Sometimes Patrick chuckles to remember how he and Henry had reacted, that far-off day. If Patrick were to find a rat king behind the baseboard these days, he’d consider himself fortunate. They’re a rare phenomenon.
He’d scoop it up with a shovel — still blindly mewling — and deposit it into a demijohn of alcohol. He’d keep it on a shelf in his bedroom.
Part of him feels hate for this angry helpless creature wriggling on a plastic mattress decorated with teddy bears. But he feels pity, too.
‘She’s coughing,’ Henry says.
‘Then take her to a doctor.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Have you tried feeding her?’
‘Of course I’ve tried feeding her,’ Henry says. ‘For fuck’s sake.’
‘Is the milk too hot?’
‘No.’
‘Too cold?’
‘No. She’s just — she seems weak. And she’s sleeping a lot. Do you think she’s sleeping too much?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘She should wake long enough to eat, shouldn’t she? Babies get hungry.’
‘Is she hot?’
Henry reaches into the cot, arranges Emma’s limbs so that he’s able to take the temperature under her armpit. Patrick is revolted by how lifeless and doll-like she seems.
‘Ninety-four,’ says Henry. ‘It’s low. Fuck.’
‘She seems really shaky.’
Henry has noticed Emma’s quivery chin and shaky hands. But now her entire body seems to be shivering.
‘A bottle isn’t the same,’ Henry says. ‘We need a wet nurse.’
There is a silence.
‘Could you do it?’ Patrick says.
‘Me?’
‘Please, Dad. Yeah.’
‘Why me?’
‘Because I’d be embarrassed.’
Henry’s not a big man but he’s well-groomed and vicious as a mink. ‘And how do you think it would look if I did it, eh? You chinless little spastic. How would that fucking look?’
‘Please,’ says Patrick.
Henry shushes him through his teeth, then shoves him onto the upstairs landing.
He gently shuts the bedroom door.
Then he grabs Patrick’s hair and rams Patrick’s head into the wall.
Patrick staggers around. He’s confused. Henry cuffs him round the face a few times, then tosses him to the floor.
‘Just take some of the money,’ he says, ‘and fucking do it.’
CHAPTER 8
Zoe and Mark met just over a year ago. He works for Liberte Sans Frontiere; he was her designated liaison on the Munzir Hattem case.
Mark’s handsome; slightly bohemian in tweed and cords; laid-back and sincere; a little earnest sometimes.
The fourth time they met, he offered to buy her lunch. They sat somewhere outside, watching people go past.
She talked about John.
She always talks about John.
In the end, Mark gave up and joined in. ‘So how did you two get together?’
‘How does anyone get together?’
‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘My ex-wife and I were childhood sweethearts.’
‘No!’
‘Yes!’
‘That’s so sweet.’
‘We went to primary school together,’ Mark said, ‘Stockwood Vale Primary. Emily Edwards. She had a ponytail. She could climb trees. All of it. The full package.’
‘So she was your first and only?’
‘Oh, God no. No, no, no. We went out for about, I don’t know, three years? Four years? Split up when sixth form came along. She got a bit political. Ban the Bomb, Socialist Workers. Greenham Common.’
He laughed to remember it.
A flicker of shared sadness passed between them. Zoe wanted to reach out and touch the back of his hand, to give comfort and to take it.
Instead, she flicked back her hair, stirred her latte. ‘So what happened?’
‘Oh, we met again. This is years later. By coincidence really, some New Year’s Eve bash in Brighton. And when we saw each other it was just like old times. She’d gone through her phase and out the other side. And I’d gone through mine.’
‘And what phase is this?’
He shrugged, sheepish. ‘Echo and the Bunnymen, basically.’
‘Echo and the what now?’
‘Bunnymen. You don’t know the Bunnymen?’
‘To my knowledge, I’ve never even set eyes on a Bunny Man.’
‘You ever hear of Eric’s?’
‘No.’
‘It was a club,’ he said. ‘In Liverpool, this was. Elvis Costello, I saw him there. The Clash. Joy Division. The Banshees. The Buzzcocks. You never heard of the Buzzcocks?’
She shook her head.
He sang her a few bars of ‘Ever Fallen in Love With Someone You Shouldn’t’ve’.
Realizing, he trailed off. There was an awkward moment.
‘It’s a good song,’ he said.
Zoe got the bill and they stepped into the autumn, bundled up in their coats.
Mark said, ‘I don’t feel like going back yet.’
She said, ‘Nor me.’
So they walked to the park, found a bench and sat down. She perched on the edge, spine straight. Mark sprawled, took tobacco from a flat tin in his pocket and began to roll a cigarette. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Not at all. Blow the smoke my way.’
‘You a smoker?’
‘Occasional.’
‘I can roll you one, if you like.’
They sat in silence while he rolled her a cigarette, then passed it to her. She placed it in her mouth. The faint burn of unlit tobacco.
He produced a lighter and she leaned into him, smelling him, then sat back, puffing on her first roll-up since she was a student. She liked the taste and the smell of it, wondered how it went with these clothes, these shoes, this hair.
‘So how long did it last?’ she said, picking a thread of tobacco from the tip of her tongue, aware that he was
