Cover

Dedication

To Ross and Fleur, and other Lakeland friends

PROLOGUE

The Baby

The damn baby is crying again. As always. It never stops. Never stops screaming, its fists clenched, red face ugly and hateful and accusing.

There is something wrong with it. Some problem inside. Some failure in how it works. But how are you supposed to know what it is? How are you supposed to fix it? You can’t take it apart and find the faulty piece of the mechanism and put it back together, repaired and working again.

You can’t do anything. Change its nappy, put the fresh, warm bottle to its lips? That was what people said: they just need their bellies full, their nappies empty, and to be warm and safe, and they’ll be fine.

Not this baby. This one has all those things, but still it cries. Because it is faulty. Broken.

Useless.

Stupid.

Every night. Every single one. Why? Why is it doing this? It’s just a baby, you know that, but still. It is as though there is a malevolent intelligence at work. It seems malicious, deliberate. Why would it not want to sleep? It must want to sleep. It must be tired. So why doesn’t it?

Does it intend to be infuriating? Does it want to provoke you?

No. It is a baby. There is something causing this. Some pain or distress that can’t be alleviated.

The thing broken inside it.

Not that you care. The stupid thing can be in as much pain as it wants, provided it shuts up. Provided it gives you some peace.

And it has to. It has to stop. You can’t take any more.

The baby’s arms lift above its head as it cries again. It is a piercing, loud, angry wail.

Does it like having its arms up? Hold them there, then. See if it settles.

It doesn’t. It simply wails louder, its arms struggling against your grip.

But you are much stronger. You squeeze. Pinch with your right hand.

Not hard. But hard enough.

It looks at you, and stops wailing. Stops making any noise at all.

You let go. So that was all it took.

The wailing starts again.

You pinch again, harder this time. And again, it stops crying, eyes wide. It looks shocked, if a baby can be shocked. Good. It is quiet. And that is all that matters.

But it does not last. Seconds later the wailing is back and it is twice as loud. It is like an ice pick in your brain. Right now you would bash its head on the floor, shake it, do anything to make it stop.

Footsteps on the stairs. You cradle it and make gentle soothing noises, sounds that mean this crying is not your fault.

The bedroom door opens.

‘Everything OK?’

Stan Davidson