‘I said say something nice.’
‘It’s hard to say something nice when you are bleeding out.’
‘Oh darling.’
The nurse comes in. ‘It’s time,’ she says.
I grab Layla’s hand.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ she whispers. ‘I’m not.’
I want to cry. I want to envelop her in my arms and not let them take her away, but I let go of her hand and watch them wheel her through the swing doors. I stand there, lost and frightened in the empty room. I am so fucking frightened my breath comes out in a huge heave through my body. I feel a hand touch me. I turn around.
‘Come with me,’ Jake says. His voice is firm and authoritative. And like a lost child I follow him outside. I feel hollow and emasculated. I let her go. She could die on the operating table.
I should have told her that she is one in a billion.
EPILOGUE
BJ
“Not to dream boldly may turn out to be irresponsible”
—George Leonard
There are fresh flowers on the grave. My mother must have visited earlier. I stand by the headstone and I feel a sense of serenity. For the first time in my life I feel at peace. There is no hate, no anger, no pain, no hurt.
All the lost jigsaw pieces of my life have come together in a brilliantly beautiful mosaic. Only now, I can see why that red piece happened, or why that blackness had to be right there, where I thought it should not be.
Now I see how perfect it all is.
There is a small ladybug on the black marble of my father’s gravestone. I get down on my haunches and watch it. A gust of wind comes and it flies away. I touch the stone. It is warm from the morning sun.
I never thought the day would come when I would forgive my father. It reminds me of what a man once told me. He was a heroin addict.
‘I am not to be reviled. I’m to be pitied. You have to walk in a man’s shoes before you judge him,’ he said.
I didn’t understand him then, but I do now. I know that given the right circumstances, I could have been my father. Maybe I wouldn’t have battered Tommy, but I wouldn’t have loved him. Without Layla, I would have been dead inside the way my father was.
He was not to be reviled, he was to be pitied.
I turn away from the grave and walk towards the car. I have to stop by the local store and get a carton of organic milk for Layla. I haven’t told you what happened, have I? They wheeled her into the operating theater to do the biopsy, only to find no tumor during the ultrasound. It had shrunk to nothing. They couldn’t believe it. They probably still can’t. They didn’t even have to perform a Cesarean. Layla had been right all along. She never stopped believing. She made the miracle happen.
Layla carried our baby to full term.
Tommy was born a healthy, lusty baby weighing 8lb and 2 ounces. A bundle of joy.
It’s a beautiful day, so I park the car and walk down the road to the corner shop.
‘Coming for your milk, Mr. Pilkington?’ Mr. Singh calls.
‘Yup,’ I say picking up a carton.
‘Tell your wife, organic yogurt coming next week.’
I grin. ‘That’ll make her day.’
‘Yes, yes, your wife very interested in organic things. She always looking for seeds. I tell her, I bring from India for her.’
‘Thanks, Mr. Singh.’
‘No problem.’
The bell jangles when I close the door. I light a cigarette and smoke it on the walk home. I kill it outside the front steps and chuck it into the bushes. I fit the key into the lock, open the door, and step inside.
Layla is coming down the stairs. She breaks into a smile.
‘Hey,’ she calls gaily and runs down the rest of the way.
I watch her approach, a sunburst in my heart. ‘You look good enough to eat.’
‘Never mind that now. I’ve got a secret to tell you,’ she whispers.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
She giggles. ‘It involves adding to the world’s overpopulation problem.’
My eyes widen. I feel ten feet tall. I put the bag of milk on the floor and move closer. She smells of milk and baby powder. She starts laughing as I pick her up by her waist and whisk her into the air and whirl her. Round and round we go until we are both dizzy.
‘You made me dizzy,’ she says laughing.
Love is just a word until someone comes along and gives it meaning.
She. She is the meaning.
-The End –
Proofreader: Nicola Rhead
Masquerade(One Wild Night)
One
Billie Black
‘Fucking kids,’ I swear and bury my head under the pillow, but the irritating ringing of the doorbell continues mercilessly. The desire to go out and throttle them is so strong it makes me grit my teeth.
I pull myself out from under my pillow abruptly and frown. Hang on a minute. I no longer live in the poor end of Kilburn, and there are no kids roaming the corridors annoying people on Sundays here. Also, I have no debts left so it can’t be debt collectors either. Not that those lazy fuckers will work on Sundays.