Friday Fiction: Fire In The Hole (Part 1)

A momentary impulse has consequences

Here’s this week’s Friday Fiction. Thanks to my paid subscribers, this post is open to everyone. This tale is from my much-loved (and also feared) short story collection, It Will Be Quick.

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Fire In The Hole

The shop’s name was dishonest. Not everything cost a pound. And a second lie hid amongst the masses of cheap batteries and bulbs and paper plates presented in tidy packets and sparkly, bright colours, as if anything plain or ugly would be ignored. How she wished that was true.

She reached the shower gel and bubble bath aisle, but a group of teen girls messed with makeup down there. Any one of them could have been her, twenty years ago, stood with her own friends, pretty and noisy and tactless, and there was no way she could walk near them, no way she could face these echoes, she knew they would stare and whisper. Or worse.

Back then she had dressed like them too, and now felt the drag of her unflattering clothes, layers for covering up rather than showing off. At least the weather was cooling and she didn’t look so strange with her jacket hood up all the time.

She bypassed them by taking the next aisle. Toys. Things for smaller hands than hers. Jigsaws and puzzles and model tanks and plastic tea sets and a doll that could cry. Beyond that was the baby stuff, the nappies and dummies. She walked even quicker, averted her gaze to the hard vinyl floor, wanting to be out of here, each aisle a trap, like the shop was made out of bars.

Crowded lines of people crammed at the tills. If she squeezed past them without buying anything it would draw attention. People might think she was a shoplifter. Their stares and thoughts would burn into her.

Nearby were gardening tools, and lumpy bags of birdseed. She snatched one. That was a good idea. She could watch the birds land, and peck. They would be glad, she was sure. It was cold. Without her they might die. She grabbed an extra packet. They were worth it. Only a pound. One of the honest things.

She joined the queue. The person in front hadn’t washed; their body odour lingered each time she was forced to enter the space they vacated. Instead of looking up, she sorted the change in her cold, numb hand, largest coin to smallest. Easy as long as she concentrated on not dropping them. But value didn’t match size. Fifty pence was bigger than a pound. Ten pence pieces were bigger than twenties. You couldn’t trust how things looked on the outside.

And now the coins were in order, but she kept prodding them as if they weren’t until she could place the seed on the conveyor belt. There were no dividers and the gaps weren’t big enough between her birdseeds and the next person’s bottles of juice that rolled on their sides. People should control their juice. Always they let their things impinge. That was a good word, something she still remembered from school. Like the empty beer bottle someone smashed outside her flat this morning. Like body smells. Like other people. They all impinged. A soft g in a hard word.

Because she would not look up until it was time to pay, would not focus on anything but the small coins in her palm, she missed the start of the commotion. She only noticed when people left their places in the queue. An old man had fallen. Knocked over a display of lollipops. A crowd formed around him. She picked up snippets of words. He had just been coming into the shop. He had seemed fine. Could he hear? Are you okay? Is that blood on his nose? He landed badly. But there are no good landings if you faint on a hard surface. Full baskets were left on the floor as tripping hazards. She did not want to press in with the others. But no one was serving, even the till woman was trying to help. So many people.

She looked at the baskets, wondered if she should move them, be helpful, but one was not a basket. It was a buggy with three wheels. And in it was the most adorable face, the baby trying to put its own hand in its mouth, and when it saw her it smiled. It smiled at her. And she would have knelt and said hello to it, even if that also meant talking to the parent, but the parent was the first one to kneel by the old man who was in a bad way, definitely a bad way, it was all safe and fine and no one was looking and the baby was alone and it smiled at her. It had only been seconds since the fall. She would move the baby out of the way. The draught, see? Only move it. Leaving the seed on the conveyor next to the invasive orange juice, coins placed in her pocket with a noisy jingle that made her wince, just moving the buggy and expecting the mother to look at any second, or someone to tell her off – she would explain it to them, you can’t be arrested for being helpful, this lovely baby smiled at her because of the draught because it needed her to do something. Two steps, was that far enough? The door was open. It was an automatic one but because of the crowd it kept juddering open again each time it tried to close, uncertain about the problem, not sure what to do, but it was sunny outside, a better place to wait where no one would trip, and although it was an entrance to the shop and not an exit no alarms sounded as she propelled the buggy out and turned right and walked down the street, pushing hard so the baby laughed and people got out of her way. This was just a good deed, they would be grateful to her, and she looked down at the baby and it still smiled. The blanket had pulled away from one leg, she covered it again, the pudgy foot, the tiny toes, six months old maybe, and she did that without stopping. She turned right again, out of sight of the shop, on the road with the travel agents and the estate agents, and there was no time to look for other agents because she thought she heard raised voices from the main street. Or it might be traffic. How could a mother leave her baby? A baby trusted, it was honest, it depended on the mother, and if you betray that trust, what then? What then? You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve that love. It wasn’t fair that those who deserved it didn’t look after – yes, a definite shout from behind, she turned right a third time at the vinegar-stinking chip shop, small road but uphill, harder to push, small can be heavy, small can be more valuable, and it curved past parked cars and vans that hid her after she crossed to the other side.

And only now did she realise what she’d done.

They would say it was a bad thing, but they were wrong. She was just being kind. And she took another corner, because up here were fewer shops, fewer people. There was a bus stop ahead but that was too slow. She would have to wait. Stand there until people looked at her and the shouting found her and impinged on her and the baby. She passed an antique shop, had to go into the road because of the old tables on the pavement, no shelter there, nor in the sandwich shop that looked old too, and after another few roads there would be the new supermarket, always busy, and car parks of people, and … and yes, cars. On the corner. You could rent cars there. Walking distance of the train station, easy for people. She hadn’t driven since she sold her own car, couldn’t afford it any more, and no need when she liked walking, but she knew what to do. She always knew what to do.

“You’re my baby,” she said. And still it smiled.

***

The rental shop was not really like a shop. A counter with a computer, and some chairs, and some carpet tiles, and some posters. No aisles to browse or shelter behind.

“Can I help you, love?” the older woman at the computer asked. Then she seemed surprised, that first-time-look, you get used to that, must try not to seem so nervous, why look nervous with a baby? It makes other people edgy.

She struggled to get the buggy through the door. Set it in the corner, out of sight of the window. Knelt and kissed the baby. It liked kisses. Then she covered its kicking leg again, and it made her laugh, and the woman at the desk laughed. They all laughed, it was good.

“I’d like a car please. Can I have one now?”

“Economy, compact, or intermediate?”

“Any. We want to visit my cousin.”

“That’s nice. You’re lucky. We’re often booked out in the week, but I’ve got a new Renault. There’s no baby seat, though.”

“It’s okay. This lifts out, fastens … I know how to do it.”

“Really? I haven’t seen one like that.”

“I’m not a liar.”

“No, I didn’t mean that, sorry … How long do you need it for?”

“Two days? Yes, two days. Stay with her tonight. She lives in Rhydyfelin. No, Llandysul. Yes, Llandysul.”

“So you’ll bring the car back here? It’s possible to drop it off somewhere else.”

“No, here.”

Baby wanted something. She had nothing. Not even birdseed. But she could buy food in a petrol station. Just have to get away. She took her purse out.

“Please, how much will it be? I could pay with cash from the machine on the corner.”

“Oh, sorry, we can’t do that. It has to be a debit or credit card. Normally credit, but we’re a franchise, so I can bend the rules a bit.”

“Oh. Yes. My card. Here you go. It has my name on it.”

“And your driver’s licence.”

“Oh.”

“Do you have it with you? We’ll need to put the details in the DVLA site along with your National Insurance number and postcode, then we get a code. Just so we can check there are no convictions.”

“Convictions!” She took one step towards the door. She could leave with baby. They didn’t have her name yet.

“Driving convictions. Are you all right?”

“Oh, yes. I haven’t got any convictions. I’m a good driver. Very careful. I even have my licence here … have all the papers in my bag, always …”

She removed the driving licence and handed it to the desk woman. A siren wailed outside. Police or fire, getting nearer. They could not find her already. They would say she was wrong, take her baby away. She knelt, kissed the baby’s cheeks, pinched them gently, rosy red. They would not take her baby. But the vehicle passed on the main road while she knelt out of sight. Yes, it had been a police car. It did not mean it was for her. She must behave normal. The counter woman was staring at the licence, then at her.

“It’s an old photo,” she explained.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean …”

“I’m thirty-three now.”

“Chloe. That’s a lovely name.”

“Thank you. My baby needs food. I must go soon.”

“Well, you’re in luck. You’ve got one of the old licences with the paper. Can’t get these now. So no need to go to the DVLA site. The deposit will be £250. Can you enter your pin here, and sign this? Read over the agreement first.”

Chloe skimmed the paperwork. Too many words and clauses. A potpourri bowl on the counter smelt of sickly sweet perfume. Overpowering. She scribbled her mark at the end of the form but made it lean left instead of right. It might confuse people later. Entered the numbers in the machine. A lot of money. Almost all her money. Deposits were expensive.

“That’s all done. Here’s the key and paperwork. It’s the blue car in the car park behind.”

“This isn’t a key.”

“Well, the car’s keyless. This is the clicker for the doors. Have you not driven recently? There’s no handbrake either, just a button. If you’re not okay with –”

“I’m okay with that. Yes.”

Commotion erupted on the street. People moving more quickly. Staring. No, she imagined it. Must go.

“When you leave the shop go right, down the alley to the car park.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Lovely baby. He or she?”

The blanket was blue. “He. I love him very much.”

“Aw. What’s his name?”

“It is …” She knelt and touched his face. He was dribbling. She used a tissue from her bag, wiped his mouth. “I must go. The family are waiting.”

She didn’t look back. Out the door. Every car that went past – were they looking? Someone on a phone, they might be reporting her. All seeking a woman and her baby. Too early for the news, but she was glad to get out of sight.

The alley was potholed and she had to wheel around the depressions. Cars waited just beyond, as promised. It hadn’t been a lie. But so little time. Couldn’t breathe until she was away from here. Far away.

You pressed a button on the clicker and the doors unlocked. The car beeped. She knew which one it was. Blue.

The buggy did not come apart. That had been a lie. She took the baby out and lay him on the front seat next to her. The buggy folded, went in the back. The seatbelt was no good for her baby, but she fastened it anyway after wrapping him warm in his fleecy blue blanket. She turned baby so part of him was under the seatbelt. It was okay. She could put a hand on him. She could look at him, watch him as she drove. He would be warm and safe. Get away. Get food and water. Breathe deep then.

The car smelt of cleaning chemicals and did not need keys. It started for her. The magic clicker must have made it work. She put the clicker in her bag, left it on the floor in front of baby. It would not be lost.

The button for the handbrake was not so good, though. The car was strange. Jerky start until she got used to it. She had to use the mirrors, but the angle was good and she only saw road, so it was okay. People stopped and looked at her as the car swerved. She cursed. Wished the car would go smoother. Then it did. When she drove people could not see the baby next to her. She smiled down at it, but it was sleepy. That meant it was happy with its mother. She knew he would be. And she was just a woman driving out of town, not going near the main street, not slowing, not looking. Just a woman getting further away. A woman with her baby, and it loved her.

***

She knew where to go. Whenever possible she kept one hand on her baby. Only to reassure it, that it was solid, still there, real warm flesh and blood. Her flesh and blood. It was happy and asleep.

At the garage she parked at the side. Locked the car and took her bag with her. Stood in the shop doorway for seconds, inhaling petrol fumes, unable to pull her gaze from the front of the car. It would be fine. Just for a minute. People were looking. Must not stay here.

Things were thrown into the basket. Jars of baby food. Crisps. Fruit. Water. Juice. No real thought to it. Could get more later. She hurried to pay, coins fell on the floor, not neat any more, snatched up and passed, just shoved it all into a carrier bag and left, ignoring the man at the till holding up her change. She had to use the clicker again. It was fine. Baby asleep. No one stopped her. Everything on the back seat. She could drive, pulled out too fast but it was okay, she swerved, and she did not crash.

Once out of sight of the garage she took a side road, then another, doubling back and going in the opposite direction via the B road. They would not expect her to be this clever. And they would not know where she was going.

Not to her house. They would be waiting. Too many of them knew her address. Had it on their papers, printed and clear to read.

Oh no. Not there. She was proud that she’d thought of it as her house. Not her home, see? Not a home without her baby. They needed a new home. And she’d thought of it while driving, as she touched her baby and remembered the past, long time past, before the painful parts, something happy. It was still in there, part of her, and it would be part of her baby too. So deep inside that They would not know it, not find it printed on their letters, stored in their databases. Only the one in her head. And she wouldn’t share that with them any more, she learnt to hide things, because They only used it against you otherwise. Words were twisted and turned back. Painful things got dragged out and pushed at you until your eyes burned and you couldn’t forget any more, and if you tried to give that pain back with your hands, to cut it back in to your own flesh to let them know how They were putting broken glass in your heart then They stopped you, and punished you more. No, oh no, all to yourself alone. The only way. Hide the things in your mind, and your baby in the blanket, and nothing could hurt you.

[SECOND AND FINAL PART NEXT WEEK]