I won the monthly Global Short story competition in September 2009 with this story.
Over the years, many things had been left on Gavin's doorstep: telephone directories, the odd bunch of flowers, litter. And once, before he came south and just after the neighbours had found out about him, a pile of what his mother called 'dog mess'.
Never a baby though.
Even from down here he could tell that the straw shopping basket by the front door contained a baby. He was hardwired to recognise that Moses moment just like anyone else. Perhaps more than anyone else.
He realised then that he was frozen mid-climb like some cartoon of surprise: one leg up on the first step, one leg down on the pavement and his front door key in his hand. So he quickly climbed to the top of the steps and looked down into the basket.
He wanted to be able to sneer at its tacky purpleness; whip out something Gavinesque about the missing taste buds of the person who had picked it, but his heart was all over the place and he was having too much trouble trying to claw his way out of the bathroom back in Doncaster. He saw himself down on his knees where the lino was worn away by all those feet facing forward, facing backwards. His sister was panting.
Quietly.
This baby was asleep though; its features folded in on itself. It was tiny, days old at most.
Only when his heart had calmed to something like its normal rate did he think of turning his head quickly to scan up and down the street.
The last of the day's sun was dazzling off windscreens and wing mirrors; London was grinding its way home in the background. No one was skulking away with tell-tale baby vomit down their back.
He thought of Maxwell and his career and the need to act correctly, and reached for his mobile phone.
His thumb hesitated over the '9'. When the police arrived, blue lights flashing, it would make this seem too important, too public. Someone, or some people, had merely picked a doorstep and left a baby on it; could have been any of the doorsteps on the street.
He'd ring the police station instead. More low key. There would be a phone number in the house. Skirting around the basket as cautiously as if it had been ticking, he slid the key into the lock and pushed open the door. The baby moved and he held his breath. It stilled again and Gavin saw that the little fists were now out, clenched on top of the blanket as if it was incensed that it had been abandoned.
He bent down and slipped off his trainer and then, wedging open the front door, walked lopsidedly along the hall. Already the baby was changing things. Now his first impression of home was not expensive polish or hand-blocked wallpaper, but how his foot in its sock slipped on the wooden floor. He was glad to get into the kitchen among the cold comfort of the granite.
Except the baby kept pulling him back along the hallway.
He couldn't decide if it was the good postcode, the antique furniture, or a Diversity Awareness course that was keeping the police officers in check. Both young, the guy not bad looking in a boy band kind of way, they were playing it straight.
Unfortunately they had brought the basket, and therefore the baby, inside. Now they were all perched on the sofa and chairs with that hideous purple thing centre stage, like some screamingly kitsch piece of art. The emergency social worker was on her way.
