Free Sweetie by Jenny Tomlin Page B

You’re a good friend.
    You’ve always been there for me and my boy, even when others turned their backs. Thanks, mate.’
    ‘No trouble, Eileen. Any time you fancy another trip out, just give me a shout. I’m only stuck in that flat by myself, staring at the four walls and cleaning most of the time, so it’s good for me to get out too.’
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    Lizzie turned away before Eileen could see the tears begin to well in her eyes. A huge lump had formed in her throat and her head began to throb.
    Christ, what had they done? Poor Eileen didn’t deserve this.
    It’s for the best, she told herself firmly then.
    Someone had to put an end to it. But her heart was thumping in her chest nonetheless as she took leave of her friend and headed back to her flat. Eileen’s parting words still rang in her head and by now Lizzie was seriously questioning what she and the others had done. God, she hoped they were right!
    Eileen pressed the button for the lift, but of course it was out of order again so she started the long climb up six flights of stairs to her flat. She stopped every now and then to catch her breath, and in doing so took in great lungfuls of the stench of rotting rubbish from the large cylinder bins at the bottom of the rub -
    bish chutes situated on each balcony. She inwardly cursed the council for never doing anything to tidy this place up. The stairwells were daubed with graffiti and smelled of stale piss and puke. Not for the first time she promised herself that she would definitely put in for a transfer. She was tired of cleaning her part of the staircase, tired of pouring tin after tin of Jeyes Fluid down the landing, and tired of trying in vain to get others to do their bit.
    She reached her flat breathless but relieved to have 72
    made it, and found all the lights blazing and the sound of the telly and a newsreader’s familiar voice audible through the front door. She’d told Steven about staying up late and he’d promised her he’d be in bed by ten. She fished around in her large handbag, rummaging amongst her purse, peppermints, rain hat, fags and lighter, before finally coming up with the key, but as she went to push it in the lock the door swung open, thudding against the hall wall. Intuition or mother’s instinct, call it what you like, lifted the hair on the back of her neck and she knew imme -
    diately that something wasn’t right.
    ‘My boy, my baby,’ she murmured to herself, and then raised her voice: ‘Steven?’ When there was no reply, she called his name again and opened his bedroom door but he wasn’t in there. His jigsaw puzzle lay untouched on the thin piece of cardboard he used as a makeshift table, a bottle of Coke stood half-empty on his bedside cabinet; his bed had not been slept in.
    Eileen walked into the front room and staggered slightly at the sight that met her eyes. She had to fight down a wave of nausea. She’d never seen so much blood in her life, it was everywhere: all over the three-piece suite, the carpet, even up the walls. And lying in a crumpled heap on the floor was her little boy, her last-born, her baby. His face was unrecognisable, like a bloodied cabbage, his nose halfway across his face and swollen mouth gaping open to reveal his missing 73
    front teeth. Puke oozed out of his mouth and nose, congealed with blood and making a foul smell.
    For several seconds Eileen stood rooted to the spot, too shocked to do anything. Then she knelt down next to her boy. She saw that the blood had already dried on his Muppet Show T-shirt and felt too afraid to touch him. She wanted to scoop him into her arms, to rock him, to beg God to help him, but found that she couldn’t.
    ‘Steven,’ she whispered, ‘say something, love. Talk to me.’ A low groan came from somewhere inside him and she thanked God that her prayer had been answered and her baby was still alive. She put her arms around him gently and said, ‘Can you sit up, love?’ but he just groaned again. An ambulance! She