by J. A. Baker
Sat in the car outside her house. Fucking bitch is set up for life living here. So upset and furious. Feel like taking a brick and caving both their heads in …
Sickness grips me, a bolt of dread searing through my brain, rendering me speechless. Not like this. It wasn’t meant to be like this. It was meant to be a case of letting the press know where she was, getting her to move on, making sure her daughter knew what her mother had done. All we spoke about was outing her. Not this. Not violence. That would make us as bad as her. Surely Beverley can see that? The pair of us hurting her never came into the equation. It was never, ever part of the plan.
I smile at my mother and excuse myself, telling her I have to go in the hallway to get a better signal so I can send a reply to Freya, who is on her way to meet me at the station. I hate all this deceit, but will do what I have to do to protect her. She is a frail, old lady and doesn’t deserve to become embroiled in any of this nonsense. Because that’s what it is; complete and utter nonsense. A stupid idea that has grown and grown and been blown out of all proportion. After tracking her movements for many years, Beverley realised with a great deal of joy that Lissy had moved to North Yorkshire, not far from where she lived. Then she struck pure gold when she also found out that the school Lissy’s daughter attended had a vacancy for an admin assistant. She applied and got the job. It was handed to us on a plate. We could actually see her when she visited the school, see how she had aged, perhaps throw a little trouble her way by way of spreading a few rumours around about her daughter, making her so miserable she would beg her mother to let them move again. Then they would be somebody else’s problem. That’s all it was supposed to be. Just a way of getting all this anger out of our systems. For me anyway. Looking back, I should have known that Beverley wanted more than that. Her messages and conversations always had an edge to them, a hidden meaning that I didn’t always pick up on. Or didn’t want to. I was so wrapped up in my own rage and loathing that I was blind to it all.
I almost go back into the living room to speak to my mother about a memory that has jumped in my head but stop myself. It was a conversation we had many years back. Something about Beverley; something that happened long before I met up with her and we became acquainted. I screw my eyes up to concentrate, wishing I’d taken more notice of my mother’s words. But at the time Beverley meant little to me. I wouldn’t have had any reason to listen closely, to pay attention to the details. She was practically a stranger to me, someone who suffered a tragedy similar to ours but not a person I associated, or mixed, with. We were very different people back then. We still are. I screw my eyes up and try to think. It was something about an incident involving a child. Did she take a child? My head feels tight. I recall my mother telling me about Beverley being taken into hospital, her husband being frantic with worry but can’t for the life of me recall what the actual incident was. There’s been so much gone on since then, it’s all tucked away in the back of my thoughts.
I take a deep breath and tap away at my phone, panic now searing across my skin like a wave of electricity. She has to stop this. I have to stop her. She isn’t well. So far, I’ve ignored her pleading, sharp messages and turned a blind eye to her threats. But now she has upped her game, taken it in a whole new direction. Maybe that’s what has caused her to do this, my refusal to communicate with her. Is this what she is trying to do? To draw me back in to her awful little plan using possible violence as a tactic? Is she having another breakdown? Is that what happened to her last time?
I tap away at my phone, thinking I will possibly regret this.
Go home. Leave them be. You are not solving anything by doing this. Give it up. Please, I’m begging you, don’t do this.
I hit send and hope she comes to her senses. If anything happened to Lissy and her daughter, Beverley and I would be blamed, having messages like this on our phones. I quickly hit delete and slip it back in my pocket. Because they are targets, the pair of them. I don’t doubt that there are plenty of people out there ready to avenge the death of my sister, a child they never even knew. People who would take it upon themselves to carry out their own sentencing, take the law into their own hands. You see it all the time on the television and in the newspapers; gangs of them torching the house of a man they believed was a paedophile, bandying adult photographs online of the Bulger murderers in the hope somebody somewhere recognises them. They are everywhere, these vigilantes, fully believing that what they are doing is for the good of the people. And I was nearly one of them. I still can’t quite believe I let that happen, that I even considered it. I don’t think Arthur or my mother would have ever forgiven me. I don’t think I could ever have forgiven myself. And then, of course, there is Freya to take into consideration. Quite ironic really that she wants to become a journalist, to spend her days writing about other people’s lives and problems when her own family almost fell apart without her even knowing.
‘Everything OK, darling?’ My mother’s voice always manages to instil a sense of calm in me. The timbre of her delicate, hushed tones washes over me, transports me back to a time when I felt safe in her arms. Our family was fortunate in that respect. We coped far better with our loss than Beverley’s family did. It wasn’t easy for us, far from it but we always had a lot of love to keep us going, whereas Beverley’s family seemed to run on bitterness and blame. And as far as I can tell, they still do.
‘Fine, Mum. I’m just checking the train times, making sure they’re not running late.’
I run my fingers through my hair and shake my head. More lies to a person who doesn’t deserve them. I tell myself I’m doing it to protect her, to keep her from all of this. I only hope Beverley is doing the same thing with her mother. If nothing else, both ladies deserve a modicum of peace in their twilight years. God knows they’ve suffered enough.
My phone beeps and I give it once last glance before heading back to the living room. As I expected, it’s Beverley and her reply is simple enough. Just one word that tells me all I need to know about just how deep rooted her hatred is. I stare at the screen and feel my stomach clench. It simply says, NEVER.
Lissy
The light is fading as I sit bolt upright in bed. I have a dressing gown draped over me and the house is silent. For a few seconds, I can’t think where I am and I feel besieged with nerves. I lie still, waiting for the pulse in my head to disappear and for my thoughts to assemble themselves, to slowly slot into place like pieces of a jigsaw coming together to form a complete picture. I spin around, my eyes darting about the room, catching shadows, glancing in corners, checking I am safe. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stand up. The room seems to move. I lean back and hang on to the bed sheets to steady myself. How long have I slept for? An hour? Two? I suddenly remember Rosie and the school bus, thinking she will be in soon. Straightening myself up, I tear out of the door, my head tight with confusion. And then I remember. Horror and disappointment roots me to the floor. I think of Mr Cooper and his supercilious smirk, and Anthea Paxton and her gentle but firm words. And her, in there with us. Together in the same room after all these years. Then Rupert’s face lodges in my head. His laughter, the mockery. And that letter. Fuelled by fear, I race downstairs, almost falling over my own feet, and barge into the living room. Rosie is sitting on the sofa, feet curled up under her legs, a book on her lap, Dirty Dancing is playing on the television in the background. She is the very epitome of calm. The picture of innocence.
‘You were out for the count, so I covered you up,’ she says, not looking up from the page she is reading. I stare at the book and tilt my head slightly to get a better look at the title. Rosie is a book fiend. Literature is her greatest love. I still cannot believe what she has done. My head pounds with disbelief. Somebody with such a passion for the written word would never deface a book in that way, would they? Subject another person to such horror? Surely not.
‘The Tempest,’ she says, and lifts the book up for me to see.
I nod in recognition
and shiver. It feels cold in here. How can I be cold when summer is on its way? Outside a flock of great tits are feeding en masse, a tight bundle of them huddled round the bird feeder, their small beaks digging into the food I put out yesterday. A blackbird swoops down and I watch as they all fly away, their tiny wings beating furiously as they flutter and hide in the nearby shrubbery.
‘Have you read this one, Mum?’ Her voice is soft, almost a whisper.
I shake my head and push my hair behind my ears. It is tangled and in need of a wash. My mouth is coated in a greasy film and the slightly sour smell of sweat is all around me, on me, permeating the still air and filling my nostrils. I need a shower and a drink of water to rinse away the residual coating of bile that is clinging to the back of my throat.
‘This is one of my favourite quotes from this play,’ she says, her voice suddenly growing in crescendo, a sharpness to it I don’t care for. I turn to stare at her, my eyes probing her features for clues.
‘In this scene, Ariel is speaking to Prospero, and you know what he says, Mum?’ A degree of caution creeps over me as I watch her face, see a look in her eyes that puts me on edge. ‘He says, “Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”’
I nod, unsure what it is she wants me to say. Her eyes are dark. She narrows them as she looks up from the book and turns to stare at me.
‘Do you like that quote, Mum? I think it’s perfect. One of the best quotations ever. What do you think of it?’
I gawp at her open mouthed, my chest suddenly tight with apprehension. She unfurls herself from the sofa and sits up straight, her body tight with barely disguised aggression.
‘I think I need a shower, Rosie, and then we can talk about everything that’s happened because I think we’re both really upset, but right now—'
‘Talk?’ she barks at me, her shrill voice freezing my blood. ‘Talk about what? Where should we start, Mum, eh? You tell me!’
A quietness descends, an ominous hush, our eyes locked together in a moment of unexplained darkness. And then I realise. It crashes into my mind, hot and inescapable, a gushing tide of guilt submerging me, dragging me under, crushing me, taking the breath right out of me. I sink to the floor, collapsing in an undignified heap, my legs splayed out around me. I see it there, the horror of its presence is a sickening reminder of who I am. The letter. Davey’s letter, the one he wrote to us the morning he left all those years ago, the one he propped up against the condiments on the kitchen table before he stepped out of our lives, never to return. It sits next to Rosie alongside the one we received earlier, as sharp and clear as the day he wrote it, its neat edges and cutting words slicing into my heart, tearing our family into tiny, little pieces.
I try to speak but nothing comes out. I swallow, take a few small, deep gasps and stand up, my legs wobbling under me as I take a few tentative steps towards her. She stops me dead, holding out her outstretched palm to keep me away, to keep me, her own mother, at arms-length.
‘Stay there. Don’t come anywhere near me!’ Her voice is unrecognisable, loaded with such hatred and unadulterated rage it takes my breath away. ‘I swear to God, Mum, if you come any closer I will scream that you are trying to murder me.’
‘Where di—’ I stammer.
‘Where did I find it? After I covered you up, after I had calmed myself down after seeing that note,’ she says icily, staring down at the paper sitting next to Davey’s letter. ‘After seeing that fucking note, I went through your bookcase looking for something to read. The one you always claim contains only boring books. Nothing there I would like. Isn’t that what you’ve always told me in the past? Anyway, tucked away at the back was an envelope. But I don’t need to tell you that, do I? Because that’s where you hid it, isn’t it? Stuffed right at the back, away from me.’
I lower my eyes and blink away a lifetime of unshed tears.
‘Anyway, at that point you were asleep and I was pissed off so I thought, why not? I’ll give it a read …’
Sweat trickles down my spine. My eyes mist over and small needles stab at my flesh. This cannot be happening. It just can’t. I have to do something, anything to get her back on my side. A ticking sound in my head grows louder and louder making me feel sick. I need to focus, to concentrate all my efforts on getting our little family back on track. I cannot let this happen. I should have told her everything before now. I am painfully aware of that, but the time was never right. When exactly is it the right time to tell your teenage daughter that at the same age she is now, you were sent to prison for killing two small children? The time is never right for such a disclosure.
Slowly, I reach out my hand to her, taking small steps so as to not alarm her. Never taking my eyes from her face, I very gently shuffle forwards, careful to keep my expression as neutral as I can. Her face crumples and she lets out a shriek as I reach her and pull her into my arms where she collapses in a snotty, wet heap. Pain beats its way through me as she leans back then throws herself at me, pummelling her fists against my chest. Then reaching up, she starts to slap at my face, her soft, small hands stinging my cheeks. I don’t try to stop her. I deserve this. She should have been told. Keeping it from her was unforgivable. I thought I was protecting her but all I’ve done is punish her, make her feel as if she has been living with a complete stranger for all of her life.
‘I hate you! I HATE YOU!’ The slaps continue to come, sharp and raw against my bare flesh.
We go on like that for another two or three minutes, until eventually Rosie wears herself out and she slumps in my arms, her body a dead-weight against mine. She stays there for another minute or so, heaving and sobbing like a baby. I remain silent, not wanting to lose the moment. It could go either way. Just one word out of place, one sharp breath and I could lose her again. Everything could shatter into a million tiny fragments, impossible to piece back together. I can’t let that happen. This is Rosie, my only child. We are a team. The two of us together. Never apart. Never …
‘I’m so sorry, my darling,’ I whisper, my chin resting on the top of her head. ‘I was wrong for not telling you, but there’s so many things you need to know. So many things.’
I daren’t breathe, terrified of her response. She is in fight or flight mode. I wait, my body so tense that a pain shoots up my back and wraps its way around my neck, snaking up the base of my skull. A sharp ache cracking against the bone. I pull Rosie closer to me in case she tries to escape, just a small hug to my body to keep her near me.
‘You often asked about my family and why I never saw any of them.’ I wait to see if she responds, and when she doesn’t say or do anything, I continue, ‘My parents were both alcoholics, Rosie. They were very abusive. We lived in quite a big house compared to some of my friends but ours was a miserable existence. Although my dad had quite a good job as a manager at a local factory, when he was at home there was a completely different side to him that not everyone knew about. My mo—’
‘NO!’ Rosie pulls away from me and is screaming at me once again, ‘NO, Mum! Please don’t try and pull that shit about it being down to your parents and how it’s all their fault!’
‘Rosie, I’m not. I’m really, really not. I’m just setting the scene, telling you how it all started. Please, just hear me out?’ I hear the desperation begin to creep into my voice. I’m losing her. She is drawing away from me. I have to stop her, bring her back to me. She is my life. Everything is pointless without Rosie. Time stands still as I wait for her to do something anything. As long as she stays seated next to me, I can do this. All I want is for her to listen, to hear me out, to take notice of the sorry tale I am about to tell her. But she doesn’t. I start to speak again and in a heartbeat, she is up and out of the chair, eyes blazing.
‘NO! I don’t want to hear anything you have to say! You’re a liar. Nothing but a cheap, pathetic, fucking LIAR.’
The entire house shakes as she slams the door and storms upstairs, screaming a shower of obscenities at me from the top, about how dare I accuse
her of misbehaving when all the time I had the darkest secret of all stashed away in my past and how she always thought I was a shit mother. I try to let it all wash over me, to let it slip over my skin, telling myself this is to be expected and it’s just a fleeting emotion, something that will change with the passing of time. And then another still voice taps away at me, screaming that this is the beginning of the end; a gaping fissure that is beyond repair. A bubble of air catches in my chest. I can’t let that happen. Not ever. Without Rosie, I am nothing. A husk of a person. I may as well be dead.
As delicately as I can, I follow her upstairs. I have to say this and she has to listen. Passing the hallway, I check to make sure the front door is locked and bolted. I slip both sets of keys into my pocket and tiptoe up to her bedroom. The door is closed, possibly barricaded with her chest of drawers to stop me getting in. I’ll find a way. I have to. If I don’t, then I can kiss everything goodbye ; Rosie, my paintings, the rest of my life. It will all have been for nothing.
I take a deep breath, tap my hand against the panel of the door, and wait.
Beverley
Disgust courses through me, saturating my brain, chilling my flesh. I have never felt this way before, known a loathing so deep that it takes root in me and refuses to leave. When she was an image in my head it was different. I hated the memory of her, the thought of what she did, how her actions destroyed my life; but now she is here, flesh and bone, just a stone’s throw away from me, our lives separated by only bricks and mortar, behind which she sits with her daughter, relishing in their nice little life I have realised that I want to kill her. Nothing would give me greater satisfaction than watching her squirm with fear as I take a knife to her throat while her daughter stands by and watches.