BABY
By
SIMON MESSINGHAM
For as
long as he could remember, Mark Spencer had feared children.
Now
twenty five, Mark was unable to go outside between three and four thirty on
weekdays for fear of coming into contact with teenagers on their way home from
school. He was sure that they would jeer, laugh and even attempt to fight him.
Children shouted so loudly, acted so bestially it was difficult to believe they
were human at all. It was silly, he knew, but like those people affected by
spiders or heights, he was unable to rationalise or deal with children in any
way.
It came
to Mark then as something of a surprise when Joanne, his long-term girlfriend
(or partner as she preferred) claimed
she had an announcement to make.
‘I know
you’re going to be upset,’ Joanne said. ‘I’m pregnant.’
Mark
was more than upset, he was stunned. He was paranoid about birth control, not
even nearing Joanne unless at least two methods of contraception were already
in place. In more philosophical moments, Mark fantasised about being the last
of his line, of having no heir to replace him, of growing decrepit and old in a
responsibility free household, relaxing in an armchair and watching
television.
Already
he could see the future, his whole life in fast forward: the interminable
screaming and excretions of the formative years. The hyperactivity and
ceaseless questioning of the pre-pubescent. The resentment, fights and misery
of adolescence. How could anyone want this? How did people stay sane?
Joanne
saw the fear in his eyes and cried. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I don’t know how it
happened.’
Mark
thought briefly about questioning his role in the conception. He was so
careful, how could he possibly have made her pregnant? Had she had an
affair?
He did
not question her. Whether or not he was the biological father, she had decided
to make him responsible. He loved Joanne. He couldn't deny that. He wouldn't
have the courage to chuck her out.
The
other option was of course abortion. Now, Mark believed very strongly in
abortion and regularly shot his mouth off about it. 'How can it be murder?' he
would say, 'they're not even people.' Unfortunately, equally regularly he'd
also insisted: 'Of course, it's up to the mother to decide.' He would never be
able to demand that Joanne terminate the growth in her belly.
'I'm
keeping it,' she said, perhaps in anticipation of this very question.
`Okay,`
Mark replied. He sat back in his threadbare seat, looking round at just how
small the front room of their rented South London
flat actually was.
Joanne
had the baby.
Mark’s
parents were delighted. They’d been telling him for years to get a proper job,
take on responsibility and settle down.
Her parents, well, they weren’t
quite so happy. Of course, becoming grandparents filled them with pride, but
Mark knew they resented him, barely tolerated him. He knew they asked
themselves why him? Why?
Mark
felt trapped, isolated, locked in his worst nightmare. And the most frightening
thing was that once she had it; that was it, forever. It would never not be in
his life.
Joanne
asked Mark to be present at the birth. He declined.
She
insisted. Why did she have to suffer this on her own? It took two to create a
child, wasn’t half of it his?
Mark
still said no. He knew he would be incapable of remaining alive throughout the
whole abominable, visceral experience.
In the
end, he was there. She phoned her parents who phoned his parents and together
they all teamed up on him, reminding him of the need to be there...to share the
wonderful experience.
In the
hospital, whilst Joanne screeched and howled in bloody agony, Mark put his
hands over his buzzing ears, shut his eyes, felt the cold sweat break out and
prayed for it to be over.
He
watched in horror as a red glistening fist of liver opened its eyes and looked
at him. At that moment, the rushing noise overwhelmed Mark.
He was
revived five minutes later in the waiting room by Joanne's father, who had been
present with his camcorder to videotape the whole event.
Mark’s
next clear recollection was of Joanne’s arrival back at the flat. His father
had driven her from the hospital, her parents having returned to the North,
where Mark hoped they would stay.
He
heard them climb the stairs; his father’s bluff good humour sustaining her on
the way up. Mark gripped the chair, trying to arrange his face into some
semblance of good cheer. In they came.
‘Look
who’s here,’ laughed his father, and then a pale Joanne entered clutching it in
her arms.
‘Come
on then, Mark, have a look. Your son.’
His
father: practically prising him out of the chair. Mark acted interested. He
risked a look at it. It was asleep; wrinkled face screwed up like a dead
leaf.
‘It
won't bite,’ said Mark’s father, heading into the kitchen to put the kettle on.
Mark
stared at the arrival, trying to rationalise its relationship to him. Had he
really helped form this thing? Then he saw Joanne and understood what he had to
do.
‘Sit
down,’ he said. ‘You look awful. I mean, tired.’
Joanne
smiled and nodded. ‘I am. It’s nice to be back.’
She
held it out for him to take. Mark pretended not to understand the gesture.
‘Don't
you want to hold him?’ she asked.
He was
confused. He wanted Joanne back, the way she had been. He wanted to help her
but he couldn’t.... couldn’t...
Cups
rattled in the kitchen.
‘For
God’s sake Mark,’ Joanne snapped. ‘What do you think it's going to do to
you?’
Over
the next few months, Mark finally found himself more able to cope. The
murderous lack of sleep helped him; stopped him thinking.
Joanne
worked tirelessly, almost killing herself trying to keep it alive and prevent
Mark from having too much to do with it. He knew he was shirking his
responsibilities and he tried, tried hard to accept it as his, that he had to
look after its wellbeing, but he could not play his part, no matter how he
forced himself.
He
could manage some of the work. He didn't mind the washing, looked forward to
the shopping and the errands, and even struck up some sort of relationship with
Joanne’s parents, keeping them entertained on their frequent visits.
After
three weeks of hard arguing, Joanne made him pick it up out of the cot. He held
it at arms length, until it moved and he promptly dropped it again. However, from the first time he saw the green
slugs it had pumped into its nappy, he knew he couldn’t go any further. He
didn’t like touching it. It felt wrong.
After a
month, Mark found it so resembled a human he was able to be left alone with it,
giving Joanne some much needed time off.
Within
three months there were only two things Mark was unable to do: wash it and
change it. Nothing could be done to remedy this. Joanne put down an ultimatum:
if Mark did not change it it would not get changed. She slumped, exhausted, on
their bed waiting for him to crack.
It did
not get changed. Mark could not do it. He stood over it; watching it crawl in
its cot and knew he could not. He stood there for fifteen minutes watching it
scuttle and mewl in its cage, and tried to force himself. It cried, presumably
in discomfort. Still, Mark did not move.
Eventually
Joanne gave in. They didn’t talk for the rest of the day.
Mark
knew he was being unreasonable. It was a baby. Not a thing. It was his. Why did
he fear it? As Joanne had said, what could it do to him? Its features had
straightened out a bit now, growing a big, shiny head that squinted and peered
into nothingness. Everyone else who looked at it said it was lovely, if a bit
overweight. Mark couldn’t get their perspective; it just looked to him like a
pink, peeled tomato with eyes.
He
supposed that he must have been like that once. He had a mother, a father. They
had gone through this distasteful process. Presumably, he had pissed and shat
himself, dribbled yellow mucous over everything, thrashed fat little limbs
feebly in the air. It was difficult to imagine. Everyone had done it. It wasn’t
the end of the world. Why was it different for him? He wondered whether he
should see a doctor or a psychiatrist, perhaps even mention his revulsion to
the health visitor. He wouldn’t. He’d feel silly as they told him not to be so
stupid and to think himself lucky to have such a normal, healthy baby.
‘Mark,
isn’t it wonderful?’
‘What?’
‘He
spoke. His first words.’
‘What?’
‘He
spoke to me.’
‘Who?’
‘Who do
you think? Christian.’
‘Oh.
Great.’
‘Not
that you care, of course. Oh, forget it.’
‘No,
honestly, that's brilliant.’
‘Don't
pretend.’
‘All
right.’ Mark went back to reading his book, whilst Joanne heated the bottle in
the kitchen.
Winter
arrived. Mark and Joanne and Christian celebrated their first Christmas at home
together. In other years they had always split up and headed back to their
respective parents. Christian, of course, had never existed for any previous
Christmas and so, presumably, was unaware that any changes had been made to
suit him. Now, in January, as the heating bills shot up without any appreciable
increase in the household income, Mark was getting worried and, as was his
manner, began to feel less and less inclined to move from his chair.
He
heard Joanne in the kitchen that morning apparently engaged in a conversation
with the baby.
What
worried Mark was the intensity of Joanne’s conversation. He had expected to
have put up with the usual baby babble: Goo-goos,
ga-ga’s and all that rubbish. But not so, apparently.
Mark
crept to kitchen door and craned his head round to catch what was happening. It
sat in a little pushchair with a plastic cowl across its body, there to keep
the rain off during its morning push. Mark was unable to see its face. The
thought occurred to him that he was effectively spying on his partner and
child, but there was something odd here, something he found...unwholesome.
Joanne
nodded her head, quickly and precisely, as if listening to some fascinating and
absorbing knowledge being imparted. Occasionally she seemed to interject, as if
to clarify a statement just made. She would receive an answer, although Mark
couldn’t hear it, and she would begin nodding again.
There
was a sharp crack at the front room window and Mark jerked his head round in surprise.
A bird, bigger than a sparrow, was tapping its beak against the pane. It stared
into their first floor flat, as if inspecting the state of play. Behind it, the
hidden city of roofs, chimney pots and aerials stretched away in a grey
backdrop. Suddenly, Mark felt like he was in a play, an artificial world,
playing a role, watched by a huge, invisible, critical audience. And he was
acting badly.
‘Mark?’
Joanne snapped suddenly from next door.
Mark
stood up, coughing. ‘Yeah?’
‘What
are you doing?’
She
walked into the room. Mark noticed the purple bags, like blotches, beneath her eyes.
‘What was that noise?’
‘A
bird,’ he replied. ‘At the window.’
She
tugged at her thin hair and gaped at the glass. The bird was still there,
watching them.
‘What
were you talking about?’ Mark asked. ‘Sounded very intense.’
‘Oh,’
Joanne replied. ‘This and that.’
Mark
hauled his plastic shopping bags up the stairs and grunting, unlocked the door
to the flat. It was eight o’clock in the evening and this was the only exercise
he’d done all day. And it was still freezing cold. Voices emerged from the
front room. He sighed. Not bloody Irish Kirsty. Jesus. She could have told him.
He could have gone to the pub.
The
conversation broke off. A pause, then Joanne’s voice. ‘Mark?’
‘Yep,
done the shopping.’ No getting out of it now.
He
carried the bags into the front room, his face red with winter. ‘Colder than a
witches tit out there.’
Joanne
and Irish Kirsty were sprawled out on the threadbare sofa. A three-quarters
empty bottle of Frascati and two glasses lay between them. The smell of Irish
Kirsty’s spliff threaded through the air. She sat, legs apart, immersed in beads
and long Celtic skirt.
‘You
should have done it earlier like I said,’ came Joanne's helpful reply, her face
steamed with alcohol. She looked at Irish Kirsty and together they bellowed out
a blast of foul, gut-laughter.
‘Is
that right?’ he snapped back. ‘And do we have to have that shit stinking the
place out?’ He nodded towards the
spliff.
‘Mark!’
Joanne said, mortified.
Well,
thought Mark, she should have said.
Irish
Kirsty leaned forward, obesity causing her to wheeze. Her dreadful Irish voice
sounded like an old woman breaking wind. ‘It’s all right Jo. I'll have you know
Mark, that natural hemp is safer, cheaper and less damaging than alcohol...’
‘Really…’
‘Yes,
really. It doesn’t make you violent and it’s...’
‘I’m
just going to put this shopping away.’ So I don't have listen to another
lecture from a fucking Drug Bore. ‘Where’s Christian?’
‘In his
cot. Asleep.’
‘You
want me to look in?’
Joanne
stared at the floor, a flicker of pain shorting across her temple. She
eventually picked up her glass of wine. Irish Kirsty watched over them,
presumably thinking she was some sort of benevolent earth mother. Cow.
‘No.
Just don’t wake him up.’
‘Me!’
He wasn’t the one pissing it away. The kid was probably unconscious, doped to
the eyelids. Mark hefted the shopping bags and stumbled into the kitchen.
‘Don’t
worry about the bairn,’ said Irish Kirsty, ‘I’ve put a cooling blue crystal
against his pillow. It will free him from stressful dreams.’
Mark
was now half-drunk in his chair so he decided to savour the asininity of the
comment. He allowed himself a dramatic sigh, then, ‘That’s a help. Thanks. What
on earth are you talking about?’
Joanne,
who was almost asleep, looking relaxed for the first time in ages, rose briefly
from her stupor. ‘Not again, please...’
Irish
Kirsty looked smug. Smug and fat, her braided hair hanging off her like a pair
of dead rats. ‘No, no Jo. It is typical of the male to cut himself off from the
healing power of nature.’
‘You’re
insane. What sort of rational human being believes that stones have powers?’
‘It’s a
well-documented fact...’
‘When?’
‘There
is more beauty and power in nature than anything we can produce in our Western
society. I always say we’ve strayed from the natural path.’
‘Have
you come out of the Middle Ages? We have this thing now, it’s called
science...’
‘Science
is just another religion. A male one.’
‘Really.
It also happens to be a fact. Nature doesn’t provide you with medicine,
education and an extended life span. Mankind does.’
Irish
Kirsty shook her head. ‘There, you’ve said it yourself: Man-kind. We need to work in harmony with the planet.’
‘By
pretending that stones have powers? Stones? You’re deluding yourself.’
Mark
was more than half-aware that he had fallen into Irish Kirsty’s trap. This
would be a favourite lecture. Especially with the dope. ‘The Moon controls the
tides. Tides are water. Humans are composed of ninety per cent water. Surely
you must agree that this, at least, affects our bodies.’
Mark
sat forward in his chair. He was going to get this crazy twat. ‘What’s that got
to do with this demented opinion that stones have powers?’
Joanne
was still trying to break up the row. ‘Mark, you’ll wake the baby.’
‘Why
should they? Why should rocks have powers? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘I
think, Mark, it’s a question of faith. Belief. Something sadly lacking in this
world.’
‘That’s
because it’s not true. You’re talking rubbish.’
Irish
Kirsty shook her head, as if Mark were some sort of misguided adolescent
defending a corner far above his intellect. ‘I understand Mark, I really do. I’m
sure that I would have a similar attitude, if I weren't psychic.’
Pause.
Joanne did her best. ‘Mark, please...’
‘Oh
right, psychic?’
‘You
can mock...’
‘Oh I
shall. Be sure of that. And quite how do you define this “being psychic”?
Telekinesis? Telepathy? Talking to the dead?’
‘As it
happens, communing with the spirits happens to be one of my abilities.’ Irish Kirsty smiled. The smile of the mad.
‘Oh
Jesus.’
Joanne
pulled herself up from the sofa in an obvious attempt, so it seemed to Mark, to
defuse the tension. ‘Coffee time I think,’ she said blearily.
Mark
did not rise to the diversion. Instead, he poured himself a large glass of
wine, as if mulling over Irish Kirsty's last statement. ‘All right then,’ he
said slowly. ‘Prove it.’
Irish
Kirsty ran her fingers through her braided hair, apparently unruffled. Mark sat
waiting for her to come up with some excuse. ‘Come on, give us an example of
these powers. Or are there conditions to your ability?’
Still
Irish Kirsty sat there, staring at the far wall. Mark could hear Joanne fussing
in the kitchen, clearly annoyed with him.
‘Well?’
At last,
Irish Kirsty leaned forward. ‘There is a presence here in this flat. I knew it
as soon as I entered.’
‘In the
house?’ Mark was determined to wring as much as he could from this dimwit.
‘No.
The flat. Your flat.’
‘What
sort of presence? A ghost?’
‘I
don’t know. Someone. A man.’
Mark
snickered. ‘That must be disappointing for you.’
He
stopped abruptly as Irish Kirsty suddenly sat up very straight.
‘All
right,’ he asked, ‘what sort of man?’
Kirsty
looked around the room, in very specific places. Just for a second Mark thought
he detected a new expression on her face, perhaps a dropping of the
professional white witch role, just for an instant. What was going on in her
tiny little mind? Surely she was incapable of winding him up.
‘A very
strong man,’ she said seriously. ‘He is here, all the time. Very strong. You
must have sensed him. He-‘
She
broke off quickly, as if listening.
Mark
was frightened and intrigued all at once. Of course it was all nonsense, but
the thought crossed his mind that if she believed it so strongly then she must
be...
Irish
Kirsty stared into his eyes. Christ, thought Mark, she looks like she’s going
to cry.
‘He
says,’ she was stuttering, really into it now, ‘he says...the baby is his.’
Joanne
re-entered the room. Mark caught the fear in her face. What had made this
stupid spud-eater say that?
‘What
do you mean?’ Joanne asked, blushing furiously.
Mark
felt his face heat up. Anger, he thought. I’m angry. No irony, no sarcasm. He stood up, feeling the
knots in his stomach get to work, as they always did in moments of stress when
he was expected to be strong. ‘Fuck all. What did you say that for?’
Irish
Kirsty gave Joanne a look of - what was it - pity? ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
‘Get
out,’ said Mark flatly. He’d had enough. ‘You’re out of your mind.’
‘It’s
what I felt...’
‘Yeah,
you’d love it wouldn’t you, with your poxy white magic toss. You’d love to fuck
us up, with your gossiping, fetid little feminist earth mother shit. Well, out!
I said out!’
‘Kirsty...’
Joanne tried to say. Irish Kirsty waved her away.
‘No,
it’s all right Joanne. I...I think I should go.’
Even
Mark, through his anger, could see that Irish Kirsty was shaken. Jeez, what
some fools did to themselves. Still, he had committed himself too much to back
down. Just get rid of her. ‘Yeah, go on you dirty harridan. Go and wave some
beads about, and take that stupid rock with you.’
‘Mark,’
Joanne pleaded. He knew he was going too far. He wasn’t meaning what he
couldn’t stop saying.
Irish
Kirsty stood up clumsily and knocked over the bottle of Frascati. A few drops
soaked into the carpet. Joanne bent immediately to clear up the mess.
‘I’m
sorry,’ Irish Kirsty kept repeating. ‘So sorry.’ She looked like an animated
scarecrow in her layers of ragged clothes and ratty hair.
Mark
stood facing her, the anger draining out of him. ‘Just go will you. I - I
didn’t mean all that...’
Irish
Kirsty placed a fat little hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, it’s you I'm
feeling sorry for. You’ve got...’
She
turned and bustled drunkenly out into the hall.
Mark
let her go. Joanne was collecting glasses and ashtrays, almost in tears. He
wondered suddenly why the baby hadn't woken up. They'd made enough noise. He
even entertained the notion, just for an instant that maybe the stone by the
pillow actually worked.
The
door clicked shut. Irish Kirsty had gone. Mark looked down at his partner
scrabbling on the floor and saw how pale and drained she suddenly seemed.
As
Winter pressed relentlessly on, Mark often thought about the incident of that
night. The weather remained grey, cold and dull. Like his life, Mark
melodramatically decided.
Sometimes,
when he looked down at his...son (yes he could finally come to accept that
concept) all sorts of unwelcome thoughts invaded his mind. Thoughts that made
him feel sick and scared.
The
eyes of the child were filmy and unfocussed and that frightened Mark more than
if they had been staring at him. The eyes were stupid and greedy, almost blind.
These eyes were not windows into the soul of the child. They were black holes:
voids exposing the vast, clumsy, indifferent universe.
Where
did babies...anyone...come from, originally? People had wondered for centuries
about what happens when you die. To Mark the answer was obvious: it's the same
as what happens before you’re born, can’t you remember?
What
if, though, what if...his boy was different? What if this one did remember?
What if Mark Spencer’s baby had come through, popped in, traversed the great
divide between life and...pre-life (let's call it that although it made Mark
think of a great hospital waiting room), but was the only child in the world
ever who could remember. Now that would be...scary wasn’t the word.
Mark
shook his head. The baby wriggled, asleep in its cot, transparent mucous
issuing like ectoplasm from its mouth. Did it remember? Life before life? Did
it?
Mark
was cold. These thoughts kept coming to him when he looked at it. Sorry Joanne,
not “it”. Christian. The baby.
That
was another thing, why had they called it that? He’d wanted Frank originally,
for a laugh, but Joanne wouldn't allow it. She'd wanted Ben or Josh, but there
was no way Mark was having their baby sounding like his parents were Clapham
wankers. They’d finally agreed on Christian, Joanne because it sounded
dignified yet still could be shortened to Chris, and Mark because it really
pissed Irish Kirsty off. She, apart from resenting the fact that they’d had a
boy anyway, probably would have called it Cormac Mac King Arthur Pendragon or
something.
Yeah,
telling Irish Kirsty the baby’s name had been one of the few pleasures of those
early months.
But
perhaps there had been another reason. A more instinctive, primeval one.
Perhaps, unconsciously, he and Joanne had known. Known that their child seemed
to have, how to put it, special knowledge.
Things no one could comprehend. Not in this world.
Christian.
Some kind of…defence?
Mark
didn’t think he was mad. No more than anyone else, anyway. He only had these
thoughts when in the same room as the child. Joanne was still whispering to it.
Long, articulate conversations that stopped abruptly when he turned up. Of
returning to the flat and feeling that someone else had been here. Nothing solid,
not even an odour. Just a presence. The vibration of the air when sudden
movement has just been made and the atoms rush in a river to fill the space.
The feeling that someone was always hiding somewhere, a male, waiting for him
to...
It
wasn’t that he thought the child wasn’t his. He knew it was. Joanne didn’t have
a secret lover hidden away in the bathroom. He almost wished she did because
the alternative was worse. Much worse. The thought, the idea, that when Joanne
had been the bridge for their baby to cross from that world to this...someone else
had sneaked across with it.
Mark
found a job. Only part-time, in the local video shop, but just enough to get
him off the dole and into real poverty.
Actually,
he quite enjoyed it. He could work late nights and weekends, which got him away
from the baby when it was awake. For a while he even believed there were only the
three of them in the flat again. There was the occasional drunken fight in the
shop at the weekend, and he even managed to handle the dead-brained abuse from
the teenagers, but he thought he was coping very well.
One
night, the Area Manager turned up. Just for a look. He was impressed by Mark's
dedication to the job, especially with his ordering of the videos on the
shelves. One thing Mark knew about was films and it irritated him when videos and
DVDs were racked all over the place in a shop. He had arranged them into
alphabetical order in the usual categories: Horror,
Martial Arts, Thrillers, Weepies, World and something loosely called Women’s. Mark had altered the title of
this last section, replacing it with a day-glo sign saying Quality. In fact, the only section Mark had left alone was,
predictably enough, Kids. The thought
of any child stuffing its head full of bad cartoons, killer robots and Disney
Singalongs filled Mark with pity and dread for any parent unfortunate enough to
have to undergo it. He wondered when he would have to.
‘Smart
one,’ said the Area Manager. ‘Don't get
too cocky with it though. They want entertainment, not a lecture.’ The Area
Manager smiled.
He let
Mark go home early, as a “little treat”.
When
Mark shut the flat door behind him, he heard the talking right away. Joanne. In
the bedroom. She’d clearly not heard him come in.
He
decided he’d had enough of this shit. He strode to the bedroom door preparing
himself to fling it open and start a row. Something stopped him. Something Joanne
had said. He was sure she’d said it. It had sounded like,
‘Not
long.’
Mark
put his ear to the crack in the door and listened. He realised that Joanne
sounded happier and more confident than he’d heard her in months. Maybe than
he’d ever heard her.
‘Yes my
darling, of course. No, I won’t. It’s just...I mean, it’s not exactly the normal
way... It is? I see.’
A
pause.
Mark
frowned. What was she talking about? More importantly, who was she talking to?
Something cold gripped his heart and his brain struck a fresh vein of panic. He
had a sudden vision of himself opening the door and seeing someone, some man,
sitting on his bed and talking to his partner. A father.
He
couldn’t. Not yet anyway.
‘So
what happens?’ asked Joanne, ‘Where will we put him?’
Where will we put him? Mark
dropped his head and for a second he was gripped with panic. He wanted to get
up and run out, away from his wife, away from his baby. ‘Mark? Is that you?’ Joanne’s tone altered.
She had heard him.
‘Yeah,’
he choked. ‘Got the night off. Area manager.’
He
stood up and opened the door.
The
bedroom was dark, with a thin line of orange sodium seeping in through the
curtains.
Joanne
was bent over the cot. She looked red, flushed. The baby was there on the bed,
little eyes reflecting orange, little eyes trapped in that big baby head. They
looked like they knew that things were about to get better. A lot better. For
everybody.
They
looked expectant.
That
night Mark had a dream. He dreamed he was lying in bed, with Joanne. His eyes
were open and he was looking at the door.
There
was someone in the living room, waiting. In a moment this person was going to
open the bedroom door and come in. Then whoever it was would get into bed and
Mark would be out.
Where will we put him?
someone whispered. Daddy.
In the
dream, because of course it wasn’t a dream at all, Mark turned his head and
wasn’t surprised to see his son lying next to him. The baby was smiling. It
looked at him. Mark froze.
Daddy, said Baby. Come in.
Mark
turned his head and saw the opening door. A rectangle of the orange light flooded
the room. A shadow grew large.
Daddy climbed
into bed.
Copyright
2005. Simon Messingham. Etc.
