Bye Bye Baby (32 page)

‘And?’

Billy’s eyes began to droop. ‘I knew it was him, although it took him a moment or two to realise who I was.’

‘Hurry up, Billy, you’re slurring so badly I can hardly make out your words. I need this information and you need to give it to me if you’re going to save yourself.’

‘He pretended in front of his wife that he’d met me fishing but didn’t properly introduce me to her and I
was about eighteen so I didn’t have the balls to introduce myself. I can remember staring at the child in surprise and he glared at me and said, “This is our son, Peter”. Then the wife said, “He’s adopted” and I just knew it was your baby. That it must have lived and he’d stolen it from you.’

He was
alive
!

Anne felt her vision tunnelling and her chest began to pound. In fact she was sure she could hear the blood rushing through her ears. Another woman called herself mother to Peter. She got to cuddle him, kiss him, comfort him. That woman had watched him grow, taught him to walk, run, ride a bike. She had cooked for him and bandaged scraped knees and read to him and tucked him into bed at night. Anne felt a murderous rage of jealousy consuming her. Deep inside her a pain blossomed like a plume of bright red, exploding upwards and outwards throughout her body and her fury stoked the fire that was this agony.

Through a tensed jaw Anne forced herself to take a steadying breath. She finally said, ‘I want Pierrot’s name.’

‘Garvan Flynn. The wife mentioned they lived at Rottingdean . . .’ He trailed off, his eyes closing.

‘Thank you,’ Anne said, reaching for the half-finished bottle of water. ‘Let’s get this done with then, Billy.’

His eyes flew open again. ‘Anne, wait! You said I could save myself.’

‘Save yourself a lot of pain. Not save your life. That, I’m afraid, is forfeit, Billy. Now drink this.’

‘No.’ He began to cry.

‘Oh, Billy, drink it all and there will be no pain. You’ll just go to sleep.’

‘We were kids, Anne. I don’t . . . What are you going to do?’

‘You don’t want to know. Drink it.’

He shook his head, pursed his lips as a child might to prevent any liquid going in. Tears streamed down his face. ‘Don’t, Anne,’ he begged. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’

‘I know you are. I think you were thirty years ago, Billy, but you just weren’t brave enough. None of you were, so I had to suffer for your cowardice. But so much worse is that you kept the terrible secret —all of you. None of you told the police what had occurred, and I was so frightened and beaten up, and completely bewildered by losing my baby, I wasn’t thinking straight either. And then it was too hard, too terrifying, to relive it. All I could do was run away. So drink this, Billy, and save yourself a lot of torment. You’ll go to sleep and that will be that.’

‘Why didn’t you just kill yourself?’ he wept, a last dash of anger surfacing.

‘I should have, I suppose,’ she said, her voice even, ‘but then you’d all have got away with it. This way, my son and I get justice.’ She looked at Billy’s drooping body. ‘Let me help you swallow this.’

‘No!’ He began to fight her, twisting his head.

‘Billy, don’t! I’m going to cut you, hurt you,’ she warned. ‘I’m happy for you to feel nothing. Drink enough of this and your heart will stop. Stay conscious and you’ll regret it.’

His weeping turned to sobs and Anne ran out of patience. She could tell his last objection had claimed every final ounce of will and energy. Now he was as helpless as her own baby had been all those years ago.
She forced open his mouth and tipped most of the contents of the water bottle down his throat, closing his jaw hard so he couldn’t spit it out.

‘There,’ she said, almost tenderly, satisfied that she’d kept her half of the bargain. ‘That should do it. Goodbye, Billy.’

While she waited for Billy Fletcher’s heart to stop, Anne thought about her son. The name Peter had stuck — how incredible. He would be twenty-nine by now. He could be married, a parent himself. He could also be dead . . . for all his mother knew. Her face twisted into a mask of pain.
No, dear heaven, no, not again. So many children lost, let this one live, please let him be alive.

And this was when Anne decided she was going to find Peter come hell or high water, and the only way she would be able to do that was if she was able to hunt down Pierrot. She had a full name now — Garvan Flynn — and it was unusual enough that people would remember it. And she had a place to start looking.

33

Garvan Flynn stood in the damp back garden and sucked on the first cigarette he had smoked in thirty years. They tasted very different these days, but he didn’t care. His hands shook and he felt dizzy as the nicotine coursed through him. He coughed, sipped again at the lukewarm, sweet coffee and closed his eyes.

Nearby, Peter sat on the short flight of stairs staring into the backyard, silent, his outward calm belying the alarm he’d felt since his father had told him that providing his birth certificate would not be possible.

Their discussion the previous night had been interrupted by the arrival of Pat’s mother. Her tears and recriminations had told Peter that Pat had been true to their pact and told her parents of their decision not to wed. Sheila and his mother had wept and talked into the night until Peter could no longer stand it. He had left, frustrated, with a promise to return the next day to talk to his father. He’d arrived only minutes previous, scowling and confused.

‘Dad?’ he finally said. ‘You’ve got to tell me what this is about.’

‘I know.’

‘Why the hell are you smoking?’

‘You know, Peter, this is the first cigarette I’ve touched since the night you were born.’ Garvan sighed.

‘That doesn’t explain why you’re smoking now. Mum will kill you!’

His father smiled privately, said nothing.

‘Okay, Dad, I want to know what’s going on. Last night, before Aunty Sheila arrived, you said something about not being able to give me a birth certificate — why not? I told you, I can’t win this contract without it. I can’t get a passport either, I’ve just realised. You know, Dad, this has never come up before because I’ve never needed a passport. Can you imagine it? I’m nearly thirty and I’ve never been anywhere, not even on school trips. I know Mum never trusted the school to keep me safe, but why was I more precious than any other child? I mean everyone else got to go on that Swiss ski trip, except me. I know you always tried to give me a big summer holiday in England, but I have to admit I always felt like the nerdy, over-protected kid.’

‘You never said anything,’ his father replied.

‘Well, because it caused a row and I also knew we didn’t have the money.’

The older man shrugged. ‘You never chose to travel when you were old enough.’

‘Dad, Mum and Aunty Sheila have been controlling my life. I’ve been partnered off with Pat since I was twenty-one. Remember how Mum used to carry on with my early girlfiends? Everyone was either a tart or too posh. There was always a problem. She was never
going to let me see anyone but Pat, so me going off to Paris for the weekend or something was not going to happen because she would have imagined it was for an orgy. Anyway, I never had the money to go abroad. Every penny I earned you made me save for the flat.’

‘And do you criticise us for ensuring your future? Look at you. You’re sitting on a goldmine with that place.’

‘Dad, I know. I’m not criticising you. I know it was a great investment, but I had to sacrifice the sort of fun that other people in their early 20’s enjoy. Now I have to be more responsible, but it’s time for me to travel and see a bit of the world. I am going to take holidays and enjoy my earnings. Plus I need the passport for work — they’re talking about sending me to —’

‘I can’t give you your birth certificate, Peter, because I don’t have one for you.’

‘Okay, so I order a copy through Births, Deaths and Marriages. Where’s the great problem?’

The older man grimaced.

‘What does that look mean?’ Peter said, exasperated, standing up and stomping into the garden. ‘Dad, look at me. Tell me what’s happening.’

His father’s gaze seared him and the normally gentle voice sounded hard, cruel. Peter had never heard this tone before. ‘There is no certificate for you. There never was. Your birth didn’t happen, Peter.’ Then he softened back to his normal tone and turned away. ‘I’m sorry, son. I prayed it wouldn’t come to this. I thought after all these years we’d got through it.’

‘You’re not making any sense! Dad, tell me it all. Whatever this is, just give me the truth and stop talking
around it. Why don’t I have papers? How could I have got to this age without a birth certificate?’

‘You’ve never needed a passport, that’s why. The rest was easy enough. When you began school we gave your date of birth, which we did know. Schools never check those things.’ He shrugged. ‘A record is born. From there on, the schools knew you and could verify who you were for your national insurance number. Your Saturday job at the petrol station was another tick. Our family doctor has known us since the day we moved into Rottingdean — he had no reason to question when you were born or even that you were adopted. He vouched for you, as did your teachers, when you went for your driving licence and university entrance.’

Peter looked stunned. ‘You’re right, I’ve never needed a birth certificate,’ he said with amazement.

His father flicked his cigarette butt away into the compost heap. ‘It’s all about building a record. So long as that’s squeaky clean, no one troubles you.’

‘But, Dad,’ Peter implored, ‘I need a passport and I need a birth certificate for this job. Tell me why I don’t have one.’

An eruption of anger drove his father’s vicious response. ‘Because, officially, you weren’t born! Alright?’

‘I wasn’t born?’ Peter murmured. He looked around at the neighbours’ gardens, suddenly fearful of this odd conversation being heard.

‘Don’t worry, they’ve all gone away . . . together. We’ve lived here for three decades, but we just get asked to keep an eye on the houses,’ his father said bitterly.

‘You need to explain what you mean, Dad. You said that you and Mum adopted me — there has to be paperwork attached to that.’

‘There are no papers attached to you at all, Peter. You weren’t born in a hospital or at home with attending medical people to witness your birth. As far as the authorities go, you weren’t born at all.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ Peter scoffed. ‘Here I am!’

‘But no one knows who you truly are.’

‘Dad, this is pissing me —’

‘Except myself,’ his father finished.

Peter rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses. He preferred to wear contact lenses but his eyes were too tired today. This was going to make it worse and he could feel a headache forming. ‘Tell me,’ he said.

‘I bought you,’ his father began, lighting another cigarette. ‘No, don’t interrupt me,’ he said to his son who had turned angrily on him. ‘Let me finish this, okay?’

Peter nodded, a mixture of disbelief and fear etched on his face.

‘I bought you from a man I met in a pub. Your mother wanted a child so badly and . . .’ His voice wavered.

‘Dad.’

‘And it seemed I was to blame, according to the doctors. The look on your mother’s face when we found out broke my heart. I had let her down, but I had especially let her folks down. We’re both only children. Our parents only had us to produce their precious grandchildren. The pressure . . . well, you can’t possibly imagine. But her mother, your nanna, was such a bitch about it. You don’t know what it’s like to feel so controlled, so manipulated, by parents.’

‘I think I do,’ Peter said, more sourly than he’d intended.

‘No, you and Pat not marrying is nothing compared to us not giving her mother a grandchild. Trust me on this! We’re modern parents to you by comparison. You simply make a decision, inform us, weather the initial storm and then it’s over. No, son, we had to pay our penance every day — Elsie questioning us constantly, and relatives and then friends, and then friends of friends, winking at each other, raising their eyebrows at the family gatherings. Your nanna couldn’t bear it that her sister had a truckload of grandchildren and so she punished us. It was awful.

‘Your mother — I can’t blame her — finally broke down and admitted it was me. I was the reason we couldn’t have children. So she was let off the hook, you could say, and all the attention swung entirely to my shortcomings. And that only made it worse. Not only did I have a low sperm count, but their constant fuss and attention meant I could no longer even get it up. I just got angrier and angrier. It was a terrible time in our life and I considered leaving your mother so that she could find someone new, start again, have her family. I even thought about running away completely — going to Ireland or even overseas.’

‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’

‘We’ve never told you this but we did separate for a while in 1974. It was the beginning of autumn. I remember the leaves on the ground in all the parks, but it was a short separation — we were together again by Christmas. It was a terrible time of rage and bitterness for me, but through it all I loved your mother and we couldn’t bear to be apart. So we
reunited and thought about adoption. But finding an English child was impossible — it seemed we were never going to be considered for anything other than Asian children, and your nanna would have howled each full moon if we’d gone down that path. We spent months looking into it, being constantly disappointed — you see, in the early 1970s young women were encouraged to keep their children. The government did everything to make it easy for them. And then this golden opportunity presented itself. A man offered to get me a child for five hundred pounds, no questions asked. It was all of our savings but we paid it gladly, and all I asked was that the child had dark hair, so that he or she could pass as our own.’

‘You negotiated a deal for me?’ Peter asked, incredulous.

‘It was a mad time, son, you can’t know what torment we were going through. Your mother wanted a child so badly that it warped us into taking such risks.’

‘And Granny and Grandad were okay about this?’

‘We didn’t tell them. They went on that coach trip around America for ten weeks. By the time they came back, we just pretended you’d been adopted properly. They were so blinded by joy they didn’t ask any more.’

‘But what about Nanna and Pop? Surely they didn’t go along with this?’

His father shrugged. ‘Elsie did, and your pop did what he was told anyway. They weren’t happy about it but they couldn’t bear watching their daughter disintegrate. I thought your mother might lose her mind at one point, then you came along and suddenly our world righted itself. The madness had passed.
Your mother’s parents, especially Elsie, were practical people — when they heard about your background, they stopped fretting over it. They knew we could offer you a better life. It was Nanna who gave us the money to move to Rottingdean and start afresh, so no questions would be asked. We cut ourselves off from all the people we’d known before so we could have a year with you and then pass you off as our own, as though we’d got lucky and been blessed by Mother Nature.’

‘So tell me about my parents,’ Peter demanded.

Garvan shook his head. ‘The father is unknown. The mother was a slut, I was told. She apparently slept around and you were one of many bastards. She took her money and ran. But we got you, Peter, and we gave you a life that you could never have known with her.’

‘That’s all irrelevant. It’s the deceit, Dad, the fact that I’ve been led along all these years thinking I was adopted.’

‘You were,’ his father said, his tone beseeching.

‘I wasn’t adopted! I was stolen and that’s the truth of it. How could you trust this bloke? Who is he?’

His father shrugged. ‘Went by the nickname of Pierrot.’

‘He didn’t even give you a name?’ Peter all but yelled. ‘How could you trust that what he was telling you wasn’t simply a pack of lies?’

‘I told you, we were desperate. We would have believed anything. You had to live it to know what we were going through.’

‘But, Dad, my blood parents could be decent people. How could you have known? Their son could have been stolen!’

‘Impossible. Why wasn’t there a hue and cry? Why weren’t the local papers full of a kidnapping if a beloved son was stolen? There was nothing. If your biological mother cared, she had a strange way of showing it. No, Peter, your true mother is upstairs crying her eyes out, the same way she did on the day I walked in carrying you.’

On the last word, his father’s voice, which had been threatening to break, did. Peter shook his head sadly, unsure of what to say next. He waited but his father said nothing. When he finally spoke again his voice was laden with sorrow.

‘Dad, how did you do it? How did you pull this off?’

‘It wasn’t hard. We lived in Hove, and the week you came into our life we moved to Rottingdean, started again in a new neighbourhood, found new jobs, changed everything.’

‘But what did the family think?’

‘What did they think? They were told we’d been successful in finding a baby boy to adopt. No one was any the wiser. The only people who knew the truth were myself, your mother and her parents. As I told you, they gave us the money to move here. They loved you. With us you had a future. You were loved from the instant we all set eyes on you.’

‘And Sheila and her family?’

‘Sheila sewed your christening outfit! She doesn’t know the secret we’ve kept for almost thirty years.’

‘Thirty years . . . seems a lot happened back then, Dad.’

Garvan looked startled. He swung around to Peter, his eyes narrowing. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, only last night you were glued to the telly. That bloke, the victim of that killer — you said you knew him thirty years ago.’

‘Oh, that.’

‘Yeah. You were — what? About twenty-seven?’

‘Something like that. Anyway, that’s irrelevant, we’re talking about how your mother and I came to have you, Peter. Yes, I was twenty-seven, hot-headed, humiliated by my impotency, angry, desperate to please our families like any good son.’

‘Dad, what you did was illegal.’

‘But —’

‘Actually, it’s worse. What you did was criminal. You took someone else’s child. The last time I checked, human trade was punishable by law.’

‘We adopted you,’ his father said firmly. ‘It was just done a little differently.’

‘A little differently?’ Peter echoed, aghast. ‘You paid someone to steal me from my parents!’

‘And he paid the fat pig who gave birth to you and happily turned her back on you.’