MEGAN

SATURDAY, JULY 13, 2013
EVENING
It’s not until we get into the car that I notice he hasblood on his hand.
“You’ve cut yourself,” I say.
He doesn’t reply; his knuckles are white on thesteering wheel.
“Tom, I needed to talk to you,” I say. I’m trying tobe conciliatory, trying to be grown-up about this, butI suppose it’s a little late for that. “I’m sorry abouthassling you, but for God’s sake! You just cut meoff. You—”
“It’s OK,” he says, his voice soft. “I’m not?.?.?. I’mpissed off about something else. It’s not you.” Heturns his head and tries to smile at me, but fails.
“Problems with the ex,” he says. “You know how itis.”
“What happened to your hand?” I ask him.
“Problems with the ex,” he says again, and there’s anasty edge to his voice. We drive the rest of the wayto Corly Wood in silence.
We drive into the car park, right up to the veryend. It’s a place we’ve been before. There’s neveranyone much around in the evenings—sometimes afew teenagers with cans of beer, but that’s about it.
Tonight we’re alone.
Tom turns off the engine and turns to me. “Right.
What is it you wanted to talk about?” The anger isstill there, but it’s simmering now, no longer boilingover. Still, after what’s just happened I don’t feel likebeing in an enclosed space with an angry man, so Isuggest we walk a bit. He rolls his eyes and sighsheavily, but he agrees.
It’s still warm; there are clouds of midges under thetrees and the sunshine is streaming through theleaves, bathing the path in an oddly subterraneanlight. Above our heads, magpies chatter angrily.
We walk a little way in silence, me in front, Tom afew paces behind. I’m trying to think of what to say,how to put this. I don’t want to make things worse.
I have to keep reminding myself that I’m trying todo the right thing.
I stop walking and turn to face him—he’s standingvery close to me.
He puts his hands on my hips. “Here?” he asks.
“Is this what you want?” He looks bored.
“No,” I say, pulling away from him. “Not that.”
The path descends a little here. I slow down, but hematches my stride.
“What then?”
Deep breath. My throat still hurts. “I’m pregnant.”
There’s no reaction at all—his face is completelyblank. I could be telling him that I need to go toSainsbury’s on the way home, or that I’ve got adentist’s appointment.
“Congratulations,” he says eventually.
Another deep breath. “Tom, I’m telling you thisbecause?.?.?. well, because there’s a possibility that thechild could be yours.”
He stares at me for a few moments, then laughs.
“Oh? Lucky me. So what—we’re going to run away,the three of us? You, me and the baby? Where wasit we were going? Spain?”
“I thought you should know, because—”
“Have an abortion,” he says. “I mean, if it’s yourhusband’s, do what you want. But if it’s mine, get ridof it. Seriously, let’s not be stupid about this. I don’twant another kid.” He runs his fingers down the sideof my face. “And I’m sorry, but I don’t think you’rereally motherhood material, are you, Megs?”
“You can be as involved as you like—”
“Did you hear what I just said?” he snaps, turninghis back on me and striding back up the pathtowards the car. “You’d be a terrible mother, Megan.
Just get rid of it.”
I go after him, walking quickly at first and thenrunning, and when I get close enough I shove himin the back. I’m yelling at him, screaming, trying toscratch his fucking smug face, and he’s laughing,fending me off with ease. I start saying the worstthings I can think of. I insult his manhood, hisboring wife, his ugly child.
I don’t even know why I’m so angry, because whatdid I expect? Anger, maybe, worry, upset. Not this.
It’s not even rejection, it’s dismissal. All he wants isfor me to go away—me and my child—and so I tellhim, I scream at him, “I’m not going away. I amgoing to make you pay for this. For the rest of yourbloody life, you’re going to be paying for this.”
He’s not laughing anymore.
He’s coming towards me. He has something in hishand.
I’ve fallen. I must have slipped. Hit my head onsomething. I think I’m going to be sick. Everything isred. I can’t get up.
One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl?.?.?.
Three for a girl. I’m stuck on three, I just can’t getany further. My head is thick with sounds, mymouth thick with blood. Three for a girl. I can hearthe magpies—they’re laughing, mocking me, a raucouscackling. A tiding. Bad tidings. I can see them now,black against the sun. Not the birds, something else.
Someone’s coming. Someone is speaking to me. Nowlook. Now look what you made me do.