Not flesh of my flesh, nor bone of my bone, but still miraculously my own.

Never forget for a single minute, you didn't grow under my heart, but in it.

Fleur Conkling Heyliger

Chapter One

Emily leaned over the tiny stainless steel sink, pulling her long black hair to one side and holding it in place as she bent forward to wash her face. The water splashed down onto the dark haired baby she wore strapped to her chest, and he squealed nuzzling his cheek into her cardigan, rubbing the moisture away. She winced as the icy water turned her fingertips blue, and reached over to the soap dispenser only to find it empty. Again.

Sighing, she took a handful of paper towels and rubbed the rough surface over her skin until she was dry. She took one more and held it under the trickling tap, then squeezed it in her fingers, watching the excess water filter away. She leaned forward, dangling the baby backwards so that she could reach his face, and deftly used the damp paper to clean his skin.

He arched away and she dipped into the woven wrap, locating a sticky hand and pulling it free. She cleaned it thoroughly and then found the other one. “No need to look so worried Flynn,” she muttered. “It's way to cold for a big wash, you're getting away with the bare minimum today, lucky boy!”

She tossed the paper towel into the bin and grabbed her backpack, slinging the heavy weight onto her shoulders. Loud, happy voices echoed through the public toilets, and Emily looked behind her to see two women entering, one blonde and soft looking, one pixie like redhead, both pushing buggies overladen with changing bags and souvenirs. Emily immediately spotted a plastic bag with the Natural History Museum logo on it and smiled widely. Jackpot.

Without a doubt, the best thing about being homeless in London was the tourists. They never failed to surprise her with their sheer naivety. Stealing from them, conning them in some way or another, it was almost too simple. But Emily didn't crave challenge, she didn't wish they would make it a little harder to get what she wanted. What she craved was food. Money to buy clothes for her growing son, safety. Day to day life was challenging enough. The easy tourists were a gift and she hoped these two wouldn't let her down.

Emily smiled confidently at them and pushed her numerous fake gold and silver bangles up her forearm, pointing to the two sleeping toddlers in their buggies. “Long day?” she asked.

“Yes,” the blonde woman sighed happily. “We've seen everything. They've had so much fun!”

“How old are they?”

“Both two. This is Thomas,” she said, pointing to the red cheeked, blonde haired boy in front of her. “And this is Elizabeth,” she gestured to her friend's child. “How old is yours?”

Emily looked down at her son, smiling with pride. “He's ten months.”

“You're not wearing any shoes,” the pixie woman exclaimed, noticing the dirty bare feet poking out from beneath her flowing skirt. “Is this a new fashion thing? You must be freezing!”

“Uh, no, not a fashion thing. More a stepped in a big puddle thing. They're in my bag. I was just going to go and get some new ones for the journey home,” she lied, not wanting to tell them the truth. That she had swapped her shoes last week for a BLT and a Starbucks latte with “Woozy Susie.” It had been getting dark and Emily hadn't eaten all day, when Susie, a no nonsense, afro haired, pickled livered, sixty year old woman who had been on the streets most her life, had struck up the deal with her. She had been too hungry to even think of saying no.

For some reason, and she couldn't fathom why, she got a lot less charity than others in the area. You would think that with a baby, people would be falling over themselves to help her, but it wasn't like that. If anything, they judged her harder and ignored her even more than the standard prescription for the misfortunate. If only they knew what she had been through to end up in this situation. If only they would open their minds for a second and give her a chance to explain.

So, she had no shoes. In October. In London. But she did have a pair of thick woollen socks. She just wasn’t about to ruin them walking around the streets in the filth and wet all day, when she could save them and have warm, dry feet tonight.

“I see,” the red head said uneasily, breaking eye contact. Emily smiled warmly, and looked away. Her goal was to look wholesome and trustworthy, not an easy thing to accomplish when she was waiting for an opportunity to prove them wrong, but she had been around long enough to know how to play the game. Hell, even before her street life she'd had to hone her skills as an actress.

Pretending. Lying. Trying to keep him from seeing the truth, to keep herself safe from his volatile mood swings. She shuddered, not surprised by the sudden turn of her thoughts. She regularly had flashbacks and nightmares, and she thought she saw him at least twice a week. She would be walking along the street and there he would be, striding purposefully towards her. Or sitting on the platform at the train station. Eating a sandwich outside a café.

When that happened, she would melt into the walls, hide her face and hold her breath. She couldn't risk him finding her, finding Flynn. It always took her hours to resume her sense of normality after these false sightings.

But right now, she needed to focus. She glanced over at the women. The pixie was taking a tampon out of her bag, the blonde busily peeling back the blanket from the hot, sleeping child. She needed them to feel comfortable, to see her as just another mother, not as a potential threat. She turned on the water again, making a show of washing her hands. Stalling. The two women parked their buggies beside the sinks and both of them went into the stalls.

Unbelievable, Emily thought, shaking her head. Though she had seen it time and time again, she still couldn't understand what must be going through their minds. To leave not only their belongings, their valuables, but also their precious children right there for the taking in a dirty, public toilet in the middle of London. Emily instinctively wrapped her arms around Flynn, sick at the thought of what could happen if the wrong person saw the unattended children.

Perhaps, she thought introspectively, her fear was a product of her past. Maybe these women had led such blessed lives that they couldn't fathom a time when life would strike them down and leave them ruined. She hoped they would never have to face the consequences of such trusting naivety.

She waited three seconds, wiping her palms dry on her skirt, then walked straight to where the two toddlers were sleeping, completely unaware of the world around them. With expert fingers, she slid a handful of nappies, a packet of wet wipes and one of the two purses from the open bags. She riffled through the purse and found forty pounds in cash.

Grinning, she slipped the now empty purse back into the bag and without hesitating a second longer, walked straight out of the toilets. Forty pound! She felt like jumping up and down with excitement. They would be eating tonight. And she might even splash out and buy some shoes if she could find a cheap pair. She made for the back streets, knowing they would never find her, already pushing their faces from her mind.

She never let herself think about the effect her actions would have on the people she targeted. She couldn't. Yes, it was harsh, yes it would be a little crack in their otherwise perfect day, but she never took credit cards or personal things, and she knew they would manage without it. What would be a nice takeaway or a family day out for them, would mean her and Flynn could eat every day for a fortnight or maybe more. She didn't feel bad taking from them. It was necessary.

Emily could feel the eyes burning into her back as she walked the aisles of the busy supermarket, a basket slung over her arm. She had found a pair of trainers only one size too big for four pounds in the sale bin, and she had made straight for the reduced food section, marked down because it only had a few hours of shelf life left. Four sandwiches marked at thirty pence each and a tub of strawberries for ten pence lay alongside the shoes in her basket. She glanced over her shoulder to see the young, burly security guard following closely behind. This was bullshit. She had money in her pocket and she knew she hadn't done anything wrong.

Emily hated the way people treated her because she was struggling. Homeless. They were scared of her, wary, and she couldn't stand it. This time two years ago she had been shopping in Waitrose, driving a Fiat, a part of society. She had lost everything in the course of one day, but that didn't change who she was deep down. It wasn't fair.

And though she didn't bat an eye at stealing one on one, she would never take the risk of stealing from a real shop. She wouldn't dare, for fear of being hemmed in by security. Of not being able to get out. Of having them take Flynn from her. She was always on her best behaviour in places like this. So why on earth was he following her?

“Miss?”

She turned, a false smile plastered on her face. “Yes?”

“I'm going to have to ask you to leave, if you could just follow me please,” the guard said, reaching forward and forcibly taking her basket from her.

“What? Why?”

“You know your kind aren't allowed in here.”

“My kind?” she asked, reeling from his insult.

“You know.”

“No, I don't. I haven't a clue what you're on about. I just want to buy my food and I'll be going,” she said, reaching to take the basket from him.

“Don't make a scene. Come on, let's go.”

“No! What have I done? I'm trying to buy food for my son, I haven't done anything wrong!”

“We have enough of you lot coming in here and taking stuff without paying. This ain't a charity love. Go to a soup kitchen or somethin', but don't be coming back here. You ain't welcome.”

“I'm not homeless, I'm a backpacker. Fuck. I didn't do anything wrong, just let me buy the food.”

“You ain't got no money, look at you, you don't even have any shoes on and the kids not dressed for this weather,” he said, pointing at Flynn's bare feet.

“I'm buying shoes, look!” she shouted, pointing at the basket. “How am I supposed to wear shoes if you won't let me buy them?”

A crowd of curious onlookers was beginning to form at the end of the aisle, though Emily noticed that they kept a safe distance away. Wouldn't want to get too close to the crazy homeless lady now, would they? The guard glanced at them, frowning, then leaned towards Emily, a menacing expression on his face.

“Do I need to call for assistance or are you gonna get out?”

Emily glared at him venomously, hatred burning in her eyes. It wasn't fair. None of this was fair. Every ounce of her wanted to fight this, to stand up for herself and win. But she couldn't risk it.  The police would never take her side, that was just the way it went. With an angry grunt, she let go of the basket, her gaze resting briefly on the food she wouldn't get to eat. The shoes she wouldn't get to wear. “Fine. I'll go somewhere else,” she said, her fist clenching tightly around the money in her pocket.

With all the dignity she could muster, she turned and walked away, the sound of the crowd's disapproving mutters ringing in her ears. His heavy footsteps followed behind her all the way to the exit.

Chapter Two

Emily walked as far and as fast from the scene of her humiliation as she could, tears streaming silently down her face. She hated that she had let that arrogant jobsworth get to her. She hated that he had power over her, that she had let him make her feel so desperate.

But she was desperate. She couldn't deny it. She would have begged if she thought he would have given in and shown her some humility. She would have shown him the money in her pocket if she hadn't been sure he would take it or call the police on suspicion of theft. Which of course it bloody was. She couldn't have changed his mind about her no matter what she had done. She had learned that the hard way when she'd first come to the streets. Some people will see what they want to see no matter what you do to change their minds. There was no point in even trying.

Her feet were ice cold and cut to shreds and she realised with a sigh that she would have to stop. The pain was too much to bear. She stepped off the pavement, into the doorway of an abandoned betting shop. Sinking against the rough concrete wall Emily felt her legs weaken, and she slid down to sit on the cold hard ground. Flynn was rousing and beginning to kick his legs against her stomach, and Emily felt a fresh wave of tears began to fall. She was so drained at the the thought of feeding him again.

Her milk had been suffering lately after a run of bad luck and not enough food, and as a result, her nipples were chapped and sore from Flynn sucking harder than usual, trying desperately to get his fill. It broke her heart to see him so hungry, and she knew he wasn't as big as he could be. But hard as it was, she was thankful to have a way to feed him for free. Some days he was the only one of them who got to eat.

She released him from the woven wrap, letting the soft material land in a pile of rainbow hemp on her lap. Running her fingers over the buttery soft fabric, she thought back to how the beautiful sling had found its way into her possession. She had been nine months pregnant and ready to burst. All she could think about was how she was going to survive once the life inside of her emerged, how she was going to keep her baby from freezing to death.

She had been approached on the street by several volunteers as the months had passed and her belly had swollen, though the rest of her had shrunk considerably. Nice people, trying to help, to make a difference. They wanted her to come with them. Somewhere safe, somewhere she could birth her baby in peace, warm, dry and off the freezing London streets. And she had wanted to.

But her fear of being found was too great. She couldn't bring herself to trust them. The thought of putting her life in the hands of another fallible human being was too big a step for her to take. As she had stood outside the women's refuge, feeling the slow tumbles and turns of her child within her womb, she knew the risk was too great. She could never give herself over to these strangers, not when she was at her weakest. Not when she would be too consumed with birthing her baby to defend herself.

Devastated by the chance she couldn't take, the warmth she had to refuse, she had turned and walked away, tears blinding her vision as she pictured her naked baby, blue and shivering in her arms. She had to do something. She had to provide for her child. Starving and exhausted, she had trawled the city for hours until she'd spotted what she was looking for. A group of mothers, chatting and laughing, their babies wrapped up warm in prams and pushchairs. One mother wore her daughter close to her body, the colourful material layered over and over her, creating the cosiest of nests. Emily could not take her eyes from the woman.

She had followed them blindly, stepping over the threshold of a building without registering its name. A woman in a purple t-shirt had approached her and introduced herself. “I'm Sarah, welcome to La Leche League. Is this your first baby?” Emily had nodded in confusion. “And you want to learn more about breastfeeding? That's great!” Sarah had said, without waiting for an answer. “We'll get started in a minute, just through here,” she indicated the door behind her and walked through it with a cheery smile. Emily had looked around to find herself in a wide entrance hall, buggies and prams lined up along the wall. The mothers had all disappeared into the room already.

And there, laying casually over one of the icandy pushchairs, had been the beautiful woven sling. Emily had paused only for a second. Then she'd taken everything. Three changing bags stuffed full of nappies, clothes and blankets. She had emptied the cash from the purses, and taken all the food she could find. And lastly, she had picked up the precious woven wrap, stuffing it haphazardly into one of the bags. And she had left, riddled with guilt, yet utterly relieved.

The sling had been the hardest to take. She'd wanted it more than anything, but hated that the other mother had to lose it. She had worn it like it was a part of her body, radiating absolute joy at her closeness to her child. Emily had wanted to be her in that moment, wanted to walk right into her body and take her place. Envious wasn't strong enough to describe how she had felt watching her, admiring her. But she hadn't regretted it. That night her waters had broken. She had been able to clean her newborn son and put him in a dry nappy. She had dressed him warmly in layers of soft, clean cotton and wrapped him against her chest, sharing her body heat with him. She had not regretted it.

She smoothed the fabric over her lap, and repositioned the baby. He squealed impatiently and she brought him to her breast, where he suckled ravenously. Her own stomach growled and she felt sick and hot, though the air was cool. She had to eat. If the supermarket wouldn't let her buy food, there were plenty of places that would.

She thought of where to go. Looking up, she realised she was only two streets down from Bunny's fish and chip shop. Just the thought of the heavy food in her stomach, imagining the smell of grease and batter was enough to make her salivate. Silently, she willed Flynn to finish his feed so she could move on. It seemed to take an age, and she was sure from the fussing and squealing he was making that he wasn't getting enough. She was losing too much weight. Chips. That was the answer. Definitely chips.

She eased him back into the wrap, ignoring his protests and holding a finger to his lips for him to suck on in the absence of a breast. He silenced and busied himself with chewing painfully on her knuckle. She barely noticed. Her legs swayed as she pulled herself up to her feet and she looked ahead, suddenly remembering the alleyway that cut through the roads creating a short-cut.

With a wry smile she made for it, walking down the narrow pathway between two tall buildings, her thoughts entirely focused on her need for food. There was nothing that stood between her and her dinner. Nothing going to take priority over her filling her stomach.

Perhaps it was this single minded determination that distracted her from her usually vigilant awareness. But as she felt herself falling forwards, she only just had time to brace her hands on the ground, her arms forming a protective cage around the baby on her chest. The back of her head throbbed and she could smell the metallic tang of blood. Her blood. She looked over her shoulder, feeling dizzy, wondering in bewilderment what had hit her so hard.

The figure loomed over her, and Emily felt a wave of utter panic as she tried to focus on his dark features. Was it him? “Karl?” she murmured, rubbing her grazed palm over her eyes as she strained to look at the man towering above. His face came into focus. It wasn't him. She felt a giddy sense of relief that was unfitting for the situation. It wasn't him.

“What av' you got?” he slurred, his eyes unfocused yet strangely piercing all at once. The sense of relief left her immediately, fear gripping her tightly in its place.

“Wh... what?” she stuttered, pushing herself backwards, out of his reach. She dragged herself to her feet, only to feel his hands clamp tightly around her throat. She tried to speak, to plead for Flynn's sake, but she couldn't make a sound. As quickly as he had seized her, he released her and she bent forward, gasping for air, one arm wrapping tightly around her baby.

She watched him, wondering if she could run, if he was drunk or high. He punched a fist in the air and turned back to her, his eyes cold and blank. With a filthy hand, he smacked himself across the cheek and screeched, “You see that? Do ya!” Emily nodded, terrified. He was mad, completely deranged.

“So, what av' ya got then!?” he screamed, droplets of acrid saliva hitting her in the face.

“What... what do you mean? Drugs? I don't have any!”

“No drugs! No drugs!” he shouted at the sky with a manic laugh. He circled her and she backed against the wall. She had a knife in the top of her bag, but she couldn't reach it without him seeing.

“No,” she said with an nervous smile, “No drugs. Sorry.” He laughed again and turned away from her. With slow, measured steps, she began to walk backwards, holding her breath, her eyes focused intently on him.

He spun and smiled at her, his broken, yellowed teeth barred. “Money then!” he shouted. Without warning he ran full speed in her direction. She turned sideways just in the nick of time. His body slammed into hers, throwing her hard into the wall. Flynn bellowed and Emily wanted desperately to sooth him, to check him for injury. But she couldn’t right now.

“Gimmie the money!” he shouted. Emily reached a trembling hand into her pocket, grabbing the precious notes and without pausing to think, threw them onto the ground behind him. His eyes glinted wickedly, holding her gaze for an age, a dangerous sneer on his lips. And then, finally he turned from her, walking towards the cash.

Emily didn't hesitate. She turned and ran, ignoring the stinging flesh as her bare feet pounded against the rough, hard ground, blinking against the pain from her wounded head. She ran and she didn't look back.

Chapter Three

Friday evening, Kings Cross station.

Saraya Matthews was on autopilot. For six, or perhaps it was seven years, she had made this same daily commute. Today was no different. She nodded to Kev the newsagent from whom she bought chewing gum and the latest tabloids and celeb mags twice a week. Magazines which she had actually stopped reading more than two years ago, disenchanted by the same old stories spiced up with occasionally new faces.

She had caught herself mindlessly flicking through the glossy pages on her lunch break, her eyes glazing over as she read about the latest five hundred calorie celebrity “cleanse” – crash diet – and how this singer was getting too fat and this actress was cheating, and had finally had an epiphany. She had shut the magazine and immediately felt her shoulders lift.

Now she took a book to read on her lunch break. But she still bought the tabloids. Habit perhaps was the reason, or pity for Kev who was struggling to make ends meet. Who knew? Twice a week she handed over a ten pound note and got a pile of worthless, unchanging drivel which she proceeded to hand over to the vultures in the office.

Saraya was a creature of habit, yet it wasn't through choice but rather a severe lack of it. Her weekends were planned in great detail. Lunch at her parents house the first Sunday of every month. Hairdressers the second Saturday. Evening yoga and mindfulness classes every Saturday at eight and a five mile run like clockwork every Sunday morning. It wasn't that she especially wanted to fill her free time so fully, nor that she was particularly enamoured with fitness. It was simply the fact that without these seemingly important tasks written in ink on her calendar, life was incredibly empty.

Time was a killer. She had once before tried to let go of her “commitments” and be spontaneous for the weekend. Her yoga lesson had been cancelled and her parents had gone to Norfolk for their anniversary, so it was more thrust on her rather than a conscious choice. Everyone else had been busy at such short notice and she had found herself at a loss. Forty eight hours of silence. Daytime TV, movies in bed, walks round the park. It should have been nice. Relaxing. It wasn't as if she was afraid of her own company. But that two days had been torture.

The clock ticking away each second of wasted time, minutes where she felt that a healthy young woman such as herself, a woman with the world at her feet, should have a million exciting, adventurous or even just productive things she could be doing. Yet she couldn't think of a single one. She had gone into work that Monday morning earlier than ever before, relieved by the knowledge that soon she would have another person to talk to, even if it was only Mandy the cleaner.

But as much as her iron clad routine was saving her, masking her loneliness with busy work and small talk, lately she had found herself resenting it more and more. As she made her way back home for the fifth time that week, she was lost in thought. This couldn't be it. She couldn't go on like this indefinitely, could she?

A commotion tore her attention towards the ticket barriers, where a man with a shaved head and a tattoo of a green moth on the back of his neck was shouting at the machine, hitting it hard with his fist as his ticket was repeatedly spat out at him. The squat security guard nearby was clearly weighing up whether to stop his conversation with the twenty-something blonde tourist to come over and intervene. His hesitation cost him.

The moth man made a split decision and leapt the barrier and with a cry of anger, the security guard made a reluctant chase. Saraya watched them go, betting on the moth man. She rolled her eyes. Same shit, different day.

There was something special about Kings Cross station. When she had first moved to London, she had taken her time getting to work, pausing after her journey from leafy Ealing, to admire the building and watch the people passing through it. She had loved sitting on a bench with a hot coffee, wondering where everyone was going or coming from, trying to imagine their story. It had been a long time since she had sat and enjoyed a coffee, watching the world go by. Now she just wanted to get to work so she could get it over with and go back home, eat, bath, sleep and do it all again tomorrow. She was aware that she had traded imagination for irritation. Rushing down the stairs and onto the platform, she made it just in time to see her train arriving.

Saraya elbowed her way through the swarm of hot bodies, all surging forward in a desperate attempt to secure a much coveted seat on the sweltering rush hour tube. She felt the skin of her bare arm graze the foul, sticky armpit of a portly middle aged man dressed inexplicably in a muscle vest, exposing a field of curly wet body hair. Saraya shuddered and moved back a step, only to be rapped sharply on the ankle by an elderly lady with a cane and a surprisingly strong arm.

She fixed the crone with a death stare perfected over years of stressful commuting and smiled victoriously as the woman bowed her head in ungracious apology. Rather than seize the advantage though, Saraya paused, observing her frail old body and shaking hands, the way she swayed ever so slightly as she settled her weight against the cane. Wearily, she stepped aside allowing the wench to take the seat she'd had her eye on. With a sigh, she settled for squeezing herself between the fingerprinted plexi-glass and a businessman wearing too much cheap aftershave.

Why, she wondered, was she still having to endure this daily torment? How on earth had she not, at the grand old age of thirty two, managed to get off this miserable merry-go-round and found something more meaningful to do with her life?

As she held her breath trying to avoid the pungent aroma of the man beside her, she evaluated all that she had achieved in her time on this planet. An office job packed with nonsense paperwork, the kind that is devised with the express purpose of filling the time of the worker bees to make them forget they are living an endless ground-hog day of pointless tasks and meaningless goals.

A cursory relationship with her parents and one very bossy, very tedious big sister, all of whom she saw only when she couldn't think up a plausible excuse quickly enough. A handful of friends who, as much as she hated to admit it to herself, she probably wouldn't miss if they suddenly evaporated from her life. And a boyfriend.

A boyfriend. At thirty two years old that just sounded silly to Saraya. She should have a husband, or at the very least, a partner. But no. She had a boyfriend. And not a particularly special one at that. Admittedly, he was fairly kind and occasionally funny, but she knew that there was something big missing. There was no real connection. No spark. Her heart didn't beat faster when she saw him and when he called off their dates, she breathed a sigh of relief that she didn't have to bother getting dressed up, happily sinking into a deep, hot bath with a good book and a glass of red instead.

In fact, it was this boyfriend, Tim, who Saraya was heading to see now. She hadn't yet figured out what to say to him tonight. Was it fair to him, to either of them, to keep drifting along knowing they were heading nowhere? Saraya supposed not, but it was easy, and there didn't seem to be a lot of exciting alternatives banging down her door either.

He wasn't the one, if there even was such a thing, but it was nice to know he was at the end of the phone if she wanted to talk to someone. Life could feel unbelievably lonely at times, and she wasn't quite ready to lose one more friendly face from her already small circle.

She looked out into the thick darkness of the tunnel rushing by, and wondered how she had found herself here. Her reflection shone back at her, and she stared accusingly into her mirrored eyes.

Her shiny black hair was cut into a chunky pixie cut, tiny silver stars adorning each ear. She wore a fitted black wrap dress, which had dainty blue flowers printed over it in the exact same shade as her shoes and bag. To Saraya, the reflection staring back at her was a disappointment. She couldn't explain what she would have preferred to see, but this wasn't it. She scowled at herself and turned away.

The carriage jerked to a halt, ramming her into the cool, sticky window as the doors hissed open letting a welcome breath of musty, damp air fill the train. Several passengers hurried off, rushing to get home to their comfortable little lives, Saraya thought enviously.

She spotted a seat halfway down the car and took her chance before someone else could claim it. Sighing with relief, she eased her feet out of her shoes – blue alligator courts – which had been pinching her toes and numbing her soles all day, and arched her stockinged feet gingerly.

The teenager seated beside her listening to his ipod at a deafening volume, leaned away from her with a look of disgust, but the woman in the seat opposite eyed her feet jealously as she tapped her own stilettos in agitation. Saraya offered her an empathetic smile before glancing back along the carriage.

A woman was making her way slowly down the aisle, holding out a cardboard coffee cup as she jangled a few coins in the bottom of it. The woman was quite striking, black hair framed her face, and fell in waves over her shoulders. A long flowing skirt swung low on her hips, grazing filthy, blood streaked, bare feet. Her arms were adorned with cheap gold and silver coloured bangles and her green eyes challenged the passengers to dare to admonish her for begging.

But that was not what caught Saraya's attention so fully. Wrapped in a colourful swathe of fabric, tied close to her chest was a tiny, black haired baby. His bare legs hung free, remarkably clean, though Saraya suspected he must be cold with no socks to warm his tiny feet.

How? she thought. How did this happen? How could a mother and such a small baby be abandoned by society, forced into trawling through London asking for pitiful handouts? She could not understand it. Her heart sank as she watched the interactions between the mother and the passengers. She would smile hopefully and hold her cup out towards them, managing to avoid looking aggressive over her desire for a little charity.

The passengers, young and old, business suits mixed amongst jeans and floral skirts, would inevitably avert their uncomfortable eyes, shrinking back into their seats or staring intently at their feet, refusing to even acknowledge the woman standing before them, until she sighed sadly, her eyes glistening with unspilled tears, and moved away.

Saraya was bowled over by the dignity the mother possessed, her strength to move on and try again and again, despite almost certain rejection. It made her feel guilty to feel so out of control in her own life when she had no good excuse not to do something about it. The woman stopped in front of Saraya and held out her cup.

“Spare some change?” she asked politely.

“Of course,” Saraya replied, her hand already digging around in her cavernous blue leather office bag. “How old is... he...she?” Saraya asked, gesturing towards the baby.

The woman's face broke into a radiant smile. “He,” she confirmed. “He's ten months.”

“Really? Oh he's so tiny!” Saraya exclaimed.

“He likes to scrunch himself up and get all cosy when he's in the sling,” the woman replied, rubbing the curve of the baby's spine under the rainbow of material. “He's bigger than he looks. He'll be tall one day, taller than me I wouldn't be surprised,” she said, her tone almost defensive, challenging Saraya to disagree.

Saraya smiled, handing her a crumpled twenty pound note. “Do you have somewhere to go? Somewhere to sleep tonight?” she asked softly. The woman across the aisle in the stilettos caught Saraya's eye and shook her head discouragingly. Saraya ignored her.

“That's kind of you to ask. Most people don't.” The train slowed as they reached the next stop. “We'll be okay,” she said, not answering Saraya's question. The doors opened and she turned, heading towards them.

“Wait,” called Saraya as she stepped onto the platform. “What's your name?”

“Emily,” smiled the mother. “And this is Flynn,” she said, cuddling her arms tightly around the baby. “Thank you for this,” she smiled holding up the note. “You're the first person who...” she shook her head and looked down at the baby. “Never mind. But thank you.”

Saraya wanted to ask her more. How did she end up on the streets? Where was she going? How could she help? But the doors were sliding closed and Emily was already walking away. The train sped on to the next destination and Saraya realised she had never even told her her own name.

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Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three