could keep a good distance and merge into the crowd while still keeping an eye on her.
I followed her to the market stalls, where she spent ages debating what pastry to buy, then had to occupy myself while she sat down and ate it. To be fair, she was engaging with Mabel, talking to her and making sure she kept her hat on, which is more than Amber ever does. After what I guessed was lunch, she took her to the duck pond, but that didn’t seem to last very long and soon she was pushing the pram in the direction of home.
The fun was over; there was no point in my hanging around. Anyway, I needed some lunch myself and the cold was pinching me. I was about to head off in the other direction when something prompted me to follow them all the way to their front door. Just for the hell of it. I was only a few metres behind her when she went through the gates. There’s a newsagent across the way and I pretended to read the notices in the window, all the while watching her out of the corner of my eye.
She pushed the buggy into the front garden, then stopped to rummage around in her bag. She took a key out of her pocket and I saw her put it in the lock and push the door open as wide as it would go in order to steer the buggy into the small hallway. Halfway through, her mobile rang and she answered it, shutting the door behind her.
I stared open-mouthed at the green-painted door. The key was still in the lock! What a careless, stupid thing to do, I thought. In London, of all places, where people are always on the lookout for opportunities to commit crimes: an unzipped handbag, a phone sticking out of a back pocket, an unpadlocked bike. A key in the front door. A baby inside being looked after by a fool.
Usually I would never have dared to get so close, but this was an emergency. I crossed over and stood at the front gate, which the babysitter had left open. Taking a deep breath, I stepped over the threshold, and instantly it was as if I’d entered a force field. Enemy territory.
I advanced across the small paved area shared with the ground-floor flat, carefully avoiding the sightline of anyone looking out of the downstairs window. After a few paces, I reached the front doors, which stand side by side under a small porch.
My vision zoomed in on the key. Shiny and silver.
I knew what a normal person would do in this situation. A normal person would ring the bell, and when the babysitter thundered down the stairs and opened the door, they’d say, ‘Excuse me, did you mean to leave your key in the lock?’ And the silly girl would gasp and put her hand over her mouth and thank the kind passer-by profusely as she yanked it out of the lock and put it in her pocket for safe keeping.
But you see, I’m not a normal person. I used to be, but not any more. I’ve lost too much to be generous towards others. Nevertheless, I wanted to do the right thing, for Mabel’s sake. My finger hovered over the doorbell, but I couldn’t push it, couldn’t make that familiar ding-dong sound.
I stared at the key, wondering what to do next. I considered playing Knock Down Ginger – the game I used to play when I was a kid. My friends and I would pick on some poor old lady, bang on her door, then run away laughing while she opened it to find that nobody was there. It was a mean thing to do, but at the time we were just amusing ourselves. Should I knock loudly, then scoot off around the corner? No. That would be pathetic.
Instead, I decided that the simplest and least risky thing would be to post the key through the letter box. Reaching forward, I wriggled it out of the lock. With my other hand I gently lifted the flap of the letter box, revealing a narrow slit. I imagined pushing the key through the gap, releasing my fingers and letting it fall onto the tiled hallway with a gentle tinkle. It would eventually be found and the girl in the bobble hat would silently thank the kind stranger who had saved the day. But I’m not kind. Not any more.