Cry Baby by David Jackson

from her, and how much from the man. She knows only that the blade seeks its target, takes its prize.
    Another grunt. Movement. The man sliding slowly down the brick column behind him as his legs give way. His grip on her is still strong, and he pulls her down with him, causing her to sink to her knees. She moves her head closer to his, hears his breathing become ragged.
    ‘Sing to me, girl,’ he says. ‘Sing that song you always used to sing.’
    And she does. How can she not? She sings to him about the Camptown ladies and about the race track that is five miles long and about how she bet her money on a bob-tailed nag and about…
    He’s gone.
    She feels him go, and he lets her go too. Sets her free as he releases his grip. Sets her free as he once sought to break free himself.
    She hopes that, in his last moments, he found some kind of peace.
    ‘Thank you,’ she whispers to him. ‘Thank you for giving Georgia back to me.’
    And then she cries some more. Sits there amidst the smell of piss and blood and death, and cries.
    Sounds start to break through. The slamming of a door, and then footsteps running into the distance. Far-away sirens. Night-time city noises. Her world becomes painfully real and frightening again.
    ‘ Erin! Get up! We need to get you out of there.’
    He’s right. She knows he’s right. To go through all this and then still end up without Georgia would be a travesty. She has to listen to that voice now, even though it is the focal point of her hatred. Her fury at what she has just done is all turned on that voice.
    She gets to her feet. Stares down at the big bundle of rags that used to be a human being. You saved us, she thinks. You gave up your life for us.
    ‘Erin, are you listening to me?’
    She forces herself to listen, even though she has an almost irresistible impulse to take out the earpiece and stomp on it.
    ‘What?’ she says. ‘What do you want from me?’
    ‘We have to go, but there’s something else you need to do first.’
    She’s confused. Hasn’t she done enough? What more can she possibly do here?
    ‘What do you mean?’ she asks.
    So the voice tells her. It whispers its words of horror to her. Gives her a task to do that is beyond her comprehension.
    Truly, these must be the words of the devil himself.

1.18 AM
     
    Doyle slams the receiver down.
    ‘How is it,’ he says, ‘that we’re the only people willing to do any work at nights? What are we, idiots?’
    LeBlanc replaces his own telephone receiver. ‘We’re the boys in blue. Without us, they wouldn’t be able to sleep peacefully in their beds. But yes, we’re idiots too.’
    ‘You know what gets to me most? When people say they’ll call back, and then they don’t call back. What’s that all about? Why promise something if you have no intention of doing it? Why not just be honest about it? Why not just say, I’m real busy for the next two weeks, try somebody else?’
    ‘You’d prefer that?’
    ‘Sure I’d prefer it. At least then I’d know where I stood. This way, I have no idea if these people are ever gonna call.’
    Doyle is frustrated, but what frustrates him most is that much of this is his own doing. He should have followed procedure. He should have handed Albert over to the unis downstairs and then just walked away. Let them deal with it. Let them lock him up and keep watch over him. He wants to scream and rant, let him scream and rant. I should be on my way home now, like all the sensible detectives on the squad, instead of wasting my time making stupid phone calls that nobody wants to return.
    ‘So now what?’ LeBlanc asks.
    Doyle blows air out of the side of his mouth. He has tried every number he can think of for help on this, including social services, hospitals and mental health charities. Most of the calls weren’t answered, it being an ungodly hour of the day to be telephoning for anything. When he could, Doyle left a message. Of the ones who answered, some said they couldn’t do