What Lies Between Us(87)

A seemingly endless set of roadworks stretches along the dual carriageway, reducing it to one lane, and I’m at the end of my tether. I need to get home quickly. I am stuck behind a bus whose driver keeps allowing vehicles to exit a junction ahead. I hold back from leaving my car, banging on his window and hurling abuse at him.

The bus is not the only reason I’m wound up like a coiled spring. I’ve been forced to make a decision that will forever change the direction of three lives.

I am going to give my daughter’s baby away.

I have witnessed first-hand Nina bludgeon her father to death when she was placed under extreme duress. I know I can’t trust her with the stresses that motherhood and a newborn baby will bring. Sleepless nights, teething, illnesses, constantly questioning whether you are doing the right thing, comparing yourself to other better mothers who have got it all together . . . I have been through it all. Nina is too young and too weak to cope.

I know I could help her, but I can’t be there for every single day of that child’s life. How can I rest easy leaving them alone even for a moment? I’d be constantly at my wits’ end, waiting for something to provoke her next psychotic episode. I would never forgive myself if I could have prevented her from hurting my grandson.

If that’s not enough to justify my and Elsie’s plan, then taking him away from his father, a child molester who impregnated a fourteen-year-old girl knowing that she was underage, also makes a compelling case. If Nina could see through him like I do then maybe she too would question Hunter’s influence on a child. The thought of how he might warp its mind, or worse, terrifies me. My faith in men as fathers has been irretrievably shattered since Alistair. I will never make the same mistake again.

It is my responsibility to safeguard Dylan and as far as I can see, it will be in his best interests to be far away from the toxic life into which he was conceived. Besides, there is no going back after telling Nina her child was stillborn because of a chromosome deficiency her body doesn’t actually have.

‘Shit!’ I yell and brake hard; I haven’t been concentrating on the road and almost collide with the back of another vehicle. The dozen nappies I purchased earlier at Tesco’s fly from the back seat into the footwells. Then it dawns on me – they might be the last ones I ever buy for him.

Dylan has been with Elsie and I in the basement for three days now. Having the cellar and the attic converted into habitable spaces are the only things I can thank Alistair for. Each time me or Elsie leaves, we push a mattress in front of the closed door to keep the baby’s cries in here, although Nina is still too drugged to hear much. We started feeding the baby milk produced by his mum via a breast pump. I’ve lied to her – again, explaining this was perfectly normal even after losing a child. It’s only later that I worry the sedatives I’m giving her might be passed to him through her milk, so I switch to formula.

Elsie and I have cared for and bonded with Dylan. And as I held him in my arms last night while he drifted into a warm, milky sleep, I knew that deep down, I didn’t want to give him away, I really didn’t. In spite of myself, I have fallen hook, line and sinker for the little mite.

When finally I reach our house, I glance at my watch – Nina will need another dose of sleeping tablets very soon. When I return to work I’ll take some more scripts from Dr King’s office and find an alternative medication to manage her.

I’m sure I locked the front door behind me when I left, but it’s already open when I turn the key. Puzzled, I close it quickly and climb the stairs.

‘Nina, I’m back,’ I say as I approach her bedroom. ‘Are you awake? Can I get you some tea or a bowl of soup?’ But her room is empty. I hesitate and cock my head to one side, but I can’t hear her anywhere else. Something isn’t right. ‘Nina, sweetheart, where are you?’ I shout.

There is still no response. I rush around the house, looking into each of the rooms, finally locating her in the second-floor bathroom. She sits on the edge of the bath with her back to me. She is wearing a green parka coat; her hair is untied and resting on the fur of the hood. I can’t tell if she is returning or going somewhere. Her demeanour unsettles me.

‘Nina, did you not hear me?’ I ask gently. ‘I’ve been calling you.’

She doesn’t answer.

‘What’s wrong, are you in pain?’

Again, she fails to reply.

‘Honey,’ I say, and now I’m barely masking my agitation. ‘Please talk to me.’

Slowly, I make my approach and take in her appearance. It’s pale and expressionless, precisely how she looked in the aftermath of Alistair’s death. My best hope is that this latest psychosis is a delayed reaction to the trauma of losing her baby. It’s only then that I notice fresh mud on the sides of her Dr. Martens boots. They have also marked the white bath mat. She has ventured outside.

‘Where have you been?’ I ask.

Under her thick coat, her chest rises and falls and I assume this is all I am going to get for now. ‘Shall I help you back to bed? You need to rest,’ I say. I want to get her back quickly in case Dylan’s cries can be heard up here. I place my arm around her shoulders and my hand under her arm and raise her to her feet.

There’s a reticence between us that feels like it might last forever. But in the end, she doesn’t need to speak. It’s the sight and sound of the bloody knife falling from inside her sleeve and to the floor that does all the talking.