by S. E. Lynes
‘That’s a long time,’ says Richard. ‘Well done.’
Graham pushes his thumb against his teeth and tears off a strip of skin. ‘I f-feel b-better.’
‘Great. That’s great. Good for you.’
‘I alw-w-ways do.’ He stands up abruptly and paces towards the window where he turns and rests his backside against the sill. He rubs the back of his neck, scowls.
Richard wonders how bad Graham must have looked before he gave up the drugs. His yellowish-grey skin stretches over his face like hour-old chewing gum. And he is so thin. An unnerving presence, fidgeting and glancing around, he makes Richard feel like he’s trying to lure an animal out of its lair.
‘Do you think you can stay clean?’ Richard asks. ‘What I mean is, are you feeling, you know, strong?’
Graham lifts the blind with one finger and looks out. Apparently seeing nothing of interest, he lets the blind fall and ambles back to his seat, where he sits down and rests his elbows on his knees. He huffs and puffs. Seconds pass. Richard’s confidence begins to drain away. Buoyed up by the conversations of the morning, now he feels his inexperience swamp him. Graham must have come here of his own volition, but he is scanning every corner of the room as if for an escape route.
‘I’m up for p-p-parole in s-s-six m-months.’ He chews another lump out of his thumb, scratches his forehead. ‘D-do you n-n-need to know what I’m in for, like?’
‘No,’ Richard says, too loudly. ‘We talk about what you want to talk about.’
Graham moves forward and perches on the edge of his seat. He raises his right heel. His leg starts to shake. Whatever he has done, Richard has a feeling it isn’t petty theft.
He has made his thumb bleed. He presses his tongue to it, replaces his tongue with his fingertip. Looks up, finally. ‘Well, I k-killed someone.’
An alarm rings out. Lockdown.
Graham stands abruptly. ‘See ya.’
A moment later, Richard is staring at the empty doorway, unsure of what just happened, how Graham managed to leave the chapel so quickly, and whether he will ever see him again.
Sixteen
Carol
Runcorn, 1985
Coniston Drive looks exactly the same as when she left it. The lawn at next-door-but-one’s is still as manicured as a golf course, the beds dark with freshly turned soil. Across the road, at number 23, there’s still a rusty gold Ford Granada with three flat tyres. At the end of her own driveway she stops. Her house is the same but different. All the curtains are closed, which they would never usually be at this time, and the front lawn needs edging and mowing. By contrast, Tommy and Pauline’s house is up and ready for the day, curtains pulled, garden all neat. Pauline’s Escort is parked out front and the living-room light is on. Carol’s stomach churns at the sight. Tommy and Pauline should be at work. If either of them catches her here, they’ll be furious. She sighs, tries and fails to stop picking at her cuticles. Tommy and Pauline have been so good to her, but the trouble is, they don’t understand all of it.
Slowly she walks up the drive. At the front door, she stops, overtaken by a coughing fit. She’s not smoked all week, that’s why. It’s always worse when she tries to give up, but at least she’s saved nearly a fiver on ciggies, which, determined to pay Pauline back, she’s put towards the bus fares here.
She reaches up for the doorbell, but her finger hovers over it. Maybe she should just leave the letter she’s brought. She takes it out of her bag, out of the envelope she hasn’t yet sealed, and reads it one last time.
Dear Ted,
I’m sorry for the way we left but I’m hoping that by now you’ll understand. I couldn’t have the kids growing up in fear and ending up in a mess themselves so I had to leave and it had to be then. The social worker told me never to contact you, never to come back, but I was hoping now you’ve had time to think that we can talk things through and work out how we can still be a family.
If you can agree to see someone professional with a view to changing, there’s hope. I will be at the café in Widnes market, the Av-U-Et, remember where we used to go sometimes? Anyway I’ll be there at midday this Saturday. I’ll wait for an hour. It’s up to you.
Yours,
Carol
She puts the letter back in the envelope and seals it. Taps it against her hand, air whistling through her teeth. His car’s not here, so that means he’s probably at work, not lost his job as she thought. If he’s not in, there’s no harm ringing, is there? Even if he’s in, it’s maybe better to do this face to face. She won’t go in the house. She’ll stay out here where it’s safe. It’s broad daylight; what’s the worst that could happen?
She pushes the doorbell, hears the familiar notes of ‘Oranges and Lemons’ chime from inside the house. She waits, looks over her shoulder to the empty street, back to Pauline’s house. Nothing stirs. She presses the doorbell again. Again, nothing. On the third ring she senses movement from inside. She steps back, looks up just in time to see the bedroom curtain twitch. Her stomach churns. A moment later she hears footsteps thumping down the stairs. Her breath comes fast and shallow. She could run, she could—
The door opens. Ted, in a grubby white vest and baggy Y-fronts, stubble, bloodshot eyes. Pauline did drop hints but even so, the sight of him is a shock.
‘Ted,’ she says.
‘Carol.’ He blinks at her. His voice is a croak.
Behind her, the close is silent. In the distance, a train rattles by, the slip road to the M56 hums. She picks at her fingers, bites her lip.
‘Ted, I …
‘Carol.’ His mouth contorts, his eyes fill. His hand flies to his head, pushes back his greasy hair. He starts to cry. ‘Come home, Caz.’ He is holding on to the door frame, his knuckles white. ‘Come home, will you? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ He takes a step towards her, sways. Body odour comes off him. Alcohol fumes. His belly is swollen like a pregnancy. She steps back. ‘It’ll never ever happen again.’ His words are slurred. He sounds like it must hurt to talk. ‘Caz. I’m sorry. I promise. I promise it won’t happen again. Ever. A hundred per cent. A thousand per cent. I mean it this time. I’m … I can’t … I need you, Caz. Caz? Come home. Please come home.’ He lets go of the door frame, makes a steeple with his hands but almost falls against the wall. He rights himself and give a thick, rattling cough. He looks at her with his wet brown eyes. ‘Come in, Caz. I can make us a cup of tea.’
She shakes her head. ‘No, love. I’m not stopping. I just wanted to say that if you’re ready to talk about it all, then I think we should meet somewhere … somewhere in town, like a café or something.’ She holds out the envelope but he doesn’t take it. ‘Here. I’ve written you a letter. See what you think.’
His eyes narrow. ‘Just come in, will you? Caz? What’s the matter? Just come in – come in and we can talk now. Inside, like.’ He looks helpless. Lost. He’s ill. This is not who he is, not really.
She inhales, feels the breath fill her lungs. ‘No, love. I’m not coming in.’
‘What d’you mean?’ His voice rises. She hears the turn in it. ‘I’ve said I’m sorry, haven’t I? I’ve said it won’t happen again, and it won’t. What more do you want?’ His eyes close for a long second, open again. He lowers his voice. ‘Just come in, Caz. Honest to God. What do you think I’m going to do to you?’ He pulls a comic scary face, makes claws with his hands, but the joke isn’t real – his eyes are too desperate.
‘Ted, let’s meet up at that café in Widnes market, eh? Saturday, this one coming.’ She knows, even now, that she will not go. But she has to get away without the scene her guts tell her is coming. This has been a mistake. ‘Where we used to go, do you remember?’ she continues, her words fluttering and high. ‘How about that?’
‘Where are the kids?’ he asks, his voice rising once again. ‘Where are my kids, Carol? Our Gray, our Nicky? You took them. You stole them. I don’t deserve that, you know that, don’t you? I don’t deserve to have my kids taken away, do I? How could you do
that? How could you do that to me, Caz, eh? Just … just come home. Bring my kids home.’
‘Ted. I’m sorry.’ She puts the letter back in her bag. Takes a step back, another. Her movements are slow but her legs have started to shake; her scalp prickles.
Ted steps out of the house. Her shoulders rise instinctively. She takes another step back. But before she can make sense of anything, his hand is round her throat. There’s a loud roar. She sees his socks, black and strange on the tarmac drive. And then she’s falling, falling backwards. The back of her head hits the ground. He’s on top of her, his fingers tight. She tries to call his name, but it’s blocked in her throat.
With his full weight, he sits on her belly. The stench of sweat and stale alcohol. She opens her mouth, tries to shout, but there’s no breath in her, no voice. He’s crushing her. His features blur.
‘I don’t deserve that.’ His spit lands in her eye. ‘You took my fucking kids off me. How dare you! How dare you do that to me, you fucking bitch. No one leaves me, no one.’
‘Ted.’ Her mouth forms his name but she hears nothing above his ranting rage. She closes her eyes. She has been a fool, a bloody fool. There’s no hope. There never was. Idiot. Idiot, Carol.
‘Oi! Oi!’ Pauline. ‘Oi! Ted Watson! What the bloody hell d’you think you’re doing?’
Carol opens her eyes. Sees Pauline’s white teeth gritted in a burgundy mouth. She is swearing, shouting, pulling the back of Ted’s stinking vest. ‘Get off her, you drunk bastard. Off! Tommy’s calling the police right this minute and you’ve got three seconds to leave her alone, do you hear me, Ted Watson? Tommy’s on to them now, he’s literally calling them now. Three seconds, Ted, d’you hear me? One. Two. Thr—
Ted lets go. Carol’s hands fly to where his have been. She rolls over, coughs, feels grit press against her cheek. Her lungs inflate, empty, inflate, empty. Insults crackle: Pauline and Ted going at it, hammer and tongues. You’ve got a bloody nerve … Don’t you tell me to mind my own … Interfering cow … Tommy’ll have your guts …
‘Stop it,’ she tries to shout to them, but her voice is hoarse, her blood still pounding in her ears. She rolls onto her back, still holding her throat. The sky is blue. Not one cloud. Ted has his face in Pauline’s, finger jabbing her shoulder. He’s in his pants and vest, on the street in his pants and vest, dear God, his work socks, his face purply-red, his forehead oily. ‘Keep your fucking nose out of it, you nosy fucking bitch – it’s got nothing to do with you.’
‘Ted Watson, if you don’t get inside that house now, I swear to God I’ll kill you myself and dump the body in the ruddy Mersey. And I tell you something else, you’ll be doing time, you’ll be locked away and they’ll throw away the bloody key, ’cos we’ve all seen you now. We’ve seen you, d’you hear me? Whole street has.’ Pauline’s bosom rises and falls. She points to the house, lowers her voice. ‘Get in, Ted. Go on, piss off back in the house before Tommy calls the police, or better still, sorts you out himself.’
Ted laughs, a laugh full of malice. ‘Tommy? Bloody Tommy?’ He puts up his fists, and at the sight, the fear drains from Carol. He is pathetic. Pathetic. ‘I’ll have him; I’ll have him right now. I’ll rip his bloody head off. Go on, come on then.’ But he is backing away, towards the house, where he stops, lowers his fists and shouts as if to address the whole street. ‘I’ll have you, Tommy Wilson! I’ll have you right here, right now, soft lad. Outside, now! Come on! I’ll have you, I’ll have you no bother. I’m Ted Watson – you don’t know who you’re dealing with, mate.’ He beats his chest like an ape. His legs are skinny, his face livid as a bruise; his vest strains over his bulbous gut.
He stops, finally, fixes Carol with his red eyes. ‘You.’ He levels his finger at her, like a gun. ‘Back in this house by the end of the week, yeah? The end of the week or I’ll find you and I’ll kill you, do you understand me? I’ll kill you, Carol. I’ll fucking kill you. No one walks away from me, no one.’ He staggers, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
Still on the ground, Carol is aware of Pauline standing nearby, watching the whole sorry spectacle. Ted stumbles into the house, still throwing out raging threats, but they are quieter now, no more than muttered mad ramblings.
The front door slams.
A silence falls.
Pauline blows at her fringe. After a moment, she scans the street. She must spot one of the neighbours, because she shields her eyes with her hand and calls out, ‘Had a good look, have you? Back inside now, go on, off you go, show’s over.’
Another silence. She pulls Carol to her feet.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Carol says, brushing herself down. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
But Pauline’s arm is around her shoulder, leading her towards next door. ‘What were you thinking, love? What the hell were you thinking?’
‘I thought I could talk to him. I thought that now he’d had time to think … I was going to leave a note. Why isn’t he at work?’
‘I don’t think he goes to work anymore.’
‘How come you’re here? How come Tommy … Is Tommy here?’
‘No, Tommy’s not here. I was bluffing. I’m only here because I had a dental appointment. Come on, come in the house. I’ll grab my keys and I’m taking you home. You’re lucky I was in.’
‘You don’t need to do that. I can get the bus. You’ve got the dentist.’
‘It was only a check-up. I’m bloody taking you. It’s not safe here. Besides, I’ve got to make sure you get there, haven’t I? And I tell you what, I’m bloody well locking you in this time.’
Seventeen
Carol
Rochdale, 1985
It is twelve hours since she saw Ted. Saw the ruin of him, the mess. They’re all a mess, all of them. She thought she could reason with him, that time might have shown him what he’d lost. But no.
I’ll kill you, Carol.
I’ll find you and I’ll fucking kill you.
She rolls from under the quilt and gropes her way across the floor, up the wall to the light switch. Her watch says two o’clock. It takes her a second to realise that this means two in the morning. She must have slept for an hour or two after all. Her stomach growls. But even in her sleep haze, she knows it wasn’t her stomach that woke her. She’s sweating. Her head aches and her mouth is dry and bitter-tasting.
There was a smashing noise. A smashing noise, yes, that’s what broke into her dream.
Her ears prick now, awake. A window. One of hers?
She creeps out onto the landing. Checks on the kids, both asleep in their rooms. She edges down the stairs in the dark, listens closely. Listens, listens.
‘Hello?’ she calls out, her voice little more than a whimper.
No sound. In the kitchen, no smashed window, no sign of a break-in. The back door is still locked. She keeps the light off so as to see out, but there is nothing, no one. The windows in the other houses are all black. In the lounge, same thing, nothing broken. Kids, she thinks. Throwing bricks at street lights for no reason beyond the illegal ecstasy of the noise. She checks the front door: locked, bolted, chain on. In the dark hall, she stretches, feels her ribs separate. She is thin, a bag of bones, an old nag. Under her bare feet, the carpet is waxy. Bits of other people. Dead cells and nail clippings, hair and eyelashes, fallen from other wretches and trampled into the pile. She wonders what it will take to get this house to feel clean.
The kitchen stinks of bleach, but still beneath it she can smell dirt. Unsettled, unsure of what she’s looking for, she pulls open the cupboards and drawers, shuts them again one by one. She finds some fig rolls and eats three with a glass of milk. The milk is cold; it soothes her insides. She contemplates her supplies: tins of beans, tins of tomatoes, tins of Heinz chicken soup – store-cupboard food that Tommy brought. Plates, pots, pans, forks, knives, all from Pauline. She plucks a butter knife from the cutlery drawer and turns it over in her hand. Her mum used to own a knife like this, same bone handle, in the days of pantries
and coal fires, proper china butter dishes. Her dad used a knife almost identical to this one for stripping wallpaper.
In the weak moonlight, the blunt blade flashes.
‘Right,’ she mutters. ‘Bloody right then.’
She takes the stairs two at a time. Under the fluorescent tube, the bathroom flickers into life. She closes the door.
Woodchip curls away from the walls, its patterns raised like welts. In the mirror is a mad woman holding a knife, teeth bared, eyes red. She laughs at her reflection and stabs the blade hard behind the first flap of wallpaper. A huge piece comes away, thick with paint, dusty in her fingers. Another lunge, another strip of paper drops to the damp nylon carpet. Another, and another: tattered shreds raining onto her feet. It reminds her of when she used to peel the dead skin off Ted’s burnt back on summer mornings. She’d sit on his bottom, pulling slowly, carefully, holding strips of skin up to the light, transparent and thin as cling film.
‘Carol,’ he used to say, muffled by the pillow. ‘Give my back a scratch, will you?’
She did everything for that man, everything: washing, ironing, cooking, cleaning, you name it. She believed him over and over when he said he was sorry, made excuses for him when he stopped apologising, and if she didn’t know before that it was no good, she does now. Where was he tonight? she wonders. Pissed under a bridge somewhere probably. Rambling at strangers in the Grapes, getting into fights, finding other people to punch. Staggering home in the middle of the road. He’s not even in work now. She wonders how the hell he survives. The house will be repossessed. He’ll end up on the street. After this morning, he’ll be raging. He’ll be banging on Pauline’s door. Carol’s breath quickens. He’ll be looking for her and the kids.