‘Urgh,’ came a groan from behind me, and I swung around to see a figure beneath a pile of blankets on a sofa, beginning to stir.
I moved cautiously back towards the sofa, where a head was barely peeking above. I saw a flash of dirty blonde hair, and as I approached nearer I could see a pile of vomit next to the sofa and to my right I spotted a cat litter tray that looked as though it hadn’t been emptied for some time; this was what I could smell when I was coming up the stairs.
I held one hand across my rib cage where the pain from the fall was snaking its way back in.
I tried to speak, but I couldn’t think what I should say. The words wouldn’t form properly in my mouth.
So instead, I reached out my hand. As my hand rested upon what I presumed was an arm. I was suddenly catapulted backwards as the sleeping figure launched off the sofa and came straight at me. I stumbled backwards and my head hit the leg of a chair.
A deep, male voice penetrated through the walls and ceiling, making the entire room shudder.
‘What the hell is going on? Don’t make me come up there.’
I looked up and saw it was a girl. She stood frozen to the spot, a look of pure horror on her face as she took me in and we both heard the voice from downstairs.
Her face was pale. She looked young, maybe late teens, early twenties. She was wearing a tatty grey woollen jumper and jeans that looked as though they would fit a small child. She looked severely malnourished. She turned towards the door as though she expected it to open any moment, and then she looked at me, her eyes wide with terror. She opened her mouth, took a deep breath and mouthed the word, ‘Go.’
I tried to scramble to my feet but I could already hear the deep thud of footsteps coming up the first steps of the staircase. I looked around to my left where I had just been pushed backwards and saw a long burnt-orange-cloth covering a small square table that was stacked high with junk: paper and pamphlets, toilet rolls and empty cartons of food. The tablecloth came almost to the floor, so I leapt towards it and squeezed myself into a gap between two boxes that had been stored under there.
‘No, no, no.’ I could hear the girl muttering, and my stomach took a nosedive as panic mounted in her voice. Who was this waif-like woman-child? Why was she hiding in the attic? And who was she so terrified of, who was now making their way up the stairs?
42
Then
Later, when I was alone in the vast empty house, my mind was awash with emotions. I walked around the stark rooms, thinking it was a shame no one would ever fill them, and that it would only be me here, day and night. I imagined how a house this size should be full to the rafters with kids, running down the stairs and into the kitchen, demanding snacks and drinks. I ran my hands along the pristine surfaces that hadn’t ever had a crumb spilt on them. It was all such a waste.
I had to sit down several times a day when the pain at having lost Baby Boy got me in the stomach. It was as strong as a punch from D, only with this pain, I would sit and cradle my abdomen, trying to recall my son’s face, his smile, the smell of his skin. I wanted to live in these moments for as long as possible, clinging to the memories. But as much as I tried to hold on to them, they faded more and more each time. I would fall into fitful sleeps, waking regularly through the night, unable to breathe, grasping for my baby who wasn’t there and whose face I could no longer remember.
I had never felt so alone. Each night as I drifted off, I would wake abruptly to the sound of crying. Baby Boy needed me. I would sit up in bed, my hands would fly across the sheets, waiting to connect with a small limb or a head. But next to me, it was always empty.
The days turned into weeks. The pain in my gut subsided and I became numb, waking only to wash and eat a little. I just lay on the bed staring at the ceiling.
D popped by from time to time, always alone. He would stand at the end of the bed, shouting at me to get up and get on with it. I would turn my back on him.
Then one day I heard the front door open and initially I thought I was imagining the high-pitched wail that found its way through the walls and ceilings and straight into my chest. I gasped for breath as I sat up straight.
It was Baby Boy. He was here, D had finally brought him to me. Suddenly, there was a power within me as the energy resurfaced. I raced to the top of the stairs, my legs trembling with anticipation as I tried to slow my breathing to listen. I could hear D speaking to him in that tone adults only use with babies and toddlers. Then my ears pricked up at a second voice. Another male. My stomach lurched. Who had Baby Boy been with and who had D brought here? I descended the stairs two at a
