The journey was only twenty minutes or so, but Hope was fidgety throughout, Isaac noticed. He supposed she might still be sore from the birth; perhaps that was why she was so restless in her seat? In actuality, Hope was attempting to cradle-rock the baby to keep her nicely soothed. It seemed that the baby had no problem being cossetted in such a small dark space. Hope imagined that perhaps it was because she had so recently been born. She had, after all, spent nine months in a tiny dark safe place and only a few hours in the light. The bag was likely very comforting. Maybe every new mother should put her baby straight into a bag to zip up and transport about for a while at the beginning.
Hope purposely kept her thoughts occupied with ridiculous ideas like that. After all, if she halted her frantic mind even for a few moments, and let herself consider the other woman’s pain at that exact time, she would surely have had to return the baby? She knew this deep down, but her need was greater than her conscience so she shushed it with distractions, until at last they were home.
They pulled up outside Hope’s flat. Isaac said, ‘You go on up, I’ll bring the bags and everything.’
She climbed out of the front seat, carefully guarding the all-important bag. Isaac had quickly nipped out and, in true gentlemanly style, he tried to help her by offering to take the heavy bag.
‘No, no. I’ll take this, you bring the rest,’ she said, keeping the bag handles firmly clasped in her hands. She was a tad sharper than she might ordinarily be.
Hope took her key out of her bag expertly with one hand, and once she’d given the lock the familiar extra flick she knew it needed, it opened immediately. It helped, of course, that Quiet Isaac had in fact squirted WD40 in there months before, as he’d promised he would. She pushed through the door and carefully past the annoying bike propped up in the hallway. It had never irritated her as much as it did today. It was DANGEROUS, for goodness’ sake; it would have to change.
She mounted the stairs tentatively, being sure not to bash the bag in any way; she opened the flat door, and she was in. HOME.
Quiet Isaac loaded himself up with the remaining bags, but decided against bringing the car seat up; it was just too sad. He put it in the boot, locked the car and started to head into the flat. Hope had left the door open, so he went in and battled past the bloody bike, and on up the stairs. Halfway up, he stopped. He took a breath and wondered why these stairs suddenly felt like a mountain he would never reach the summit of. He was so so sad. He let the sorrow flood through him for a moment, leaning against the wall. Then he heard it. He heard the sound of a baby. He shook his head. He must be imagining it. On he went. Up the mountain. Into the flat.
Anna’s Pleas
Detective Inspector Mike Thripshaw and his sidekick Constable Debbie Cheese (as if her life wasn’t difficult enough) had arrived at the hospital with a flurry of activity.
Julius was shouting, ‘We’ve told you the entire situation four times now. Seriously. You need to cease with the questions and get on with finding my daughter. Immediately.’
‘My’ daughter? Even through her fug, Anna wondered why he had chosen to be so possessive. Florence wasn’t only his daughter. If she had felt any urge to be generous, she might have considered this to be a slip of the tongue indicating his extreme personal despair. She didn’t.
They were still sitting in the same small hot delivery suite. Anna and Julius had been asked to remain there until the police arrived and now the officers had been questioning them for nearly an hour, all crammed into the room, sapping the oxygen and creating even more heat than the bright morning sun was, as it blasted rudely in through the dirty windows.
Anna was sitting in the chair Julius had slept in, and she permanently held on to the side of the bassinet, subconsciously guarding the missing babe. She wanted any connection she could have, however pointless.
Julius answered impatiently as the police machine-gun fired a rattle of questions at them. Anna’s mind was operating slowly; she had entered a treacley world of cloggy thought. She knew it was the effect of shock, but she’d never experienced a shock as massive as this before. This was tragedy. All she knew was that her stomach was full of concrete, and her brain was on pause. Nothing made sense. Nothing mattered. She wasn’t even properly in the room; she felt floaty and strange, as if she were watching the scene, not in it herself. She could’ve been forgiven for thinking she was drunk. Time around her was slurring; nothing was sharp. Everyone was yak-yakking. Especially Julius.
What were they all saying?
Why were they talking at all? There was nothing important or clever to say after they’d told the story the first time.
Why weren’t the cops outside arresting every single woman in the street to see if they had Florence? They needed to
