the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.
‘Where is his mother, Lucas?’ I say, addressing him directly for the first time. My heart flutters as he pulls his hands away and meets my eyes. His are filled with a kind of hunted despair.
In a hoarse whisper that’s barely there at all, he says, ‘She’s—’
‘Lu!’ barks Angel, cutting him off. ‘Remember what we agreed?’
What was he going to say?
‘You don’t need to know anything.’ Angel directs this at me. ‘It’s better that way, OK?’
I think of the blood crusting Lucas’s hands when he arrived. My mouth floods with saliva and I swallow again, forcing the sickness and panic down. I see then that Angel has put the gun on the table and I think for a mad moment about making a grab for it. But this isn’t some crime drama on telly. I’m a middle-aged English teacher. I’ve only ever fired a gun once before, at Sam’s Scout camp on the rifle range. And I don’t want to see what happens if Angel or Lucas start to panic. I make myself breathe slowly, in and out, in and out, until the nausea subsides.
‘Can we please just get these baby things?’ I say tightly. ‘We can all stay calm if we can get him comfortable.’
Angel probably imagines people like me always know where to find things in their attics.
The truth is that if you had asked me a week ago to find Sam’s baby stuff, we’d have been in trouble. But I found myself up there just after Ian told me about the baby, and almost ripped the place apart trying to find the blue canvas holdall I knew was there somewhere.
I’d spent an hour in tear-soaked reminiscence, smoothing out the small sleepsuits and dungarees, shuffling my pack of memories. Later, I somehow got through three-quarters of a bottle of wine and almost fell over on the way to bed.
It had been a bit of a low point.
I pat the squirming baby in my arms now and try to make reassuring noises as I gaze up at Angel’s long legs above me on the stepladder. I direct her to the bag near the entrance.
She calls for me to mind out of the way, and throws it down.
Back in the kitchen, Lucas is sitting at the table, hands flat against the surface. He is apparently just staring into space, but his right leg jiggles up and down as though keeping time to some crazy beat inside his head. He watches silently as I begin to dress the baby. Thank goodness for this bag of stuff.
The best find is a swim nappy that somehow ended up in the bag. It is a little bit too big, but a definite improvement on the kitchen towel, which has already almost disintegrated from handling and the movement of the baby’s kicking legs.
There is a vest with poppers at the bottom that is almost the right size and a small pair of leggings that will do, rolled up. I’m so relieved to see the baby bottle there. At least I can get some water into this little chap now.
One-handed, I fill the kettle to the brim with water. I will have to boil this bottle in a pan, and I’ll use the rest of the water as a drink, once it’s cooled enough.
The baby is still chuntering miserably throughout this process. I can’t tell if he is lethargic. He does feel hot, but despite the rain, the air still feels thick and warm.
Lucas now sits with his hands buried in his hair, head down. Angel is furiously flicking through something on her phone. She pauses once only to say, ‘Fuck,’ and then, ignoring Lucas’s plea to show him what she is looking at, she keeps on scrolling, shaking her head slowly.
It is still raining outside; I can hear it. I stare back at my reflection in the black window, my face a pale oval and my eyes wide and frightened looking.
The baby bottle rattles loudly against the side of the pan as it boils. Will five minutes be long enough? I never did it this way in the past. I used a machine instead, which has long since gone.
The lack of milk looms large in my mind. What are we going to do about feeding this baby?
The windows are misting up with the water boiling on the stove now; combined with the heat of the night, it feels claustrophobic in here. I hesitate for only a moment before leaning over to open the top of one of the windows, feeling four eyes drilling into me as I do it. What do they think? I’m going to haul my body out of that tiny window and escape?
When I turn back, Angel is frowning, chewing on her thumbnail, apparently deep in thought.
‘So,’ says Angel. ‘We need money. You have to get it for us.’
‘I’ll happily give you money,’ I say, carefully. ‘But I already told you. I only have about ten pounds here.’
‘Cashpoint,’ says Lucas, coming alive suddenly. ‘Where’s the nearest one?’
‘There’s one along the dual carriageway,’ I say. ‘A Tesco garage.’
Angel and Lucas exchange a glance, then look back at me. It’s unnerving, like twins communicating silently, despite the difference in age.
‘I’ll give you my PIN number,’ I say. Angel shakes her head vigorously.
‘No,’
