Mouths of Babes [Paperback]

"'Nobody understands the dirty little secrets of the human heart better than Stella Duffy. I defy anyone to read this without squirming' Val McDermid 'The clever money should be on Duffy when the crime-writing Oscars are dished out' Daily Telegraph 'With her four Saz novels, Duffy has proved herself to be one of the very best of the younger generation of crime writers' The Times 'A promising writer has matured into a classic' Guardian 'Duffy gives good story' Maxim Jakubowski, Time Out"

Saz Martin is settled into new motherhood with her partner Molly and their nine-month-old daughter Matilda. Things have not been easy since the birth - late nights, early mornings, and a sudden death have all taken their toll - but with Molly?s return to full time work and Saz happily taking on the role of Matilda?s prime carer, both women feel they are finally adjusting to parenthood and the demands of their new life. And then the phone rings. The door knocks. A well-known stranger arrives. Instead of moving forward into her role as a full time mother, Saz is forced to face her past, confronting people and events she had long ago hoped to forget. In a story of how the sins of our past always come back to haunt us, Stella Duffy reveals secrets no-one knew about Saz Martin, explores why Saz is who she is, and asks is it still possible to believe in our heroes ? and our lovers ? when their flaws are well and truly exposed?

Born in London and raised in New Zealand, Stella Duffy is the author of ten novels, over thirty stories, and eight plays.  Her novel State of Happiness was longlisted for the 2004 Orange Prize, and she is currently writing the screenplay adaptation for the feature film production. With Lauren Henderson she co-edited the anthology Tart Noir, from which her story Martha Grace won the 2002 CWA Short Story Award.  She has appeared on BBC Radio 4, in sitcoms, plays and quizzes, and is a performer with comedy company Spontaneous Combustion and theatre company Improbable.  She is an occasional guest with the Comedy Store Players.

Mouths of Babes by Stella Duffy Leadtext: One You all watched it happen. It happened to me, but it also happened to you. We were there at the same time. Each of you said you'd seen it, witnessed the exact same event. But I was there too, and my point of view was different to yours. Your backs were to the wall - mine wasn't. I saw it all. You only saw me. And from where I was standing I could see all of you, each of you, quite clearly. And though you said they were, your stories were not the same. Two Molly lay in bed. She'd already turned off the radio alarm three times, was reaching out her hand to turn it off again. A bomb somewhere. An earthquake somewhere else. An old dead movie star, another royal idiocy, a major scientific breakthrough promised. Maybe. Next year. Or the year after. If the funding comes through. Constantly waiting for funding. All of it utterly banal, pointless, as relevant as the weather. Squally showers to start, growing fine in the east, cooler tonight. She turned on to her side and stared at the new-bought clothes hanging on the wardrobe, darker and less distinct through the shadowed morning light. Molly had only bought these clothes yesterday, a whole new outfit. Too much money and an uncaring signature attached to her credit card slip. Uncaring, not caring, don't care, can't care, care too much. But now the clothes seemed unreal, in the shop still, on a mannequin. Not for her body, hers to wear. Surely it couldn't be right to wear them. But she would, wear them, just the once. Wear them out, out on the street, into the car and to the places she had no choice but to go, her day carefully planned and moving ahead whether she liked it or not. Long white skirt, fitted white jacket. Both lined in robin red silk to match the dark red choli. New bra, new knickers. Red again. Silk again. Shoes sitting below the ensemble. Red shoes. Sexy shoes, high heels, red leather. Not funeral shoes. That was the point, her point. Molly didn't want to be dressing for a funeral, this funeral. She didn't want to be dressing at all, ever again. Didn't want to be putting on the clothes, giving in to the light behind the curtains, making it real. Every day that turned into sleep-free night and another shattered morning made it more real, took her further from then, the time before this. The time before now. Not funeral shoes. Not funeral clothes, not strictly, white for mourning but the red too red, too statement. Fuck it. Wearing them anyway. Molly turned off the radio alarm, the moaning droning voices, and closed her eyes again, trying to find sleep, a place of safety, place of not-this, not-here, not-now. Trying to force herself back into a space where she wasn't getting up for the funeral, where she wasn't dressing up against her will for an event she couldn't bear was happening, would happen, had to happen. Booked and paid for and planned and agreed and all nicely arranged to within five minutes of get-me-to-the-cemetery on time. Busy cemetery, bodies lining up, the living queuing up with their lying-down dead, careful not to miss their allocated slot, not to spill their own grief over those leaving before, the others waiting after. The funeral director had been very specific, honest, a plain language specialist Molly might have appreciated in another time, not this time. This particular cemetery was a very busy place. They had their hour booked. Molly had to get out of bed. Today was the day. She wasn't going to cry again. Not now, not yet, not before she'd even lifted her head from the pillow, while the curtains were still closed, the street outside quiet. For the past week she'd finally gone to bed around midnight, woken at three, four at the latest, and waited crying in the dark for another day to happen. Another day that would bring sympathy cards in the post and too many flowers for the small front room and phone calls she couldn't bring herself to answer. But she would. Molly was good like that. Polite. Well brought up. Getting up. In the shower she knew she was washing her skin, her long black hair, shampoo and conditioner, shaving brown legs, concave armpits, making herself nice. And good. Good girl. Razor reaching for scalp. She could shave her head too. Make a statement, harsher than the shoes, show on the outside what was going on inside. Bare, bared, unbearable. Except that it was. Anything was, everything was. Bearable, do-able, carry-on-able. Molly knew that now. Had guessed it before, seen it on the faces of the parents she dealt with daily at the hospital, grief-stricken at their own child's pain, or even their own child's death, and yet, astonishingly, still breathing. But she really knew it now - the planet demands we keep turning with it - and, incredibly, we do. The water was turning cold, must have forgotten to put it on overnight again, she didn't care much. Hot, cold. Whatever. Washing felt utterly unnecessary. Had done since that first phone call six days ago, disembodied voice speaking aloud and making no sense. All of it meaningless and yet so incredibly ordinary at the same time, normal activities turned stupid ever since. Stupid and hard, hands moving through quicksand to make a cup of tea she couldn't drink, milk turning sour in her hand, mouth forming impossible shapes to say the impossible words, taxis and buses and cars and bicycles, all with everyone carrying on, still breathing. Except the one Molly wanted breathing. Lying down, laid out, cold. Molly remembered a story her grandmother had told her, passed down through generations of early-widowed women, about an aunt who followed the old ways. Suttee had long been outlawed, and this aunt had been desperate to throw herself on the husband's funeral pyre, plenty of older women ready to help her, but various authorities at the funeral, standing around to make sure it wouldn't be done, taking care to prove that their village was as modern and enlightened as the next. The aunt was finally dragged from the cold ashes and taken home, where she sat still, refusing to eat or speak. Refused to wash for forty days. There was nothing they could do, short of pushing the old woman into a bath. They could keep her alive but they couldn't keep her clean. Molly liked the idea. Greasy hair and filthy clothes, unwashed mouth, ragged fingernails. She wanted the outer show, the proof of mourning. Remembered the white suit and the red shoes, everything depending on her clothes, and nearly smiled. Sunshine through the bathroom window. Proof of morning. She rinsed her clean hair in cold water, turned off the taps, dried her shivering skin. Applied deodorant, moisturiser, body cream, perfume. Performed the actions. The ones she had also performed for the cold body. Combed and dried her hair, long and straight and black. Pulled it back tight, hard as she could, hard as her mother had when she was a little girl and first wearing the long long plaits to school. Stood naked in front of the mirror and didn't know why it was she was still standing. Dressed anyway. Was ready and waiting for when they would come to get her, join her, hold her hand as they all went off together. The standing ones, still-breathing ones, and the cold waxy dead one in the pale narrow box. Molly had been ready for almost an hour, sitting, not moving, when finally a key turned in the front door, there were footsteps, someone called her name, a quiet voice, uncertain, and then Saz stood there, their baby daughter sleepy in her arms. "Moll? Are you ready?" "No." "You look ready. You're dressed. That's good." "I don't want to go." "You look lovely. The suit looks lovely." "Shoes?" "The shoes are perfect, babe." "Sure?" "Perfect. He'd have loved them, the gesture." "I can't come. Not yet." Saz shifted the waking baby girl to her other hip. "Rig