Unaware if days or mere seconds had passed, Richard slowly opened his eyes. He was still in the exact same spot. Peter was nowhere to be seen. Disoriented, he painfully lifted his head to see if the baby was still in the cot—he wasn’t. Relief washed over him. But disappointment followed when he thought of losing contact with the child.
Reaching into his jeans pocket, he pulled out his cell phone, still with no reception. He groaned in frustration. He noticed the time in the corner of the screen: 7:05 a.m. Monday. Attempting to get to his feet using the wall for support, he immediately fell back down, his head spinning, his legs like jelly. Clearly he had not fully come to yet. Come on, get up, he thought, you have to get the police. But just as he was about to slip the phone back into his pocket, he noticed one bar of signal at the top of the screen. Frantically he dialed 999 and held the phone up to his ear. The call struggled to connect, forcing him to try again.
After several further attempts, the call went through. Just as he was about to speak to the operator, the loud clumping of boots startled him. Turning his head back into the living room, he saw Peter run toward him from the kitchen, the shotgun in one hand, the baby in the other. Panicked, Richard tried to rush his call for help. But before he could even get a word out, Peter managed to kick the phone out from his hand. It flew across the hallway, crashing against the front door. Peter raced over to it, picked it up, cancelled the call, and then proceeded to crush it with his foot into the hard tiled floor.
The baby started to cry again. “Shh. Shh. Shh,” Peter softly said, gently rocking him. Pointing the gun down at Richard’s helpless body, he stepped over him and made his way back into the living room, then lowered the child into the cot. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said, still aiming the gun.
“It’s too late,” Richard said, now sitting up against the stone archway. “They’re coming for you.”
Smiling, Peter shook his head. “I don’t think so. You’ve been here since yesterday. I’m pretty sure they would have burst through that front door hours ago. But I’ve heard nothing. And I’ve seen nothing. So what’s your next lie going to be?”
“I told them to wait for my call.”
He shook his head again. “Bullshit. That call didn’t go through. You’re on your own. So tell me—who the hell are you? And no more lies, ’cause I’m getting a bit sick of them. Because you’re definitely not a cop. And even if the police are outside waiting for me, I know you’re not one of them.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because every time you refer to them, you refer to them as ‘they’ and not ‘we’. So give me a little credit and tell me who you really are.”
Richard was stumped. Physically and mentally, he was too exhausted to talk his way out of it. All he could think about was finding a way to get out safely with the baby, and getting home to his wife. “Does it really matter who I am?”
“Yes, of course it matters.”
“Put the gun away and I’ll tell you.”
“Tell me or I’ll shoot you in the face.”
Richard exhaled loudly, causing his jaw to excruciatingly crack. Closing his eyes briefly as the pain settled, he decided to confess. No more lies. No more stories. The truth. He had to. He had run out of options. “All right, I’ll tell you.” He braced himself. “My name is…” But then, as if instructed by a voice in his head, he changed his mind. “…Carl Jones.” He started to pull himself up from the floor. “And that’s my baby you’ve got in there.”
Peter’s eyes widened in shock as his grip tightened around the gun, his hand trembling again. “Stay the fuck down!”
“And his name isn’t Jake.” Richard was still holding onto the wall, almost to his feet. “His name is Dean. Dean Long. And I’m taking him home with me.”
“How the fuck do you know my son’s name?”
“I already told you.” He was standing up straight now. “The police know everything.”
“Get the hell down or I’ll shoot you,” Peter warned, sounding panicked. “I mean it. I’ll blow your brains out!”