She gets to her feet feeling strangely excited at the prospect of spending the rest of the day with him.
‘Ready.’
47
I decided that the oncoming baby was the cause of all our ills. I saw my mother getting fatter, the rest of us getting thinner. And I saw David fluffing out his tail feathers, preening and strutting. Every pound my mother gained, every time the baby kicked or wriggled, David developed another layer of sickening self-belief. I tried to keep hold of what Phin had told me the day we went to Kensington Market, about David being thrown out of the last home he tried to infiltrate and take control of. I tried to imagine the humiliation for him of being caught red-handed stealing from his hosts. I tried to remind myself that the man who’d turned up homeless and penniless on our doorstep four years earlier, was the same man swaggering now about my house like a puffed-up turkey.
I could not bear the thought of that baby coming into existence. I knew that David would use it to cement his role as the god of our warped little universe. If the baby didn’t come, my mother could stop eating all the time, and we’d be able to bring germs into the house again. And, more importantly, there’d be absolutely no reason whatsoever for us to have anything more to do with David Thomsen. There’d be nothing to connect us, nothing to link us.
I knew what I had to do and it does not cast me in a good light. But I was a child. I was desperate. I was trying to save us all.
The drugs were surprisingly easy to administer. I made sure to cook for my mother as much as possible. I made her herbal teas and vegetable juices. I laced everything I gave her with the things listed in the chapter in Justin’s book entitled ‘Natural Termination of Unwanted Pregnancies’. Tons of parsley, cinnamon, mugwort, sesame seeds, chamomile and evening primrose oil.
As I passed her a glass of juice she would stroke my hand and say, ‘You are being such a good boy, Henry. I feel very blessed to have you taking care of me.’ And I would flush a little and not reply because in some ways I was taking care of her. I was making sure that she didn’t get shackled to David for evermore. But in other ways I was not taking care of her in the least.
And then one day, when she was about five months pregnant and the baby was proper and real and had begun kicking and wriggling and moving about, my mother came downstairs and I heard her talking to Birdie in the kitchen and she said, ‘The baby has not moved. Not today at all.’
The consternation grew over the course of the day and I felt a terrible dark sickness in the pit of my belly, because I knew what was coming.
Of course no doctors were called, no trips to A & E were embarked upon. Apparently David Thomsen was a fully qualified gynaecologist on top of all his other myriad skills. He took charge of everything, sent people running off for towels and water and pointless homeopathic tinctures.
It took five days for the baby to come out after it had died.
My mother wailed for hours. She stayed in her room with David and Birdie and the baby, making noises that could be heard throughout the house. We four children huddled silently together in the attic room unable to properly process what had just happened. And then finally, much later that day, my mother brought the baby downstairs wrapped in a black shawl and David made a grave for the baby at the far end of the garden and the baby was buried in the dark of night with lit candles all around.
I sought out my father that night. I sat opposite him and I said, ‘Did you know that the baby died?’
He turned and stared at me. I knew he wouldn’t answer the question because he couldn’t speak. But I thought there might be something in his eyes to let me know what he was thinking about the events of the day. But all I saw in his eyes was fear and sadness.
‘It was a little boy,’ I said. ‘They’re calling him Elijah. They’re burying him, now, in the back garden.’
He continued to stare at me.
‘It’s probably just as well, isn’t it? Don’t you think?’