The Other Mother

by J. A. Baker

  I stay silent, afraid of losing the moment, scared of breaking the spell. I just want him to carry on talking, to tell me what happened. I need to hear it from him.

  He remains rigid, still staring outside at the rolling hills and countryside, his eyes following a flock of skylarks as they dance and swoop across the farmer’s fields in perfect motion. Such beauty in stark contrast to the ugliness here in this room.

  ‘All I did was help him along a little bit. He saw me and squawked and I knew if it got back that I’d been in your house, all hell would break loose.’

  I can’t breathe. Blackness creeps into my peripheral vision, a thick cloak of deepening grey swallowing me, choking me from the inside out.

  ‘So, I just shoved him back under that big fucking pile of material. Jesus.’ He laughs in a voice that isn’t really his. ‘So many blankets and sheets in that cot. I pushed his face away from me. Didn’t want him recognising me, telling your dad I’d been up there. If my dad knew, he would have kicked my arse. So, I held him down there, just for a minute or so till he stopped whimpering. That’s all it was. Just a couple of minutes …’

  I feel as if I’ve been kicked. Breathing feels impossible. The room swims and fire burns at my skin; huge flames searing over my flesh, melting my body. If I stand up now I feel sure my legs will fail me. I need to do something, get away from this man before he turns on me. Which he will now that I know the truth. There is no way he will let me walk away from this. Not knowing what I know. And he is too unstable to reason with, too hot-headed. If I’m going to make a move, I need to do it now.

  I pretend to stretch, an exaggerated move suggesting I’m bored with the conversation, hoping he can’t see the nervous twitch that has taken hold in my eye, or the tremble in my legs as I stand up. I am more than a little surprised when he makes no move to follow me. I had expected a rush to stop me, to wrestle me to the floor. Perhaps a tussle or a slap like the one he gave the girl earlier. But there is nothing. As slowly and deliberately as I can, I head into the kitchen and run the tap while I try to locate the knives. So easy. They glint at me invitingly as I open the first drawer, a whole rack of them, their edges beautifully sharp, the steel so clear and perfect I can see my face in them. I stand and stare at the blade, at my slightly distorted reflection a surreal version of me with unseeing, pale blue eyes and ruffled hair then quickly pull one of them out and grasp it tightly in my clammy fist as I hear the floor creak behind me.

  Lissy

  I should feel relieved now they have left us here, but I don’t. They could come back any minute and I cannot even bring myself to think about what they could do to us; what they could do to Rosie. Beverley is fast losing any shreds of sanity she had left. And as for Daryl…. bile rises when I think of what he did to my baby girl, the imprint he has left on her face with his big, clammy hands. I feel my pulse begin to race and take a deep breath to calm myself. My memory of him all those years ago is of an egocentric, misogynistic thug, a man whose selfishness and nastiness knows no bounds. And by the looks of things he hasn’t changed that much. Once a monster, always a monster. And to think they are both here to get back at me for crimes they’re convinced I committed and all the while they are far surpassing anything I have ever done. They will be sitting there, in my house, full of self-adulation for having caught us, talking about what they should do next, thinking up new and sickening ways to punish me and my young daughter for crimes I didn’t commit.

  I wiggle my hands about and traipse my fingertips over Rosie’s. She responds with jerky movements and a strangled sob. White-hot fury howls through me. Who the fuck do these people think they are? Subjecting my daughter to all of this? They have no right to be here, in our house, terrorising us.

  I close my eyes and try to think. There has to be a way to get out of here. I wrack my brains, trying to remember where I put everything when we moved in here. I don’t have many things stored in the garage but there must be something somewhere I can use to free us from this tape. We could shuffle about on our backsides in the hope of finding a saw, a screwdriver, anything that will slice through this tape and set us free.

  It’s while I’m thinking about the possible ways out of here that Rosie does it. She starts to bang her feet on the concrete floor; a dull, rhythmic stomp that echoes through the vast, empty space. I shake my head and pant and pull at her hands to try to stop her but I hear her muffled cries and sobs and if anything, the pounding gets louder, more insistent, a hollow, sickening reminder of our predicament. She has to stop. I must make her stop, otherwise they’ll hear us and come back through, their anger at the disturbance at boiling point. And if that happens, there’s no telling what they will do.

  I pant hard, hot air escaping from my nostrils, and push against Rosie to tell her to cut it out. It doesn’t work. She starts to moan and bang her feet even louder. And then I hear it. The sound makes my skin prickle, coats my flesh with icy perspiration and sets my heart into a frenzied tempo.

  Rosie hears it too. She stops the banging and muffled noises and we both turn to stare at the garage door that leads in from the garden. Is this it? The end for me and my teenage daughter? All of our lives, running and watching over my shoulder only for it to end like this. It was all for nothing. I lower my head and stare at my feet, bound with silver duct tape, and feel the heat of my tears as they flow down my face. My whole life has been a complete waste.

  The dull creak of the door opening booms in my ears. This moment in time, this waiting, this sensation I am feeling is how people must have felt as they walked to the gallows knowing that, in just a few short moments, they will be breathing their last. This is how it feels when you know your life is about to come to an abrupt end.

  I inhale deeply and look up, ready to stare death in the face. I wait and watch.

  Stooping and filthy, Rupert steps in, his hair matted with sticky blood and his arm hanging at a painful angle. I let out a small gasp and feel my body begin to buzz. My head shakes involuntarily and Rupert nods at me and slowly scans the garage for anything to get us out of here. He groans softly and leans into a large crate at the back of the floor space, half hidden in shadows. It only takes him a few seconds to come out with a pair of old dressmaking scissors that I haven’t used for so many years I fear they won’t work and will seize up when he moves them. For once the gods are with us. I feel my hands become free as he leans down between the pair of us and gently snips away at the tape. It’s stubborn and doesn’t come loose easily but I eventually feel my wrists fall apart from Rosie’s and don’t even try to stop them when more tears fall.

  I swing my arms free and rub them tenderly, pain shooting up my arm after having it so viciously pushed up my back. Steeling myself, I close my eyes and rip the tape off my mouth. A searing hot wave of pain burns at my lips. Spinning round, I turn to see Rosie watching Rupert intently as he cuts the tape away from her ankles, her legs flopping apart as it falls loose. Grasping the tape at her mouth with all her fingers, Rosie tears it away, seemingly impervious to the pain. I throw myself into her arms and we sit there, slumped against one another, sobbing until there are no tears left.

  I lean back, my body exhausted, and whisper to Rupert, ‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’

  He nods and I watch as a small trickle of blood traces its way down the side of his head, travelling over his temple and cheekbone, resting just above his jaw. Another reminder of what I have done; what I have put people through.

  ‘I know him,’ Rupert says, his voice thick with fatigue. ‘He’s my taxi driver.’ He stares down at the floor, his dark eyes full of anger and astonishment. ‘Well, I thought I knew him. Just goes to show, doesn’t it? We don’t really know people at all, do we?’

  I feel my face grow hot and wonder what Daryl has told him about me, whether he has said that he is living next door to a murderer or whether Rupert is still ignorant as to why we are all here, tied up and bloodied on a concrete floor. I don’t have time to think about it anymore as Rosie
jumps up and begins to head towards the door.

  ‘No, Rosie! Please,’ I say in a voice that is so desperate it makes me feel sick. ‘It’s too dangerous to go out there.’

  ‘We need to ring the police, Mum! For God’s sake let’s just get out of here before they come back for us!’

  She’s right. Of course, she is. We need to go to Rupert’s house and call the police. Rupert grips my arm and hauls me up, his fingers digging into my arm. I take a sharp intake of breath and catch his eye. His hand continues to grip me too tightly as he stares down at me, his large frame suddenly a frightening sight. I look over at Rosie. She is standing in the doorway, her back to us, waiting. When I look back, Rupert is still staring at me, his pupils black as coal. My heart crawls around my chest once more as his mouth closes into a mean, tight line.

  ‘We need to be careful,’ he says, his voice a low hiss in my ear, ‘he’s a complete madman.’

  For a second I don’t know how to react. I look at his fingers clutching my arm and try to still my heart, to stop it from battering around my ribcage. Then he suddenly loosens his grip and gently places his hand on my shoulder, his look so normal once again, I wonder if I imagined it. Everything is so rushed and muddled and terrifying I no longer feel sure of anything or anyone. This isn’t my life. This is a warped version of reality, the one I have dreaded for so long, and now it’s here it feels completely unreal, as if it’s happening to somebody else. The worst-case scenario that I have had played over and over in my head for so many years now is actually happening, and all the things I promised I would do to defend Rosie and myself, all the plans and intricate ideas I had in my brain to help keep us alive, have deserted me.

  ‘I’ll go first,’ he says in a voice that no longer scares me. He has taken charge and I have never felt so relieved.

  Stepping forward, he slides past Rosie and out into the glare of the late spring sunshine, into the arms of uncertainty as we duck down and creep round the back of the garage, past my house.

  We’re just about to make our way round to Rupert’s house when Rosie stops. Her eyes are locked on our living room window. I want to shout at her that they’ll see us, that she needs to step back or she’ll be spotted but I’m too far back to catch her attention.

  She turns to face me and I glare at her, silently mouthing to her to move, shooing her along with my outstretched arm, but she shakes her head and stays rooted to the spot. Rupert also spins round and motions for Rosie to follow him but once again she shakes her head determinedly and points in the window. I stop, too afraid to do anything. What the hell is she doing? We’re so close now, so very close to escaping all of this and here she is, risking it all.

  Rupert stares over at me, his skin grey, his eyes unblinking. The wound on his head is still bleeding and he is staggering. He might die. I have no idea how much blood he’s lost and if we don’t get to his house and make that call, get an ambulance here as soon as we can, he may well collapse. I can’t let that happen. Not after he risked his life to help us. We have to get him to hospital.

  ‘Rosie, MOVE!’ My voice carries over the air, a thin trail of sound as I spit the words out through gritted teeth.

  ‘Mum, look!’ she hisses, her eyes pleading with me as she bobs her head about to indicate I should look inside.

  Every part of me hopes to find them both either dead or gone. I don’t for one minute expect either of those situations to have occurred and am at a loss as to what it is that has gripped Rosie. Very slowly I edge along the wall, panic surging through me at what I am about to be faced with.

  I stand next to Rosie, too afraid to turn my head, too afraid to do anything. She presses her face next to mine and whispers in my ear, ‘Look, Mum! Just look …’

  As if in slow motion, I take a deep breath and stare in the window, my hand flying up to my mouth in horror at what I see there.

  Beverley

  He is standing behind me when I turn with the knife in my hand. His swollen belly bobs up and down as he takes a step back. His jowls wobble about and for a second I consider running at him, sticking the blade into his portly flesh, twisting it about and watching him tremble and beg for mercy before he slumps at my feet, his huge body a bloody red mess of seeping, ripped flesh. But that would be too easy. I go through my options. He’s overweight and unfit but undoubtedly stronger than me. As long as I grip the knife tightly, I can do this. I can win.

  Already I can sense his terror, see the glimmer of desperation in his eyes. It sets my pulse off, makes me tremble with delight. All these years and I had it wrong. So many years hating the wrong person, so many years thinking it was her, when all this time it was him this disgusting piece of shit with his wandering hands and filthy mind.

  I step back away from him and that’s when I decide, when I know what it is I have to do.

  ‘Move,’ I say, quietly at first.

  ‘MOVE!’ I bellow when he doesn’t respond.

  I wave the knife at him as he slowly retreats back into the lounge, enjoying the look on his face as he stumbles and panics, his limbs flailing about through the air.

  ‘Beverley,’ he says in an imploring tone, so weak and childlike it turns my stomach. ‘Come on, Bev, this is madness. We can work this out.’

  I shake my head at him and press the end of the knife into his gut.

  ‘Shit! Stop it, Bev. Fucking stop this, right now!’ he screeches as a small arc of blood starts to seep out of his navel.

  I don’t reply. I need to centre my thoughts on what I’m doing now, not get distracted or waylaid by him. This is too important a task to mess up.

  We keep walking until we’re in the middle of the room. I point the blade at the floor, ‘Sit down.’

  He looks at me imploringly. ‘On the floor?’

  ‘Yes, on the floor!’ I shout. ‘Where the fuck did you think I meant?’

  He nods, his chin vibrating like jelly as he slumps down, the wood bouncing under my feet. I move forward and jab the knife at the side of his head. More blood appears, a spring of red that trickles down the side of his face.

  He lets out a small moan and I watch as sweat covers his face.

  ‘It was you,’ I whisper, ‘all these years and it was you who killed him.’

  ‘No!’ he cries, ‘it wasn’t really like that. I only—’

  ‘SHUT UP!’ My voice breaks and cracks with emotion as I roar over his head. ‘Not another frigging word or so help me God I will kill you right now. Do you hear me?’

  No answer.

  ‘DO YOU HEAR ME?’

  ‘Yes.’ His voice is a feeble whimper.

  I almost laugh at him. So weak, so utterly pathetic. No longer the hard kid around town, just a gibbering wreck of a man who can’t even defend himself against a middle-aged woman.

  I jab the tip of the knife at him once more, just because I can, catching his forearm and bringing another spot of blood forth. He lets out a whimper and clutches at his flesh.

  ‘You’re a maniac. You’re nothing but a stupid, fucking maniac!’

  And before I can do anything he is on his feet and running at me. I do my best to keep hold of the knife but it somehow slips out of my grasp and drops on to the floor with an almighty crash, spinning round and round accusingly before landing blade first, pointing at me.

  ‘Not so fucking clever now, eh, Bev?’ he shouts and grabs hold of my arm, pulling me back away from the carving knife.

  He brings his hand up and smacks me across the side of my face, the pain so heavy and so sharp it takes my breath away. For a second I am stunned, too dizzy to move. I can’t stay like this. I have to get to the knife before he does because I am absolutely certain he will think nothing of carving me into small pieces if he reaches it first. He killed my little brother, he killed my innocent, baby brother. He will have no qualms whatsoever about killing me.

  ‘Don’t ever do that to me again,’ I scream at him, my voice stronger than I feel.

  ‘Or what?’ he cries as he bring
s his hand up to strike me again.

  Without thinking too deeply about it, I bring my knee up and slam it into his crotch as hard as I can. I feel the impact of the soft skin between his legs as it connects with my kneecap and watch as the pain takes a couple of seconds to register. When it does, his face folds in on itself as he doubles over before falling to the floor in a slovenly heap ; deep, earthy groans escaping from his slightly parted lips. Wasting no time, I snatch the knife back up and jab at him again while he is laid on the floor. Small, red spots appear all over his back, angry crimson scars, dotted all over his body; more and more of them as I attempt to summon up enough courage to plunge it deep into his flesh.

  ‘You always were a stuck-up bitch,’ he spits as he rocks from side to side, his eyes still screwed up against the waves of pain vibrating through him.

  ‘And you always were a useless bastard,’ I reply, kicking him in his belly.

  He groans again and closes his eyes.

  ‘You killed my little brother,’ I pant, barely able to comprehend the words I’m saying. All these years I had this planned in my head and it was never like this. Not here with him. It wasn’t meant to be this way.

  There is a silence as he rolls about some more, his body finally stopping as he lies on his side, his hands tucked tightly between his knees, his eyes are narrow slits as he stares up me.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ His voice is a whisper.

  I won’t listen to his words. Too late. It’s all too late.

  ‘It doesn’t matter now,’ I reply hoarsely, ‘nothing matters any more because now I’m going to kill you.’

  I hold the knife aloft, fury splitting my veins, pulsing through me, burning my flesh as it traverses round my body. A furnace of anger driving me on, making me do it. I take a shuddering breath and stop, poised, thinking about everything that has happened. I stare at the face beneath me; see how the features are contorted with terror. The knife trembles in my hands. I grip it tighter as it slips about in my palm. It feels alien against my skin, the metal smooth and cool, the blade glinting as it sways about. I gasp. This isn’t me, not the real me.