‘No, I gotta . . .’ And Charlie was gone, out the door, up the staircase, brushing past Beezer and his other mates who were coming down for breakfast, not seeing them, not hearing what they said. He ran on, and burst into the second-floor nursery beside the master bedroom and there was Nula, cradling Jake, everything was fine, only . . .

Somehow, in his gut, Charlie knew that nothing was going to be fine, ever again. He dashed forward and stared into Nula’s ashen, tear-streaked face.

‘What the fuck, Nules?’ he said, and then he was reaching for the baby and she was clinging on to Jake, and it was almost funny, like they were doing a tug-of-war with the little kid in between them, and Charlie found himself remembering something from years ago, something he’d heard in Sunday school when his mum had with high hopes once sent him there. He’d stuck it out for a few weeks, but then he’d knocked it on the head. Refused to go back. Now he recalled the vicar’s words: ‘and Solomon said, cut the child in half, and each of the women claiming to be his mother will take a piece.’ At which the real mother had come forward and said, no! Let her take him.

At the time, Charlie had thought it was funny. Farcical, even. Who’d cut a baby in half anyway?

Now? Not funny at all.

Nula gave up the struggle and let the baby go. Charlie held the body gently against his chest, stared at the blue tone of the skin, and raised a trembling hand to the child’s soft cheek, feeling the stony coldness of it.

‘We should . . .’ he started, then his voice faltered and he tried again. ‘We should get him to the hospital, Nules. Right now.’

Nula stared up at him as if he was mad. Then she said: ‘Charlie . . . he’s gone.’

‘No, he’s just . . .’ Charlie stopped again, heaved in a breath, aware of the girl and Harlan watching from the doorway, aware that tears were falling down his own cheeks, and what the fuck? He never cried. Never. Now he was blubbing like a kid.

Charlie half-turned, stared at Chrissy. ‘What the fuck you done?’ he burst out.

‘Mr Stone . . .’ Chrissy flinched. She looked terrified.

‘Charlie . . . it’s not her fault,’ said Nula in a flat, emotionless voice. She was thinking of that first consultant, warning her about trying to have more children. Now she understood. This was her fault. ‘It happens. Sometimes. We’ve . . . we’ve been unlucky. That’s all.’

‘Unlucky?’ Charlie roared, clutching his son to him. His dead son. While Harlan stood there, breathing. Alive and well. ‘No. This don’t happen. I won’t let it happen.’

And he sank to his knees, still clutching the dead baby in his arms, and began to sob bitter, angry tears.

48