I’m not a pickpocket.
The front compartment of the trolley contains a six-inch knife in a leather scabbard. I debated leaving it behind, but I’m scared of what might happen if I run out of options. Strapping the knife to my ankle, I pull down the trouser cuffs, making sure it doesn’t show.
I am ready. I have done all I can to prepare, but I need some luck now. Fortune favors the brave, they say. What about the desperate?
Leaving the women’s room, I follow the corridor to the stairwell and descend the echoing concrete steps. Emerging into a corridor opposite the maternity ward, I glance at my watch. Visiting hours are from six to eight. People are starting to leave, queuing for the lifts, making it easier for me to go unnoticed.
A glass wall separates me from the maternity ward. The door must be unlocked from the reception desk inside. A lift arrives. A pregnant woman emerges. She’s in a wheelchair, being pushed by her husband.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“I phoned ahead,” the woman says, arching her back in pain. “They told me to come straight in.”
“Right. Good. What’s your name?”
“Sophie Bruen.”
Her husband speaks. “My car is double-parked.”
“You sort that out. I’ll look after Sophie.”
He disappears into the lift. I buzz reception. The nurse on duty is busy on the phone. She glances up, sees my uniform, and automatically unlocks the door. I wheel Sophie into the waiting area.
“You can wait here for your husband. I’ll let them know you’ve arrived.”
I walk away, heading along the corridor, recalling the layout from my previous visit. There are ten delivery rooms to my left and two postnatal wards to my right. Two hours ago I phoned the hospital and asked if Meghan Shaughnessy could have visitors. Staff confirmed that she gave birth this morning and gave me the name of her ward.
Turning a corner, I step around a cleaner’s trolley and glance into the ward. Curtains have been pulled around some of the beds, creating cubicles. One of them is open. A woman is talking to her husband. Her baby is sleeping in a small crib beside the bed. I smile at them and move inside, walking between the partitioned beds.
Almost immediately I hear Jack’s voice. He’s close to me, behind the next curtain, speaking to someone on the phone.
“He’s the most beautiful little boy you’ve ever seen. . . . Right now he’s sleeping. . . . You’ll get to meet him tomorrow. . . . No, he doesn’t talk yet, he’s only a baby.”
The cubicle next to them is unoccupied. I slip inside and pull the curtains closed, sealing myself off.
Jack finishes the call, sending love and kisses.
“How are they?” Meg asks.
“Excited.”
“I miss them.”
“It hasn’t even been a day. You should take advantage of this—relax, sleep, read.”
“And what are you going to do?” she asks.
“Celebrate.”
“I underwent major surgery, gave you another son, and you’re going to party.”
“Absolutely.”
Meg tries to scold him but doesn’t sound serious. A phone rings. Her sister, Grace, is on the line.
Someone opens the curtain, surprising me. I jump, startled, my heart hammering. A man is looking for his wife. He apologizes. I pretend to be smoothing sheets on the bed. I close the curtains again and steady my breathing.
Meg wants to get up and take a shower. “You’ll have to help me,” she says to Jack.
The bedsprings shift. She groans softly. The curtains move as she brushes past me. I wait a few moments and pull the fabric aside. Jack has his arm around Meg’s waist as she shuffles in her socked feet towards the bathroom.
“Are you sure you can do this?” he asks.
“I’ll be fine. There’s a seat in the shower.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“I don’t think we’re allowed to shower together.”
“I’m willing if you are.”
She smiles tiredly and kisses his cheek. Taking my chance, I push through the curtains to their bedside. For a moment I think the crib might be empty because the blanket and sheet are the same color. He’s swaddled in a bundle. A tiny round face with hands tucked beneath his chin.
I scoop him up and step outside, pulling the curtains closed and turning towards the corridor. Everything around me seems to have slowed down, while I have accelerated. I am faster, cleverer, and more capable than any of these plodding people.
“Excuse me, what are you doing?” asks a voice.
Jack has come back for something.
“Doing?” I ask, feeling my skin tighten across my face.
“That’s our baby.”
“Of course it is,” I say, summoning a smile. “You must be Jack.”
“Yes.”
“And this little chap was born this morning. He’s gorgeous. Where is your wife?”
“She’s having a shower.”
“Good. Well, your perfect little bundle is due to have a blood test. It won’t take long.”
Jack looks towards the bathroom.
“You’re welcome to come with me,” I say.
“Meg will need my help.”
“OK. I won’t be long.”
I turn and walk away from him, my stomach clenching and bowels turned to water. This is a one-time operation. I cannot turn back now. I pause as I reach the reception area, aware of the glass security door. The button is beneath the reception desk. The wheelchair I pushed earlier is empty. I tuck the baby inside and steer the chair towards the doors. The nurse at reception triggers the lock mechanism. The door slides open. I wave in thanks, pushing the chair into an empty lift. I press up. The doors close. I remember to breathe. Before stepping out on the fifth floor, I light up every button, sending the empty wheelchair to each floor.
Tucking Rory under my arm like a bundle of clothing, I carry him along the corridor to the ladies’ room, stepping over the OUT OF ORDER sign. Once inside, I lay him carefully in the sink and begin swapping the nurse’s uniform and platform shoes for work boots and a pair of shapeless men’s overalls with a stitched logo for a plumbing company. Removing my makeup, I quickly apply another layer, using brown powder to create darker bags beneath my eyes and wrinkles across my forehead and at the edges of my mouth. My wig is replaced by a baseball cap with a graying ponytail sewn into the back. I tuck my real hair inside and pull the cap lower before putting a single silver stud in my left ear. The final touch is a smear of grease on the back of my hands and another on my neck. Glancing at myself in the mirror I see an aging tradesman who didn’t escape the seventies.
Rory is still sleeping. He’ll wake when he’s hungry, but hopefully not yet. Most newborns sleep sixteen hours a day, so the odds are on my side.
Emptying the trolley completely, I gently place him inside, still swaddled snugly in the blanket. I have cut a hard piece of plastic to size, forming a partition that I jam halfway down the trolley, giving him room to breathe. On top I put the nurse’s uniform, wig, platform shoes, and glasses.
A clock is ticking inside my head. I am taking too long. They’ll raise the alarm and seal off the hospital.
The creature inside me is yelling instructions.
Hurry!