Baby Love by Maureen Carter Page A

white-blue eyelids growing heavy. The mousy woman nuzzled the warm tiny neck, drinking in the precious baby-smell. But if she didn’t prepare the bottle soon, it would be too late. The baby would drop off, dead to the
world, then wake starving and fractious. Again.
    A shadow of a frown appeared briefly on the mousy woman’s forehead. The baby did seem to cry a lot.
    It wasn’t necessary to pass through the nursery to get to the kitchen. The detour and the tapping of the mobile had become a habit, a superstition almost. With the touch of a finger she set it in gentle motion, then stood back smiling as the
rainbow swayed and countless sequins glittered in a thin shaft of weak sunlight.
    How, she wondered, how could anyone ever harm a single hair on the head of a tiny child?
     
9
    When Terry Roper suggested Natalie tell the truth, it was a close call which of the Beck women was more horrified. Maxine was dumbstruck, slack mouth gaping open, hand clasping her chest. Had she suspected it all along? Had she
detected traces of Roper in the baby’s features? Roper’s face revealed nothing now. Unlike Natalie’s. It was wide-eyed, pleading with the man to keep his trap shut.
    “Come on, Nats,” he cajoled. “It’ll be better for everyone if you tell them.”
    Her bottom lip trembled, panda eyes begging him to stop.
    Roper glanced at Bev, shrugged an ‘over to you’.
    “Let me take a wild guess,” Bev said to Natalie, acutely aware the teenager was the only person in the room not looking at her. In an ideal world, Bev would’ve run her thoughts past the guv first. But this was Balsall Heath. And she
knew what she’d seen.
    “Zoë’s dad’s not a million miles away from this room, is he?”
    More shifty looks and furtive glances. Bev couldn’t keep up with the optical delusions.
    “Enough.” Byford’s patience was paper-thin. “There’s no time to piss about playing games,” he snapped. “What the fuck’s going on?” This from a man who reckoned swearing was the sign of a shit
vocabulary.
    The Becks and Blue Moon struggled for words. Bev cleared her throat. “The baby’s father? My money’s on him.” She pointed at Roper. “That right, Terry? You the loving dad?”
    Raucous laughter from the street broke a stunned silence. No one in the room was amused, especially Natalie. “You stupid fucking bint.” The words dripped vitriol.
    Bev shrugged. She didn’t expect a round of applause.
    “I ain’t snogged the bloke,” the girl snarled. “Let alone shagged him.”
    She didn’t expect that either. Or believe it. “Yeah, right.”
    If Natalie had been on her feet, she’d have stamped one. “Tell her, Tel. Tell the silly cow.”
    “I’m not the baby’s father, sergeant.” Roper took Natalie’s hand, cradled it in his own. “Natalie barely caught a glimpse of him. She got pregnant after being raped.”
    The Cricketers was a pub best avoided. Big on spit, not hot on sawdust. Its regular clientele were local businessmen and traders, which on the Wordsworth meant drug dealers and pimps. The landlord was a fat slap-head whose jukebox
blared out pop pap and so-called rock classics. No wonder he had a hearing aid.
    “Any more bright ideas?” Byford nursed a bitter lemon; Bev was two-thirds of the way down a large Grouse. They were both near the end of a long day. Just not near enough. This was a pit stop in which to tank up and thrash out a few
thoughts. In theory. As it happened, she could barely hear herself think, let alone talk. Probably best. She’d mouthed off enough already.
    “Bright ideas?” She raised her voice. “Fresh out.”
    “Small mercies.” A fleeting smile took the sting from the quip.
    A massive guy with bad skin and butt-length dreads ambled past, trailing ganja fumes. Bev reached out a hand to steady the table, wondering if he’d knocked it deliberately. She caught the drift of a few words muttered in his wake: pigs, off,
fuck summed it up. She’d heard it before;