Little Boy sat bolt upright on his bed. Screaming. His mouth filled the whole of his face. A fat worm of vein throbbed in his temple. Could babies’ heads explode?
‘It’s all right, Little Boy. It’s OK. I’ll fetch Mo for you.’
I legged it down the stairs, swung into Mo’s room.
‘Mo. Wake up. The baby’s crying.’
I shook her shoulder. Her hand flopped off her chest onto the bed. The fingers had little cuts on them, like she’d tried clearing up that broken glass and stuff.
‘Please. Come on. Get up.’
The ceiling trembled, Little Boy screamed so loud.
I raced upstairs, sat on his bed, caught my breath, reached over, stroked his face, tried to speak softly, sound calm.
‘It’s aaallright.’
I hauled him across the bed, picked him up and held him close.
‘Come on, Little Boy. Saaaaallright.’
His mouth next to my ear like that I couldn’t think for noise.
I stood up and tried the hip-swaying thing.
It made him angrier and hurt my knees.
‘Now, stop it!’
He wouldn’t stop it.
I sat down.
Sometimes you’ve got to be firm. You’ve got to give them clear boundaries.
‘Little Boy, listen to Harry.’
He was so loud I couldn’t see straight.
‘STOP IT LITTLE BOY!’
That stopped him.
Then he started up again, only louder than before.
So I shook him.
Just a little bit, not the way you’re not supposed to. I only wanted him to stop it.
He wouldn’t stop it. My whole body clenched.
I felt scared. Not of the man. Scared of me. What I would do.
‘Stay calm,’ said Biffo.
All right for him to say.
‘Breathe easy. Think it through. If it aint hunger, it’s wind. If it aint wind, the boy’s lonely an if he aint lonely … well, it’s the hot chocolate sauce.’
I took a long breath, felt it cool me.
I made two decisions.
Not to shake him again.
No way on earth was I touching his poo.
‘I’m here, Little Boy. Harry’s here. It’s all right, now.’
I spoke slowly, softly.
It worked like the volume control.
His sobbing calmed.
His body softened.
Then he jammed his foot into my balls, let out a shriek that hurt my teeth.
‘Guess we can eliminate lonely, Kid.’
I didn’t shake him.
There was a bottle propped against the pillow. I picked it up, aimed the teat at Little Boy’s angry mouth, saw my chance and moved in quick.
A nasty backfist bashed the bottle from my hand and landed hard against my eye. I ground my teeth.
‘You’re doing great. So. He aint hungry. Now, take your pick. Wind? Or the chocolaty stuff.’
I stood and heaved him up against my shoulder. Patted his back.
‘Burp.’
He wouldn’t burp. He screamed. His breath burned my ear. A strange spangly feeling took hold of the whole of my head.
I didn’t shake him.
I lay him on the bed, then stood up, pressed my face against the wall where it felt nice and cool. Had a think.
Two thoughts popped up.
In olden days when ladies got hysterical gentlemen slapped them.
Pillows are good at muffling noise.
Just for a minute. Give me a breather. I wasn’t going to hurt him. What else could I do? Mo wouldn’t wake up and I was only a boy.
‘Snap out of it, Kiddo! Guy like you knows what needs doing. Just do it.’
Like they say in the ads.
I took a closer look at Little Boy. He had on a yellow bodysuit thing I didn’t understand. He must have been sewn into it. There was no way out.
‘Frisk him.’
He didn’t want to be frisked. Bubbles inflated from his nostrils, exploded in his face. My ears buzzed like that time Fergus McNally kicked me in the head.
‘Keep frisking.’
All the way down his back, under his bum, that’s where I found the poppers.
I peeled him like a banana, found the nappy straightaway.
I was planning my approach when Little Boy stopped crying.
I spotted tissues and Pampers by the hamster cage.
Things were looking up.
I got my hearing back.
‘Ughuh … Ughuh,’ said Little Boy.
It didn’t sound right. He might have swallowed his tongue. I leaned in close.
He scratched my eyes with sharp, deadly claws, let rip another earbleeding yell. Blinded, I jerked away, made a fist and pulled it back.
‘We were thinking about the nappy, Kid. Relax and count to ten.’
I’d got to nine before I had my brilliant idea. The thing to do was treat the nappy like pants. Pants I knew about.
I tried to pull them down.
They wouldn’t come.
Across the front, at the top, pink and purple teddy bears played trumpets and laughed like it was some kind of joke.
That’s where I saw two bits of sticky tape. I pulled them. Everything loosened.
It might be ugly. I’d better count myself in.
Three.
‘I’ll betcha it’s not as bad as you’re thinking.’
Two.
I leaned back.
One.
I pulled the nappy down.
Blast Off!
Great slimy landslides oozed across the duvet. The stink had me gagging. I grabbed for tissues. I turned back and Little Boy was squelching his poo in two tight little fists. I started mopping but, can you believe it, Little Boy’s bum-hole opened up like the cave in the Thunderbirds. Out came more poo.
‘Stay calm, Kid. Could be worse.’
That’s when he peed in my face. It stung like nettles where he’d scratched me. But I had something else to think about. Something was badly wrong. Down there, in his private place. A great big wound where Little Boy’s penis ought to be.
No wonder he’d been screaming.
I tried to work it out. It didn’t take long. The man had broken in, trashed the kitchen, banjaxed Mo and scarpered with Little Boy’s penis.
My tears broke. Strong, gulping sobs that made everything wobbly. I mopped up Little Boy, put a nappy on him, couldn’t figure out how the sticky bits worked so I got some pants from Dan’s drawer, pulled them over the top. He looked like Superman.
I tried wiping his hands but there were too many tiny bits to them. I got the duvet out from under him, tossed the dirty things inside, wiped my hands and threw it on the floor. What did it matter? It was only a duvet and Little Boy’s penis had gone.
I picked up the bottle, put it on the bed, found Dan’s dressing gown, wrapped Little Boy, gathered him up and held him close. I didn’t mind about the noise, now, or the stink. The hip-swaying thing came easier now I understood why he was angry. Poor Little Boy.
‘It’s all right. It’s all right,’ I said and it calmed me.
His sobbing sank into low humming noises. He seemed to be singing. I hummed along, fell in with his song, sat down on the bed. He took a little milk, grew soft in my arms. His head lolled on my shoulder. The teat fell away. He burped, warm and wet. I put him down and he stirred. I put my hand on his chest, said,
‘It’s all right, Little Boy. It’s all right. You can stay sleeping.’ And he did.
Mo lay in the exact same position as when I had left her. I touched her hand. Cold and too still. Mine was hot and shaking. Her skin was kind of grey, her lips were blue, but it was the coldness that scared me. Grampy in his coffin.
I saw everything like in a film, like from one corner of the ceiling. A boy in school uniform standing up straight, looking down at his mother. Not daring to think one specially scary thing. Had to do something, fast. Didn’t know what. He’d seen drawings of mouth-to-mouth. Him and his friends had laughed.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, put his hands in his pockets, took them out, folded his arms behind his back, unfolded them, reached over, put one hand on his mother where her heart ought to be. Was it supposed to feel that way? He felt his own. Jack-hammer. Through his jumper, under his school shirt, he ran his finger along the hard, straight edge of Otis’s card.