Why won’t he stop crying? Why? Why?
I clutch Tom to my chest, swaying him frantically from side to side.
‘I’ll take him out in the camper,’ says Olly, hobbling towards me.
‘You shouldn’t drive him around,’ I say. ‘Not with your leg the way it is.’
‘Don’t start that rubbish,’ Olly snaps. ‘I drove us up to Devon and back when you were pregnant. The doctor said it was fine.’
‘She said it was fine if you were comfortable braking,’ I say, over Tom’s escalating screams. ‘But when that van pulled out, you were in agony.’
‘You can’t keep me prisoner here,’ Olly growls, lurching forward. ‘Unable to walk, unable to drive. This is about control, isn’t it? You want to control me. You fucked up my leg. Now you want to fuck up my mind.’
Olly’s mood changes dramatically when Tom cries.
‘Stop it. Just stop it.’ I put Tom in his bouncy chair. ‘He’ll fall asleep soon. He always does eventually. You’ll see.’
‘I’m putting him in the camper,’ says Olly, lifting the bouncy chair and carrying it towards the door. ‘He sleeps when we’re driving.’
My fists beat on Olly’s broad back, and he turns to me, eyes wild. ‘Don’t you ever do that again? Do you understand me?’ He puts the bouncy chair down, then gives me the look. The one that says he wants to slap me hard enough to make my ears ring. ‘Do you understand me? After everything you’ve done. Everything I put up with. I’m only with you because of Tom. I’m only with you because of this baby!’
I’m frightened, and for a moment I freeze.
That verbal lashing felt worse than any of the others. Not because it hurt, but because Olly hasn’t been this angry since before Tom was born. The baby calmed him down. But now it seems the old Olly is back.
This was my fault, though. After all, I hit him. What did I expect?
Olly scoops up Tom, chair and all, and storms down the stairs, his uneven walk pounding on wood. Bump, bump … bump, bump.
‘Don’t take my son,’ I scream down the stairwell, my words turning to shrieks. ‘Olly. Come back. Please!’
A door downstairs opens, and I hear the murmurs of Stuart – our neighbour and my friend.
And then Olly’s voice: ‘Get the fuck out of my way. Get out of my way.’
I hear scuffles and run downstairs to find Olly and Stuart grappling in the hallway.
The bouncy chair rests a few feet away and Tom is letting out low, frightened little moans.
Oh God.
Olly throws a vicious punch that knocks Stuart to the floor.
Olly turns then, seeing me on the stairs. ‘Go back inside.’ He takes Tom from the chair and storms out the front door.
I run past Stuart who is clutching his jaw, and out onto the street.
Olly is strapping Tom into the back of the camper van. ‘Back off!’ he shouts, sensing me approach. ‘Just back off. I’m warning you.’ He clicks the baby-seat straps into place, pulls to make sure they’re tight, then slides the camper van door shut.
‘You can’t take my son!’ I shout.
Ignoring me, Olly stalks around the car with his jolting walk, climbing into the driver’s seat.
I pull at the camper’s locked sliding door, crying, sobbing, beating the metal panel as I watch Tom behind the glass.
Then the camper van starts up with its usual spluttering roar.
‘Don’t take him,’ I shout. ‘Don’t take him!’
The van pulls out into traffic.
I’m shaking now, cheeks soaked with tears.
I feel a large, warm body beside me. It’s Stuart. He puts a heavy, muscular arm around my shoulder and I feel the familiarity of his great bulk.
‘Are you okay, love?’ Stuart is Scottish and huge. Most men wouldn’t want to tackle him in a fight. But Olly is the sort to act first and think later.
I shake my head, unable to speak.
‘You should call the police.’ Stuart rubs his jaw and it makes a clicking sound.
‘I can’t do that. It’ll just make things worse. He’ll be back. And when he comes back, he’ll say sorry.’
‘So you’re happy to have your little baby son driven around by that man?’
‘He would never hurt Tom,’ I say. ‘He gets angry with me. But never Tom.’
‘Hey.’ Stuart squeezes my shoulder. ‘You’re a good mother. You don’t need that bastard. It can’t go on like this. I hear you fighting, morning, noon and night.’ He looks at me meaningfully. ‘Did he put his hands on you?’
I look at the pavement.
‘Jesus Christ.’ Stuart looks up to the sky, grimacing. ‘I told you leopards don’t change their spots. I’ll kill him.’ I burst into tears, and Stuart’s big arms come around me. ‘Hey. Don’t cry,’ he says, stroking my hair. ‘Why don’t you leave him? Make a fresh start.’
‘I can’t.’
Stuart slips his hand into mine and holds my fingers tight. ‘This is breaking my heart.’
‘Who’s going to want a woman with a baby?’
‘I do.’
‘You don’t. Not really.’
‘I know my own mind. And I know you pretty well, too.’ Stuart raises a thick, dark eyebrow, and I blush.
There was a night. A regrettable night.
Olly and I had been fighting. I suppose I was frightened. Trying to make a safe space for myself. Olly’s medication was making him especially paranoid and I ended up downstairs, crying in the communal hall.
Stuart found me. I wanted to be found. Comforted by someone. Noticed.
And somehow I ended up in Stuart’s flat.
I’m not even sure how it happened, but he took me into the bedroom. We had sex on the bed and then again in the kitchen. Stuart lifted me, totally naked, onto the breakfast bar and we had sex in full view of the street, curtains open.
I think it was thrilling for him, me being on display, so nearly caught out.
‘Please don’t talk about that,’ I whisper to Stuart. ‘If Olly finds out, he’ll kill me.’