by J. A. Baker
The hours drag by in a stultifying haze until it is time to leave. This place has suddenly lost its allure, all the sparkle gone out of it. I used to love coming here. It was more than just a job. It was my project, but now I have two long weeks ahead with nothing but a whole host of menial admin tasks waiting for me when I get here every morning. I need to do something to keep me focused, to keep the momentum going. If I back off now, Lissy and her daughter will forget about it, and I don’t want that to happen. I most definitely do not want them relaxing, thinking it’s all over. Because it will never be over. Not for me, not for my mother. Ours is an ongoing punishment, a lifetime of anguish. And if our lives are such, why shouldn’t theirs be the same?
I close the office door and head out, thinking I should really visit my mother, perhaps even take her to the graveyard. Every time I go to see her she asks me about going there, tending to Greg’s grave and taking fresh flowers, but I always seem to find an excuse to not visit. I don’t know why I find it so difficult to make the journey. It’s not far; it isn’t the travelling that bothers me. Truth be told, I have no idea what it is about going there that perturbs me. Perhaps it’s the thought of being so close to death all those bodies, all that heartache. A sprawling expanse of rotting flesh and old bones beneath my feet. It makes me shudder just thinking about it.
I shake my head. Not today. I cannot face it today. I always have to prime myself before I visit my mother, mentally prepare for her frosty disposition and snide remarks. A lifetime of shouldering the blame for Greg’s death is a heavy burden to bear and I find it draining to be reminded of it time and time again. I would also have to inform her that Theresa visited me and stayed over and anything involving my sister is an ordeal. Mum would find excuses for her, tell me she lost her way in life after being surrounded by distress and misery while she was growing up, try to give me another reason to feel guilty. Just a few hours away from the house when I should have been watching Greg, that’s all it was. Probably not even that. Then afterwards my life was turned on its head. And it’s all because of her Lissy bloody Smyth or McLeod or whatever the hell it is she calls herself these days. It’s not as if she was even a real friend; she was just someone who followed me around, hung on to my every word, until eventually I relented and took her under my wing. And all because I felt sorry for her. She was the lost kid at school, a true loner, until I took her in. And for a while, we did grow pretty close. We hung around together, went shopping in town, exchanged used bottles of nail varnish and scrappy pieces of make-up that we pilfered from our mums’ limited supply … I blink back tears. Just goes to show what happens when you let people into your life. A lesson I will never forget.
I check my hair in the rear-view mirror and slip the key into the ignition. I know I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t visit her house again. Not after last time. Too risky. But the temptation is so great. It eats away at me as I swing my car on to the road. Just a quick drive past. It can’t hurt, can it? I’m not breaking any laws, not doing anybody any harm. All I’m doing is satiating my need to do something, anything to settle the nagging sensation that is sitting in the bottom of my belly; the one that keeps telling me I haven’t quite done enough to scare them, to make sure they don’t sleep well at night. Just a little bit more. That’s all I want. Just enough for her to snap and confront me. Then I can make my move. When that happens, I can really get things moving. The thought of it sends a bolt of excitement through me, a welcome sensation after such a tedious day. I visualise her, the look of shock on her face when I inform her what I’m going to do, how I have passed her address on to every newspaper I can think of. Then I envisage the next part and shiver; the part only I know about. The part I have waited for all of my adult life.
The draw proves to be too great as I take the road that leads past her house. It’s a long drive through curling country lanes that are full of potholes and hemmed in by overgrown hedgerows that blinker my view, but it is so worth it. Everything I do now concerning Lissy is worth it. It’s all turning out far better than I ever anticipated. It’ll actually be a pity when she’s gone. I’ll have nothing to throw my energy into, no more planning and lying awake at night mulling over my next move. It will be just me and Warren. Back to how it was before I found her, before she moved so close by. The thought of that fills me with dread. The past few weeks have seen a new me. I have never felt so animated, so alive. I have a renewed sense of purpose and it feels fantastic. The thrill of it all sends a shiver up my spine as I pull up on the road opposite her house and get comfortable. Neighbours or no neighbours, I intend to sit here as long as I damn well please. And if anybody asks what I am doing here, I will toughen up and tell them to go to hell. This is a free country and I have a strategy which I intend to see through to its conclusion. So what if my initial idea has changed and Erica thinks I’ve taken it all too far? It was never set in stone to begin with. A plan. That’s what we had. A fucking brilliant plan and she is now trying to ruin it, to shove her big, fat voice of reason in there and spoil everything. Well, I won’t allow it. I absolutely will not allow it.
I feel a burning pain begin to fizz about in my head, flames pulsing and burning my skull. Heat travels through me, growing and expanding, throbbing through my body, energising me. My fists crash down on to the seat. I thrash my legs about and roar into the quiet of the car, my voice filling the calm of the surrounding countryside.
Once I am finished, my fury and frustration vanished, my energy spent, I lean back and smile. I sweep a trembling hand through my hair and smooth the creases out of my clothes ready for the next part the best part. The bit I have longed for, dreamt about, spent my entire adult life waiting for. The thought of it elates me and sends me soaring to another plane. I lean my head back on the seat and let my body be carried away by the thrill of it as it rips through me in a huge orgasmic wave.
Lissy
We spend the day milling about the house, doing not much of anything at all. I am sapped of energy and Rosie is so jumpy and nervous she practically crackles.
Anthea Paxton called me and I spoke to her alone in my bedroom. I didn’t want to unnerve Rosie and put her even more on edge, so I hid away, did my talking in private and feeling pretty shitty about it all. I’ve done enough lying and been deceitful enough to last a thousand lifetimes and I just keep adding to it all, scurrying away, discussing my daughter’s future without her even knowing. I told myself it was for the best that I was doing it to shield her from yet more worry and distress, sheltering her from it all.
The school haven’t taken it lightly, and decided to exclude Rosie for ten days, after they’d called an emergency meeting with the chair of governors and the parents of the other pupil. I doubt boys fighting in the playground, inflicting wounds on each other, possibly even drawing blood, receive anything as harsh as this. But I don’t doubt it was to pacify the parents and shut them up, to stop them from spilling the beans to the local newspapers, who love nothing better than to criticise teachers and school policies especially when it comes to the issue of bullying. I didn’t disagree or try to make any waves. We need to keep our heads down, Rosie and I, not make ourselves the centre of attention or project ourselves into any unnecessary limelight. I thought it was pointless trying to persuade Mrs Paxton of Rosie’s innocence. She would think me completely mad if I were to claim that a member of her staff has perpetrated the deeds of which Rosie has been accused; a member of her staff who has a vendetta against me because of a crime I was accused of committing when I was a child. She would have every right to think me insane and call social services to protect Rosie from her dangerous and crazy mother. I haven’t told Rosie that I have spoken to the school. I will, later, when things are less fraught. Instead, I wander around the house, double-checking doors, tugging at windows, pulling at curtains to shut out the outside world, a place full of terror and peril. I’m being overcautious, paranoid even. I know this but I can’t seem to stop it. Since making the connection with Beverley
being behind the events at Rosie’s school I am constantly on edge, my imagination dreaming up all kinds of horrible scenarios. That’s the problem with having been exposed to the seedier side of life in prison, I know what people are capable of and how they will stoop to any new low to get what they want.
We eat our evening meal on our knees in front of the television. Our world has suddenly shrunk. The dining room feels too big, too formal. All we want in this time of need is comfort food, and a plate of mashed potato, chicken and gravy seems fitting. I pick at my food, constantly watching for shadows, unexpected movements flickering in my peripheral vision. I am exhausted with it, unable to relax, expecting a bang on the door at any time, listening out for any noise that might indicate somebody is hanging around the house.
I finish my wine and refill my glass, desperate to blur everything, to soften the sharp edges of my overactive mind. I take a long slug and finish the glass then stop. There’s a fine line between being relaxed and being so drunk my reflexes no longer function as they should.
I am just beginning to loosen up slightly, to feel marginally safer in my own home, when Rosie calls me. I am in the kitchen washing the pots when her shouts from upstairs alert me, sending me into panic mode. Despite talking myself round, telling myself we are safe here, I still feel apprehensive, my skin suddenly clammy with fear. I have spent the best part of my life on red alert, my senses attuned to the slightest whiff of danger, so it doesn’t take much to push me over the edge.
I thunder up the stairs, my body buzzing, perspiration coating my flesh at the sound of her shouts. She is in her bedroom, standing at the window with her back to me when I get there. My first reaction is to drag her away, rip the curtains closed and shriek at her that she must never, ever stand there again, that there are people out there who want to hurt us, do terrible things to us because they think they know my past. They don’t. Nobody knows me. I’ve only just started to reacquaint myself with the person I am. They can’t possibly know me when for years I barely knew myself.
‘There!’ she shouts and I feel as if an invisible hand is pushing me to the floor.
Rosie turns to look at me and then back to the window, her eyes wide with a glimmer of what looks like mild excitement. ‘The car I was telling you about. It’s parked down there again!’
I can hardly breathe. My chest wheezes and my legs are like lead as I force myself to stagger over to where she is standing. I have no idea what it is I expect to see there, but feel certain that whatever is out there will come to no good. I step forward, every breath an effort, every noise in the room accentuated. A pain whistles round my head as I lean in to where Rosie is standing. I narrow my eyes and stare outside.
There in the distance, at the side of the road opposite our house, is a red car parked up in a lay-by. My blood thickens. The world tilts. I grab hold of the windowsill to stop the room from spinning.
‘Do you want me to go down and see who’s in there?’
‘NO!’ My voice is a scream, a frantic, hopeless screech that sends Rosie reeling backwards, her green eyes wide with horror.
I pull her close to me as gently as I can, eager for her to listen. ‘Sorry, Rosie. I didn’t mean to scare you, but what you’re suggesting could be dangerous. We have no idea who is down there.’
She nods and I find myself thanking whichever greater deity is listening for giving me a level-headed daughter who, when the chips are down, knows exactly how to react. So far, she has been superb. Upset yes, angry most definitely, but her comprehension, her ability to unpick the complexities of what has gone before, far supersedes her age. Many would have fled, raged around the house breaking things. But not my Rosie. She is my rock, my reason for getting out of bed every morning and painting on a smile. She is everything to me.
‘Who do you think it is, Mum?’ she asks, her eyes searching mine for answers I cannot give.
I shrug and pull her away from the window. ‘Could be any number of people, sweetheart,’ I murmur into her hair as we sit on the bed. I rest my chin on the top of her head, drinking in everything about her the smell of her; apple shampoo, the softness of her pale skin, the delicate feel of her body as she cuddles into me.
‘You really should write to somebody, you know, tell them you didn’t do it. It isn’t fair, all of this. People shouldn’t be blamed for things they didn’t do.’
Once again, tears threaten to fall. I blink them away. If only she knew of the many cases of wrongful imprisonment, the people who are locked up for crimes they didn’t commit, and the ones who walk free for crimes they did. But I can’t tell her. What good would it do to colour her judgement of a world she barely knows? I want her to be free of such constraints. I want my daughter to view the world from a neutral stance, to make her own decisions and not get bogged down with all the possibilities of how atrocious a place it can be. It can be a decent place too. I am desperate for her to see that. I so want her to see the good in people.
‘Perhaps,’ I say softly as I stroke her hair, ‘maybe when all of this is over, I might consider it,’ I add, knowing fine well I will do nothing of the sort.
We sit for a while in comfortable silence, each of us locked in our own thoughts. The hushed calm of the room is disrupted by a sound beneath us. I sit up, my skin prickling with dread, and listen. Another noise thumps its way up to us. There is somebody at the door. Rosie pulls away from me and we sit and stare at each other for a few seconds before I snap into action.
‘Stay here!’ I hiss at her before bolting down the stairs. I stand in front of the door, terror soaring through me.
The knock comes again, loud, determined. Whoever is on the other side of that door has something they need to tell me. Or do to me. I step forward and open it a crack, the chain rattling in its casing as I peek through to see Rupert there, standing on my front step, a puzzled expression on his face. My sense of trepidation and mild alarm steps up a gear.
I give him a courteous nod and wait for him to speak. He clears his throat and rubs at his face looking marginally anxious.
‘Please don’t shout at me. I just wanted to ask if you know who is in the car at the end of the road?’
I feel my face heat up and shake my head at him, my throat suddenly too tight to respond.
‘Ah, OK. I was kind of hoping you might know them. I certainly don’t,’ he says, turning around to glance down at the vehicle before looking back at me. ‘And I’ve asked the other neighbours and they don’t know who it is, either.’
A needle of dread races its way down my spine. I suddenly feel hot and cold at the same time. I feel his eyes bore into me and have no idea why I do it whether I am clutching at some kind of hapless idea that he is here to help me or if I am simply desperate for a friend in these torrid times but I slide the chain off the door and step back to let him enter. He hesitates, unsure of what my response is going to be, then strides over the threshold and walks in.
We’re sitting in the living room when Rosie comes down. I offer to make tea for him but he refuses and stands up to go to the window.
‘She was there yesterday,’ he says, his back to us as he speaks, ‘I was pulling off the drive when I saw her. She was just sitting there staring up here. Bit weird, don’t you think?’
I hope he can’t see my shirt pulsating as my heart thrashes around my chest.
‘And since she was staring up at your house, I just wondered well with the dead fox thing and everything….. well, that was what alerted me. I was putting it in the boot of my car to take it to the local waste disposal site when I saw her …’
His words hang there, filling the void between us, the great chasm of doubt we now have after my performance yesterday. I should thank him, tell him how grateful I am for getting rid of it, but am unable to speak.
‘It’s somebody who wants to get back at Mum,’ Rosie blurts out and I go cold.
What is she thinking of? We barely know this man, this Rupert who, on a whim, I let into my living room. What was I think
ing of? What is Rosie thinking of, saying such stuff to him?
‘It’s OK, Rosie,’ I say as I glare at her. She makes a face as if to say, ‘What? What have I done?’
Fortunately, he doesn’t seem to hear her, or if he does, he is wise enough to not show it.
‘I’m sure Rupert doesn’t want to hear of our problems and woes.’ My eyes are wide as I signal at her to stop, but she doesn’t.
‘A lot of people think Mum did something that she didn’t, that’s what it is. That woman in the car down there is probably one of those people. Things have been happening to me as well …’
‘Stop it, Rosie!’ My voice is loud enough to make Rupert turn back to us.
He is the picture of serenity and calm. I can’t work out whether he is doing it to lessen an embarrassing situation, or whether he is actually part of this thing. Does he know anything about it? Is it simply a coincidence that he turns up and then all these horrible things start happening to us? Or is he here to do me harm; to do us harm and is currently in my living room sizing us up, working out what his next move is going to be? My head aches and it feels as if a red-hot poker is being inserted into my stomach and slowly rotated; my internal organs turning round and round on a burning spit.
‘I’m sorry, Rupert,’ I mutter croakily, ‘but we’re having a bit of a problem at the minute, so thank you for letting us know of this person. We’ll certainly keep an eye out, won’t we, Rosie?’