by Maggie James
21
THE UPPER HAND
Monday morning. Mark’s called in sick to work. He’s sitting in his car, parked outside an imposing detached house whose size proclaims its occupants as being very comfortable indeed financially. Eyes shut, he leans back against the headrest, digging deep for the last dregs of his courage, although the search is proving difficult. His self-worth has taken a heavy beating already from the episode with Rachel Morgan.
Mark’s about to subject it to the likelihood of similar treatment from a different woman.
His mother.
He’s read his grandmother’s letter so many times he knows every loop, slant and curve of the handwriting. Each word has burned itself into his memory.
…your mother has decided to move away from Exeter and change her name, and it is her intention to begin a new life, a life without you…
After fourteen years, the emotions sparked by the words still chill Mark. This is a long overdue visit, though. One final attempt to shatter the frost of her exterior. Discover if a real woman exists anywhere inside. One who experiences some kind of warmth towards her son. Even if she can’t manage love. Of course, the chances are slim she’ll have grown a heart over the last fourteen years, but, hell, this is his mother. Hope hasn’t completely died within him. Joanna Barker’s rejection has eaten steadily away at Mark over the years. He’s no longer a cowed boy; he needs to confront her.
So here he is, on a damp Monday morning in Cardiff. Taking advantage of the fact Natalie’s in London, using the delay to reconnect with his mother. She lives, along with her second husband, in the house he’s parked outside. Mark knows she’s remarried, in the same way he’s aware they own this quasi-mansion in the affluent suburb of Cyncoed. Because last night he spoke with his grandmother for the first time in fourteen years.
Linda Curtis. A woman whose warmth of soul makes her an unlikely candidate for having such a flinty daughter. Easy enough to track her down. His grandparents have always been stable people, not prone to moving around. When Mark starts his search on Sunday evening, he’s hoping they won’t have moved house. Sure enough, when he types their old address into an online telephone directory, there they are: R. and L. Curtis. Roy and Linda. Still in Exeter. Mark even recognises the number, long forgotten by him. He punches the digits into his mobile straight away.
The phone rings for a long time. Mark’s on the point of ending the call, and then his grandmother’s voice comes on the line. Older, to be sure, less firm - she must be in her eighties now, he thinks - but it’s his grandmother, no doubt about it, and for a few seconds he savours the sound of her.
‘Hello? Is anyone there?’ Speak, Mark, say something, he urges himself.
‘It’s me.’ He curses himself for the stupidity of his words. Ridiculous. She won’t recognise his voice when all she remembers is his pubescent treble.
He tries again. ‘It’s Joshua, Gran.’
She’s silent. Well, his call must be one hell of a shock after all this time, when no verbal communication’s taken place between them for fourteen years. His grandparents always found the idea of visiting him in Vinney Green or prison too disturbing. Angry and despairing whilst locked up, he’s unable to bring himself to contact them by phone or letter, figuring what’s left of his family will do better without a loser like him. Stupid, really. Both Roy and Linda Curtis are people of warmth and emotion, unlike their only child. After his release, his new identity prevents him from getting in touch with them. So many wasted years, he thinks.
‘It’s me, Gran. Remember? I used to play Go Fish with you when I came to visit and you’d bake me chocolate brownies.’ Perhaps he’s taken her too much by surprise, or maybe she’s beginning the slow decline into dementia. What else can he say to convince her? He pulls memories from his brain, searching for the right one, the one to prove his identity conclusively, when at last she speaks.
‘Joshua.’ Surprise and wonder mingle in her voice. ‘Is it really you, my love?’ Her words are like a hot shower on a cold day for him, especially the endearment.
‘Yes, it’s me, Joshua. Or Mark, as I’m called these days. My new identity, you know.’
‘Always Joshua to me,’ she says. ‘Always my lovely grandson. Your conviction was a terrible injustice, my darling. All the fault of that other boy. You were never capable of anything so vicious.’
Mark doesn’t reply, because he’s too choked up.
‘Always such a gentle soul, you were.’ His grandmother’s fond tones warm him even further. ‘Like your father. Not a bad bone in either of you.’
‘I didn’t do it, Gran.’
‘I know, my love. Your granddad, he always believed you innocent as well.’ Mark registers sadness in her voice, along with her use of the past tense. Please God, no, he thinks, whilst preparing himself for the worse. Roy Curtis, seven years older than his wife, stands a fair chance of being no longer alive.
‘Is he…’ Mark can’t ask if he’s dead. ‘Can I speak to him, Gran?’
‘No, my love. He died.’
He closes his eyes against the pain. ‘‘When?’
‘A couple of years ago now, it’ll be, come the summer.’
‘I’m sorry, Gran.’
‘You’ll be wanting to ask about your mother.’ Sharp, is Linda Curtis. She’s guessed the underlying reason he’s called.
‘Yes.’
‘She’s remarried. Joanna Stone, she is now. Married a property developer and moved away. Lives in Cardiff these days.’
Mark poses the question that’s tormented him throughout the years. ‘Why didn’t she want anything to do with me afterwards, Gran? When I got sent to the detention centre?’
Linda Curtis sighs. ‘You know how she’s always been. She’s a hard one, my daughter. We tried to persuade her otherwise, but she was adamant. Changed her name back to Curtis, then moved away to escape all the media attention. Said she…’ Mark can imagine what his grandmother’s unwilling to say. How Joanna Stone considers her son an embarrassment, and worse. ‘We told her you couldn’t have done it, how it was all a dreadful mistake, but she’d have none of it. I don’t see much of her these days.’
‘I need to contact her, Gran.’ No need to mention his likely return to jail or the underlying reason. ‘Can you give me her address?’
‘She’s not changed, Joshua.’ He gets she’s trying to warn him, prevent him from disappointment, but he’s a man now. When he sees his mother again, it’ll be as an adult, on equal terms, and it’s a risk he needs to take. He writes on a pad the details his grandmother gives him, and they chat for a while. Mark ends by telling Linda Curtis he can’t promise to keep in touch. She understands. She’s fully aware of the restrictions posed by his new identity. No need for Mark to mention he may soon be back behind bars.
Now, the morning afterwards, his resolve of the night before is entirely absent. ‘She’s not changed.’ His grandmother’s words make him consider heading back to Bristol; hasn’t he suffered enough maternal rejection? He doesn’t, though. This is too important. His mother has been a festering wound for too long. Time to prise off the scab.
A BMW 740i sits in the driveway, its silver sleekness matching the wealth of the house, telling him somebody’s home. With any luck, it’s his mother. It’s daytime on a Monday. Mark assumes Phil Stone – his stepfather, what a weird notion - is out property developing or whatever it is he does. Not that he gives a shit about the man. He’ll ring the bell; if his stepfather comes to the door, Mark will make some excuse and return later. His reunion with his mother is something that needs to happen without anyone else around. Besides, Phil Stone almost certainly doesn’t know he has a stepson. No way will Joanna Stone have told her second husband about her son, the convicted child killer, not if she’s moved cities and changed her name to get away from him.
A deep breath in. Mark begins his counting ritual as he gets out of his car. One, two, buckle my shoe. He walks around the BMW, up to the front door. A brass lion’s he
ad knocker sits solidly in the middle. Three, four, knock at the door, he counts and then does so. Two loud raps echo out into the cold April drizzle.
No response. Mark waits. Five, six, pick up sticks.
He tries again. One more loud knock of the lion’s head.
Steps sound in the hallway.
Breathe, Mark. One, two. In, out.
The door opens.
His mother stands there, staring at him.
She’s not changed much. As bony as ever. Older, obviously, the lines between nose and mouth scored deeper than Mark remembers. More make-up than before; heavy foundation, set with powder that’s caking slightly in the creases of her face. She’s smartly dressed, the cut of her cream silk blouse proclaiming its designer pedigree. Better coiffured, too, her dark hair cropped into the latest style. Her perfume, a musky, cloying scent, drifts into Mark’s nostrils. Overall, it’s unmistakably her, but an enhanced version of fourteen years ago, equalling extra intimidation. Joanna Stone is more unapproachable than Joanna Barker ever was. A rattlesnake compared to the common viper of before.
She doesn’t recognise him, of course. He’s grown a foot in height since she last saw him; a man stands before her instead of a boy. He’s the last person she expects to pay her a visit anyway. Hurt twists inside him. She’s his mother, for God’s sake. Shouldn’t something trigger a maternal memory in her? The cast of his features, perhaps, or the resemblance to his dead father. Instead, she stares blankly at him.
‘Yes? Can I help you?’ Impatience in her voice.
Mark’s unsure exactly how to proceed. He goes for the simple option.
‘It’s me, Joshua.’ No change in her blank expression. ‘Your son.’
Either displeasure or anger, Mark’s not sure which, replaces the blankness. As well as something suspiciously like fear.
‘Joshua? What on earth are you doing here?’ She glances around, as though afraid his presence on her doorstep will somehow render her persona non grata with her neighbours. ‘You’d better come in.’ She opens the door wider, standing aside so he can enter.
She presses herself against the wall as Mark steps into the hallway, clearly unwilling for any part of her to make contact with him. He may as well be a leper. Unclean, unclean.
Joanna Stone doesn’t take him into the lounge, ushering him into the kitchen instead. This one room alone is as big as his entire flat back in Bristol. No white marble in his kitchenette back there, either, unlike here. Her arms fold across her chest in a keep away posture as she leans against the fridge freezer. No offer of tea or coffee, no suggestion he should sit down. Clearly, she’s not expecting him to stay for long. Mark leans against the large oak dining table, its solidarity a stark contrast to the apprehension chewing him up inside. He’s unsure what to do with his hands; suddenly they’re too big, too awkward. He thrusts them deep into his pockets, despite the overly casual appearance it must give him.
‘She’s not changed, Joshua.’ A warning he’d have done well to heed. More rejection is heading his way; the knowledge he’s volunteered for it only makes it worse. His awkwardness renders him mute; something his mother clearly interprets as proof of the weakness of which she’s always accused him.
‘What do you want, Joshua? Why are you here?’ She folds her arms in tighter, shielding herself against this unwelcome intrusion. ‘It’s you all right. I didn’t recognise you at first, but now I do. You look just like your father.’
Her tone makes it plain the resemblance isn’t a desirable quality. Resentment at his invasion of her sanctuary proclaims itself from every line of her body.
‘No need to ask how you found me. That loose-lipped mother of mine, of course. I told her not to say anything if you ever got in contact with her, but she’s never listened to me. She’s always thought me hard, uncaring, for not wanting anything more to do with you.’ A snort of derision escapes her. ‘Easy enough for her to say. She didn’t have reporters, the television people, hounding her night and day like I did.’
‘I’m sorry.’ The words aren’t adequate, not even slightly, but Mark has to try.
‘Hordes of them, camped outside the house. All hours, day and night. Went on for weeks.’
Joanna Stone warms to her theme. ‘Not just reporters, either. Other people harassed me too. I got abusive phone calls. Hate mail as well. Telling me it was all my fault, how I must have brought you up wrong. Turned you into a killer.’
‘I never - ’
‘You haven’t a clue. I had dog faeces pushed through my door.’
Mark’s stunned into silence. What?
‘You heard me. All the neighbours treated me like shit. Several times, they delivered a physical version of their opinion through the letterbox.’
‘I’m sorry. That’s awful.’
She shrugs off his apology. ‘I’ll ask you again. Why are you here?’
It’s pointless, Mark realises, but he’ll try anyway. ‘I came to see if we could re-establish some sort of contact. You’re my mother, after all.’
No response, simply the same cold stare.
‘I didn’t have any part in killing Abby Morgan, I swear I didn’t. You have to believe me.’
Joanna Stone snorts in derision again. ‘Of course you did. You were found guilty, weren’t you? Along with that other boy.’
‘It didn’t happen that way.’
‘Liar. I thought I’d already made it obvious I want nothing to do with you anymore. The shame of having my son arrested for murder. At eleven years of age, too. People posted shit through my door, Joshua. Do you have any idea what that’s like? Of course you don’t.’
Joanna Stone shakes her head. ‘No wonder I moved, reverted to my maiden name.’
Her, her, her. As usual, Mark thinks, it’s all about his mother. This woman has never once expressed regret over a child losing her life or entertained any notion of her son being innocent. Another thought strikes him. He notices she only mentions the reaction of her neighbours, not her friends. She didn’t have any fourteen years ago and he doubts she does now. Some things don’t change.
‘You take after your father, that’s your problem. Losers, both of you.’
Her words pierce him with their cruelty. He remembers his father, their visits to the park together, kicking footballs around. Andrew Barker may have been weak where his wife was concerned, but he was essentially a good man. Kind, caring.
‘I’ve denied ever having a son since moving. Nobody’s aware you exist.’
‘You’ve remarried. Doesn’t your husband know about me?’
Her horrified expression confirms his earlier supposition.
‘God, no. The shame…he must never find out.’ The thought is clearly repugnant to her. ‘You need to leave, Joshua. Don’t ever come back. If I have to, I’ll move away again.’
‘Please.’ He hates to grovel, but she has to see how important this is. They don’t have much time. Rachel Morgan may be sitting in front of a police officer right now, or perhaps Tony Jackson is searching his flat. ‘You don’t understand. Something’s happened. I might be rearrested at any moment, be put back in prison. For years, perhaps. If you send me away now, we may never get another chance. Please, Mum.’ The last word is deliberate, an attempt to remind her of her maternal role; appeal to any shred of motherly feeling dormant within her.
Joanna Stone’s expression grows ever flintier.
‘You’ve obviously done something bad if the police are looking for you. Don’t tell me; I don’t want to know what crime you’ve committed now. Everything you say simply confirms to me what a loser you are. Always have been, always will be.’ She peels herself away from the fridge freezer, standing in front of him, arms crossed, legs planted apart. ‘Get this into your head, once and for all. I want nothing whatsoever to do with you.’
The slap, when it cracks across her face, shocks both of them. Mark’s hand smacks across Joanna Stone’s left cheek before any conscious awareness of what he’s doing hits him. The blow is hard, t
he force knocking her backwards against the fridge freezer again. A tiny puff of beige powder erupts from her skin as a red stain blooms on her cheek. Her mouth hangs open with disbelief as she brings her palm up to nurse her face.
A pivotal moment for Mark. For the third time in as many weeks, he’s been rejected by a woman for what happened fourteen years ago, and it’ll be the last time. He’s finally shut his mother up, gained the upper hand, and it feels good. Very good.
Joanna Stone flinches as Mark steps forward. Time for him to deliver a home truth or two.
‘You’ve got things arse-backwards. I’m the one who wants nothing more to do with you. I’ve been a fool to hope you’d be any different. You’re the same hard bitch you always were.’ No response, but he detects fear lurking in Joanna Stone’s eyes. ‘My father was always way too good for you. Too bad he died before he found himself a decent woman to love, not a cold fish like you. You were a crap wife. Not to mention being shit in every way as a mother, as well as an all-round failure as a human being.’ He spits the words in her face, each one an additional slap, piling on the punishment. ‘Those people were right to post shit through your door. Wish I’d shoved a big steaming pile onto your fucking doormat myself.’ He strides past her, out of the kitchen, into the hallway. The thick front door makes one hell of a bang as he slams it behind him.
Sweet liberation. At last.
No lingering in his car this time. Mark starts the engine and heads back towards the M4, his palm still stinging from the slap that’s freed him. The burden he’s been carrying, the weight of her rejection, has been lifted. He’ll always be his father’s son to Joanna Stone, a loser, someone who’s messed up her life. Mark finds he simply doesn’t care. If he’s no son of hers, then she’s dead to him as well. Time to move on. No time to waste. He doesn’t know how much time he still has as a free man, and he has other matters to which to attend.
The miles seem few once he turns onto the M4. He’s soon back in Bristol. No police at his flat when he gets there, thank God. Rachel can’t have told them yet. So far, his luck’s holding.