THE CHILD
by RODDY DOYLE

HE HADN'T SLEPT IN DAYS. He hadn't slept in weeks. He was never aware of waking up. He was just there. Awake. Lying there. All night.
There was no safe time.
He tried a hotel. In his own town. He thought it might work. Just one night away. But it didn't. He didn't sleep. It was day at the curtains; he gave up.
He hadn't yawned in days. He hadn't stretched. He never closed his eyes. They'd stopped being sore.
There was no safe time.
He was past tiredness. It was in his breath, though. In his chest. The catch, the warning. The exhaustion; more.
Sometimes he came at night. The child. He'd hear the breath, the silence. Sometimes twice, three times. He'd be there. Sometimes not for days. But he was always there.
Always. And not just at night. Not just when he was alone. There was no time when he wasn't there. When he didn't feel him.
He didn't go out now. Go to the cinema, or just out--a few drinks, a walk. He didn't do that. He went home and stayed there. But that was no good. Home wasn't safe. Home was nothing now. The walls, the books--nothing.
The first time, he'd looked up--he'd been reading the paper--and the child was there. Staring at him. From a seat on the other side of the carriage. He'd stared back for a few seconds, and looked back down at the paper. And he wouldn't have remembered, except for the second time. Another day. A few days later, the end of the week. He was standing this time. The carriage was full. He tried to get his book from his pocket, and the child was there beside him. Looking up at him. Small, tucked in against his hip. But he hadn't felt him. And he couldn't feel him now.
He got off a station early. He pushed his way off. He looked around as the platform emptied. The child was gone.
But he wasn't.
A boy. A small one. I le didn't know ages; he didn't know children. He didn't know people with children.
It wasn't the train the next time, and the next time wasn't for weeks. It was in a café that he sometimes went to on his way home. He was about to push the door open. The child was standing in there. Facing him, looking out.
He stopped; he didn't go in. He didn't know why not. He couldn't. He walked away, felt foolish. He turned and went back. He got to the door. The child was there, alone. No mother at a table or at the counter. He couldn't go in--he couldn't lift his hand to the door. He couldn't do it.
That was the first night he didn't sleep at all. He got up, walked around, tried to read, got back into the bed, held his penis, got back out, tried to read--exhausted at half-five, awake and amused, laughing privately at himself by the time he got to work. He walked past the café on his way home. It was raining; there was steam on the windows and door glass. He didn't stop.
He wrote it down. "Boy. eight or nine." Eye color, hair color--he didn't know. "Thin." He put these words in a jotter he'd taken from work. He left it on the table beside the bed, with a pen. In case he woke up with something to add. He'd seen it in a film, the jotter beside the bed, ready for the dreams.
He didn't dream. He never remembered dreams. He lay on the bed. He listened to the rain and the fridge. He slept. He woke. He looked at the clock. Half-five. He was tired but pleased. He'd slept.
It rained for days then. Steam on the train windows, steam on the office windows, on the café windows and door. He decided to go in. His hand went to the door. Water ran from the sleeve of his raincoat, down his arm. He pushed the door. He saw the word on the glass. "DAD." Written with a finger. He stopped as he pushed. He saw the child.
"Gray shirt." He wrote it later, in the jotter.
Hair and eye color? He still didn't know, although he'd stared at the child for a long time. Until a woman behind him had wanted to enter, and he'd stepped back, and the door closed slowly in front of him. "DAD."
The child looked back at him.
"No expression," he wrote. "Expressionless."
He wanted to speak, to say something. To get him to speak, to hear. "What do you want?" It was too aggressive--he couldn't think. The woman behind him; he'd stepped back. The door closed. The letters weren't clear on the glass; streams of water ran through them.
He went.
He didn't sleep.
He thought about the child. He heard the clock, the fridge. He didn't sleep. He put on his glasses. He leaned across, turned on the light. He saw the word on the notebook. "DAD."
And then he was really scared.
He searched the flat. It was small; there was nowhere to hide. But he looked everywhere. He went back to the jotter beside the bed. He picked it up. The pencil had gone down hard on the paper. The word was cut into the next page, and the next, the next. DAD. DAD. DAD. DAD. A real hand had done it. He listened: he was alone. He brushed his teeth. He got under the shower. He thought he heard--he turned off the water. He listened. A house alarm, streets away. Tires on the wet road.
He changed carriages on the train. He got out and pushed along crowded platforms. He got into different carriages--he began to see himself doing it. He felt stupid, self-important. He wanted it over with. He wanted to grab him, to feel the bony fact. "What do you want?" He wanted to hear a voice. While he was awake, dressed, in charge of the situation. "Who are you?"
But the child wasn't on the train and he wasn't in the café. He hadn't seen him at work; he didn't see him now.
He had to wait.
He woke in the night and felt something in the room--breath, something, an echo of what had woken him. He leaned over to the light, and knew it was hopeless. He turned the light on. Nothing there. He lay awake. He turned off the light. He held his penis. He lay still.
He stopped eating. Food made him feel sick. He could feel it turn. DAD. He had no children.
He got into bed. He closed his eyes. He waited.
He was sure he had no children. There was his ex-girlfriend. Two years together. There were women before that. He remembered them all. lie wrote their names in the jotter. "Marion, Brenda." Down the page. "Frances, Karen." In reverse order. Down the years. "Hazel." He stopped at the first one. "Tina."
He tore out the page--there was a faint "DAD" on the new page--and wrote the names again, more space between them. Three lines each. "Brunette." He wrote that beside Tina. He looked at it. He put a line through it. "Brown hair," he wrote. "Sixteen. Nice. Too nice."
He felt the fingers on his hand.
"Blond. V. red when embarrassed. Angry." At the counter.
"Hair color? Not sure Karen is right. Sharon?"
He was buying a paper. Going to work. He went for money in his pocket--fingers, he felt them, suddenly.
"Dyed green. Different colors."
He felt the fingers let go--he felt. He looked. "Laughed a lot. Too Much."
Beside him, against him. Looking up at--staring at him. The hand still there, in the air, half-open. Right against him.
He got away from the counter. The child was against him, right there. He got out to the street.
He stepped back. "Eyes?" he wrote later.
There was space between them. People passed. They went around the child, made sure they didn't knock against him. He was there.
"Who are you?"
The child looked at him. The look on his face--he didn't know children--was painful, begging, trying to smile, win.
He put his hand out. People went around them.
He stretched out his arm, brought his hand closer to the child. He move(] his fingers--they brushed against nothing. A woman smiled down at the child.
He ran.
"Why?" he wrote later.
He was sick, appalled. He'd felt the hand on his, in the shop. But his fingers couldn't touch what he could see. He'd touched the shoulder--it wasn't there.
"Ghost?" he wrote.
He ran across the street. He changed his mind as he ran, but it was two more streets before he stopped. He leaned against a post office wall. He waited for the sweat to turn cold. People passed. He didn't look. He waited. He stopped gasping. He looked.
No child. "Colorless."
He looked in the door of the post office. He went to the next corner, stood so lie could see down two streets, turn slightly and see down another.
He didn't go to work.
He sat on the bed. He picked up the jotter. He flicked open a new page. He heard breath. He didn't look.
He wrote. 
Block letters. 
"I DO NOT BELIEVE IN GHOSTS." 
He'd held the fingers-, he'd felt them. 
He read the names of the women, down the page. 
Marion 
Brenda 
Frances 
Karen 
Hazel 
Tina
He flicked to a new page.
"Child." lie underlined the word. What did he look like? Who did he look like? What was happening?
He flicked back to the women. He needed surnames. He was keeping it real. The child was real; the child had a mother.
He didn't look. "Marion Murphy."
Three years since he'd seen her. She'd met someone else. "We'll still be friends." It had surprised him how little he'd cared. But even if she'd been pregnant when she'd left, that child would be much too young.
"Brenda Wilson."
He got up. He looked in the kitchen, the toilet. He came back. He sat on the bed.
"Brenda Wilson."
He could hear it. The breathing. 
He stood up. He couldn't hear it. 
He sat back on the bed. 
"Brenda Wilson."
He hadn't liked her. He'd never liked her. But they'd met because she was at the desk beside him at work. His previous job. "Blond. V. red when embarrassed. Angry. Good-looking." That was true. "The best-looking." They hadn't lived together; it had lasted a couple of months. He'd left for a new job--the one he had now. He'd applied for it before they'd met, but she hadn't believed him. A year before Marion. A bit more. Not enough for her to be the mother.
The mother of what? 
What was He doing? 
He'd never slept with her--slept. 
He listened.
He'd never gone to sleep beside her. She'd been an aggressive sleeper; she took it to bed with her--punching out, kicking, snoring like she was doing it on purpose. She'd frightened him, a bit.
"Candidate?"
What was he doing? "Candidate?" The child wasn't his. No child was his.
She was still out there. Maybe at the same desk. A phone call would tell him.
What?
What was he doing?
Was it some sort of trick, a revenge thing or something? Maybe not Brenda Wilson. Some other woman.
"Who?" he wrote.
"Why?"
He wasn't a wild man, or cruel. He'd never been violent or very unpleasant. He was shy. They'd all said it.
"Frances."
Frances what? What was he doing?
"Frances Crooked Tooth." He put a line through that. He was not a cruel man.
He heard something. A press being shut slowly, air being dislodged. The kitchen. He put down the jotter. He stood up.
He looked in the presses. He looked in the sink. flu listened. He went back to the bed. He picked up the jotter. He knew before he looked, the thickness of the jotter in his fingers--the page was different.
He looked.
"I DO NOT BELIEVE IN GHOSTS." 
He stood up. He sat clown.
His words.
Not his writing.
He got down on the floor. He looked under the bed. lie left all the doors open, the press doors, the room doors. fie moved things away from the walls. He took everything out of the presses, put everything on the table. He went to the bed and the jotter. "I DO NOT BELIEVE IN GHOSTS." He took the duvet off the bed. He folded it small, put it back. He put the pillows on top of it. That was everything. There were no closed doors, no hiding places.
He waited. He walked. He looked in the corners. He went back to the bed. The pen was where he'd left it. He picked it up. He picked up the jotter. He listened.
"Frances."
He tried to get at her surname. "Kind of brown hair--crooked tooth." He put a line through "kind of." He put two lines through "crooked."
"Brown hair--tooth."
It hadn't lasted. A few weeks. He didn't know what she'd done for a living. A teacher. Something with children. Retarded children. Something like that. And he'd broken her bra. He remembered that. Trying to get it off, and her annoyance.
She'd sent the child after him, revenge for the bra. He didn't smile. He knew he couldn't.
"Nice."
She had been. Nice. He'd liked her. It just hadn't worked out. "Incompatible."
He left "Nice," put a line through "Incompatible." He just hadn't wanted the effort. Getting to know each other.
"Too nice."
He'd offered to buy her a new bra. Not actually buy it--pay for it. She wouldn't let him.
"Loser. Not great." He had it. The name. 
"Costello."
Frances Costello.
The kitchen. Something rubbed against something.
He got down on his knees. He crept. He stood up. He didn't want to be too low down.
He looked--he knew. Nothing.
He slept sitting up. He held the jotter. He tried to sleep. 
He slept.
He didn't.
The child was there. At the jotter. Pulling it from his hand.
He woke. His neck was sore. He stood up, stretched, pulled off his socks.
The jotter was gone.
He went around; he charged. Empty shelves, open doors. It was gone. Back to the bed. Gone.
It was on the table beside the bed. 
Where he'd left it.
No.
There was no more sleep. That night. Any night. He waited. "Karen or Sharon."
He didn't know.
"Green hair. Different colors."
He didn't know how long ago. Six years, seven. He tied thread to the jotter, to his finger. He closed his eyes. He waited. He met her twice. Both of them drunk. They did it once, the green hair time.
He didn't sleep. He knew he didn't.
The second time her hair was blue and they were both embarrassed. They'd met by accident, in front of a cinema. She went to the toilet and didn't come back.
"Good riddance."
The thread pulled--he opened his eyes. He checked it, brought his finger closer to his face. The jotter slid toward him. It fell off the table. I le picked it up. It wasn't the jotter. It was a different--
He ran. Around the rooms. Kitchen. Noise behind himhe roared, he turned. The jotter. He was dragging it behind him. He tore at the thread. It wouldn't break. It dug into his finger.
"Who are you!"
He didn't touch the jotter. Black cover. Not his. His was green. He sat on the floor, against the wall. He lifted his finger. The jotter slid at him. He flipped open the cover. "Boy. Eight or nine." He pulled the jotter closer to him. He turned another page--the list of women. It was his jotter. Except the cover. His was green.
"Green!"
He tried the hotel.
He was past tiredness. It was in his breath, in his chest. The catch, the warning. He hadn't yawned in days.
The hotel. He thought it might work. He walked there. He walked close to the street, away from doors and gateways. Three miles. It was raining. The money was wet in his pocket. He looked before he entered. He put his face to a window. He couldn't see properly. Running water, condensation. He went to the entrance. He could see. People, adults. No families, children--child. He entered. He tried to dry himself with his coat. The foyer wasn't busy. He checked behind a pillar.
The receptionist didn't like him. 
"Sign. Here."
The lift was empty. The doors were slow. No one else entered. 
"Naomi."
The fourth floor. The corridor. Empty. He checked the numbers on the wall; his room was to the right. He followed the arrow.
"Tall."
The key was a card. It worked the first time. He pushed the door shut; it was slow across thick carpet.
Under the bed. Behind the curtains. He searched the room. He left the light on. He turned it off. The bedside light. He turned That off. He didn't sleep. He held his penis. He heard some thing--the child. He charged through the room. He threw something. Something broke. Someone knocked. He didn't answer. He stayed still. The knock again. Silence. He lay on the bed. He sat up. It was day at the curtains; he was sweating.
He left. He didn't eat. He hadn't eaten. In days, weeks--he wasn't sure. He wasn't hungry. He was never hungry.
"Naomi."
Who was that? He didn't know her. "Gorgeous." He kept writing. "Tall. Great. Bit of a bitch." He didn't know what he was doing.
The name on the receptionist's tag. Naomi. Was he going mad?
No.
He walked. People looked; he saw that. They were looking. He looked at himself. Up at a window. A shoe shop. He stared, tried to see himself in the glass. He took off his glasses; he could see better up close without them. He could see. He looked fine. He pushed down his hair. Pine. He put his glasses back on. He looked fine. He was fine.
He saw him. In the glass. He turned. 
There was nothing. Cars, adults.
He turned again. To the window. The child was still there. Behind, right behind him. He turned again, and fell. He got up. Before hands could grab him. He was fine. A bit wet. The child was inside--that was it. In the shoe shop. Looking out at him. He was in there.
Ghosts didn't have reflections. 
He wasn't a ghost.
He had him.
He ran at the door. He had him. He could see him now, clearly. Standing in there. Waiting.
He hit the door. He was fine. He pushed the glass, felt the heat--in.
Gone. The child--
There were boxes, piled. A wall of them--shoe boxes. That was where--he pulled at them, no weight, they fell away. He pulled them down, he climbed over them. He dropped his bag, got at them with both hands. Screams behind him. He didn't look. He had him now.
"Gotcha." 
"Sir?" 
"Gotcha, gotcha!"
He stood on boxes, broke boxes, climbed across them. He fell, he slipped. On boxes--he was fine. The wall was gone. The child--gone. No child.
The changing rooms. He looked around; he tried to stand. None--a shoe shop; no need for rooms. He crawled over boxes. People over him. Hands on his clothes.
"Come on."
"Where are you!?"
Hand in his hair--he was off the ground. His glasses fell off. He was carried out. His leg hit the door. Out to the street. A hand put the glasses back on his face. Shoved them; they were crooked. Bent. He couldn't see. He couldn't hear properly. Off the ground. Being held up--three men. They stopped moving. He heard a car door, car doors. More shadows--he was surrounded. He could see blue--uniforms. They moved again. They dropped him--he fell. Against a car. A hand pushed, the back of his head. A police car. His cheek hit the roof. It was wet--the roof was wet. He couldn't think of ... They were putting handcuffs on him. He could feel the cuffs against his skin, the cold, pain--they twisted his wrists. They held his arms. It was raining.
"The child," he said. 
"What child? Get in."
A hard hand on his head. Pushed down, into the car. His hands behind his back--difficult, sore. Squashed between two cops. They were moving--the car was moving. He had to say something. He needed to start. A hand in front of his eyes. It straightened his glasses. He could see, through finger marks, drops of water. The car braked. An arm stopped him from falling forward. lie couldn't turn his head much; there wasn't space. They were moving again. He saw his bag. On a cop's knees. He saw big hands coming out of the bag. He saw his jotter.
"What's this?" 
He didn't answer. 
"Jesus."
"What?" The other cop.
"Who are these people? Marion, Brenda, Frances. They're all women."
"What?'
"What women?" The driver. 
"Jesus." 
He heard the pages being flicked.
"'Blonde. V. red when embarrassed. Angry. Good-looking. The best-looking. Candidate?'"
The cop to his left moved. Trying to put space between them.
"Candidate for what?" He was going to explain. 
Somewhere calm. Not in the car. 
"For what? Hey."
Not in the car. He'd start at the beginning. He'd try to. 
"Oh, Jesus."
"What?"
"Naomi. Gorgeous. Tall. Great. Bit of a bitch." 
"Jesus."
"Sick."
"Isn't there a Naomi on that list?" 
"What list?"
"The missing women." 
"Oh, Christ."
"I think you're right. And a Frances." 
He'd explain.
"What about this one? `Green hair. Different colors. Good riddance.'"
"Oh, Jesus." 
The car stopped.
His list was a different list. He didn't know what they were talking about.
Doors opened. The cops got out; he could feel the car lift. He could feel the space, air. A hand at his sleeve.
"Come on."
He was pulled out. Shoulders. Legs were caught--his face hit the ground.
The ground was gone--he was standing. Pushed. 
"The child."
"Go on."
Pushed. He could taste blood. He could feel it. His eyes, glasses gone--he couldn't see.
"The child."
They couldn't hear. He was pushed.