‘I am not safe anywhere,’ she said dryly, and stepped over the threshold.
‘Please forgive the clutter,’ he said. ‘The life of a scholar is forever dominated by paper. I swear one day I will drown in it.’
‘You live here alone?’ There was a table in the centre of the room piled high with paper and books, more books crammed onto an inordinate number of bookshelves.
‘Yes, all alone,’ he said. ‘I never married…’ He coughed lightly. ‘Both my mother and father passed away rather suddenly — they were on the older side when they had me. The house was left to me. I stay because it is all I have known.’
They entered the study and two men rose from their seats. The woman flinched at seeing them. ‘You said you lived alone.’
‘And I do, ordinarily. Please forgive me for not mentioning them earlier. I did not want to unnerve you any more than you are already. Let me introduce you to the two other members of The Lunar Club, myself being the third — Howard Baxter and Carl Wood.’
‘The Lunar Club?’ she said suspiciously.
‘Without their help you would not be here. We have worked together…’
They stared at her, failing to hide their amazement. Baxter lunged forward and held out his hand to shake, but she backed off in alarm. Charles Rayne held up a gentle hand for him to step back. ‘Pleased to meet you at last,’ said Baxter as Charles led her away.
‘Come this way, through here,’ he said indicating a door that opened onto a flight of stairs. He nodded at her midriff. ‘Can you manage the stairs? They are dreadfully small and tight, as is the way with these old places.’
‘I am not made of porcelain,’ she said, and he thought immediately of her doll’s face as she slept. She gripped the banister tightly and went up the stairs.
‘Second door on the left,’ he said.
The room was small but neat, plain unassuming furniture sat against prettily patterned wallpaper, a wooden-framed mirror, a double bed heavily laden with thick woollen blankets, a bedside table strewn with a few books.
‘It has been so long since I slept in a proper bedroom,’ she said. ‘Able to turn out the light…’
‘I have arranged for a local woman, a former midwife, to attend to your needs when the time is right.’ He saw her sudden, alarmed expression. ‘Don’t worry; she thinks you are on the run from a violent husband. She is sworn to secrecy. I know her well.’ He went over to the window and drew the curtains closed. ‘We must ensure you and your babies are going to be well. But you will need help beyond all this, though, and on that score I can assure you I have matters in hand.’
She sat slowly on the bed. The springs squeaked. ‘Why are you doing all this?’
He found he had to avert his head when she looked at him directly. He was all too aware of her beauty and his disfigurement. ‘Because you need my help.’
She didn’t answer. Her hand was running over the soft woollen blanket, disturbing tiny fibres of wool that sprang up and swirled in the air like so much dust. ‘I cannot stay,’ she said. ‘You know they will find me, and they will kill you.’
‘For now you are safe,’ he said. ‘What name do you wish me to call you? I ask only because it is difficult to address someone without using their name.’
She shrugged. ‘What’s in a name anyway?’ she said bleakly. ‘Please leave me alone for a while.’
‘I will fix you something to eat presently,’ he said. He left her staring fixedly at the blanket and closed the door softly on her. When he came back with a tray of food and knocked softly at the door, opening it and poking his head round, he saw her in bed sound asleep. She looked so peaceful, he thought, but he knew better. She could never be at peace.
He stood there, hands wringing, outside the door. Pacing, pacing, and as nervous as an expectant father. From within the room he heard agonising screams. She had been in labour for hours, far longer than was good for her, said the midwife, dashing out and then dashing in again, closing the door on him before he could catch a glimpse of what was happening. He heard scuffling and soothing words, and more screams and panting and rapid breathing. He heard water being squeezed from a cloth into a bowl. And then, finally, he heard a baby cry and there were no more screams. Then even the baby fell silent and he knocked tentatively at the door. Eventually the midwife stepped outside. She looked exhausted herself, locks of grey hair wet with sweat sticking to her forehead.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘She gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl,’ she said, rubbing her tired eyes. ‘Both of them bruisers, and little wonder she was so large and they took some getting out.’ Then her face looked all at once solemn. ‘But, Mr Rayne, I have some terrible news…’
‘What? Tell me!’
‘I am sorry. There was nothing I could do. She is dead.’
Cardiff police are today trying to locate the mother of a baby found abandoned in one of the cubicles in the women’s toilets at Cardiff Central railway station yesterday evening.
Mrs Sylvia Tomas, a cleaner at the station for over fifteen years said she had seen many strange things in her time working for the station but had never come across an abandoned baby.
‘I heard a baby crying from one of the cubicles,’ said Mrs Tomas. ‘At first I thought the mother was in there too, but when I heard it crying for a while I knocked on the door and was surprised to see the baby.’
The baby boy, which police say is aged only a week or so old, was found wrapped in a woollen blanket, quite healthy but obviously distressed.
‘Fortunately, with the mild weather, we weren’t concerned that the baby had been kept warm enough,’ said a police spokesman. ‘However, we were worried he might be a little dehydrated. We’d like to ask the mother to come forward and we can offer help. She may be in a critical condition herself and in need of medical attention.’
The police did admit the baby had been left with a single piece of jewellery, in a brown envelope wrapped in its blanket, the nature of which they will not at this stage disclose in order to verify the correct identity of the woman when and if she comes forward to claim her child.
In the meantime the baby, as yet without a name, is being cared for by the authorities and is said to be doing well in spite of his railway ordeal. Police are calling for anyone who may have witnessed the woman going into the toilets with her baby.
7
He would forever refer to it as that one event which marked a decided shift in his fate, if such a thing exists. He didn’t believe in such things ordinarily. But it was as if his life were but two great plates split apart, a continent once secure in itself now divided. The two halves would never again be joined, irrevocably drifting away from one another. The existence he’d known and trusted, had taken for granted, all at once transformed and called into question. Belonged to another. On that evening he began his journey towards another life leaving the old forever behind.
Until then things had been going on as normal, Gareth Davies’ life locked into a seeming spiral of sameness and predictability. He was only thirty-four-years of age, at a time in his life when he considered himself ‘fortunately young’; that is, old enough to feel a growing confidence in himself rather than the empty bravado of his younger years, gradually shedding his self-consciousness like an old skin. He convinced himself he was in possession of a certain maturity that only comes with age, poised, as he thought, on that enviable pedestal from where he was able to look down at both those younger than him with frustration and disdain, and those older than him in the same way but through the additional lens of pity.