The Other Mother

by J. A. Baker

  She nods, a defeated expression in her eyes, and turns her back to me.

  ‘Right,’ he says as he begins to edge towards the door. ‘Well, I’d better be off. Just thought I’d check; see you were all right and make sure this person hasn’t been bothering you.’

  I nod and thank him.

  ‘You could take the registration number and pass it on to the police, couldn’t you?’ Rosie quickly glances at me then looks away, arms crossed, head tilted up, a flicker of defiance in her posture.

  ‘Rosie!’ I bark and apologise to Rupert as I chivvy him out.

  ‘No,’ he says quietly, ‘it’s no problem and she is probably right.’ He stops and I want to yell at Rosie that she must stop this right now, but they are both suddenly on a roll, their faces fizzing with excitement. ‘Tell you what I’ll do, if it’s still there in a day or two, I’ll pass my concerns on to the police, tell them the registration plate and they can maybe find out who it is and why they’re parked up there. Just seems weird, don’t you think? Nothing but fields for miles and miles and someone just sits there staring up here?’

  Rosie nods animatedly.

  ‘I mean, I could understand it if it was a workman eating his lunch, having a break, but it’s not, is it? It’s a middle-aged woman just sitting there …’ He stops, suddenly aware of the fact that I am staring at him, silently willing him to shut up. ‘Anyway,’ he adds, a touch sullenly, ‘as I said, I’ll keep an eye out and since it seems to be you she’s watching, maybe you should keep an eye out too. Just a thought …’ And with that he is gone.

  I lock the door and see that Rosie is glaring at me, her eyes ablaze with simmering fury.

  ‘Mum! Why did you act like that? You were really rude. He was trying to help us!’

  I walk away from her but she follows me, her feet padding after me like a puppy trailing after its mother, every so often breaking into a run to keep up.

  ‘Look, sweetheart!’ I say, exasperated by the whole thing. ‘As nice as he seems, we don’t actually know him, do we? He could be anybody.’

  ‘He’s our neighbour!’ she cries, her hands lifted in protest, her palms upturned and her shoulders hunched. ‘Do you really think he’s going to move house just so he can follow you and do mean things to you?’

  ‘Yes actually, I do!’ I shout as we sail into the kitchen. I start to bang things about, my frustration rising in great waves. I pick up a cup and put it down again then drag plates out of the dishwasher to put them away. They crash into the cupboard spinning across the surface, drowning out our words.

  ‘Stop this, Mum,’ Rosie says, her voice suddenly gentle. She reaches over and puts her hand on my arm. ‘I know you said there are some people out there who hate you, but you have to realise that not everyone is bad.’

  ‘How do you know?’ I ask. I want to tell her that she has no idea how it feels to have the whole world against you, to have the whole world wanting you dead. She can’t begin to imagine what it feels like. She really can’t, and nor would I want her to.

  ‘I don’t know how I know,’ she says softly, ‘but I honestly think this Rupert guy is actually being kind. I don’t think he is one of your haters, Mum. I think he is just being a general good guy.’

  Something deep down in my gut tells me she’s right but I can’t be absolutely sure about it. In the words of Benjamin Franklin, “In this world, nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.” I have trusted people before and they have let me down. My friend, Sally, for instance. I got close to her and look what she did to me contacting Davey, telling him all about my past, even sending him newspaper clippings about the case. People are unforgiving, insular; they will turn on you at the drop of a hat. I know this to be true. But at some point, there has to be somebody out there who will help me, someone who will listen to me, perhaps given time they might even believe me. I’m just not sure if our neighbour, Rupert, is that person.

  Lissy

  Sleep came easy to us. After all the carry-on, both Rosie and I were exhausted. We found ourselves, at nine o’clock, dropping off in our armchairs while Iron Man 3 played itself out on the TV. I didn’t expect to crash so easily. My body was a jangle of nerves and I had the mother of all headaches, but fatigue got the better of me, and after checking and double-checking all the doors and windows for what felt like the thousandth time, we crept up the stairs and collapsed into our beds with the promise we would each wake one another should we be disturbed by the slightest noise.

  ‘And I mean slight.’ I had warned Rosie before practically crumpling on to my bed, my eyes closing after only a few seconds and letting the crushing tiredness have its way.

  The house is silent when I wake. Rosie is still sleeping soundly, which is hardly surprising given the issues she has had to deal with of late. Her poor brain must be in near meltdown. The light filters into my bedroom through the horizontal blinds, small strips of pale yellow projected on to the walls and fall softly on to the dark blue duvet. My head has a slight residual soreness, the left-overs of yesterday’s gargantuan headache that had me in its grip. I lie there for a while, listening to the gentle sounds of early summer outside; the low hum of nearby farm machinery, the chitter-chatter of birds as they search for food and swoop through the warm, cerulean sky. I had forgotten how it could be life when it treats you well. Is this how most people feel each and every morning when they draw their curtains back and stare outside at the expanse of cobalt blue and hear the soothing chirrup of birdsong? No worries about how they will make it through the day without somebody recognising them and following them, their minds full of ill intent?

  I throw back the covers and get up, then head straight into the shower, eager to scrub away the nastiness of yesterday and rid myself of the lingering scent of fear. I lather my body and wash at my hair until it squeaks, feeling oddly relieved we had a trouble-free night.

  By the time I get downstairs I am beginning to feel half-human, my skin emitting the sweet smell of honeysuckle as I head into the kitchen and prepare breakfast. I decide that today, Rosie and I will spend time in the house together, trying to heal old wounds and discussing our future. She is right, of course; we shouldn’t have to spend the rest of our lives running away from crimes I didn’t commit. I have no idea how we will manage to do it, but there has to be a way.

  I scramble some eggs and put the kettle on to boil. By the time Rosie gets up the kitchen is filled with the heady aroma of buttered toast and fresh coffee. She sniffs the air dramatically as she saunters in the kitchen, her hair askew and a fluffy dressing gown wrapped tightly around her slim body.

  ‘Hungry?’ I ask and watch as her eyes light up.

  ‘Starving!’ She flops into a chair and fills her plate with piles of honey-coloured toast and as much egg as she can fit on without it all toppling to the floor in a messy, sticky heap.

  I pour her some juice and slide the glass over thinking that, at the minute, an impartial observer would be forgiven for thinking we are a normal family.

  We sit and eat, our demeanour and conversation civilised and easy, yesterday’s events safely tucked away for later when we both feel ready to tackle it all. Rosie tells me about how she would love for us to visit Shakespeare’s home in Stratford, and when I ask if she would like to visit the Tate Gallery in London her eyes light up and she nods so rapidly I imagine she sees stars. We’ve never done anything like that before taken a break and strolled around villages and cities without a care in the world. I’ve always been too cautious, too frightened. But that’s all in the past now. I’m done with running away. I’ve had enough of hiding.

  It’s while I’m loading the dishwasher that I hear it, the familiar crunch of gravel telling me somebody is coming up the drive. I stand stock-still, praying it’s the postman. It’s too early for him, I know it is, but there is a small part of me that doesn’t want to face up to the possibility that it’s not over, that this thing will never, ever be over. All our plans for holidays and rest and relaxation
were pie in the sky; silly pipe dreams. I feel my anger and resentment begin to grow as my chest tightens and a wheeze escapes from the back of my throat. I must keep it together, for Rosie’s sake. I look up and listen to the dull rush of water hitting the shower tray above me and think about how excited she looked at the mention of time away, only for it to be snatched away from us. I clench my fists and take a deep breath. Is there ever going to be any end to all of this? Is it ever going to fucking well stop?

  There is a protracted silence while I listen, my own breathing a deep, roaring echo in my head. The gravel noise has stopped. I can’t work out whether this is a good thing or not and am desperately wracking my brains about what to do next when the sound of shattering glass fills the entire house. The floor seems to rock beneath me as I am overcome with a sudden bout of dizziness. I grip on to the kitchen surface until my brain decides to click into action, spurred on by a sudden surge of white-hot fury and deep resentment. Who the hell do these people think they are? Telling me how I should live my life, making me permanently on edge, turning my daughter into a nervous wreck. How dare they? How fucking dare they?!

  I race through to the hallway and stop, staring down at my slippered-feet. Splinters of glass cover the floor, their sharp edges staring up at me menacingly, daring me to walk among them. I run back to the kitchen and come back with a pair of walking boots which I quickly yank on to my feet. I grab at the keys and am out the door and racing down the path, my senses in overdrive, my heart leaping about my chest in next to no time. And that’s when I see her. Just sitting there at the side of the road. A distant silhouette in a car. A red car. Terror bursts inside me as I slowly make my way down there, sharp bubbles of breath trapped in my chest. Each footstep feels laboured and heavy, my body weighed down with trepidation and dread as I approach the driver. I get close enough to see that whoever it is, is staring down at her phone, her head dipped and turned away from me. I lift my hand and rap on the glass. Very slowly, the head raises and turns to stare at me. And then I see her …

  Erica

  I am in the middle of clearing away our breakfast pots when I get the text. My phone buzzes and I watch as it dances about on the marble worktop, a low ache beginning to form in the bottom of my abdomen. I snatch it up, afraid Arthur will hear it from his study at the end of the hallway, and stare at the screen, horror swelling in my chest. There seems to be no end to this woman’s hatred, no depths she will not plumb to get what she wants.

  I read the message telling me she has decided to take things a step further. I feel like I no longer know this person. She isn’t the same lady I spoke to all those months ago. She has mutated in some way, altered her persona. She is a warped individual and I fear her malicious intentions know no bounds.

  I briefly consider contacting somebody about her threats but I am uncertain who to go to. If I were to report her to the police she would simply say we did it together. I would be guilty by association and I can’t take that chance. I feel slightly sick as I continue putting pots away and wiping down worktops. I am trapped. This has all spiralled out of control and I do not have the energy to deal with it any more. My appointment with the consultant is at the end of this week and I need to prepare for my operation. Her demented texts are the last thing I want to be dealing with. I thought about blocking her, but then what if she does something really stupid, like contacts me here at home by ringing me on the landline? Or sends me a letter? Arthur is at home all day and has taken it upon himself to open all the post. There is no way of predicting what she will do next.

  I look again at the message before peering out of the kitchen doorway. Arthur is holed up in his study, scouring the Internet for job opportunities, emailing old acquaintances to see what’s out there. I imagine he’ll be in there for a while. Long enough for me to do what I need to do.

  I read the message again and let out a trembling sigh.

  Taken two weeks off sick. Seems pointless being there now the girl has been excluded. Spending my days watching them. This thing isn’t over till it’s over. Which it will be soon …

  A deep sense of foreboding bleeds into my bones as I type my reply.

  You MUST stop this. This is pointless. Go home. Please, go home and leave them be.

  I keep it brief. I doubt she will read it anyway. She’s only texting me to punish me for backing out. My words will fall on deaf ears, but I send it anyway, feeling I have to do something, anything, to get her to see sense. I shake my head wistfully. I think Beverley stopped seeing sense a long time ago now. She is driven by blind fury. It eats away at her, day after day. Soon there will be nothing left of her; nothing but a burning ball of anger. A white-hot orb of fury and madness.

  I think of Lissy and her daughter and wonder if she actually deserves any of this. Isn’t it time we all moved on with our lives? Let the past be and look forward to the future. All of a sudden, mine is precious. It is finite, my years ahead in limited supply and I, for one, intend to make the most of it. I doubt Beverley cares much about hers. She and her mother don’t get along that well ; I know that from the conversations her mum has with my mum and the old lady is a drinker by all accounts, more than partial to the odd drop of gin. Beverley doesn’t have any children to think about, and her only sister is a drug addict. She only has her husband and he works away most of the time. She doesn’t have anybody to live for. When I think about that, it makes me feel quite sick. There is nobody to keep tabs on her, nobody to pull her into line and tell her how to behave. Only me.

  Beverley

  It seemed pointless going into work when she wasn’t there. A complete waste of my time. I don’t want to spend my days filing and typing and listening to Shirley drone on and on and on about how bloody marvellous her children are and how beautiful her grandchildren are and how great her husband is. That isn’t why I took the position. I took it so I could be near her, Lissy’s daughter , and if she isn’t in the building then there’s no point me being there either. So, I called in sick, told them I had a stomach bug and I would be back when I felt better. I didn’t give them a time frame. I may not go back at all yet. I’ll just have to wait and see how everything pans out.

  My phone buzzes and I sigh, annoyance running through me. I know who it will be before I even check. I haven’t yet replied to any of Warren’s messages and he is starting to get jittery; panicking about his emotionally fragile wife and her current mental state, hoping there isn’t another incident like last time. He will never let me forget that, will he? The child was alone, wandering the streets long after he should have been home, tucked up in bed. All I did was take him back with me and look after him. Such a sweet boy he was. I told him he suited the name Greg far better than the name his parents had given him. Tears prick at my eyes. They took him from me, told me he wasn’t mine, made me hand him back. And then they took me …

  I should reply to Warren , I know I should , but I’ve been rather busy, and he is in Switzerland, also very busy with work, so he’s not about to jump on the next plane to see how I am, is he? I should reply, if only to keep his worries at bay. Warren helped me out last time I was ill; convinced the police to not press charges, paid for me to spend time in an expensive institution, talked to the family of the little boy telling them it was all a simple mistake and that I was getting help. Once they all heard about my miserable childhood, the loss of my brother, they all softened to his charms and let me be. Poor Warren, having to do all that because of me. Because of her and what she did to our family. What she did to my little brother my Greg.

  I stare at the screen. As expected it’s him, my Warren, making sure I’m managing. I reply that I’m fine but have contracted a stomach bug so have been sleeping a lot and that’s why I haven’t answered any of his texts. He sends me lots of terms of endearment and phrases about resting up and taking it easy, followed by a stream of kisses. I sign off, telling him I’m about to have a nap, then push my phone into my pocket and grab my keys before heading out the door.

&n
bsp; ∞∞∞∞

  The thing about being an early riser is that you get to see the best part of the day. I sit by the roadside and watch flocks of starling dip in and out of the hedgerows, foraging for food. A family of hares tear over the fields, their long bodies arched and graceful as they leap, gazelle-like, across the grass and disappear into a wall of dense shrubbery. It’s quite a magnificent sight. I hope Lissy and her pathetic drip of a daughter have appreciated it so far, and not taken any of it for granted, because if I get my way the pair of them won’t be around for much longer to see it.

  I sit for a good while longer, and am closely monitoring her house for any signs of life behind her curtains when I see it, a darting, flickering movement in my peripheral vision. I watch, completely mesmerised as a hooded figure seems to appear out of nowhere and creep up her driveway. They are cloaked in darkness, wearing a long coat and carrying an object in their right hand. The figure lifts their arm, leans their whole body back and throws what appears to be a rock at the front door, shattering the glass into a million, tiny pieces, the noise taking my breath away as it echoes across the sleepy, morning air. Then the figure turns, face still in the shadows as they run down the driveway before turning and heading into the garden next door where they disappear behind a line of conifers. I raise my head to try to track their movements but the ridge of trees is too high to see beyond it.

  I’m not sure whether I feel slighted by it all or whether I want to laugh out loud. Someone else got to her first. I’m not the only one. Somebody else has stolen my thunder.

  Grabbing my phone, my hands slick with excitement and the sheer thrill of witnessing such a spectacle, I send Erica a message. I don’t care that she will undoubtedly ignore me again, I have to tell somebody about this, and right now, she is the only one I’ve got. A sense of unfulfilled exhilaration caresses my skin, sending tingles of pleasure through me as I press the letters, my fingers trembling on the screen. I am in the middle of letting her know we are not the only ones who are on Lissy’s trail when the noise filters into my brain, disturbing me, making me look up. And when I do, she is there, her face and mine separated by a pane of glass. After all these years, all the desperation and sleepless nights and breakdowns, she is here. And she is staring straight at me.