by C. J. Skuse
‘No she’s not.’
Why else would she ask for your new number?
‘For reference.’
It’s only a matter of time before she starts questioning why you’re carrying around a burner phone when your old one was on contract.
‘You’re being paranoid.’
What if she checked the triangulation of your phone and Craig’s phone on the night of the Victory Park murder? I’ve seen them do that on Line of Duty.
‘I always turn my phone off when I’m about to… why would she be checking my phone anyway? Craig’s the suspect.’
Police check everything. She could be looking into forensic anomalies.
‘What anomalies?’
A long hair at a crime scene? The odd clothing fibre? You on CCTV in Birmingham killing that taxi driver?
‘They’re still investigating that. Anyway, didn’t ISIS claim that one?’
No.
‘Either way, I haven’t been troubled.’
Doesn’t mean you’re in the clear. And now she knows you and Julia went to the same school. What if she finds some witness who saw her bully you? You’re in trouble, Mummy.
‘Play it cool. She knows nothing. There’s too much evidence against Craig already to suspect me.’
But Craig wasn’t there the night Julia died. They know someone else did her.
‘Look at the facts. Lana’s in our pocket, Craig’s in the slammer, and they have no motive, no opportunity, no witnesses and no weapon to say otherwise. Everything’s rosy in the garden.’
Yeah. For now.
Saturday, 6th October – 21 weeks, 6 days
1.People who drag chairs into tables on hardwood floors.
2.People – someone dies on Twitter – ‘Oh such sad news. Thoughts with friends and family’ and 30 seconds later, they’re throwing out party emojis to celebrate a Harry Styles single (e.g. Scarlett from Pudding Club).
3.People who answer their phone while talking to me, e.g. Marnie.
Who needs Géricault when you’ve got God on your side? I was reading Romans and I came across chapter 13: 4: ‘… if thou do that which is evil, be afraid; for he beareth not the sword in vain: for he is the minister of God, a revenger to execute wrath upon him that doeth evil.’
How bout dat? Turns out, I am doing God’s work. Sort of. In a way. Who could wish for a better wingman?
Another note from the Phantom Bad Handwriter this morning – ‘To My Sweet Messy House’. That’s the fourth one we’ve had. The photographers were back out in force on the doorstep too, and there was a new buzz about them, like a swarm of worker bees. Only one bee had got the memo that I like doughnuts though. I was presented with an open box of Krispy Kremes.
‘Hey Rhiannon,’ said Plymouth Star holding them out to me as though they were an ermine-lined cushion and crown. ‘Fancy a Strawberry Gloss today? Or a Lemon Cheesecake? Chocolate Dreamcake? I got Blueberry Glaze too cos I know pregnant women are supposed to eat blueberries.’
‘A plain one please. Why gild the lily?’
He looked inside the box. ‘Oh. Think someone had that one already.’ He glared behind him at his cameraman who was already clicking at me despite the stained PJs and zit cream on my chin. For once I didn’t care. I think I’ve actually reached that point in pregnancy where your dignity goes out the window and you’re immune to how your appearance might offend people.
I ignored the hubbub of the other journalists and beckoned Plymouth Star guy forwards. ‘What are you after this morning then?’ I asked, removing the Chocolate Custard and stuffing half of it in my face. The net curtains in the lounge twitched. Elaine was watching me from behind the bay window.
‘I wanted to get your take on the latest two charges. Any chance?’
‘I’m shocked and appalled, obviously.’
‘Yeah?’ he said, all buoyant and eyes-alive. ‘Craig’s something of a hero this morning. Have you seen The Mirror?’
‘I try not to look in a mirror these days if I can help it.’
‘No no,’ he said, getting out his phone. He held it out to show me. Top story of The Mirror newspaper: GRIPPER KILLER TARGETED SEX OFFENDERS: New vigilante theory about Sicko Wilkins.
‘Oh right,’ I said, mouth still working on the doughnut.
‘It’s changed the mood of the nation towards him somewhat this morning. He’s becoming a bit of a hero. At least three of the people he’s charged with killing were alleged sex offenders. He’s all over social media.’
He clicked open his Twitter feed. The top five trends were all about Craig:
#Vigilante
#TheGripper
#BlueVan
#WilkinsIsOurSaviour
#Dexter
‘They’ve forgotten about the woman in the quarry then,’ I said.
‘Well the Mail are reporting that it’s not looking likely that she was one of his now, since she doesn’t fit the pattern, see?’
‘Not their pattern I suppose.’
‘Public seem to believe it.’
‘Interesting.’
‘So could we get your view on it?’ He flashed me the most brilliant smile I’d ever seen. Better than the last one.
I flashed him one back. I’ve never said no to a man who brings me doughnuts. He was hot and horny and though I might have been mistaking ‘I want you’ signals for ‘I want to exploit you’ ones, nor did I care.
‘Want some?’ I held out the last chunk of doughnut. He hesitated, only for a sec, then leaned forward and wrapped his mouth around it, slowly, his lips grazing my fingertips. It was the most sexual moment I’d had in months. Something throbbed south of the border. I’d forgotten I had one.
He laughed. ‘Great. All right if we come in then?’
‘No, not here. My mother-in-law can’t deal. I’ll meet you at the café on the beach – Bay Bites. Say one p.m? Give me time to wash my carcass.’
He nod-grinned and closed the doughnut box, holding my stare. ‘I’ll bring the rest of these with me. My name’s Freddie, by the way.’
‘See you later, Freddie-by-the-way.’ I held his stare as I sashayed back into the house, more Rhianna than Rhiannon.
I closed the door behind me. I wasn’t misreading those signals but I didn’t quite understand them. Maybe he had a preggo fetish, I thought. Or he was a feeder – one of those guys who keeps a thirty-stone woman and pours melted ice cream down her neck through a funnel. I could be one of them. That’d solve the man drought and the serial killing in one fell swoop. I’d be too fat to kill and I’d get regular cunnilingus. Mmm, that’ll do Babe, that’ll do.
‘Who was that?’ said Elaine, wringing her hands the moment my slippers hit the kitchen lino.
‘Local press. Nothing major.’
‘Did you say anything to them?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘You’re lying, Rhiannon. You talk to that one every day, I’ve seen you.’
‘I feel sorry for him. He’s only a junior reporter, looking for a break.’
‘You’ve arranged to meet with him. What are you going to say?’
‘Nothing. He brought doughnuts again. I panicked.’
‘Don’t go, please. I beg you. Nothing good can come of talking to those vultures. They’ll twist everything you say, I know they will. Please Rhiannon.’
I floundered. There I was, torn between another possible sexual moment with Freddie-by-the-way at the café, where we could lick toast crumbs from each other’s palms or something, and Elaine’s pitiful pleading.
‘Of course I won’t talk to them,’ I sighed, enveloping her in a hug.
She cried in my arms. ‘Don’t let them take you as well.’
*
Patrick’s no fun anymore. He doesn’t scream as much now. I sit there on the edge of the well, pouring water on him or chucking down the odd Go Ahead biscuit that Elaine keeps buying me but which I do not like. He just sits down there, dry-sobbing, saying his leg’s gone green.
Once people reac
h that end-of-life stage it all gets quite dull. I should probably do something about him soon. Didn’t think that bit through. Bit of a hairy moment today when Jim was talking about going up there.
‘No need,’ I said. ‘It’s fine. I’ve been going up to check on it for you.’
‘Yes I know, but I could take my tools up and see if anything needs doing before half term. Might get a few bookings then if we’re lucky, do you think?’
‘Yeah, might do. But there’s no need to, Jim, honestly. The place is quite tidy and I’ve been keeping the lawn down and watering the plants for you.’
‘Ah, you are a good girl. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Rhiannon. You’ve been such a tonic the last few months.’
‘Well it keeps me out of mischief, doesn’t it?’
He put his arm around me and gave me a squeeze.
*
Pudding Club this afternoon was as noisy and intimidating as before only this time with added sunburn and itching thrown in thanks to the climate change induced Autumn heatwave– we met on the beach for a picnic. We all had news – Nev was getting over ‘the worst cold ever’, Helen’s Fair Trade coffee morning had been, and I quote ‘a riotous success’. Scarlett’s mother-in-law had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s. The details of how the family were told were so drawn out.
I switched off and imagined the seagulls pecking at chips on the esplanade behind her were actually plucking out the scant remains of her brain.
I hadn’t seen Marnie in a week and though we’d kept in touch via WhatsApp, I’d missed her. She looked haggard – her eyes were all sunken in and her hair was unkempt. Her jumper was on backwards and there was a small white stain on her leggings knee. I didn’t say anything.
Pin brought along more food than any of us could possibly get through – mostly puddings of course – homemade vegan brownies, gluten free date and walnut cake, lemon meringue pie, frangipane tartlets, and orange and ginger cupcakes. This seemed to entitle her to hold court for two hours about her husband’s promotion and pay rise. Marnie and I rolled our eyes until they quite ached. I’d only brought along Nutella sandwiches and shop bought jam tarts. Marnie had forgotten to bring anything at all.
‘Maybe if we lie down and pretend we’re asleep, she’ll stop talking,’ she whispered and lay her towel out behind her on the sand. I copied.
‘I wouldn’t mind so much if the other three were better company.’
Marnie chuckled. ‘I know. Helen’s such a know all.’
‘Scarlett’s thicker than a thigh pie.’
She giggled. ‘Nev’s tits scare me.’
‘Me too!’
Scarlett steered the subject onto a movie she’d watched the night before starring Ruby Rose.
‘Oh I dig her so much!’ said Nev, pouring out a cup of elderflower pressé. She looked ready to pop with her twins. ‘She’s my spirit animal.’
‘You can’t say that,’ said Helen, a glob of lemon curd dripping from her chin to her placenta-coloured sun dress.
‘Say what?’
‘That something is your “spirit animal”. It’s cultural appropriation.’
‘You say that about KFC. I’m only chatting informally.’
‘It’s dehumanising, Neveah.’
‘To who?’
‘Well, to Native Americans for one thing.’
‘Oh are you Native American then, Helen?’
‘You don’t have to be Native American to be offended by that.’
‘God, you can’t say anything without someone folding their tits over it.’
‘I’m only schooling you so you don’t get shut down by somebody else.’
‘I don’t need schooling, Darlin’. I think you’ll find lots of people say it.’
‘Doesn’t make it right. Do you know, we commit hundreds of racist micro-aggressions every single day… ’ She then started listing them all.
Pin fell asleep, Scarlett reapplied sun cream, and me and Marnie ventured up to the sand dunes with Raph in the papoose leaving Nev to get the lecture full throttle.
‘When did this become life?’ I sighed as we sat down.
Marnie laughed. ‘She sent us all a glossary of terms we shouldn’t say a while back. All “dehumanising” phrases that have leaked into common parlance. I literally don’t know what’s safe to say anymore.’ A grizzle floated up from the papoose. ‘Oh god, Raph, don’t wake up yet, not yet, not yet please.’
‘So… childbirth then,’ I said. ‘Tell me.’
She stared out towards the horizon. ‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Nightmare?’
‘The worst.’
‘Did Adolf mop brow and play his Wagner tape for you to relax to?’
I got the side-eye. ‘My husband was there throughout, yes. He cried when he cut Raph’s cord.’
‘When’s he going to cut yours?’
She sighed, rubbing Raph’s back. He kicked his legs so she got him out and cuddled him into her neck, rocking him side to side. She closed her eyes. ‘I could honestly fall asleep right now.’
‘Do it,’ I said. ‘I can watch Raph for you.’
‘Mmm,’ she murmured, handing him over to me as she lay back on the sand. ‘Thanks. Just ten minutes.’
A family had appeared along the beach: old codger Grandad showing off his footie skills, pregnant Mum being the ball boy, Granny misfiring kicks like a remedial and Daddy recording the memory on his phone for when they’re all dead. A little kid squealed and ran after the ball. They were all smiling. It was a memory they’d all clutch onto for dear life one day.
I held Marnie’s baby into my neck and stroked his head. He was softer than petals and his eyelashes fluttered on my skin. I rocked him like she had, rubbed his back like she had, imagined he was my baby. Imagined this was normal. That this was what I was born to do. And although I would have certainly protected him from any attack as though my life depended on it, I did not want to hold him infinitely. I did not feel the need to hold him again.
I sometimes forget that one of these is in me, cooking away. That it’s not just some lump of dough AJ’s squirted in my oven that I’m trying not to burn. Some days it’s merely a protrusion. I don’t stroke it all the time like Marnie used to. Like I see other ‘mums’ do. Maybe that would help. Raph started grizzling and Marnie instantly woke up.
‘I’m here,’ she said, levering herself up and forcing her eyes open.
‘He’s fine,’ I said. ‘I’ve got him.’
‘Oh thanks,’ she said, lying back down. ‘He hasn’t pooed, has he?’
I sniffed. ‘Nope. He fancied a bit of Auntie Rhee time, I think.’
She smiled. ‘You’re good with him.’
‘Mmm, what if I’m shit with my own though?’
‘You won’t be,’ she said. ‘You’ll love her to death.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ I mumbled.
‘Huh?’
‘Nothing.’
She turned over onto her side, propping her head up with her bundled coat. ‘Have you got your nursery sorted out yet? Cots and bedding?’
‘No.’
‘We could go shopping again, pick out some bits.’
‘I’ll probably do most of it online. Or pay someone to do it for me.’
‘But it’s the fun part, shopping for baby things. You haven’t got to the nesting stage yet but you will.’
‘What’s the point of nesting when I don’t have a nest?’
‘You’ve got your own storey at Jim and Elaine’s,’ she chuckled. ‘Two grandparents on tap. You’ve got so much support, Rhiannon.’
‘They’re not the grandparents.’
‘What?’
‘Craig’s not the dad.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘A guy from work. He’s gone travelling for a year.’
‘Does he know?’
‘Yeah. He doesn’t want to be involved.’
Ugh. I don’t know how you can bear to look yourself in the mirror, M
ummy.
‘Are you going to tell Jim and Elaine the truth?’
‘Where would I go if I did? I don’t have anyone else. In an ideal world they would be the grandparents. In an ideal world this would be Craig’s baby. And he wouldn’t have strayed and I wouldn’t have needed to… ’
‘To what?’
‘Move in with them,’ I said. ‘I don’t know. I watch other mums, I watch you, doing the mum thing, cleaning up puke and kissing his forehead and you do it so randomly.’
‘It’s instinct. You love them so you can’t help but show it.’
‘What if I don’t love it though?’
‘You will. I told you, it’s instinctive.’
‘But I don’t have the same instincts as other people.’
‘You do. You just don’t think you do.’
‘Me and Jim watched this documentary the other night, all about the science of being born. It said that babies are susceptible to their mothers’ fears or anxieties. They inherit them.’
‘I guess that makes sense,’ said Marnie, eyes drifting towards the boats on the water.
‘Well what if a mother has no fear? Does that mean the child won’t have fear as well? How will it know how to stay away from things that will hurt it?’
‘Like what?’
‘Hot stoves. Tall trees. Paedophiles. There’s millions of threats to a baby in the world. How the hell am I supposed to keep her safe?’
‘You’ll be okay, Rhiannon. I know you will.’
‘How do you know? You haven’t known me for long. You don’t know what I’m like. They had these lab rats on the documentary and the mother rat was biting and attacking the scientists trying to take her babies away. At one point she actually ate one of her babies because she thought it was the safer option. She’d rather kill her own baby than let anyone else kill it.’
‘You’re being irrational,’ said Marnie. ‘You’re going to be a fantastic mother. You’re already worried about how you’re going to protect her; doesn’t that tell you something?’
‘No.’
‘You might not think you feel love but you do. It comes naturally.’
‘But I read this article about mothers who can’t bond—’
‘Then stop reading the articles,’ she said. ‘You will be fine. If I can do it, any idiot can. And if you need help, I’ll be here.’