Bye Bye Baby (WIP)
Created | Updated Aug 6, 2008
It was a miserable day. A cold and grey drizzle set the mood and every face seemed to reflect its ill humour. The traffic moved through the town at a snail's pace. Stella was running late, grinding her teeth and cursing the Wednesday afternoon snarl-up, as the vehicles oozed slowly up the hill. She was tired and her head ached. Her feet were throbbing and her legs ached too, so she gave up on clutch control, took the car out of gear, pulled on the hand-brake and turned off the engine. The driver behind her gave a blast on his horn when the car in front of her move forward a couple of feet and she failed to follow. It jerked her wandering concentration back to the chore of driving, but she decided to ignore the aggressive driver behind her. The small rebellion gave her twinge of satisfaction - like an item of flotsam buffeted helplessly this way and that by changing tides and currents, struggling for self-determination and achieving just the faintest taste of it. The tides and currents were always going to win, but what harm could a little self-delusion do?
Mr Road Rage, in the car behind, blasted his horn at her several more times as they shunted through the overcrowded town centre. She could see him in the mirror, getting redder and angrier every time the queue of traffic inched forward and she failed to move. Somehow it soothed her, as if he was expressing enough anger for both of them, and so she didn't need to continue grinding her teeth any longer. Why didn't he understand that his progress wouldn't be any faster if she kept the engine running, creeping forward, bumper to bumper with the car in front? Her mind wandering away from the intermittent task of driving once again, she imagined the man as a kind of sink or soak-away, draining all the agitation and rage from the people around him, grinding his teeth to stumps, bursting with violent fury. Then she sighed, feeling sorry for him. As the queue speeded up and they escaped from the jam, he made an obscene gesture at her and roared away down a side street, obviously breaking the speed limit.
By that time, she was feeling almost cheerful. Her head ache was diminishing, thanks to that nice man absorbing all her agitation and grinding his teeth so she didn't have to grind hers. Now she just wanted to get in doors, kick her shoes off and put her feet up for ten minutes. Paul wouldn't be home until after six. Katie would be having tea with her cousin Rachel and Steve had football practice. Time enough for a nice long soak in a hot bath. As she turned in to her street, she tutted, seeing another car parking in the space outside her house. She pulled in behind it wondering who the man was, now knocking on her door.
"Hello. Can I help you?" She asked, in her most business-like, supermarket manageress manner.
The man turned round and looked at her for a couple of moments before he answered. It disturbed her slightly. He seemed to be weighing her up - assessing her in some way.
"Are you Mrs Stella Holmes?"
"Yes."
"I'm inspector Granger."
He reached into his breast pocket and drew out an identification card for Stella to examine. She peered at it for a few seconds, looked back at the man's face and nodded.
"Would you mind if I came in and asked you a few questions?"
"What about? My husband and children are not in any sort of trouble, are they?"
"It's not about your current family."
There was something chilling in his grave expression and serious tone. Stella shivered in the cold drizzle.
"What is it then?"
"Could we talk inside Mrs Holmes? You might prefer to sit down."
"Oh. Yes, of course. We're both getting soaked. Sorry."
She unlocked the door and led the policeman through the hall and into the kitchen. He took off his hat and coat and hung them on the back of a chair.
"Will this take long? Would you like a cup of tea?"
"That would be very welcome. And yes. It could take a few minutes."
Stella put her own coat in the utility room to dry then made tea. The policeman watched her in silence until she brought the tea and sat across the table from him.
"Thank you Mrs Holmes. There's no easy way to ask this, so I'll just ask it. Did you have a child, a little boy, and give it up for adoption about 20 years ago?"
Stella blanched. She hadn't spoken about it to anyone in all these years. She'd tried to push it out of her mind. Every now and again some news story or drama would draw it back to the surface, but she had to press it back down - hold back the tears. Paul didn't know about it. Only her parents and a couple of other people had ever known. Now this policeman knew. But how?
"You look shocked. I'm sorry."
"How did you know? How did you find out? They said no-one need ever know. They promised..."
"They, whoever 'they' are, didn't broadcast your secret. It was the child's DNA profile that linked it to you and the father. The file's been pending for years. It's only recently - only since the national DNA database has become available to us, that we've been able to run the comparison programme and achieve in months what we might never have accomplished even in years."
"What do you mean? How can my DNA be on the database? I don't understand. I'm not a criminal."
"You don't have to be a criminal to be on the database. The eventual aim is to get everyone in the country on it. The legislation got through last year. I'm surprised you're unaware of the change. God knows, there was enough fuss about it at the time."
"Now that you mention it, it does ring a bell. But how did they get my DNA?"
"Medical records I imagine. Can't say for sure. In any case, I digress. It's proving an invaluable resource. Without it, we would never have been able to find out who these children were."
"Children?"
"Yes. There were several. So far we've linked the DNA of two of them with people on the database. Your child and one other."
Stella was tense. Her eyes bored into the backs of her bloodless white hands, that gripped the edge of the table to stop them shaking. There were so many questions crowding into her mind, that her head seemed ready to burst. But her tongue pressed against clenched teeth, barring the way, as though part of her refused to ask. The answers, she guessed, would be unbearable and she wouldn't want to hear them.
The policeman waited, sipping his tea, giving Stella a chance to gather her wits. At last she took a deep breath and put into words the question at the top of the pile.
"You speak as though the children are dead. Is my little boy dead?"
"I'm sorry Mrs Holmes. The child died many years ago. All we found were a few pieces of bone and his milk teeth. The remains were in such poor condition that it wasn't even possible to establish when the children died. Only now that we have a way to confirm when they were born, can we speculate about the approximate year of death."
"They were murdered?"
He nodded.
"It appears so."
Stella tried to stifle a sob, but it was too big to keep in. She stood up suddenly, knocking her chair over backwards and stumbled over to the counter where she tore off a length of kitchen towel and buried her face in it.
"I don't... I can't... Oh good god, what have I done?"
Inspector Granger put his tea down and stepped round the table to pick up the fallen chair. He took Stella gently by the arm and guided her back to her seat.
"You shouldn't blame yourself Mrs Holmes. The children were in an orphanage. They should have been safe and well cared for there. The public assumed children would be safe in such establishments. We all assumed it until the torrent of evidence of the child abuse taking place in these institutions, started to pour in from every side. Twenty years ago, when you gave up your child, you had no way of knowing. You couldn't have been much more than a child yourself."
Blowing her nose and wiping her eyes, she looked across the table at the policeman. His grey eyes reflected some of what she felt: a combination of sadness and impotent anger. She could see that his sympathy was genuine. His voice was quiet and even. If he judged her at all, it was not a harsh judgement - or his verdict against her was certainly more lenient than her own. She'd tried herself cruelly and found herself guilty, long since.
"I was 15. An unhappy, rebellious 15 year old. Home life was hell. Mum and dad rowed almost continually. Dad was violent. I couldn't understand how they ever got together. Or why they stayed together. They didn't even seem to notice me unless I got in their way. So I tried to stay out of it - stayed out most of the time. Stayed with friends, slept on floors and sofas. Anything to avoid going home."
"Was the father of your child one of these friends?"
"I met him at a party. He was kind and affectionate to me, paid a lot of attention to me. I was flattered I suppose and at that time, I'd do just about anything for a simple cuddle. He gave me more than a cuddle though, and when I found I was pregnant, he suddenly didn't want to know me any more. Said he wasn't the father. I told him there was nobody else, but he didn't believe me."
"You were unable to keep the child?"
"I wanted to. Well, when I first learned that I was pregnant, I was terrified - especially after I told Gary and he knocked me back. Then I tried to find out how I could get an abortion. I went to the family doctor and he sent me to see a woman who could counsel me. She talked me out of having the termination. Said she'd had one and it had ruined her life. Went on about the child's right to life. How I'd be a murderer - no better than a murderer - if I killed my child. I didn't want to kill it. I wanted to keep it and love it, but my parents wouldn't hear of it."
"They wouldn't help you take care of it?"
Stella almost laughed at that, but it came out part sob, part bitter snort.
"No. They said I couldn't look after myself, never mind a helpless baby. They were right about that at least. I was a very immature 15 year old. The counsellor said there were lots of childless couples, desperate for a baby. I should go to term with the pregnancy and then give the baby up for adoption. It would all be sorted out for me and I needn't worry about a thing."
"The woman gave you the impression that she regularly made such arrangements?"
"Yes, she did. She said it needn't be traumatic. Women have babies all the time. It's quite natural to have them and not at all natural to kill them. She said I would be bringing some joy into the lives of some sad, childless couple and giving a happy life to a brand new human being."
"So how did the poor little mite end up in that outpost of hell, I wonder. Do you remember the woman's name by any chance?"
"No."
"You say your old GP sent you to see her. Can you give me address of the surgery?"
"Yes, of course. He retired years ago but I think he's still alive."
"Let's hope there's some record of the woman."
"The orphanage where you found the bones... did they keep no records?"
"The way that place was run just defies belief. It's ironic that the old Nazi concentration camps kept such accurate records that they were unable to destroy all the evidence at the end of the war. There was just too much of it. But this home for young, vulnerable children, paid for by tax payers, in a time of peace, kept no such accurate records."
"No records at all?"
"Not many and not reliable. We've had to depend on the poor, unfortunate victims - those who survived to adulthood and escaped with their lives - to tell us what happened in that nest of sadists and paed*philes. Some of them have been trying to tell their story for years, and been dismissed as fantasists. Nobody believed them. When the clamour of voices was too loud to ignore, an investigation was started. It wasn't until hidden rooms were found and bones were unearthed, that the denials could be countered effectively."
Stella pressed the kitchen towel over her eyes. She controlled the sobs but the tears kept streaming.
"Do you believe that woman was involved in some sort of conspiracy?"
"No. That's unlikely. I expect she was just one of those 'right-to-life' people who see it as their duty to talk women out of abortions. She may give us a clue though. Why did she lead you to believe your child would go to a loving couple? Did she have the couple lined up? Did she mean all along to wash her hands of it once you'd been persuaded to carry the child to term? We need to discover the facts."
"I'll go and get the address for you."
Turning in the door way, she looked at the policeman almost pleadingly.
"Inspector, will my husband have to find out about this?"
"I don't see why he should Mrs Holmes. But perhaps you should think about telling him. It might make communications easier if you would like us to keep you informed or if we need any further information. Give it some thought."
"Yes. Perhaps he will understand. Maybe..."
And she left the room, returning in less than a minute, carrying a small, tattered address book. She found an envelope, scribbled the address on the back and handed it to Inspector Granger. He studied it for a moment and nodded.
"Thank you Mrs Holmes. I'm very sorry to be the bearer of such terrible new and to have to leave you with it so abruptly. Will your family be home soon?"
"You're very kind. Yes, they'll soon be home. I'd better straighten myself out, ready."
Mr Road Rage, in the car behind, blasted his horn at her several more times as they shunted through the overcrowded town centre. She could see him in the mirror, getting redder and angrier every time the queue of traffic inched forward and she failed to move. Somehow it soothed her, as if he was expressing enough anger for both of them, and so she didn't need to continue grinding her teeth any longer. Why didn't he understand that his progress wouldn't be any faster if she kept the engine running, creeping forward, bumper to bumper with the car in front? Her mind wandering away from the intermittent task of driving once again, she imagined the man as a kind of sink or soak-away, draining all the agitation and rage from the people around him, grinding his teeth to stumps, bursting with violent fury. Then she sighed, feeling sorry for him. As the queue speeded up and they escaped from the jam, he made an obscene gesture at her and roared away down a side street, obviously breaking the speed limit.
By that time, she was feeling almost cheerful. Her head ache was diminishing, thanks to that nice man absorbing all her agitation and grinding his teeth so she didn't have to grind hers. Now she just wanted to get in doors, kick her shoes off and put her feet up for ten minutes. Paul wouldn't be home until after six. Katie would be having tea with her cousin Rachel and Steve had football practice. Time enough for a nice long soak in a hot bath. As she turned in to her street, she tutted, seeing another car parking in the space outside her house. She pulled in behind it wondering who the man was, now knocking on her door.
"Hello. Can I help you?" She asked, in her most business-like, supermarket manageress manner.
The man turned round and looked at her for a couple of moments before he answered. It disturbed her slightly. He seemed to be weighing her up - assessing her in some way.
"Are you Mrs Stella Holmes?"
"Yes."
"I'm inspector Granger."
He reached into his breast pocket and drew out an identification card for Stella to examine. She peered at it for a few seconds, looked back at the man's face and nodded.
"Would you mind if I came in and asked you a few questions?"
"What about? My husband and children are not in any sort of trouble, are they?"
"It's not about your current family."
There was something chilling in his grave expression and serious tone. Stella shivered in the cold drizzle.
"What is it then?"
"Could we talk inside Mrs Holmes? You might prefer to sit down."
"Oh. Yes, of course. We're both getting soaked. Sorry."
She unlocked the door and led the policeman through the hall and into the kitchen. He took off his hat and coat and hung them on the back of a chair.
"Will this take long? Would you like a cup of tea?"
"That would be very welcome. And yes. It could take a few minutes."
Stella put her own coat in the utility room to dry then made tea. The policeman watched her in silence until she brought the tea and sat across the table from him.
"Thank you Mrs Holmes. There's no easy way to ask this, so I'll just ask it. Did you have a child, a little boy, and give it up for adoption about 20 years ago?"
Stella blanched. She hadn't spoken about it to anyone in all these years. She'd tried to push it out of her mind. Every now and again some news story or drama would draw it back to the surface, but she had to press it back down - hold back the tears. Paul didn't know about it. Only her parents and a couple of other people had ever known. Now this policeman knew. But how?
"You look shocked. I'm sorry."
"How did you know? How did you find out? They said no-one need ever know. They promised..."
"They, whoever 'they' are, didn't broadcast your secret. It was the child's DNA profile that linked it to you and the father. The file's been pending for years. It's only recently - only since the national DNA database has become available to us, that we've been able to run the comparison programme and achieve in months what we might never have accomplished even in years."
"What do you mean? How can my DNA be on the database? I don't understand. I'm not a criminal."
"You don't have to be a criminal to be on the database. The eventual aim is to get everyone in the country on it. The legislation got through last year. I'm surprised you're unaware of the change. God knows, there was enough fuss about it at the time."
"Now that you mention it, it does ring a bell. But how did they get my DNA?"
"Medical records I imagine. Can't say for sure. In any case, I digress. It's proving an invaluable resource. Without it, we would never have been able to find out who these children were."
"Children?"
"Yes. There were several. So far we've linked the DNA of two of them with people on the database. Your child and one other."
Stella was tense. Her eyes bored into the backs of her bloodless white hands, that gripped the edge of the table to stop them shaking. There were so many questions crowding into her mind, that her head seemed ready to burst. But her tongue pressed against clenched teeth, barring the way, as though part of her refused to ask. The answers, she guessed, would be unbearable and she wouldn't want to hear them.
The policeman waited, sipping his tea, giving Stella a chance to gather her wits. At last she took a deep breath and put into words the question at the top of the pile.
"You speak as though the children are dead. Is my little boy dead?"
"I'm sorry Mrs Holmes. The child died many years ago. All we found were a few pieces of bone and his milk teeth. The remains were in such poor condition that it wasn't even possible to establish when the children died. Only now that we have a way to confirm when they were born, can we speculate about the approximate year of death."
"They were murdered?"
He nodded.
"It appears so."
Stella tried to stifle a sob, but it was too big to keep in. She stood up suddenly, knocking her chair over backwards and stumbled over to the counter where she tore off a length of kitchen towel and buried her face in it.
"I don't... I can't... Oh good god, what have I done?"
Inspector Granger put his tea down and stepped round the table to pick up the fallen chair. He took Stella gently by the arm and guided her back to her seat.
"You shouldn't blame yourself Mrs Holmes. The children were in an orphanage. They should have been safe and well cared for there. The public assumed children would be safe in such establishments. We all assumed it until the torrent of evidence of the child abuse taking place in these institutions, started to pour in from every side. Twenty years ago, when you gave up your child, you had no way of knowing. You couldn't have been much more than a child yourself."
Blowing her nose and wiping her eyes, she looked across the table at the policeman. His grey eyes reflected some of what she felt: a combination of sadness and impotent anger. She could see that his sympathy was genuine. His voice was quiet and even. If he judged her at all, it was not a harsh judgement - or his verdict against her was certainly more lenient than her own. She'd tried herself cruelly and found herself guilty, long since.
"I was 15. An unhappy, rebellious 15 year old. Home life was hell. Mum and dad rowed almost continually. Dad was violent. I couldn't understand how they ever got together. Or why they stayed together. They didn't even seem to notice me unless I got in their way. So I tried to stay out of it - stayed out most of the time. Stayed with friends, slept on floors and sofas. Anything to avoid going home."
"Was the father of your child one of these friends?"
"I met him at a party. He was kind and affectionate to me, paid a lot of attention to me. I was flattered I suppose and at that time, I'd do just about anything for a simple cuddle. He gave me more than a cuddle though, and when I found I was pregnant, he suddenly didn't want to know me any more. Said he wasn't the father. I told him there was nobody else, but he didn't believe me."
"You were unable to keep the child?"
"I wanted to. Well, when I first learned that I was pregnant, I was terrified - especially after I told Gary and he knocked me back. Then I tried to find out how I could get an abortion. I went to the family doctor and he sent me to see a woman who could counsel me. She talked me out of having the termination. Said she'd had one and it had ruined her life. Went on about the child's right to life. How I'd be a murderer - no better than a murderer - if I killed my child. I didn't want to kill it. I wanted to keep it and love it, but my parents wouldn't hear of it."
"They wouldn't help you take care of it?"
Stella almost laughed at that, but it came out part sob, part bitter snort.
"No. They said I couldn't look after myself, never mind a helpless baby. They were right about that at least. I was a very immature 15 year old. The counsellor said there were lots of childless couples, desperate for a baby. I should go to term with the pregnancy and then give the baby up for adoption. It would all be sorted out for me and I needn't worry about a thing."
"The woman gave you the impression that she regularly made such arrangements?"
"Yes, she did. She said it needn't be traumatic. Women have babies all the time. It's quite natural to have them and not at all natural to kill them. She said I would be bringing some joy into the lives of some sad, childless couple and giving a happy life to a brand new human being."
"So how did the poor little mite end up in that outpost of hell, I wonder. Do you remember the woman's name by any chance?"
"No."
"You say your old GP sent you to see her. Can you give me address of the surgery?"
"Yes, of course. He retired years ago but I think he's still alive."
"Let's hope there's some record of the woman."
"The orphanage where you found the bones... did they keep no records?"
"The way that place was run just defies belief. It's ironic that the old Nazi concentration camps kept such accurate records that they were unable to destroy all the evidence at the end of the war. There was just too much of it. But this home for young, vulnerable children, paid for by tax payers, in a time of peace, kept no such accurate records."
"No records at all?"
"Not many and not reliable. We've had to depend on the poor, unfortunate victims - those who survived to adulthood and escaped with their lives - to tell us what happened in that nest of sadists and paed*philes. Some of them have been trying to tell their story for years, and been dismissed as fantasists. Nobody believed them. When the clamour of voices was too loud to ignore, an investigation was started. It wasn't until hidden rooms were found and bones were unearthed, that the denials could be countered effectively."
Stella pressed the kitchen towel over her eyes. She controlled the sobs but the tears kept streaming.
"Do you believe that woman was involved in some sort of conspiracy?"
"No. That's unlikely. I expect she was just one of those 'right-to-life' people who see it as their duty to talk women out of abortions. She may give us a clue though. Why did she lead you to believe your child would go to a loving couple? Did she have the couple lined up? Did she mean all along to wash her hands of it once you'd been persuaded to carry the child to term? We need to discover the facts."
"I'll go and get the address for you."
Turning in the door way, she looked at the policeman almost pleadingly.
"Inspector, will my husband have to find out about this?"
"I don't see why he should Mrs Holmes. But perhaps you should think about telling him. It might make communications easier if you would like us to keep you informed or if we need any further information. Give it some thought."
"Yes. Perhaps he will understand. Maybe..."
And she left the room, returning in less than a minute, carrying a small, tattered address book. She found an envelope, scribbled the address on the back and handed it to Inspector Granger. He studied it for a moment and nodded.
"Thank you Mrs Holmes. I'm very sorry to be the bearer of such terrible new and to have to leave you with it so abruptly. Will your family be home soon?"
"You're very kind. Yes, they'll soon be home. I'd better straighten myself out, ready."
