I offer my finger to the baby by means of a greeting. It squirms, then swings its hand round and takes hold with surprising deftness.
“Oh, wow,” I breathe.
Farah laughs. “He likes you.”
I know that in the ordinary world this baby is lying in its cot, unconscious perhaps. What we are holding is the idea of a child: a new person, a brain just beginning to spark into consciousness and that consciousness already caught in a state that’s detached from the ordinary world. I wish I knew how many babies who come through this ward survive. If Chiu’s right, then this idea of a life is already doomed.
“Did you take care of your brothers like this?” I ask.
“My brothers died really young,” Farah answers. “Twins. They were born with a heart condition.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
Farah sighs. “I used to resent them so badly. When I was growing up, our living room was filled with photographs of them. I mean, they hadn’t done anything. They were just born and then they died. So all the photographs were the same: Mum with babies wearing blue hats; Dad with babies wearing knitted cardigans; Farah looking grumpy with babies. Over and over, like my parents were trying to scratch together a fake family album from table scraps. I used to think if I were very clever, or very kind, they’d start to love me more and put up photos of me as well… Nothing worked. But then I got sick and suddenly photos of me started appearing. New ones, old ones, they dredged them out of the shoeboxes hidden under their bed and put them up everywhere. Until it was all photos of me and my brothers disappeared completely. And now I miss them.”
“Farah, I’ve been thinking—”
She flashes me a tired look. “That sounds dangerous.”
“I’ll come with you. You and Chiu, I mean … to London.”
Farah’s lips press into a smile. “I knew you would.”
“But we need to call into my house on the way. I need to check something.”
“Sure.”
“And I think we should only walk for a few hours a day before we find somewhere inside. It’ll take longer, but it’ll limit our exposure.”
“That sounds sensible.”
A feeling bubbles inside me. I don’t know if it’s excitement or cold terror. We’re going outside. I’m being brave. Braver than I thought was possible and it’s because of Farah and Chiu.
The baby stirs in Farah’s arms and I reach out for it again.
“He looks better to me,” I say, caught in a moment of unaccountable optimism. “I think this one’s going to be OK.”
The baby squirms more forcefully and I realize that Farah’s expression has become troubled. She places the baby back in its cot.
“I don’t think so,” she says.
“It could. Even if Chiu is right—”
“Look away,” Farah says, shortly.
The baby’s crying becomes more urgent, its arms strain and relax, strain and relax.
“What’s happening?”
“It’s dying,” Farah responds. “I’ve seen it before.”
“Dying?”
“Don’t look,” Farah says again.
She turns, positioning herself directly in front of me, face to face with her hands on my shoulders so she blocks my view of the cot entirely. I know better than to try to see around her. All I’m aware of is a flurry of movement, a pained sound, an urgency. Flickers of the ordinary world intensify around us. I catch a glimpse of a nurse, two other people. Parents, I think. Their sadness. A quickening, brief, fruitless struggle.
Then it’s over.
Farah presses her head into my shoulder and I put my arms around her. Her fingers press into my arms and I can feel her crying. Over her shoulder I can see the cot now. Not a body, as I’d expected. A kind of calcified rubble instead. It makes me think of dried bird crap mixed with broken china and the sight of it turns my stomach in a way I don’t fully understand. It’s like when you watch a horror movie, when blood and guts and broken bones are exposed and you get the feeling that you shouldn’t be seeing it, like it’s a secret that’s meant to remain obscure.
“What is it?” I say.
Farah sniffs and swipes tears away with the back of her hand. “It’s just death. It happens all the time. It’s different here. Like it’s hidden in the ordinary world, but underneath, it’s like this.”
I stare at the empty space where the idea of a new human is no longer there. The space seems larger, emptier, somehow. Mum always talks about God and God’s plan. She finds it easier to believe that there’s a plan.
But I think she’s wrong.
SIXTEEN
“You ready?” Farah says.
I nod, weakly.
We stand by the concertina doors and Farah’s hand closes around mine. Chiu holds her other hand. “Deep breath, everybody,” she says. “Everything’s fine… Everything’s fine.”
