217 Babel Street | St. Nicholas' Church, Blackthorn Sands (18 years ago)
“We were in a bedsit. No place for a baby. Bitter cold. Single glazing. I used to hear drunks weeing against the railing outside. I’d think, it’s raining, then I’d find a man leering up, like I was inviting him in by opening the curtains. Silverfish darted across the lino at night; I couldn’t catch them under my heel fast enough. Upstairs they’d bang on the floor, and next door, the blind bus conductor would rap on the wall with his stick. On and on and on she wailed. When it turned into a barking noise – like a seal – croup, the doctor said. Come back if her lips turn bluish. Keep her calm – calm?! – and was I breast-feeding her? It was important for her immunity. I said, no, bottle-feeding. She hadn’t wanted to latch on, and then my - sorry, Reverend - they were so hot and inflamed, every time she managed to suck, it was agony, pure agony - more blood than milk - so when the doctor seemed to say, on top of everything, she was ailing because of me... And when she wouldn’t stop crying and I couldn’t either - I wanted to die - I remembered that beautiful church. There was a warm spell, and I thought, they’ll find her in the morning...
“Manslaughter by gross negligence. Seven years. And the awful thing, Reverend, is that I never missed her. I never wanted her to come to harm, but I've never missed her either. And we’ve Sophie now.”