The Leaflet
It was his turn. As he lifted Holly from her bed, screaming and thrashing, the hated cot death alarm went off, triggered by the sudden cessation of warmth and movement.
The alarm was more trouble than it was worth—Steph’s idea, thought Andrew.
Instead of worrying that Holly might die suddenly in the night, they now lay awake waiting for the shrill peeping of the alarm, or worrying that it had broken, or that the power had failed, or that it wasn’t sensitive enough and sometimes the thing just went off by itself anyway, waking Holly screaming from deep sleep and sending them both hurtling into her nursery in the madness of nightmare made real.
‘You can’t live by those odds. If you lived by those odds, you’d walk around all day expecting to get hit by a meteorite!’ Andrew proclaimed.
They were the odds of winning the lottery - might as well be zero. There was no point in buying a ticket, Andrew said.
But sometimes he did buy a ticket.
He changed her in the pale pink glow of the nightlight. Moving automatically he was halfway through the sequence before he realised that she did not need to be changed, but he carried on anyway, a robot soldier too tired and primitive to adapt his program. He picked her up and carried her downstairs with cold feet, singing and shushing and bouncing as he went.
The fluorescent tube buzzed for a moment, glowed purple and then Andrew’s unprepared eyes were stung as the kitchen filled with blinding light in a double flash as the tube finally caught. Something in his subconscious welcomed the light and the pain, as if they were expected - a long awaited release.
He stumbled to the sink still bouncing Holly in that motion, which he was told, was comforting to her but which he thought might also have worked by coaxing her towards silence through seasickness.
He pulled the lever of the cold tap towards him and watched for a moment, half expecting the water not to come - for there to be nothing but the rattle of a dry pipe buried in the walls and the rust flecked hiss of stale air. But the water did come, a clean stream splashing against the cold bright steel of the sink, swirling the little bits of baby rice that were stuck in the plughole.
Holding Holly tightly with one arm, he continued the jogging motion and filled the kettle in a clumsy sequence of one handed moves: unplug the flex, open the lid, move the kettle under the tap, put it back down on the counter, turn the tap off, close the lid, plug in the flex, flick the switch. An enumerated list of tasks for something that, with both hands free, was fluid and unthinking.
On the crumb-covered worktop was yesterday’s post, which he had scanned quickly and put aside. Pre-approved credit card envelopes - unopened but still there because he would need both hands to dispose of them. It was not a matter of simply putting them in the bin in these days of identity theft and credit card fraud. He would have to tear them to pieces over the bin, or take them upstairs to the study and shred them if he wanted to do a really thorough job. There were take-away menus and weight loss courses, the local free paper and - sitting on top of a postcard from Steph’s mum in Majorca - there was the leaflet.
It was white, mostly. Illustrated with colours that were not-quite-primary; more like washed out dayglo pastels. The font was free of serifs and curlicues as if some working group somewhere had decided that the utility of the leaflet would be impaired by the flourish of old fashioned characters. He had scanned through it quickly while waiting for his toast that morning. Interested, annoyed - a little confused at first. Hadn’t they just sent one a few months back? But this one was thicker and more detailed—a practical guide.
He stood at the counter as the kettle began to bubble, varying his up and down motion with a sort of side to side swing, turning the pages one at a time.
He stopped at a page that showed a line drawing in mauve of a determined looking man unscrewing a door from its hinges.
The kettle clicked off. He had not noticed the cloud of steam. He was too busy wondering where the screwdrivers were and whether the screws in the door hinges in their house were flat blade or Phillips.
Holly sobbed quietly for a few seconds and then howled again as he stopped his rhythmic comforting and set about filling a glass bowl with water from the kettle.
He shushed her as he went to the fridge and fetched one of the bottles that was filled with the milk that Steph had pumped that afternoon. He lowered the bottle into the bowl to warm it and went back to the leaflet.
Andrew turned the page. The man in mauve was now drawn in faded lime green as he took his newly liberated door and laid it at an angle against a wall with two other doors that had been similarly removed.
‘What do you call a door that’s gone mad, Holly?’ Andrew asked hopefully.
Holly howled in answer.
‘Unhinged,’ said Andrew brightly and kept on joggling.
It was worth a try.
Written at the top of the page in bold, clear type, without curlicue or serif, were words that sounded like they were from one of those leaflets that he sometimes picked up at B&Q, much to Steph’s amusement. How To Fit A Loft Hatch. How To Rewire A Plug.
How To Plan a Fallout Room and Inner Refuge
He bounced back over to the glass bowl, retrieved the bottle, shook it and then put it back in the water, before taking Holly on a short shushing and bouncing tour of the kitchen.
Fallout was a word from the world of his grandparents. Like lampblack or costermonger or tallow or chokedamp or Bakelite. An old word. Forgotten.
His bouncing passage ended at the counter with the leaflet. He scanned the text on the next page, mentally ticking off items on the list as he went.
Yes. Or at any rate there were some batteries in the top drawer in the kitchen, but he didn’t know if they were the right size for the radio.
No.
No.
Two litres of Evian in the fridge.
He was pretty sure they had some of that in the garage.
No.
Yes.
No.
Could you get butter in tins?
He bounced over to the steaming glass bowl, took hold of the bottle, shook it again and squirted milk over the back of the tired wrist that was still holding tightly on to Holly. The temperature was just right. He put the bottle down, hoisted his weary and hungry daughter up with both hands, turned her around to sit in the crook of his left arm and then presented the milk-moistened teat of the bottle for her consideration. She took it straight away. Pulling on it with desperate strength, gurgling and snuffling.
‘Hungry Holly?’ he asked in weary satisfaction as his mind once again took notice of the sound of crying that was now suddenly absent. He joggled slowly back to the counter and turned the page.
For a moment it seemed to him that the determined man, now in radiant duck egg blue, was helping his prone companion into a very short sleeping bag that only came up to his knees, but in the next panel the determined man was pulling another bag over the head of the other.
‘Secure the refuse sacks with duct tape.’
Holly’s clenched fist knocked on the side of the bottle in a futile attempt to somehow make the milk come faster. She had such tiny fingers but such a strong grip. Miracle fingers.
‘The casualty will be easier to move if the wrists and ankles are first tied together with duct tape or shoelaces.’
He felt something turning inside him. An angry thing appalled at these instructions, meant surely for a hit man or a serial killer, printed so clearly and with a bright little sidebar labelled ‘Action Point: Ensure you are familiar with the correct procedures for dealing with casualties.’
‘Write the name and date of death on a piece of paper and fix it securely. After the fourteen day danger period you should take any casualties outside for collection by your local authority.’
Andrew imagined the whistling and shouting of the bin men as they marshalled the wheelie bins, showering crisp packets and bits of newspaper around the close, picking up those strange, long, plastic-wrapped parcels left so neatly by the bins.
He looked down at Holly. She was entering a contented phase of her meal, drawing down the last third of the milk in long efficient gulps with only an occasional squeak or gurgle belying the imperfect seal between her lips and the bottle.
Behind his eyelids he saw his own hands take a pale plump arm that was wayward with its fist of miracle fingers and tuck it beneath black plastic. He heard the sound of tape tearing.
The postcard from Majorca slid onto the counter as he took the whole pile of post over to the bin and dropped it in, feeling strange elation at the thought of the pre-approved credit card envelopes that would soon be heading back out into the world unspoiled.
‘The best defence is preparation,’ stared up at him from the back of the leaflet, without curlicues or serifs, in unpleasant brick red, now spattered with tealeaves and baby rice. The lid of the bin dropped shut. He heard Holly pulling on the empty air of the bottle and carefully took it from her. She did not resist. She was full now - quiet and happy. He put the bottle down and carried her upstairs, facing over his shoulder, patting and rubbing her back as he did so.
In the nursery he unplugged the cot death alarm with his free hand and then pulled it roughly out from under the mattress by its flex. He lifted the lid of Holly’s toy trunk and stuffed the jumble of wire and cloth and sensors down inside.
He laid her down in the cot and set the turtle mobile going. It played a gentle nursery rhyme with three notes. She lay there looking calmly up at the mobile and then up at him. People always said that she had beautiful eyes.
They were wide and brown and there was no fear in them at all.