Beer Baby

One party, one poet, one passed-out baby. What could possibly go wrong?

I need to keep a record of this madness—maybe so I don't forget, or maybe so I can prove it ever happened.

I mean, who gives beer to a baby?

The six-month-old red-haired little girl is lying on her back on the bare wooden table, visibly drunk. Liam is pouring small amounts of lager down her throat at regular intervals, so she will be quiet and asleep while the party rages on.

The flat is a typically bohemian pad for lazy bachelors who scrounge off the state. Liam scored a council flat by claiming homelessness, then figured out how to live rent-free. Now he sublets it to tourists for summer or winter getaways while he shacks up at his mum's. This way, he can call himself an "artist" and party all the time without working a crappy job.

When he’s back in town, he throws parties like this one, sleeps with as many women as he can charm, plays the occasional open mic, and posts moody videos of his poetry on Instagram. The flat is cobbled together with freebies and second-hand finds, but it somehow works: a yellow couch, a colourful throw, a ‘70s glass-top coffee table with a bottle of red and wine glasses that never stay empty for long. On the walls: a quaint round mirror framed with recycled wood, and a few art print knockoffs pretending to be culture. His bedroom’s a mess, of course, but no one who stumbles into it at the end of the night will be sober enough to care.

People are gathered in the open-plan kitchen, gesticulating like Italians, crowding around a bowl of crisps. There’s music playing, bodies in motion, glasses clinking.

I am watching it all happen, frozen in a stupor that feels unnatural. It’s not my baby — but how can I just watch this? Liam never listens to me anyway, although we’re supposed to be pals. I like him for his wit—he’s entertaining, never short of a good story—but unlike most women who fall under his spell, I’ve never wanted to sleep with him.

It’s not that he isn’t attractive. He’s got charm, sure. But he's self-absorbed and only sees others as tools to get what he wants. The moment you stop being useful, you’re gone. Never mind that a month ago, you were soulmates—the phone goes silent, and the party invites dry up.

The baby in question is one of Liam’s. Apparently, he doesn’t believe in birth control. After impregnating two women in the same year, he refused to commit to either, but agreed to help raise a kid with one of them because he wasn't into the other one's looks.

When I raised concerns before about the beer feeding, he just shrugged. “My mum did the same to me back in the sixties,” he said, like that made it okay.

The noise level rises. People are shouting over The Clash, spinning on vinyl—some nostalgia trip from a time no one here could remember firsthand. It’s early still, but there’s already a couple making out like it's the end of the world on the stairs to the bedroom.

I study the baby’s face, hoping for no signs of distress. She seems spaced out. Although I’m worried, I don’t want to cause a scene. I fight the urge to scoop her up and carry her some place safe and quiet, far from this disaster zone.

I call Liam over to the side of the kitchen table and try to speak calmly.

“I get that it’s not a lot of beer,” I say, keeping my voice low, “but don’t you think it’s unwise to give your daughter alcohol at such a young age?”

He shrugs, tips the bottle back into the fridge with one hand, and grins. "She’ll sleep like a log."

I go for a joke, hoping humour might work.

“What’s next? Hooked on heroin by the age of ten?”

He laughs.

“Okay, okay,” he says. “I get it. No more beer for Missy tonight.”

I sigh with relief. She’s going to be so messed up growing up with him, but at least tonight she won’t get worse. Her little face looks blissfully peaceful, passed out cold, like an angel amid the chaos.

Still, I can’t help the way my shoulders rise or the tight clench in my jaw. Some people just shouldn’t have children.

I glance down at my cocktail. For a second, I swear it turns deep purple—like poison. I picture slipping it into his glass, watching him swallow my silence, my fury, my grief.

Life isn't fair is it? Some have too many. Some have none.

It’s time to leave.

I look sideways at Liam and force a smile.

“Good. I’ll be off then,” I say, casual as I can manage.

The music has shifted—someone’s asked Alexa to play “Pump Up the Jam.” At least we’ve hit the nineties now. At this pace, they’ll be dancing to the present in an hour or two. And I can't bear to see that.