The Baby Box

By Chris Leicester

Yvonne is 45. She’s bitter, blunt, hurt, angry, lonely; funny. She’s had an interesting life. She’s killed her step mother. She’s been in prison for the last 12 years. Two days ago she gave birth for the first time. Now she’s on the run from the police and a media crusade. We join her as she takes refuge in the empty, old family home, roaming from room to room, unlocking secrets and fears, trying to make sense of it all; telling us her story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Leicester
• Release date: Mar 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311107152

Chris Leicester

Chris originates from Sheffield, UK but he now lives in Chester with his wife and two young sons. Along the way he’s had several adventures in the world including cycling across Australia for Cancer Research and buying land from cannibals. As well as books Chris also writes stage plays, screenplays, radio plays and poetry. His past work includes; ‘Mickey’, a radio play for the BBC in 2001, ‘Tales From the Riverbank’ in 2001, ‘The Last Train to Jordan Road’ in 2003, (called ‘Mafioso’ for the Edinburgh Fringe later in that year,) ‘The Fourth Wall’ which ran at The Old Red Lion Theatre in Islington and then in Edinburgh in 2005 and ‘The Baby Box’ which ran for a month at The Old Red Lion Theatre 2008, “Slasher” Kincade which toured the UK in 2010. His last play ‘Charlie Bangers’ premiered at the prestigious Lowry Theatre in Salford Quays, Manchester on September 2011 and tours the UK in 2012. His is writing his next new play, ‘Hurricane Hill,’ for a major TV and Stage name and this will be ready for production in 2013. “A brilliant evening of live entertainment and theatre at its rawest best.” (Four stars) whatsonstage.com on 'Slasher' Kincade 16/04/2010 “Slick production is a play of our times” Hackney Gazette on “Slasher” Kincade 6/5/10 “Leicester is also an accomplished director and blends clever lighting and physical theatre to bring his plays to life.” The Stage on “Slasher” Kincade 10/5/10 “The power of Leicester’s writing combined with the wonderful acting talent really carries the play through to the very end....the chemistry of such a beautiful text.” Extra! Extra! on ‘The Baby Box’ 2008. “Naturalistic, gritty writing – reminiscent of Mike Leigh.” Camden New Journal on ‘The Baby Box’ 2008 “Leicester's writing is confident and powerful..” Hampstead and Highgate Express on ‘The Baby Box’ 2008 “Chris Leicester’s clever, acerbic, unpredictable play...” The Stage on ‘The Fourth Wall’ 2005 ‘Achieves moments of mesmerising realism that Stanislavski would have applauded’, Time Out on ‘The Fourth Wall’ 2005. '...beg, borrow or knee-cap for a ticket!’ The Scotsman on ‘Mafioso’ 2003

Book preview

THE BABY BOX

By

Chris Leicester

*****

The Baby Box

Chris Leicester

Copyright by Chris Leicester 2014

Smashwords Edition

*****

Discover other titles by Chris Leicester:

‘Going For The Wire’

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/159214

‘Charlie Bangers’

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/344073

'The Last Train to Jordan Road'

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/344957

'The Fourth Wall'

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/403105

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THE BABY BOX

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

About the Author

Past Reviews

Sample Chapters of other books

Chapter One

'You’re not going to help me. You’re not going to help me, are you?’

It was a comfort, talking, speaking aloud like that, even though there was no one there, well, no one apart from me, that is.

‘But why would you? Why should you help me, eh?’

I could still see her there, in her same space, huddled in the corner, in her favourite chair aimed right at the television.

‘Shit, what have I done? What’ll they do to me?’

I sat down on the short settee with the silly useless back looking like Quasi bloody Modo. Jesus, I had to. The pains were back, worse now, like molten metal inside me. The room looked better for a paint though, and thank god those curtains had gone. That rancid check she’d kept for all those years, like some great big, gawdy kilt hanging in the windows.

I looked around for the cat, but of course he’d be gone too. Years ago probably, but I wouldn’t have known, and they wouldn’t have told me. No letters or visits, so why should they bother telling me that, eh? I didn’t miss the smell though. Poor little sod. Incontinent for all that time and her just leaving him like she used to in all that medieval stuff. She lost him but she'd lost his love as well; it suited the place somehow.

The pictures had changed too, but it was still the cheap, commercial tat. The butchered, messed up landscapes were now replaced by chic, pretentious, leggy women strolling on beaches with the wind blowing through their hair and half their tits hanging out. But that’s because my sister owned the house now. Her stamp was on it, big and heavy like some great big hiking boot. She’d got it after my mother, died. Well, they were hardly likely to give it to me, were they? Dad would have given me something though, I always kept thinking that. Yeah, he’d have seen to something for me at least, but not her.

I’d heard they’d gone away again. Her and Clive; that husband of hers, that sad little mouse she’d married. The one that said ‘yes’ to everything. He’d nearly said no at the wedding though by all accounts. Quivering by the grave stones, his dad dragging him back in by the scruff of his neck, making him go through with it all. I’m glad I missed it now. I’m glad I couldn’t go. But maybe that’s one of the benefits, eh?

Australia this time. No expense. Up to the barrier reef, round the Top End, meet the crocs and then back down the middle. Being right good Poms they were. I saw the card on the mat. Who sends postcards to themselves, for Christ sakes? Probably for that album she has. Another page gone, another trophy. Something else to brag about at those shit little get-togethers she puts on - and leaves me out of. It suited me though, them being away. I couldn’t go back to the flat. Bound to look for me there. I had to find somewhere, didn’t I? So I found the key under the old rock where mum used to keep it, unlocked the door and crept in.

Jenny was with me when she came. She’s had two of her own and being an ex-nurse must have helped. God, I’ve been so lucky with her. She’s stuck with me through everything, she has. We were just talking about what we’d do and shit, it happened. My waters broke half way down the landing. There was no time to call anyone else, and she was brilliant. Cool as a cucumber and then there she was. Eight pounds, five ounces. Born to Dancing Queen. The radio was still on in the kitchen. Jenny was larking about, volume up, pretending to be the blonde one and there was me screaming half the street down. Christ, born to sodding Dancing Queen.

She left at five in the morning. She looked knackered. I told her I’d call the doctor, but I didn’t. I didn’t. But I was on my own, wasn’t I? I should have asked her to stay, I know that now, but you don’t think, you don’t expect it, do you? Why would you, and if it’s your first time, you couldn’t, could you? Shit, I bet they’ll have cameras, won’t they? I bet they saw me; they must have. But it just hit me, and it’s really hard to explain, you know? Like you want to hide, turn things back, run away, like you feel really sorry for yourself. It’s like some great big panic takes over you and you can’t do anything to stop it. I still don’t know what happened. Just looking at her there. Jesus, not even enough time to assemble the bloody cot. But she’d started to cry and she she wouldn’t, I couldn’t stop her. I couldn’t stop her and it, it just took over me. I picked her up. I got in the car and went. I don’t know why I did it but I just went.

Chapter Two

They’ve squeezed a toilet in there. The little room where we used to leave our wellies for the garden. Just by the back door. Dead handy it was. A nice little dumping ground. Fancies himself as a craftsman by the look of it, he does; her Clive. But the ends don’t meet and the angles are all wrong. It just looks stupid now. All rubbish and in the wrong places, trying to match the IKEA.

I went back to the lounge after that. The settee squished down as I sat on it. Smooth, blue leather made out of eight virgin cows or something probably. I can just see her polishing it, counting all