Abandonment

I’m running as fast as I possibly can, and it strikes me that I’ve only ever seen anybody run with this kind of
abandon in movies. The low winter sun casts my silhouette long in front of me on the paved streets as I run, and
it seems I am chasing a shadow I will never catch. I am running without an ounce of reserve or hesitation, not
looking at corners or roads. My running says: ‘Anything that gets in my way will be bowled over, and I will not
even stop for an apology.’ My running says: ‘I am holding nothing back; I do not care what state I’m in when I
reach my destination.’ My running says: ‘This is a matter of life and death.’ As my legs pump and I feel blood and
adrenaline throb and course through my body, my head feels light and the edges of my vision begin to swim.

                                                                     ~

We’re arguing, in her study. Books and papers are strewn everywhere. She’s working on a horror story, about
‘faeries’. I always think of the flower fairies; dainty, cute things, far too adorable to be up to much mischief. But
the legends Juliette’s researching are all about stealing human children and replacing them with changelings;
faerie doppelgangers, evil and twisted substitutes. The pictures on her wall are not flower fairies. She’s always
taken her work to heart, but the post-natal depression has entwined with her borderline bipolar disorder and
taken it to the next level. She is worried that Daniel may not be our son, because he has hair and eyes coloured
differently to both of us, while newborn Sean has her hair and my eyes. And because he’s a fussy eater and has
an allergy to iron. And now, because a song Daniel was singing turned out to be an archaic chant supposed to
be sung by faeries.

“I suppose that’s just my overactive writer’s imagination again, is it?”

“I didn’t say that. It does seem odd. But there could be any number of reasons.”

“Yes, yes – I suppose eighteenth century Irish folklore is on the curriculum for five year olds now, how silly of
me.”

The conversation goes downhill from there. The truth is, Daniel is an odd child, I think, but for god’s sake, this
is the twenty-first century. Doubts nag as I think of other things she’s mentioned; his over-intelligence, his
uncanny knack of guessing what will happen next on the television, and the few times he has lashed out. But
this is our son, of course this is our son. Too much of the fantastic, alone at her desk, may have stopped her
seeing that, but this is our son.

                                                                     ~

I tear down Hatherley Street, taking to the road as I see a blockage of prams on the pavement. A car screeches
to a stop at a junction, a metallic thud reverberates as I vault the bonnet.

                                                                     ~

Silence is the third person in the room. Sean is gone, and there are no words which can make things better. As
it turns out, though, they can make things quite a lot worse.

“Ben, we have to say it.”

My head snaps up as my dark reverie is interrupted. I have a bad feeling about this.

“Say what?” I ask, not wanting an answer.

“Daniel… he was the only one there. What if…?” Even she does not want to take her fears to this level, not out
loud. She does anyway. “What if I was right, Ben? They say that, like a cuckoo chick, a changeling will - ”

I snap. This has been bubbling under for a while; she’s been getting creepier about it, and Daniel has been
bearing the brunt, but this…

“They say? THEY say? Who the fuck are they, Joo? Are they the people you should listen to over your own son?”
My response is louder, more violent, than I’d intended. I wonder, not for the first time, who I’m trying to
convince. Softer, I add: “Daniel loves Sean.” The incorrect tense hangs in the air, deepening already gaping
wounds.

Juliette is silent. Tear ducts that I’d assumed exhausted find more fuel. I walk over to her, try to comfort her,
but she pulls away, and runs outside into the garden. I’m left alone, and as much as I try to stop them, I
cannot help my thoughts turning to what actually happened with the two boys, alone in that room.

                                                                     ~

I cut across the green. I think I feel myself step on a piece of glass, but I don’t even look down. I don’t have
time, and blood is the last thing I want to see.

                                                                     ~

The boxes sit on the back of the truck. I haven’t taken everything. I don’t want to admit that this could be
forever. Just for the moment, I tell myself and anyone who will listen. I walk back into the house for one last
goodbye. I’m worried about Daniel; I want to take him with me. Juliette blows hot and cold towards him,
sometimes clutching him so tight you could tell just by looking that he’s the only one she has left, other times
ignoring him completely or being plain mean to him. She wants me to leave because I won’t back her crazy
ideas. I don’t have any choice. I curse my past, forgotten now but not what a court looks for. Would I have the
courage to fight for Daniel if I didn’t know I’d lose anyway? I tell myself he doesn’t know quite how wrong
things are, and that this is a good thing. As I walk back to the step where he stands watching me, I tell myself
that this will mend. I bend down, muss his shaggy brown mop and give him a hug, which he returns limply.

“See ya, kiddo. Don’t worry, it won’t be for long, and Mummy will look after you.”

He says nothing, and I try to convince myself that the blankness in his eyes is numbness, not disbelief. I also
try not to think which part he disbelieves most.

                                                                     ~

My feet stamp out a dull, heavy beat on the slabs. My heart is chiming in with a double thud which sounds as
loud as if it were in my ear. I think of a fox running for his life. But there are no hounds chasing me; it’s not my
life I’m running for.

                                                                     ~

I’m casually tearing open the letter. I see the scrawled lines of my wife’s hand as I take in the message numbly.

‘…All the legends agree that if you rid yourself of the changeling, the real child will be returned…’

‘… Want you to trust that I’m doing this for the best…’

‘… Can all be a family again, once you see that I’m right…’

‘… It will be too late to do anything…’

I think, bizarrely, of Newton as I watch the letter float and the coffee cup plummet, racing to the ground. The
cup breaks into pieces in sudden slow motion, and I see each crack form; splashes of brown liquid lazily pattern
the white hall carpet. My mind makes lightning calculations about air pressure, mass, weight, gravity. I can’t
believe what I’m thinking at a moment like this. Then I am out of the door, running barefoot past the sleepy
terraced morning, trying to believe that this isn’t happening, knowing that it is.

                                                                  ~

This is it. The march of moments and the pumping of muscles have brought me here, to my destination. The
house it all happened in; the house my wife lives in, with Daniel. Part of me wants to turn back, terrified of what I’
ll find. But part of me knows that if I’m right, I am Daniel’s only hope. I take the path in three strides and I’m
hammering at the door like a madman, calling Juliette’s name, and Daniel’s. The house is silent. I take a step back
and shoulder the door. Lancing pain shoots up my right side. Two more tries, and a strength I didn’t know was
in me sees the door fly ajar. I almost fall through it, and when I regain my balance, I see Juliette at once, halfway
down the stairs. I blink my eyes rapidly, hoping that I do not really see what is in front of me, but every time I
open them, she is still holding a slender, jagged knife. And on the knife, and on her clothes, there is still what can
only be blood. I cannot see Daniel. Our eyes meet.

“Juliette! What have you done? Where’s Daniel?” My voice is half-scream, half-croak.

Her face glistens with tears; she doesn’t look like she is looking at the same world I am. The part of me that
knows what has happened clings to a desperate sliver of hope, crazy as it is, lunatic as it is: what if she was right
all along?.

“Where is he?”

“I… I don’t know. I don’t know where he is, Ben.”

She sinks to an awkward crouch on the stair, and as I watch her face collapse, even the lunatic hope dies. My legs
take the stairs three or four at a time anyway, pushing past her. I just catch her sob as I reach the top, dreading
Daniel’s room.

“It wasn’t meant to be like this… they were supposed to bring him back…”

Terry Pearce