Bad Blood. Julie Shaw

Because, like her mam before her, she hadn’t told anyone who the father was, either. Hadn’t and, in fact, couldn’t, even though there wasn’t a shred of doubt. Though, in the vain hope that things might not turn out as badly as she expected, she’d not rushed to contradict her mam when she’d reached her own conclusions; deciding that it was probably Paddy Sweeney’s – the lad Christine had been seeing briefly before she’d left school. ‘That bloody half-wit,’ her mam had said. ‘Trust you to pick that no-hoper. There’ll be no hope of any support there – not from that bloody family.’

      If only she knew, Christine thought. Because it was so much worse than that.

      The monitor finally in place, and a second excruciating examination completed, Sister Rawson swept from the room, leaving Christine alone, with a bright-toned but ominous ‘I’m just going to fetch the doctor!’

      Then silence. Well, bar the beep of the monitor stand beside her, and the constant lub-dub, lub-dub from the microphone on her belly. Christine tried hard to focus on the baby’s racing heartbeat. To lose herself in the strange, urgent sound the machine made; such an odd sound, she’d thought, when she’d first been able to hear it. Almost as if it was coming from under water. Which, of course, it sort of was. But it was hard to concentrate – soon impossible. Would the agony never stop? There seemed no break now from the pain; it was as if her body was no longer hers. It had become uncontrollable, unpredictable, an unstoppable alien force.

      This was it, she knew. There was nothing going to stop her baby coming. And as the urge to expel it became ever more urgent, Christine realised quite how hard she had tried not to believe it. That the day would really come. And now it had. And now they’d know.

      ‘I can’t push any more!’ Christine sobbed as someone mopped her clammy forehead. ‘I can’t!’

      Time had passed. She had no idea how much time, but she had a definite sense of having lost some. A vague memory of an injection, of a mask placed on her face, of sucking up gas, and the unrelenting, dreadful, searing pain. It felt different now, somehow; more a terrible burning – like she was about to be split in two. As if whatever was inside her was now fighting to get outside of her – hacking at her insides with a knife.

      She felt sick, and cast about her, terrified she’d throw up all over herself. A bowl appeared, as if from nowhere, but, though she retched several times, nothing came.

      There was still no sign of her mam, either, which, though entirely expected, made her tearful all over again. And she really, really, really didn’t want to break down and cry, because she didn’t want to be treated like a kid. If she wasn’t being already, which turned her tears to anger. That people made assumptions about young girls like her.

      Did this midwife? She looked between her knees, at the indistinct navy blue bulk of Sister Rawson, who was standing at the end of the table, bending forward, her bosom huge.

      ‘Course you can push, girl!’ Sister Rawson answered. Her tone was different now – sharp and snappy. ‘You and a million other girls before you, my love. Natural as breathing, is giving birth … what a woman’s body was made for. Now, come on, love. I need you to push!’

      There were others in the room, too. A man in white. The doctor? And another nurse, a younger one, bearing a small trolley. The plastic mask replaced the kidney bowl. ‘Come on, love, suck on this,’ a gentle voice said. ‘Suck on this, then a big old push. Listen to Sister, okay. Listen to Sister.’

      ‘That’s the way, love.’ Sister Rawson’s voice again. ‘Hold it tightly. Deep and slow now.’ She kept glancing at the monitor, across which a jagged line travelled left to right. ‘That’s the way,’ she said. Something glinted in her hand. What?

      Panicked now, Christine strained to see but couldn’t. She well remembered what Josie had said about what might happen if she didn’t push hard enough; if she couldn’t get the baby out by herself. That was what had happened to Josie. She was too tiny. Much too tiny, so they’d used things called forceps. Enormous forceps, forced inside her, bigger than the baby’s entire head …

      ‘Christine! It’s going to peak now! Christine, look at me! Baby’s coming. Baby needs to come, now. Do you understand me, Christine? So this time you have to push. As hard and as long and as strong as you can. That’s the way, lovey. Coming now. I can just see the head now.’ Her voice grew hard then. ‘But Christine, I mean it. You have to try. You have to give it everything you’ve got left, okay. Everything. You have to PUSH!’

      It had been a pair of scissors, that was all. Not forceps, just scissors. Just to help. And they had helped, and she had pushed, and it had finally worked. The baby had been expelled from her so fast it was if it was entirely outside her control. Expelled and scooped up, and hung momentarily by its ankles, the face puckering, the mouth contorting, and then that single plaintive cry. And there it was – there he was. Her perfect child.

      ‘It’s a boy!’ someone had said. ‘You have a son! You clever girl, you!’ And then the nurse by the scales had said ‘bless her’, though not to her. She’d said ‘bless her’ to the doctor, in tones not meant for Christine. ‘She’s only just seventeen.’ She’d sighed then. ‘No more’n a child herself.’

      They’d sounded relieved, though, which had helped. And here he was on her chest now, staring up at her from his swaddling of blue cellular blanket, her blessing; her little coffee-coloured son.

      Sister Rawson was standing beside her, beaming, pulling off her plastic apron. ‘A beautiful baby boy,’ she said as she balled it in her big pink hands and deposited it in the bin. ‘Well done, lovey. Seriously. You were a brave girl. Well done.’

      She reached across then, her expression strange, and swept a strand of Christine’s wet hair from her eyes. It was an action so gentle that it made Christine want to cry. The sort of tears you couldn’t help, because someone was being nice to you. And for a moment, she almost let herself give in to them. ‘And your mum’ll be here soon, I’m sure,’ Sister Rawson said softly. ‘Not too long now, eh? And, aww, he’s beautiful, isn’t he? Just look at him. A little stunner, he’ll be. Look at those lovely, lovely eyes.’

      Christine looked – it was all she could do not to, ever since she’d been handed him. And tried to find something in the baby’s eyes that reminded her of his father. But no. There was nothing. He was perfect. And he was hers. And she knew in that instant that she would always, always love him. That her bond to him, unlike her mam’s, would be unbreakable.

      Yes, his existence was about to cause hell for her, she knew that. So she was scared. She could imagine her mum’s face, and she was scared.

      But in that moment she didn’t care. He was hers and she was his. No one else could matter more. She felt blessed.

Chapter 2

      Josie held the phone receiver away from her ear. And then brought it quickly back again, mindful of a nurse hurrying past her. Lizzie Parker was known for many things, and one of the chief among them was the way she could scream and yell when she lost her rag. ‘Calm down, Lizzie,’ she hissed. ‘I’m only the pissing messenger! And anyway, all I’ve told you is that he’s black. That doesn’t automatically mean it’s Mo’s.’

      Lizzie laughed down the line, the bitterness in her voice evident. ‘Course it’s fucking Mo’s kid. Who else’s would it be? I fucking knew there was something going on. I knew it. And don’t pretend you didn’t. She’s a fucking little slut, she is. Just you wait till I get my fucking hands on her.’

      In the end, a while earlier, it had been Josie who’d seen the baby first. Knowing Lizzie wouldn’t be at home when she and Imran had left the hospital she’d had him drive down to the Mecca and made him wait outside, planning to let Lizzie know that Christine had been admitted and, if she wanted, that she could use the cab to hurry back there. But she’d missed