67

ANNIE

Last night I had packed the car with everything I would need to start me and the baby off. It felt the same as it did the first time with Ben. I had no plan, I simply went with the flow and it had all worked out. Until now.

As I walked through the lounge towards the kitchen, I could see straight away that down the hallway the cellar door was open. I thought I had given Daisy a double dose to knock her out for a good few hours, she couldn’t possibly be up and about? Perhaps in my haste I had miscalculated. A surge of panic stalled me. What was I doing? It had been twenty-two years since I had walked away with a toddler clinging to me like a baby monkey. And now, here was a baby in my arms, a mere few hours old. Could I do it all again? This time would be easier though surely? The baby would be like a blank canvas. There would be no memories to erase. He would only ever know me as his grandmother who raised him when his parents died in a tragic house fire.

There wasn’t much time left, the baby was beginning its pathetic mewlings. I went quickly to the pantry, tripping on the step and banging my shoulder against the doorframe. Another bruise to add to the many my body was already littered with from when Ben had attempted to fight back. The ungrateful little sod. I was feeding him, the way I had always done throughout his childhood, trying to care for him, yet he kicked out, bruising me and scratching me like a feral cat with his uncut fingernails. I reached up with my spare hand and fumbled about on the top shelf for the box, I flipped the lid off and my fingers slid around the cold metal handle easily. The memory of watching my father polish it once a week was etched in my brain. I was brave enough one day to ask how it worked. It was the only time he and I ever shared a moment, as he carefully talked me through each cylinder and barrel and finally the trigger.

I held the old revolver in my left hand, adjusted the baby in my right arm and walked out of the kitchen towards the open cellar door.

68

DAISY

‘Ben. Ben is that you… I can’t believe it.’ I stayed on all fours, tears poured down my cheeks, my hands and arms shook trying to hold the weight of my contorting body. He was trying to sit up. He was wearing a woolly bobble hat, and his face was a mass of beard. I looked to the corner to where a wretched smell was coming from. There was a bucket. I could imagine what was in there. Finally, Ben began to sit up.

‘Darling. My darling.’ A flood of shock and relief cascaded through my body. My breathing was ragged and laboured. I pushed myself onto my knees and gently touched his face, his matted beard. Leaning on one arm as he took my hand in his, he opened his mouth to speak.