The Baby (Fiction) by Michael Anderton

The restaurant was the kind of place that tried hard without quite getting there—checked tablecloths, candles in wine bottles furred with old wax, a mural of the Amalfi Coast painted by someone who had possibly never seen a coastline. Two courses for fifteen pounds. Emma had chosen it because it was close, and because she could no longer remember what made a restaurant good or bad, only whether it was near enough to get home quickly.

Mark raised his glass. "To surviving."

"Mm." She touched hers to his. "Surviving."

They drank. The wine was thin and cold and tasted like something from a previous life. Emma's phone sat on the table between them, screen up, a third presence at the dinner.

"Right then," Mark said.

"Right then."

Nothing. They both laughed, and the sound surprised her—rusty, unused.

"This is pathetic," Emma said. "We used to be interesting people. I had opinions about films."

"You had opinions about everything."

"And you found it charming."

"I found it exhausting." He smiled. "But in a good way."

She tore off a piece of bread, then set it down without eating. Her body had forgotten hunger somewhere around month three. Now she ran on tea and adrenaline and a low-grade terror that had become indistinguishable from love.

"When did you last sleep?" she asked. "Actual sleep. More than ninety minutes."

"Define sleep."

"I had a dream I was sleeping. Just lying there, unconscious, nobody touching me." She paused. "It was the most erotic dream I've ever had."

"Should I be jealous of imaginary sleep?"

"Deeply."

He reached across the table and took her hand. His thumb moved across her knuckles, and something in her chest loosened.

"You're incredible," he said. "You know that? I watch you with her and I think—I couldn't do what you do. Not even close."

The tears came before she could stop them. She laughed and wiped her eyes with her free hand. "Oh god. One sip of wine and I'm weeping into the carbonara. In a Bella Italia."

"It's not a Bella Italia."

"Mark. There's a mural of the Amalfi Coast on the wall."

"That's Giuseppe's personal photography."

"His name is Graham. I heard the waiter call him Graham."

"Giuseppe Graham. It's a family name."

She laughed properly then, and for a moment she could see them as they'd been—young, stupid, staying up until three because they wanted to, not because something was screaming.

"I'd forgotten what wine tastes like," she said. "Actual grape-based wine."

"Happy belated anniversary. Only four months late."

"We should do this every week."

"We will. Once she's sleeping through."

"What if she never sleeps through? What if she's forty and still screaming at 3am?"

"Then we'll have raised a completely normal adult."

Emma glanced at her phone. No messages. She exhaled.

"She's fine," Mark said.

"I know she's fine."

"Hannah's responsible."

"I know."

She picked up the phone. "One text. Just to check."

"You've texted twice already."

She pushed it away. "Fine. I'm present. I'm here. Tell me something interesting that doesn't involve nappies or sleep schedules."

"Dave got sacked."

"What?" She leaned forward. "Your Dave?"

"Why does everyone call him my Dave?"

"Because you've worked together for six years and you go to the pub every Thursday. He's your Dave."

And for a few minutes, they were just a couple having dinner. She did an impression of Mark's boss—the way he said "synergies" like it was a medical condition—and Mark nearly choked on his wine. The bread got eaten. The candle guttered and steadied.

Then the current of conversation slowed, and Emma found herself looking at her husband across the table, really looking, and the distance between them felt suddenly unbearable.

"I miss you," she said. "Which is stupid because you're right there every day. Handing me things. Making tea. But I miss you."

"I miss you too. The you that isn't unconscious or crying."

"I don't cry that much."

"I meant me."

She smiled. Reached for her phone.

"I'm calling. Just quickly. I want to hear her breathing."

Mark didn't argue.

The phone rang twice. Hannah's voice came through in a whisper.

"Hey Mrs Torres, what's up?"

"Hi Hannah. Sorry, just checking in?"

"No, you're totally fine. Everything's chill. Both kids are out cold."

Emma's smile stayed fixed. "Sorry, both?"

"Yeah, both of them. They like, went down at basically the same time, it was lowkey amazing."

"Hannah, we only have one child."

Silence.

"Wait, what?"

Mark saw her face and set down his glass.

"If you're joking," Emma said, "it's not funny."

"Mrs Torres, I'm literally looking at them right now. There's two cots?"

"We don't have twins, Hannah."

"But... no, that doesn't... I'm so confused right now."

Mark took the phone from her hand. "Hannah. What's going on?"

"Mr Torres, I swear to god, I'm not making this up. There's two babies. There's been two babies like, the whole night?"

"This isn't funny."

"I'M NOT BEING FUNNY." Hannah's voice cracked. "I don't understand what's happening."

Emma was already standing, already grabbing her coat. Mark threw cash on the table without counting it.

"We're coming home," he said. "Don't hang up."

*

Mark drove too fast through streets that seemed endless, every traffic light a personal betrayal. Emma held the phone between them, speaker on, Hannah's breathing tinny and scared.

"Hannah? Are you still there?"

"Yeah. I'm here."

"Don't go in the nursery."

"Wait, why?"

Emma couldn't explain. Couldn't put words to the feeling crawling up her spine. "Just don't go in there. Wait for us."

A long pause. When Hannah spoke again, her voice was small.

"Mrs Torres, you're actually scaring me right now."

Emma had no comfort to offer.

"We're ten minutes away."

*

Hannah stood at the bottom of the stairs, phone pressed to her ear. The house had gone quiet—not peaceful, but held, like breath before a scream. She could hear Mrs Torres counting down the minutes, and she kept her eyes fixed on the stairs, on the darkness pooling at the top.

"Five minutes out," Mrs Torres said. "Just stay downstairs, okay?"

"Okay."

"Don't go up there."

"I'm not going to."

"Promise me."

"I promise. I'm literally not moving."

The line went dead.

Hannah lowered the phone. The house settled around her, full of small sounds—the tick of cooling pipes, the creak of old wood. She backed into the living room and sat on the sofa, pulling her knees to her chest. From here she could see the stairs through the doorway. She watched them like they might move.

Four minutes.

A creak. Just the house.

Three minutes.

Then a baby crying. Upstairs. Loud and urgent, the kind of cry that bypassed thought and went straight to the hindbrain.

Hannah froze.

The crying continued, rising in pitch. Desperate now. A baby in distress.

She stood. Sat back down. Stood again.

"Okay. Okay, you're fine. Don't go up. Do not go up there."

The crying intensified. There was something wrong with it, she thought—something off about the rhythm, like a recording played at the wrong speed.

She moved to the bottom of the stairs. Looked up into darkness.

"Hey, it's okay! You're okay! I'm right here!"

The crying stopped.

Not faded. Not soothed. Cut off, mid-breath, like someone had pressed a button.

Hannah didn't move. Didn't breathe. The silence was worse than the crying.

She put one foot on the bottom step. The wood creaked beneath her weight.

Nothing.

Another step.

At the top of the stairs, the nursery door was closed. A thin line of light showed beneath it—the nightlight. Hannah approached slowly, her hand reaching for the handle. She stopped. Listened.

No breathing. No movement. Nothing at all.

She opened the door.

The nightlight cast soft shadows across the walls. The mobile turned slowly above the cot, though there was no breeze. And there were two cots.

Hannah stared.

The first cot—the real one, the one she'd laid Lily in hours ago—held the baby, lying still, eyes open, watching Hannah with an expression that no infant should have. Calm. Patient. Knowing.

The second cot was already fading.

It started at the edges—the wood going soft, transparent, like breath on cold glass dissolving. Hannah watched the bars grow thin, the mattress losing substance, the shape of something beneath the blanket flickering like bad reception.

"What the... no no no no—"

She fumbled for her phone. Opened the camera. Raised it toward the disappearing cot, jabbing at the screen.

Gone.

One cot. One baby. Hannah stood frozen, phone aimed at empty air.

In the cot, Lily watched her. Unblinking.

Then slowly, the baby smiled.

And closed her eyes.

Hannah hit the wall. Slid down it. Her legs wouldn't hold her anymore.

Headlights swept across the nursery window. Doors slammed. Footsteps pounded up the stairs.

"HANNAH!"

"HANNAH! WHERE ARE YOU?"

The door flew open. Emma burst in, wild-eyed, Mark behind her. They saw Hannah on the floor. They saw the cot. The baby.

Emma rushed to Lily and scooped her up, clutching her tight. Mark crouched beside Hannah.

"Hannah. What happened? Are you hurt?"

She looked at him. Opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

"Hannah. Talk to me."

"It was there." Her voice was barely audible. "The other cot. I saw it. It was right there."

Emma held Lily against her chest. "Where? Show me where."

Hannah pointed at empty space. Her hand was shaking.

"It's gone. I watched it disappear. It just..." She showed them her phone, the camera app, the last photo: a blur of empty room. "I tried to get a picture. I tried, I swear."

Mark and Emma exchanged a look that Hannah couldn't read.

"But she's alright?" Emma's voice was tight. "Lily's okay?"

They all looked at the baby. Lily slept peacefully in Emma's arms, perfectly calm, perfectly still.

"I don't know what that was," Hannah said. "I literally don't know what I saw. I'm not crazy, I—"

"I think you should go now, Hannah."

The words landed like a door closing. Hannah stared at them—at Mrs Torres, who had always been so nice, who had always asked about her classes and remembered her birthday, now looking at her like she was something to be removed.

"But I'm telling you what actually—"

"I think it's best if you head home." Mark's voice was gentle but final. "Do you need us to call you a cab?"

Hannah shook her head. Got to her feet. Her legs felt like they belonged to someone else.

At the front door, she turned. "I know what I saw. I'm not making it up."

Emma said nothing. Her face was closed, unreadable, all her warmth gone somewhere Hannah couldn't reach.

Mark opened the door. "Goodnight, Hannah."

The cold hit her like a wall. The door closed behind her, and she stood alone on the step, shaking, trying to remember how the night had turned into this.

*

Inside, Emma and Mark stood in the hallway. Lily slept against Emma's chest, her breath soft and even.

"What the hell was that about?" Mark asked.

"I don't know. But she's never setting foot in this house again."

"She's always been so reliable. Sensible."

"Mark." Emma's voice shook. "Can you imagine how that phone call felt?"

"I know. I know." He ran a hand through his hair. "Is she on something, do you think?"

Emma just shook her head.

They stood there for a long moment, looking at each other, at their daughter, at their quiet house.

*

In the nursery, Emma laid Lily down gently, adjusting the blanket around her small body. Mark stood in the doorway, watching.

"Look at her," Emma said softly. "Out like a light."

"If she was always this peaceful, we could probably handle a football team."

"You can barely handle one."

She reached down and touched Lily's hand. The tiny fingers curled around hers, and Emma felt her heart squeeze with that familiar, terrifying love.

"Christ," she whispered. "Imagine if there had been two."

Mark put his arm around her.

"I'm so tired, Mark."

"I know. Come on. Bed."

He guided her toward the door. Emma stopped, looked back at the cot.

"Night night, little one."

The baby didn't stir. They left, pulling the door almost shut behind them. A crack of light from the landing. Then that went too.

Darkness.

*

The nursery in darkness. Just the nightlight, casting its pale glow across the ceiling. The mobile, still now. The cot.

Silence.

The kind of silence that seems to press against the ears. That seems to wait.

Then movement. Small. Beneath the blanket.

The baby shifted. Turned onto her side, facing away.

As she turned, something fell from the folds of the blanket. A small sound—clink, clink, clink—as three tiny shapes tumbled onto the wooden floor.

Bones. Three small bones. Wet and glistening. Sucked clean.

On the baby's sleeve, catching the nightlight: a dark smear.

The baby settled. Still. Peaceful.

Above her, the mobile began to turn.