The Fire Baby

‘Philip. Good day,’ said August, draining his drink and pushing the glass back across for the barman to refill. Dryden put a ten-pound note on the bar top and looked forward to the small change.

Today August was a drunk, just like every day. He ran a hand through his militarily trimmed white hair. ‘Laura?’

That was the problem with Dryden’s friends. They all asked the same question.

‘Same. Better. I get messages. Sometimes they make sense.’

August slapped a twenty-dollar bill on the counter but the bartender was way ahead of him.

Dryden started his second beer fighting off a dual attack – hiccoughs and burps. He’d phoned August the day before to ask for details on the Black Bank air crash, 1976. For Maggie to successfully switch the babies she would have had to hoodwink the US military authorities into accepting that her own son, Matty, was in fact Lyndon Koskinski. How had that been possible?

August never wrote anything down but luckily he had a good memory before lunch. ‘I read the file on the crash. Not much. Why would the woman lie, after all? This kid, her kid, was about the same age as the Koskinski boy – a few days’ difference. Their colouring and weight were similar.’

‘How did Maggie know that?’ asked Dryden.

August shrugged. ‘The dead child was found amongst the wreckage of the farm house. The body was clearly visible. The boy had died instantly from massive internal wounds caused by the impact. He had been travelling in a baby seat with a belt and had been thrown clear. My guess is Maggie found him, quickly realized the similarity in age and saw her chance to swap the babies. It looks like Maggie removed the blanket the Koskinski kid was wrapped in and used it to swaddle Matty Beck.’

Dryden paid for another round, feeling the room begin to gyrate on oiled wheels.

August was smoothing down his uniform in Mickey’s bar mirror.

‘The child who survived was examined by the base medic on duty that night, a different one had delivered the child at the US clinic. By the time of the crash the original doctor was Stateside, his tour over. The Koskinski child had been cared for twenty-four hours a day by his mother, they lived in married quarters on the base. Jim, the father, had returned for the birth from Vietnam.’

August downed a fourth drink, but Dryden wasn’t counting. ‘There was a problem they should’ve checked out,’ said August. ‘But hey, the grandparents had been told, they wanted the kid, the rush was understandable.’

‘What kind of problem?’ said Dryden, aware he was slurring his words.

‘Blood. They gave the kid a transfusion because of a slight head injury. He’d lost some blood. Luckily they double-checked the type. It didn’t match the records. They put it down to an error. Sounds incredible now, but remember, Dryden, this woman had given her own son away. Nobody could have imagined she was lying. The base medics took him that night and as far as I can see she never saw him again until this summer. Never looked back. All the Koskinskis had seen was a few shots taken after the birth – and we all know what newborn kids look like, right? Walnuts. What was anyone supposed to think? Perhaps they didn’t want to think. And don’t forget, Maggie Beck went on to identify the kid in the mortuary as her son. Who’s gonna step forward and ask: “You sure about that, lady?” ’

‘What about the autopsy?’

‘Not our jurisdiction. Local coroner. It’ll be in the records. But apart from weight and vital statistics they had nothing else to go on. She identified him, for Christ’s sake.’

August sipped the bourbon, realizing that he’d reached that point where the rest of the day was going to be spent in a fog of alcohol. ‘Any idea why she did it?’

Dryden burped into his glass. ‘Nope. She left some tapes – recordings she’d made setting out her life story. Perhaps the reason is in there.’ He burped again. ‘What do you know about Koskinski? What happened to him in the desert?’

August gave him a sidelong look and pushed the empty glass across again. ‘Let’s sit down.’

They took a booth.

‘He came down in Iraq. Engine failure. Captured and taken in for interrogation. He was held in Al Rasheid – the Baghdad Hilton. I don’t need to paint pictures, I’m sure, but every expense was spared. So when they did fly him out it was felt, understandably, that we owed him some R&R, and not least some time to recuperate. He’s under medical treatment as well – base hospital unit are dealing with that. Enough?’

Dryden nodded but remembered his golden rule: there’s always one more question.

‘And he’s back on the base?’