The Witch's Cradle: A Novel by Gillian White | eBook

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The Witch's Cradle

A Novel

By Gillian White

OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA

CHAPTER 1

The collective hairs of the people of Britain stood up as one when the Higgins kids went missing.

One vast primordial horn.

It was chilling.

Skins crawled all the way from John O'Groats to Land's End, and the Post Office employed extra staff to deal with the load of sympathy mail. The phone lines of police stations throughout the land were jammed by 'sightings' and helpful 'information' and, as Detective Chief Inspector Jonathan Rowe observed dourly to his team, 'What else can anyone expect ... it's like you're dealing with the royals. Everyone imagines they know them, poor things.'

Dammit, not just one little kid, but all three.

A publicity stunt, everyone reckoned, by some fanatical faction.

The stars of a documentary series that finished in the spring, the troubled Higginses had, in twelve episodes, typified penury at its most dire.

Therefore, and obviously, there would be no point at all in the abductors demanding a ransom from them, because the whole reason for choosing the Higginses for the series was that they were desperate, on their uppers, postage-stamp close to down and out.

But nice with it.

Attractively poor, not fecklessly.

A Cathy-Come-Home sort of fondness had briefly warmed the nation. But these were real people, not actors, as Griffin Productions were so frequently and distractedly forced to point out (a) when they returned kind donations or directed them to suitable charities like Shelter or Save The Children, and (b) when they took out injunctions to ban the press from outside the Higginses' grim fifth-floor flat, and (c) when the Higginses themselves began to demand artistes' wages.

Who would have dreamed that this would happen?

With a phlegmy intake of national breath the country waited for news. With puce noses and man-sized Kleenex, Britain's mothers watched Cheryl and Barry Higgins' desperate appeal on TV on a tidal wave of feeling that foamed with a spindrift of sadness and pity.

'Don't hurt them, please don't hurt them, they are very little ...' Cheryl, pale and in sorrow, managed these three heart-rending phrases before collapsing on Barry's left shoulder. Budweiser his T-shirt said and he, unemployed and unshaven and very, very young, attempted to carry on bravely like a man. 'We'll do anything, anything, we're not after vengeance, you have your reasons whoever you are. All we want are our kids back safe.'

Cheryl Higgins had been at the clinic at the time of the baby snatch, two months after episode twelve of The Dark End went on air. She had a ramshackle push-along box on wheels, constructed by Barry with odds and ends he had dug out of various skips. To make the box-pram comfortable it was lined with scraps of old blanket and a faded hammock cushion. It would not have passed a safety test conducted by any responsible body. There were no straps, no springs and nothing to protect the kids from the rain.

She was at the clinic with Cara, her third and most contentious child who, in half-inch-long embryonic form, had divided the nation on the righteousness of her existence and helped to turn opinion against them, bearing in mind the couple's precarious financial straits. Cara had a chest infection, which was why they were there, said Cheryl, attending a paediatric session set up primarily to clear GPs' waiting rooms of the usual clutter of sad-eyed moaners and cheerily chatting neurotics.

The trouble was that after the incident, nobody could actually remember seeing Cheryl arrive at the clinic in the first place. So that was fishy for a start.

The clinic was a square of unambitious modern brick. It dealt with post- and antenatal appointments, small, non-life-threatening emergencies and housed a chiropody practice and an ophthalmic surgery. Upstairs was a small geriatric ward funded entirely by charity, which existed to give local carers well-needed respite.

Suffering from cystitis again, Cheryl paid a hasty visit to the lavatory before her appointment with the nurse.

She described how the three kids, all under three, were parked outside the door, the pram contraption being far too cumbersome to fit inside the ladies'.

When Cheryl came out they were gone.

She set up an immediate keening, and a kind of wringing of hands, the sort associated with black-clad crones at riverside funeral pyres in the East. This immediate reaction was sensible and activated a quick response from those in her close vicinity: two ambulance men outside, one high-heeled receptionist, three mothers with toddlers in tow and, finally, the police.

The immediate conclusion was that the abductors could not have gone very far, not with such a primitive and eye-catching mode of child conveyance. They must have been seen by many.

It could have been a joke.

Maybe some kids had been pratting about and fancied the box on wheels. It would have made an excellent go-cart. Police with loudspeakers toured the area within one hour of the disappearance, imploring witnesses to come forward, issuing descriptions, assuring any likely suspects that there would be no punishing consequences.

'Just bring the children back.'

But nothing.

Time passed.

Still nothing.

It was as if the three had gone up in a genie's puff of purple smoke.

Griffin Productions copped the blame. One way or another, that invasive documentary, which had turned the Higgins family into household names, had to lie at the heart of this dastardly crime.

The shareholders were beside themselves.

'Using ordinary folk for their own greedy purposes! This sort of thing's gone far enough,' exclaimed one Scouse radio listener, deranged with self-righteous Liverpool anger.

'Innocent and naive! If they'd had more advice, they'd never have agreed to let that damn film crew into their house, poking their noses into their business. And what for? They never got a penny is what I heard.'

'Patronizing bastards.'

It was suddenly as if fifteen million people had somehow been forced to tune in every week, much against their own better judgement. After a shaky start, The Dark End of the Street had, quite unexpectedly, turned into a broadcasting phenomenon. At one point the viewing figures overtook the soaps, and the ambitious creator of the series, Alan Beam, had seen his credibility and his career rocket overnight to unprecedented heights.

Families that had auditioned and failed came out in furious condemnation of Griffin, and made reasonable sums from tabloid features.

'This could have been us,' said the Carter family from Skegness, describing how they were forced to put up with cameras for a week, even in their bathroom. 'And then they just sodded off, if you please. We were so much cattle fodder.'

'Thank God we were spared,' came from the Duffys of York, who had pestered the director for months after their rejection, and still sent the odd threatening letter.

'Fame—you can keep it,' said the Cloons from Maidenhead. 'We'd rather keep our kids, thank you very much.' In fact their kids were in care by then, on the At Risk register.

There were several obvious reasons why the Higginses were chosen above all others. For a start, they were the most charismatic, camera-friendly and, most importantly, they were triers. Their hapless struggles to wrench themselves free from the tangling chains of poverty were marvellous to behold. Also, to be honest, their dire circumstances were even more ghastly than those of their competitors, and that was saying something. Another point in their favour was that they were about to get hitched—a hopeless yet brave statement of responsible commitment, when you took their situation into account, and one which would appeal to the viewers. And, to the director's delight, the wedding itself promised to be a hopeless yet brave occasion, with its grim and utilitarian register office and its sordid reception venue, via the heavily graffitied and dustbinned back entrance to the Bunch of Grapes.

Anyway. Back to the abduction.

'The Higginses might have done it themselves. That's what the police are saying; it's one line of enquiry they're following, but they are keeping that under their hats for fear of exciting the public.' This is what Alan, creator and director, informed the meeting at Griffin's headquarters in Ealing Broadway. Alan, a flamboyant fellow who enjoyed his good looks and built his designer wardrobe around them, had never been in the closet; that dark place would be far too constricting for him.

His co-director, Jennie, gasped. 'No. That's unbelievable. They're just two ordinary, silly kids. They'd never have taken such risks. Anyway, where would they hide them?'

'There's loads of empty flats and derelict places around where the Higginses live,' said Alan. 'I know where I'd put them if it was me. There's been no ransom demanded yet, which is odd, but I've got Sir Art's agreement that Griffin must pay up if that can't be avoided.' Both Alan and Jennie knew well that Sir Art had had grave doubts about the programme right from its conception. 'Dangerous waters, poverty,' he had declared, in his privileged, well-connected voice, as if by rubbing shoulders with it he might succumb to infection. He had been persuaded eventually, but now it seemed he was being proved right. 'Damage limitation. If we don't play ball we'll be crucified, the way we've landed in the shit, the way this company is perceived by the public just now.'

'You wouldn't think those two had it in them,' suggested Alan, whose far-reaching dreams he fully intended to fulfil. 'Initiative was never Barry's forte.'

'Surely the cops are not suggesting that Cheryl and Barry could have done this alone?' And Jennie, skinny and clever and rising fast, with carefully highlighted hair suggesting a touch of purple, poured the coffee, very black, that had been left on the boardroom table. 'They should be looking for someone more sophisticated. Some fly cove who could have influenced them ...'

'Not hard,' said Alan, knowingly. 'The Higginses are a gullible pair. Tell them to run and they'll run. Jump and they'll jump.'

'I don't see how they could carry it off. They're basically just too dim. Both of them.'

'Not dim, Jennie, just unworldly. Uneducated. Easily influenced. Anyway, there's been no demand for a ransom yet. But it's early days ...'

'They probably can't spell it,' said Jennie.

Then the professional production team moved on to the more pressing matters of the moment. They were editing a brand new project ready for transmission that autumn.

Cheryl and Barry were old news.

They had known them fairly intimately for a while; some of the team had even grown fond of them. They had played with their kids and drunk their coffee; they had seen them getting up in the mornings and watched them going to bed at night. But The Dark End of the Street had finished in early spring, as do all worthwhile programmes, because the media people reckon folks will be out having barbecues in their gardens right the way through from then till September.

The filming for The Dark End of the Street had begun the year before and had gone on for four solid months and in that time Cheryl got herself pregnant again. The Christmas baby, too late to be filmed, was nevertheless conceived in time to do maximum damage.

A nosy nation was immediately divided, some clamouring for an immediate abortion, others for sterilization, and, for most viewers, this wilful breeding went way beyond the pale.

For goodness' sake. The Higginses could not cope as it was—Victor was two, Scarlett was one and here was another one on the way.

Rabbits.

Rats.

Mink.

No wonder Cheryl's cystitis was a semi-permanent condition. Too much rumpy-pumpy. Their dingy flat was tiny, Barry was still jobless, despite his magnificent efforts, and Cheryl was more gaunt than ever.

The thought of abortion made Cheryl go cold. She could hardly discuss it rationally. She wanted this baby, she wanted it badly. But to Barry, exhausted, with headaches, an ear infection and at his wits' end, it seemed like the only sensible option, broken-hearted though he might be. This hard-faced demonstration of the fecklessness of the masses goaded the country to fiendish fury. The Higginses' popularity dropped overnight like a barometer in a hurricane—how could anyone be so short-sighted, no matter how gormless they were?

And what of the morning-after pill?

Had the daft cow never heard of the coil?

Hadn't the people of Britain supported, encouraged, laughed with them, cried with them—and then to be let down like this? Not on. Their behaviour was unforgivable, their ignorance unacceptable. Their feeble dependence on others was disgraceful.

The silent majority stayed silent as usual, curious, amused, disinterested, or quietly sympathetic.

But the vociferous self-righteous minority included everyone else in their ravings. Some called her a witch. 'Witch, witch', they shouted, some dark collective memory in resurgence of centuries gone by when women were fair targets. The ratings soared with the fierce emotions. The viewers were invited to stop spectating and participate instead. They jumped at the chance like they always do, egged on by an excited press, and Griffin rubbed gleeful hands.

Cheryl and Barry, in their Paddington home, moved mostly among the outraged. They were ostracized, spat at in the street; their neighbours cursed them or ignored them, and the programme-makers went through the letters and kept most back from the despised pair. The letters were vicious, threatening, demented. Most viewers seemed to feel deliberately slighted by the couple; 'let down' was a phrase often used, 'smacked in the face' was another.

The nation cried shame with what seemed to be one voice, and turned into one hellish, unforgiving, fifties' mother.

Dismayed by this change of fortune (they had both been basking in film-star acclaim), Cheryl and Barry pleaded with the Griffin bosses to pull the series for the sake of their sanity. Cheryl's voice cracked and her eyes filled with tears. They were alarmed that matters might escalate after their final decision was screened. And how right they were.

The Dark End of the Street

The birth of Cheryl's second child, Scarlett, to the curious background music of The Waterboys' 'Strange World' opened the documentary with a bloody Caesarean drama in a stark delivery room, or 'suite', as St Mary's preferred to call it. Much play was made of close-up shots of the still boyish Barry's defensive scowl, his round blue eyes full of love and concern for the loudly labouring Cheryl, his sharp white teeth gnawing painfully at his bloodless bottom lip.

A daddy again at twenty years old, yet with all the care and commitment of a proper, less hopeless parent. And then, afterwards, appalled viewers in the comfort of their own homes could follow him from the hospital through the dark and rainy streets of his world, between the broken, skeletal cars, over the rubble and mounds of smashed bottles, up the five flights of concrete steps to his chill and miserable flat where, as the director had anticipated, the electricity meter had run out.

And in his arms, gently and protectively, Barry had cradled the twelvemonth-old Victor. The sense of despair and fading hope as he closed his mean front door was tangible.

Back in the hospital ward, the cameras waited for Cheryl to wake.

She slept like a baby.

The real baby looked more like a doll, a Cabbage Patch doll with its little squashed face and its rubbery, impossibly tiny fingers.

This was the first helpless image of Cheryl the viewers took to their hearts. In fact, the first of many. Her sharp, urchin face with its shy grin and its snub nose suggested a much younger eighteen-year-old. A tomboy on a wall with Kickers, jeans and bunches. A puppy would suit her more than a baby. A cheeky two-inch tuft of hair which sprung from an elastic band stood up like an exclamation mark, as if she was saying here I am! Look at me! Purple, green, red. The colour of this strange tuft varied according to what her mum could pick up, scrapings of dye from the salon where her sister, Sharon, worked. She could have been anyone's little girl, and the blue and white nightshirt which suggested denim had been cunningly provided by the costume department for the first pictures after the birth.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Witch's Cradle by Gillian White. Copyright © 2000 Gillian White. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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