by Kate Bradley
I was exhausted too. Unsure of what else to do, I drove out of town to a Travelodge and checked us both in for the night, to give me time to think of my next move.
I tucked Jack into the double with Bunny, before I sat up in the tub chair, thinking. I wanted to make plans, to look forward, but all I could do was look back. The state of the flat and the feeling that he was lurking behind the door disturbed me.
My son had always been disturbing. Even from the start, it had gone wrong.
The sickness had been terrible. It’d hit hard before I’d even known I was pregnant. Nothing would shift it; sometimes, I couldn’t even keep a sip of water down. Looking back, it was hard to appreciate just how bad it was, but I know at the time I actually wanted to die. I felt we were dying anyway, both of us, slowly failing together. Nobody could help us; the doctors admitted that because the anti-nausea drugs didn’t work, all they could do was take me into hospital and put me on a drip. It was – without doubt – the worst time of my life. But despite it, as I withered, he grew strong.
But there was more. There was more and more and more. None of it was his fault. But nor was it mine. They denied it, but I believed the forceps damage was the reason that he screamed and screamed and screamed night after night, until he was five. Since then, I’ve read forceps can cause cranial problems, but the idea of cranial osteopathy was unheard of then.
The rain hit the windows of the hotel room like thrown shingle. It focused my thoughts to tomorrow and I thought: Jack hasn’t got his coat with him. It’s still at his dad’s.
It was over, right then. I knew it. I wanted to say it aloud just to hear it, but not wanting to wake Jack, I just murmured it instead: ‘You will never see your dad again, Jack. Whatever it takes. I promise.’
forty-seven:
– before –
I must’ve fallen asleep in that hotel tub chair, because when my phone rang, I woke, startled. In the first bleary seconds, I felt frightened and confused from my deep sleep, only aware of some trouble deeper than the stabbing in my crooked neck. But as I fumbled in the dark for my phone, I remembered what had happened. Glancing first at Jack to check the noise hadn’t woken him, I then looked at the screen expecting the number to be my son.
It wasn’t.
Two things struck me: the first that it was only 3.30 in the morning, and the second that it was my work calling me.
I knew then that things had got even worse.
As deputy matron, I was sometimes rota’d to be called during the week if one of the residents suddenly died, but at the weekend it was the weekend matron who was disturbed. If they were calling me on so early on a Sunday morning, then a catastrophe must have happened. And I just knew it was my son who had done the something catastrophic.
I took the call, listening to what I was told, and agreed to come immediately. Knowing I was again walking into a trap, but unable to do anything about it, I picked up the sleeping Jack and carried him out to the car, returning the hotel door card into the drop box on the way out. I knew we wouldn’t be back.
I drove to my work, Jack thankfully still asleep in the back. Even a mile from work, I understood what my son had done in vengeance before I got there. The red glow in the sky told me.
I drove the last few minutes in shock. I couldn’t process what might be happening. Dread sat like a rock in my stomach.
As I turned into the road, my worst fears were confirmed.
Sunningdale Nursing Home was a large, attractive building, usually calm in its sea of grounds. Elegant and refined, it was built as a Victorian convalescent home, on a gentle hill, enjoying an elevated position over its neighbours.
But there was no poise now. Ugly flames bit at the building, rising up out of the windows on the east side, with the nearby windows festering with anger. The night was alive with colour: red flames and blue flashing lights and orange street lamps ate into the black night, so it was clear to see that much of the east wing was now blackened and crumbling. This was a huge, huge fire. Crowds congregated on the road opposite, witnessing the horror. Two fire engines sat, one with its apparatus extended with water being hosed onto the building. A police car and three ambulances lined the road, one pulling away even as I arrived.
I pulled over as close as I could, getting slowly out of the car. There was so much I couldn’t process; I needed someone to help me. I stood by my car and looked to see if there was anyone I knew. Although it was the middle of the night, the scale of the fire meant that the crowds were heavy. Lots of emergency-service workers busied around. I could see stretchers – and horror of horror – some with covered bodies. Shouts cut through the night and crying could be heard pitched above the murmurs of the captivated crowd.
I searched the faces for someone familiar, never daring to leave my car which cradled Jack.
Then, relief. I raised my hand at a figure by an ambulance, a heat blanket hugging her shoulders. ‘Miriam!’ I shouted until she noticed me. It was Miriam who’d called me – the weekend duty matron.
Miriam bolted straight for me. We didn’t say anything at first, just looked at each other with wide, frightened eyes before we embraced, sharing our tears. After a few moments, I asked the question I dreaded: ‘What happened?’
‘The fire alarms sounded, but I don’t know how it started.’ Her voice came in the gaspy breaths of someone who’d been crying hard. ‘We were in the sitting room and we got up straightaway –’
I noticed her eyes briefly averted from mine and I suspected that she, and whoever she was on night shift with, had been asleep when they were expected to be awake.
‘– and we called the fire brigade and rushed around trying to wake the ground floor and we managed to get out six, but the fire was really bad – I don’t know how it got bad so quickly – it was enormous, flames filled the room –’
‘Who did you get out?’
She looked at me, a frightened child. ‘Mrs Summers, Mrs Waite –’ She continued and with each name it felt like a victory, but the list was too short.
She started crying again. I held her for a moment and then gently but firmly pulled her back so I could see her. ‘Where was the fire? How did it start?’
‘I don’t know!’ Her anguish was clear. ‘The control panel said it was in the utility; we ran to it and I know you shouldn’t open fire doors, but we peeped inside and the flames were at the ceiling! I’ve never seen anything like it!’
Was this a coincidence? Had I infuriated my son by taking his, and now this was revenge?
No. He might be angry, but this was too much. A dog killer did not maketh a murderer of the elderly.
Shame on me for even thinking the two things were connected.
I stared at the fire, the warmth sickeningly warming my skin. But despite my stance, I felt a screaming unease. The fire was so large; I was no expert, but I knew the home had a good fire alarm, good procedures. For it to get so bad, so soon, it seemed very possible an accelerant had been used. My face baked, both from the heat of the fire and the flush of possibly. I knew the utility room on the ground floor had a window that was often left open. I nagged and nagged the night staff to remember to close it in the evening, but I suspected it still got overlooked sometimes. The washing was hung in there; that and the dryers meant that it was always hot and humid, so the window was constantly left ajar and forgotten.
I searched through the faces in the crowds and amongst the shadows for my son. Could my fears be real? Was he standing here too, watching my darling residents, my passion, my career, my livelihood, burn?
My hand pressed against the roof of my car; perhaps he’d brought me here hoping that I’d leave Jack unattended for a moment, perhaps this was his way of drawing me close so he could snatch Jack back.
Perhaps he just wanted to see me suffer. You set fire to my world; now I’ll set fire to yours.
But if that was true, if he was here, wherever he was, he’d hidden himself well. I gave up, my own brain on fire and turned back to the bl
azing building.
Miriam was still staring, horrified, and we viewed the death of the happy home together. The scale of the blaze, the immobility of our residents and the time of night, only really meant one thing. I felt desperate, wondering if I had caused this. ‘Perhaps there’s more news. Perhaps we should ask someone.’
With Miriam’s help, I flagged over a police officer – reluctant to leave my car with Jack still asleep inside. The police officer briefly spoke to me, but could only confirm that the building was now empty of people. She took my contact details and asked me a few basic questions, but since I hadn’t been in the building since Friday, I was of little interest.
I’m sure some decent stand-up citizens would’ve shared their concerns about their son being the arsonist, but despite loving those who’d died in the fire, I didn’t even consider it – not least because I couldn’t, quite, believe it.
After she’d gone, Miriam and I continued our watch over Sunningdale. We held hands as we witnessed the battle between the gallant fire brigade and the callous flames. I think, really, as we clutched each other, we both wanted to hold the residents’ hands, but they were all gone, transported away in ambulances. We wanted to help, desperate to do something, but it seemed that the only thing left was to keep our beloved Sunningdale company as it burnt, so it didn’t suffer alone.
So as Jack slept, we stood our watch, hands entwined, waiting out the night as the fire grumbled on, until the sun finally rose and the fire, like our hope, had finally died out.
forty-eight:
– now –
The countryside, which I’ve learnt never truly sleeps, is still strangely silent. Now that the woman at the farm, Erica, has slammed her front door against me, it feels like it’s been watching our exchange and is now holding its breath: waiting. What’s your next move, Lisa?
There’s no sound of dogs; no sound of a Land Rover coming back from wherever the horses are; no sound of a whinny which might suggest proximity; no sounds of voices.
We are alone.
Circling the house, I find just what I need – a large window onto what is clearly the sitting room. The curtains are still open, giving me a clear view into the unlit room. Erica’s not in there. I wonder where she is. I speculate whether she’s called her parents, but decide probably not; after all, she’s an adult with a shotgun and I am only an injured middle-aged woman on my own asking for help who’s already been told to ‘fuck off’. I stand on the periphery of the window waiting . . . watching, for a sign of movement, a sign of anything that might make me pause from what I’m about to do.
I’ve always been too spontaneous: Nick used to tell me so often. But I’m not planning on hanging around; I’ll be gone just as soon as I find the plan B.
I look around for the right-sized rock – I want something with weight – but not too much and something with an edge. It doesn’t take long to find one in a flower bed and I don’t waste more time.
Against the bottom corner, I give a firm tap. I’m not really watching what I’m doing, instead my stare is intent on the hallway door beyond. But then I hear the sound of music starting back up – something punky played at full volume, coming from upstairs. I give a bolder tap, and when the glass doesn’t break, I hit it again, bolder still.
This time I’m rewarded with a crack in the glass.
I follow the crack with my stone, grateful that it’s only single glazing, tap-tapping to chase the crack further out. Within seconds, I – painfully but gamely – pull my sleeves over my hands and then push against the broken glass triangle. The putty is old and broken in places and it’s surprisingly easy to wiggle out a large piece. I place the glass on the flower bed, and then reach in through the gap to unlatch the catch.
Not believing how easy or how quick it is, I’m opening the window and climbing into the house.
I stand on the carpet and don’t move, not believing I am here. I get my bearings. The music is up so loud it floods the house.
The sitting room is large with dated furnishings, but I’m not taking in the details, I’m just looking around to see if I can see the gun. It occurs that she may have locked it away – I’m sure they have protocols for where they keep their gun and my heart sinks at the thought that it’s under lock and key. But then I remember two things – one that Erica is upstairs listening to music, probably messaging her friends so is doubtless not too concerned about doing the right thing, and the other is that, while she’s distracted, I can still look.
I step round the sofa and within seconds make a reasonable search of the room. But with the curtains still open and the light off, I think I can assume that she didn’t come in here.
I’m scared when I step into the hallway, feeling heady and ready to bolt at the slightest movement from above. The light is at least still on. I know there could be more people in the house other than Erica, but apart from the music, the place has an empty stillness to it.
As I look up to the landing, the music seems to be coming from the room directly opposite the top of the stairs – if Erica opens that door, she’ll see me.
I look down the corridor in one direction and can see it opens up to an unlit kitchen. In the other direction is the front door.
I can’t believe it! The gun is propped up by the front door. I feel incredulous, grateful and stunned. With quiet feet – not that it’s needed with the racket above – I move quickly through the hall.
Greedily, I grab the gun. In my hands, it’s cold and heavy. Because of my son – irony of ironies – I know how to cock and load it. I check now and inside are the gold-ended cartridges. I shudder to think that Erica had pointed a loaded gun at me.
Her dad is going to kill her for her casualness, I think as I hold it. But I can’t worry about that, not right now. I will return it just as soon as I can. This is not a steal, only a borrow.
The punk music suddenly gets much louder and I know what’s happened even before I’ve turned round.
She’s standing on the top landing, an empty glass in her hand.
We stare at each other for a long, long moment.
I think I could tell her that it’s only a borrow, or that I’ll contact her father and explain, or even warn her not to follow me. I brace myself, ready, in case she throws the glass at me, but it’s all she’s got. And I have the gun.
But in the end, we just gaze at each other, until I turn and leave through the front door, no longer the hunted hare, but instead now the stoat, running out into the night.
forty-nine:
– before –
After the sun had risen and was throwing shadows across the ruined bones of Sunningdale, and Miriam and I hugged what we knew was probably our last goodbye, it was still early. I drove to an American diner, a place I always took Jack as a treat, and woke him gently and bought us both breakfast. I watched him devour a stack of pancakes while I struggled to sip coffee. He didn’t ask why he slept in the car last night, and somewhere in my grief, I realised that he should’ve.
The grief was hideous. Not just for the residents, but lurking beneath was the knowledge that now I had no job, and worst, worst of all, that my son might have crossed a terrible line.
Might. I had to remind myself of that.
Was it true? I didn’t know but my brain was aching with the deliberation.
I was frightened. If it was true, then I wanted an explanation, a neat answer, to explain why he was the way he was, but all I came up with was that I must’ve done something wrong; I don’t know what, but he – this – wasn’t normal.
True or not, the memory of Jack trapped inside the makeshift cage meant that it was clear that we would need to get away from him.
Home would never feel safe.
The practicalities of money, fortunately, weren’t something I had to worry about. I’d always worked hard and I earned pretty good money, with no one to spend it on save Jack. I also still had some of my inheritance, so I thanked God that at least I didn’t have to suddenly worry abo
ut cash flow. Jack and I could live frugally for years on what I had put by.
Jack looked so happy, chatting, without stuttering, loving his pancakes; it was a curious juxtaposition to the vile deeds of my son.
Before we had said goodbye, Miriam and I had called the local hospital and although the staff were careful, we gleaned enough to know that the death toll was bad, very bad. I had then called the matron and she’d filled the gaps. Many years ago, I’d had the chance of promotion and could’ve been Sunningdale’s matron, but it was when Jack was just a baby and it was clear my son would need a lot of support in raising him, so I’d declined.
Now I had never been gladder of that decision.
Matron knew I’d be going away, and the ability to just leave now, mid-disaster, felt more precious than gold. She had my number if she needed it – but I suspect she had bigger concerns than me and I wouldn’t be hearing from her for a while. The home was evacuated permanently with the residents allocated to other homes – no one would be able to return. Sunningdale was gone; my job was gone.
I started to think about the practicalities of the day ahead. I needed a shower, clean clothes etc. and decided we would go to my mum’s. It was near and I’d be able to say goodbye, but I also wanted to tell her what had happened. I wanted the reassurances about him that she always gave. She would tell me I was bonkers and her shining faith in him would ameliorate my anxieties.
Well, that’s how it’d been in the past; I wasn’t sure it could work like that now, not after the horror of those covered bodies on the stretchers and the wide-open grief in Miriam’s eyes mirroring my own.
I kept checking my watch; my mother was not an early riser. ‘After years of getting up for the bell, dear, I think I’ve earned a lie-in or two, don’t you think?’ But now it was 9.30 and we’d finished breakfast, and although it would still be too early for her to accept visitors, I couldn’t wait anymore. I paid and we left.