The Bazaar of Bad Dreams

Back at their building, Chad raced up the stairs. He felt sure that she wouldn’t be there. He had seen her go skimming away at a full-out run, and the mothers had barely given her a look – they were converging on the child she had chosen, a boy of perhaps four – but he was still sure she wouldn’t be there and that he would get a call telling him that his wife was at the police station, where she had collapsed and told everything, including his part in it. Worse, Winnie’s part in it, thus ensuring it had all been for nothing.

His hand was shaking so badly that he couldn’t get the key in the slot; it went chattering madly around the keyplate without even coming close. He was in the act of putting down the paper bag (now badly crumpled) with the video cam inside it, so he could use his left hand to steady his right, when the door opened.

Nora was now wearing cut-off jeans and a shell top, the clothes she’d had on beneath the long skirt and smock. The plan had been for her to change in the car, before driving away. She said she could do it like lightning, and it seemed she’d been right.

He threw his arms around her and hugged her so tightly he heard the thump as she came against him – not exactly a romantic embrace.

Nora bore this for a moment, then said, ‘Come inside. Get out of the hall.’ And as soon as the door to the outside world was closed, she said, ‘Did you get it? Tell me you did. I’ve been here for almost half an hour, pacing around like Mrs Reston in the middle of the night … Mrs Reston if she was on speed, that is … wondering—’

‘I was worried too.’ He shoved his hair off his forehead, where the skin felt hot and feverish. ‘Norrie, I was scared to death.’

She snatched the bag from his hands, peered inside, then glared at him. She had ditched the sunglasses. Her blue eyes burned. ‘Tell me you got it.’

‘Yeah. That is, I think so. I must have. I haven’t looked yet.’

The glare got hotter. He thought, Watch out, Nor, your eyeballs will catch fire if you keep doing that.

‘You better have. You better have. The time I haven’t been pacing around, I’ve been on the toilet. I keep having cramps—’ She went to the window and looked out. He joined her, afraid she knew something he didn’t. But there were only the usual pedestrians going back and forth.

She turned to him again, and this time grabbed his arms. Her palms were dead cold. ‘Is he all right? The kid? Did you see if he was okay?’

‘He’s fine,’ Chad said.

‘Are you lying?’ She was shouting into his face. ‘You better not be! Was he all right?’

‘Fine. Standing up even before the mothers got to him. Bawling his head off, but I got worse at that kid’s age when I was clopped in the back of the head by a swing. I had to go to the emergency room and have five sti—’

‘I hit him much harder than I meant to. I was so afraid that if I pulled the punch … if Winnie saw I pulled it … he wouldn’t pay. And the adrenaline … Christ! It’s a wonder I didn’t tear that poor kid’s head right off! Why did I ever do it?’ But she wasn’t crying, and she didn’t look remorseful. She looked furious. ‘Why did you let me?’

‘I never—’

‘Are you sure he’s all right? You really saw him getting up? Because I hit him much harder than I …’ She wheeled away from him, went to the wall, knocked her forehead against it, then turned back. ‘I walked into a playground and I punched a four-year-old child square in the mouth! For money!’

He had an inspiration. ‘I think it’s on the tape. The kid getting up, I mean. You’ll see for yourself.’

She flew back across the room. ‘Put it on the TV! I want to see!’

Chad attached the VSS cable Charlie had given him. Then, after a little fumbling, he played the tape on the TV. He had indeed recorded the kid getting to his feet again, just before shutting the thing off and walking away. The kid looked bewildered, and of course he was crying, but otherwise he seemed fine. His lips were bleeding quite a lot, but his nose only a little. Chad thought he might have gotten the bloody nose when he fell down.

No worse than any minor playground accident, he thought. Thousands of them happen every day.

‘See?’ he asked her. ‘He’s fi—’

‘Run it again.’

He did. And when she asked him to run it a third time, and a fourth, and a fifth, he did that too. At some point he became aware that she was no longer watching to see the kid get up. Neither was he. They were watching him go down. And the punch. The punch delivered by the crazy red-haired bitch in the sunglasses. The one who walked up and did her business and then took off with wings on her sneakers.

She said, ‘I think I knocked out one of his teeth.’

He shrugged. ‘Good news for the Tooth Fairy.’

After the fifth viewing, she said: ‘I want to get the red out of my hair. I hate it.’

‘Okay—’