The opposite side have a stall set up outside the shopping mall, with sweatshirts and Ts, that she had to scurry past on the way in. A girl with pink hair is hollering at passers-by now that they have just one t-shirt remaining. It’s the white one, with a red heart across the chest. She wonders, for a split second, about buying it from them with the rest of Pastor Rick’s money. It was the last one on the stall, she’d say. I bought it to stop someone wearing it flagrantly. But of course they’d say that the money, the money given in good faith by good people, would still be going directly to fund the slaughter of tiny innocents, whatever your intentions, however good the joke.

She is suddenly furious with the woman. None of the others have taken a break. It was Pastor Rick’s idea, and he 75said it kindly, and made sure the camera was off, but nevertheless it will have been noted. By their fruits you shall know them. There are thousands of poor, hopeless, helpless unborn babies depending on her. I’m sorry for your loss, is what she should have said. But to put it bluntly, one tragic personal tale doesn’t mean that anyone should be able to kill a baby whenever they like.

Maybe it’s the jet lag. Maybe it’s the Pill. But it will all make sense again, she knows it will, the way it did back home, in the youth group, with Pastor Warren telling them how right and blessed they are, how there is only one truth, and how we too must be burning, shining lights; this treasure in jars of clay.

76

Night Waking

Out of nowhere you are suddenly awake, heart pounding.

Nothing. The baby is next to you in the bed, asleep. In the orange glow of the salt lamp, the room’s shadows are still.

There is no noise from your son’s room.

The baby whimpers. Sometimes you wake a second before her, as if your body knows. That’s what the baby blogs say, the ones that say co-sleeping is fine. A mother’s instincts will keep you both safe. Though maybe it’s you that wakes her. The rustling of the duvet as you turn, the agitation of a dream. You lie completely motionless, waiting to see which way she’ll go.

And that’s when you hear it again.

It’s the creak of a footstep in the wooden hallway, the sound of a footstep that’s trying not to creak.

No.

You wait.

You know the ley lines of the flat, the trusted, navigable paths. The faulty joists in the timber flooring, guaranteed 77to wake a sleeping baby, even when that baby will sleep through the full blare of police sirens on the road outside.

Again, nothing – although now the nothing is charged.