The Hunted, page 16
Mr Hartinger might go to his office to take care of his business, or he might stay at home and paint in the room he had turned into an artist’s studio, while Mrs Hartinger might go riding in the park with some friends. She kept a horse in a nearby stable. It seemed strange to find such a place in the middle of town, but there it was, at the end of a mews. She took Tarrin with her to see her horse once or twice. He liked it. He liked the smell of the stable. It reminded him of his dreams, and of the green land, far away.
In the afternoon Tarrin might be left to himself or taken out somewhere – always under the secure supervision of the Hartingers’ personal assistant, Bradley. This was not because the Hartingers didn’t trust Tarrin, but because of the risk from Kiddernappers. And they had paid so much for him too. Mr Hartinger noticed from his bank account that Deet had wasted no time in cashing his cheque.
They took him to parks and to old playgrounds. They bought him a bike, and he rode it along the river bank, with Bradley jogging alongside.
But all the while Tarrin was watched, though he would never have known it, and Kinane would focus the binoculars upon him from a safe, inscrutable distance, waiting, just waiting for the moment to be right.
In the evenings the Hartingers began to take him out with them.
‘If you could wear your suit tonight, Tarrin . . .’
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘There’s a good boy.’
Which were the very same words she used as she stroked the mane of her horse, or as she lifted Floo-Floo up from the cushion, trying to extract his claws from the cloth.
There’s a good boy. There’s a good boy.
They got dressed up and went to concerts, to theatres, to some interesting and to some very long and very boring evenings.
Occasionally they would have friends round, and they would show Tarrin off to them. He was expected to be – if not amusing – at least polite, which he invariably was. He sat at the dinner table with all the adults, only his glass was full of juice or water rather than wine. But he passed the dishes and the basket of rolls and he answered the questions he was asked, and although he went to bed early he was often still awake enough to hear the guests leaving. He heard their voices, their thank-yous and farewells and their ‘You must come round to us one night.’ Sometimes he heard Mrs Hartinger say in a low, theatrical whisper, ‘So what do you think of our boy?’
‘Oh my, isn’t he heavenly! Isn’t he just so . . .!’
Or, ‘He’s so cute, so charming. But do tell, dear – even if I am being nosy – how much was he?’
Just as they had maybe once asked about Floo-Floo, ‘So cute, so charming. Does he have a pedigree? And by the way, where did you find him, and how much did he cost?’
Tarrin lay awake then, feeling more alone than he ever had, even wishing that Deet would come back for him, or at least come and visit. The times he and Deet had had together began to seem like good ones. True, Deet had only thought of him as the goose that laid the golden eggs, but at least he hadn’t mistaken him for a cat.
‘They just wanted me,’ he thought, ‘like they wanted something they saw in a shop window. I was expensive, and they could afford me, and they thought I would look nice, and they didn’t have one. Only they do now. And here I am.’
Sometimes he thought of running away, but of course he still didn’t have anywhere to go. He kept thinking of that green land far away, but he knew neither where it was nor how to get there. It was probably only a dream, not a proper memory, just some small light of hope that his imagination had conjured up to make the dark more bearable.
One day Mrs Hartinger asked what he would like to do, and he said that more than anything he would like to have a friend to play with.
‘A friend . . . well . . .’
Mrs Hartinger looked doubtful. ‘We don’t actually know anyone with children as such . . . unless . . .’
She brightened up and went away to make a phone call. When she returned she announced that she had arranged for ‘a little friend to come around on Sunday afternoon’.
Tarrin looked forward to it for the rest of the week, but when the ‘friend’ finally came he proved to be what Tarrin had once been, a child on loan for the afternoon. Only he wasn’t even really that. Not a proper child. He was a PP. He’d had the implant. Tarrin knew it immediately, though the Hartingers had no idea.
He asked him when they were out in the garden together, supposed to be having fun doing what boys did.
‘How old are you?’ Tarrin asked the boy.
‘Whaddaya want to know for?’ he answered aggressively.
‘You’ve had the PP, haven’t you?’ Tarrin said.
‘Whaddif I have? And whaddif I haven’t?’ the boy/man said – and he shoved Tarrin with his hand.
‘They’ll be watching,’ Tarrin warned him. ‘Probably even videoing everything, for the album.’
‘Whaddif they are?’ the PP boy said. ‘They’ll think it’s just boys being boys and doing a bit of rough stuff. So do you want to play or don’t you?’
‘Tell me how old you are,’ Tarrin said. ‘Or I’ll fall over and cut my knee and tell them you did it and you won’t get paid.’
‘I could lay you out, kid,’ the boy/man said. ‘With one good swipe.’
‘Just tell me how old you are.’
The boy sighed. ‘OK. So I’m sixty-six. What about it?’
‘Sixty-six?’
‘OK, I lied a year. I’m sixty-seven. How did you know I wasn’t a kid?’ He nervously touched his face, worried that his skin was ageing.
‘It’s not that,’ Tarrin said.
The boy looked relieved. ‘It’s what then?’
‘The look . . .’
‘What look?’
‘In your eyes.’
‘I don’t have any look in my eyes. Now let’s start playing like we’re supposed to, or they’ll think I’m not earning my money.’
So Tarrin threw a ball around and had a game of catch with the boy. But it was only because he felt sorry for him.
Just before their time was up, Tarrin said, ‘Will you tell me something?’
‘Whaddaya want to know?’
‘What’s it like – always to be a child?’
‘It’s just great, kid,’ the boy said. ‘Just great. The best thing in the world. OK? Happy now?’
Then the afternoon was over. The boy had to leave. He had another job to go to.
‘Well, Tarrin, did you have fun with your visitor?’
‘Yes, thank you. It was very nice.’
‘Did you play together nicely and have lots to talk about?’
‘Yes. Yes, we did.’
‘Well, that’s good. It must be nice to meet other children.’
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘Perhaps we’ll do it again one day.’
‘Yes.’
‘Or if you want to save up your pocket money, you can always have somebody round yourself.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’m going to go out now and do some shopping. Would you like to come?’
‘No, I’ll stay and read, thank you.’
He went up to his room and opened a new book. As he did so, he glanced at his desk and saw the pen there which Deet had given him as a farewell present. He picked it up and went to scribble with it on a scrap of paper, but it didn’t seem to be working very well. The ink came out in blotches at first and then it stopped altogether. Tarrin saw there was ink on his fingers. He put the cap back on to the pen and tossed it into the bin. Then he went to the bathroom to wash his hands. Even Deet’s presents seemed to leave you dirty.
11
Baby
One morning as Tarrin and Mrs Hartinger were walking the short distance from the house to the delicatessen, followed as ever by Bradley, they noticed a large crowd of people surrounding something in the street.
Mrs Hartinger was afraid that it was an accident of some kind, which she wouldn’t want anything to do with. ‘Run and see, dear. But don’t stay too long. Just find out what it is.’
Tarrin squirmed into the throng, with Bradley worming in after him, afraid to let him out of his sight. He felt excited, and a little ashamed of his own excitement, as he fought his way to the centre of the crowd so as to get a better look at the body on the street, lying broken and bloody, in some unnatural position, its glassy eyes staring at nothing except death. But it proved to be just the opposite. It wasn’t death that was the attraction. It was birth. It was life.
A young man and a young woman stood next to a pram. The young woman was gripping the handle of the pram. The young man was standing in front of it, his face tense and anxious. He stood as if ready to protect the child in the pram from anyone’s attempt to get too close to her or to pick her up.
‘Please, let us by. Let us by, please. We just need to get past. You’re crowding the baby.’
‘How old is it?’
‘How many days?’
‘Is it a boy?’
‘No, it’s a girl. Now, please, can we just get by?’
‘A girl, a girl, you hear that, she’s a girl.’
‘Can we see the little girl?’
‘Hold her up.’
‘Is it a real baby?’
‘Is she for sale?’
‘How much for her? How much do you want? How much?’
‘Whatever he offers, I’ll double it.’
‘Double that and the same again!’
‘Plus a hundred thousand!’
‘For God’s sake! It’s not an auction.’
‘Can I hold the baby? Please. Can I hold the baby?’
‘Let her hold the baby, you’ll never see it again. Just let me hold it. Give it to me!’
The child’s mother looked petrified. She had maybe expected some curiosity and attention when she took the newborn child out in its pram to take the air. But not this.
‘Will you let us by? Please just let us by.’
But the crowd surged forwards and pressed even tighter around the couple and their child.
‘See the baby. We just want to see the baby. Never seen a baby before.’
‘What’s that about a baby? Somebody got a baby? Where?’
‘Over there. Middle of the crowd.’
The pool of people became a lake. The sleeping child woke and opened her eyes.
‘Waking. She’s waking.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘How much do you want for her? I’ll write you a cheque now.’
‘I can give you cash!’
‘How come you’re fertile? What’s the secret?’
The family could not move. The crowd pressed in. The pram had bodies all around it, there were faces peering, hands reaching out.
‘Can I touch her – touch the baby?’
‘Don’t touch her!’ the mother screamed, gulping in panic. ‘Don’t touch my baby! David!’
‘It’s all right.’ The young man was fumbling with his mobe. He dialled the emergency number and asked for the police and told them what was happening. Then he put his mobe back in his pocket and he tried to fend the hands off and to stop them from touching his daughter.
‘How old is she? Just tell me how old.’
‘Is she weeks?’
‘Months or years?’
‘She’s years. Two or three years.’
‘Can she walk?’
‘Talk?’
‘She got teeth yet?’
‘She’s only two days old. Just two days. Now, please, let us through. Leave us alone.’
‘Two days? How many teeth does she have?’
‘None. Now . . .’
The baby began to cry.
‘What’s she doing?’
‘What’s the noise?’
‘What are they doing to her?’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Why don’t they stop it?’
‘What’s the noise?’
Reluctantly, not wishing to take her from the pram just then, lest she was snatched from her, but unable to let her cry any longer, the young mother reached forwards and took the baby into her arms.
‘She’s picking her up. Look. Picking her up.’
The crowd stopped pushing and shoving. They became hushed. Almost reverent. Like a congregation.
‘What’s she doing?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What is she doing?’
‘What’s she doing that for?’
Then Tarrin heard his own voice speak, and he heard his own amazement, his own awe and his own wonder.
‘She’s feeding her,’ he said, more to himself than to anyone, in a soft whisper. ‘She’s feeding the baby.’
The people around him heard his words and repeated them and passed them on.
‘She’s feeding the baby.’
‘Feeding the baby – no!’
People stood on tiptoe, craned their necks. Most of them had never even seen a baby, not a real one, but to be in the actual presence of one, when it was being fed . . .
The crowd parted without protest when two policemen came to keep order. The baby stopped feeding for a moment and let out a small belch.
‘What was that?’
‘What did she do?’
‘She belched! The baby belched.’
‘She belched!’
People were smiling, laughing, nodding to each other, touching each other’s shoulders and arms.
‘The baby belched. Did you hear that?’
‘No! Will she do it again?’
She obliged, almost as if on cue, and did it again. Now even the policemen were charmed. They were laughing and smiling and tilting their helmets back on their heads and scratching their foreheads and looking around at everyone, almost as if it were a carnival.
‘Well, that was something.’
‘OK, everyone!’ one of the policemen said in a loud, authoritative voice. ‘Break it up. Let’s move it along now. You’re blocking the road and holding up the traffic. There’s nothing to see here.’
Which of course was not true.
There was everything to see there, and he knew it, and he could barely take his own eyes off it, let alone expect others to transfer their gaze elsewhere and to get on with their own affairs.
Wait till he told the wife. Wait till he told her. That he’d seen a baby today. And not just that. He’d seen the kid’s mother feed it too. And not just that. The baby had belched. And not just once, but twice. And then she’d kind of gurgled a little, and maybe even sneezed.
She’d be jealous green. Tickled pink to hear it, but jealous green that she hadn’t been there to see it too.
‘OK, everyone, now. Let’s move it. Let the young people alone now.’
The crowd’s mood had changed. They were willing to depart now. They’d seen something, something good, something marvellous. People took pictures with their mobes and mailed them off to family and friends.
The baby’s parents were just glad to be allowed to move on.
‘Got far to go?’ one of the policemen asked.
‘Just a few streets.’
‘We’ll walk you. Make sure there’s no more trouble.’
On they walked. The mother pushing the pram, the father clearing a way before it, the two burly policemen walking along on either side.
‘You’re lucky people,’ the taller and heavier of the two policemen said to the young couple.
‘We know. We know.’
‘How come you’re fertile?’
‘We don’t know. Just luck, I suppose.’
‘Word of advice,’ the policeman said. But before he could give it he was briefly distracted by the baby smiling and gurgling at him and reaching for one of his plump, substantial fingers.
‘May I?’
The mother smiled. She was grateful. The two policemen had rescued them.
‘Go ahead.’
The policeman let the child take his little finger. Its touch shot through him like a current of electricity.
‘You’re lucky people,’ he said. ‘Such lucky people.’ His voice was just a whisper now.
The baby’s eyes closed. Her grip relaxed. Her hand fell back by her side. She slept.
‘She’s a cute one,’ the policeman said. ‘She’s a cute one, right enough. Only, as I say – word of advice . . .’
‘Yes, officer?’
‘Get out of here, ma’am. Get out of this city. Find a spot of countryside somewhere, far from anyone, a little piece that nobody knows. And you go there and hide there, and bring up your baby, and don’t let her out of your sight until she’s good and grown.’
‘We live in the country. We’re just visiting. Just came to show her to some family.’
‘Good. Well, you go back there and live safely. The city’s no place for a child. You know what that little girl would be worth to any Kiddernapper here? Six, seven, maybe eight million. So you hang on to her. You hold on tight.’
‘Don’t worry, officer, we will.’
They were at their door now.
‘And thank you. Thanks again.’
‘No problem.’
‘And you too, officer.’
‘My pleasure. We’ll watch till you’re inside. And then maybe wait around a while, in case anyone’s got any ideas.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Help you up the steps with the pram.’
‘You’re very kind.’
‘Fine pram.’
‘We found it in a shop . . . antique shop . . . bric-a-brac – needing doing up a little.’
‘Did a good job.’
‘Well, thanks again.’
‘Take care now.’
‘Bye then.’
‘Bye.’
The door closed, upon baby, cradle and all.
The two policemen retraced their steps. They lingered a while, as they had promised, and then returned to where they had parked their car.
‘Wait’ll we tell them at the station!’ the taller policeman said.
‘Yeah,’ his colleague agreed. ‘Wait’ll we do!’
As the people dispersed, Tarrin returned to Mrs Hartinger, his face blushing crimson. He had kept her waiting and should have gone back sooner.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘it was a baby.’
‘It’s all right, Tarrin. I saw it too. Bradley came and told me. We were standing right behind you.’
