The Dead Ex

by Jane Corry

That was when she ran too. Somehow they got back without being nicked. But Mrs W was waiting, arms folded.

  ‘About bloody time. I’ve had the school on the phone, wanting to know why you’re not at Saturday club.’

  ‘It was her,’ said Dawn quickly. ‘Scarlet felt sick so we came back early. But you wasn’t in so we had to hang around.’

  ‘Well, don’t do it again, or I’ll have the Social on my back, and then you’ll all be out.’

  ‘Maybe they’ll send us somewhere nicer, then,’ muttered Dawn.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Go to your room and wait there till I say you can come down.’

  Gratefully Scarlet ran up the stairs after her friend. ‘The boys will sell the jeans on.’ Dawn gave her a high five. ‘You’re definitely one of us now.’

  Was that a good thing or bad? But she was given a whole bag of crisps from the store under the bed as a ‘reward’. Cheese and onion. Her favourite.

  Nearly a week went by. To her relief, the others didn’t make her play any more games. They needed to ‘lie low’, according to the whispers from Dawn’s bed at night.

  ‘Your social worker rang, Scarlet,’ sniffed Mrs W as she put their tea on the table. ‘She’s picking you up on Saturday afternoon to see your mum.’

  Scarlet jumped off her chair with excitement.

  ‘Get back at the table. There’s another thing, too. Your mum’s got her pin numbers approved now by the prison. So she’s going to ring you in a bit.’ Mrs W sniffed. ‘Seven o’clock on the dot. Very inconvenient.’

  This was when Mrs W watched her favourite programme on telly in her private lounge. They all had to be upstairs by then, getting ready for lights out. But that night, Scarlet was allowed to stay downstairs, waiting by the phone in the hall. It was warmer than usual because, according to Dawn, the Walters raised the downstairs heating when she and the other foster kids had gone to bed.

  ‘Scarlet’s jailbird mum is late,’ snapped Mrs W. ‘Reggie. You’ll have to wait with her.’

  Reggie was Mr W’s real name.

  He frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Cos you’ve got to make sure the kid doesn’t say something she shouldn’t.’ Then there was a whisper.

  When the phone rang, Scarlet jumped, even though she’d been waiting for it. ‘Mum?’

  ‘Scarlet!’

  Mum’s voice sounded different. Sharper. ‘Is there anyone with you?’

  Mr W was pressing numbers on his mobile phone with his fat fingers.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then don’t speak. Just listen. When you come out of school tomorrow, there’s going to be a man at the gate. You might recognize him.’

  ‘Is he one of the uncles?’

  ‘I said not to talk, didn’t I? He’s going to give you something. Keep it safe. When you come and see me, hide it in your sleeve, wrapped up in a tissue. They don’t always search kids. Then, when we give each other a hug at visits, I’m going to sneeze. You’ll pass me your tissue. Got it?’

  ‘But what’s in –’

  ‘SHUT UP. It’s a new game. OK?’

  Scarlet glanced across at Mr W. He was still busy with his phone. ‘I can’t wait to see you, Mum.’

  ‘Me too. Be a good girl and do exactly what I’ve said. Now blow me a kiss so I can catch it.’

  This had been another of their games for as long as she could remember. But it wasn’t the same doing it down the phone instead of face to face.

  ‘I love you, Scarlet.’ Mum’s voice was thick with tears. ‘Always remember that.’

  It was Mum’s friend with black cornrows, a bit like hers, who was outside school. Scarlet liked him because he was always smiley and didn’t shout.

  ‘For your mother,’ he said quickly, and then pressed a tiny envelope into her hand. ‘Doing all right, are you?’

  He ruffled the top of her head and then walked away before she had a chance to answer.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Dawn.

  ‘No one.’

  ‘What did he give you?’

  ‘Mind your own business.’

  Quickly she stuffed the envelope into the grey backpack that Camilla had got her.

  ‘You can keep a secret, I’ll give you that.’ Dawn said it in a way that suggested this was good.

  But inside, Scarlet’s heart was all wobbly.

  ‘Excited?’ asked Camilla on Saturday as they walked towards the visitor centre.

  Scarlet nodded. The envelope felt heavy inside her sleeve, even though it was only light. She’d wanted to open it, but it had lots of brown tape stuff round it.

  ‘Put anything you’re carrying in the lockers,’ barked the dragon lady.

  Camilla squeezed in her large black briefcase with the shiny silver lock. ‘You haven’t got anything, dear, have you?’

  Scarlet shook her head. Her chest began to thud as though footsteps were walking up and down her heart.

  Another uniformed woman was running her hands over Camilla.

  Then she nodded at Scarlet. ‘Off you go.’

  Phew!

  This time, Mum was already waiting for them. ‘Thought you weren’t coming,’ she said accusingly to Camilla. ‘Felt like a right prat, I did. The other girls thought I’d been stood up.’

  ‘The traffic was bad, and we had a long queue to get in here,’ said Camilla. ‘Didn’t we, Scarlet?’

  She nodded. Mum hadn’t even hugged her! She was all snappy instead. Maybe she didn’t love her any more! Dawn said that might happen.

  ‘Give us a kiss, then.’

  Overcome with relief, Scarlet flung herself into her arms.

  Mum sneezed.

  ‘Bless you,’ said Camilla brightly.

  Mum sneezed again but this time she pinched Scarlet’s arm. Hard.

  She’d almost forgotten!

  Carefully, just like Mum had said, she passed over the folded tissue.

  Mum wiped her nose and then put it in her own sleeve.

  Nervously, Scarlet glanced at Camilla. But she was looking at the woman at the next table, who was arguing with her visitor. ‘But you promised,’ one of them was saying. ‘You can’t let me down.’

  Then Mum stood up. ‘Officer, I’ve got to go to the toilet.’

  Two uniforms were marching towards her. ‘Haven’t you heard of TV surveillance, love? We saw you. Training your daughter to be a mule now, are you?’

  A mule was a donkey, wasn’t it? What did that have to do with Mum and her?

  ‘She was just bloody giving me a tissue …’

  ‘This it?’ One of the uniforms was shaking it out. The package fell to the floor. Camilla gasped.

  ‘Scarlet?’ Then she turned to Mum. ‘Your daughter is already in enough trouble as it is.’

  ‘She’s a good girl. Like me. Get off. There’s been a mistake.’

  ‘You can say that again. This way.’

  ‘I said, get your fucking hands off me.’

  ‘MUM! I’m sorry. I tried to …’

  ‘SHUT UP, YOU SILLY LITTLE COW.’

  Scarlet burst into tears. Mum never usually talked to her like that.

  Camilla had her arms around her. ‘It’s OK, Scarlet. It’s OK.’

  But it wasn’t.

  The police came to the Walters’ house the next day. Camilla was with them. They had a video recording of the shop and the girl with the shiny shoes. Dawn was taken away. ‘You’ve made a mistake,’ she said, pointing to ginger Darren. ‘It was his idea.’

  ‘Then he’d better come as well,’ they said.

  How nice of Dawn not to blame her too!

  ‘I don’t want that one either,’ said Mrs W, pointing to her. ‘She might look cute, but she’s trouble.’

  ‘It could take us time to find somewhere else,’ Camilla said. Her eyes were sad. ‘And we’ve got to review her case first.’ Then she shook her head. ‘Scarlet, I’m really disappointed in you. Did the others put you up to this?’

  Don’t tel
l. Don’t tell.

  ‘Up to what?’

  Camilla shook her head again.

  ‘Can I see Mum again next Saturday?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. She’s not allowed visits now for a bit.’

  That night, Scarlet couldn’t sleep. The bedroom felt really empty without Dawn. ‘Mum,’ whispered Scarlet into the darkness. ‘Where are you?’

  Then, as if by magic, the door opened.

  The universe had answered her prayers! Then she smelled sweat.

  ‘Be a good girl,’ he whispered. ‘Or I’ll tell my wife about those crisps and chocolate that you lot have been hiding under the beds. Think I didn’t know about that? If I blab, you’ll go to prison like your mum. And you’ll never ever get out.’

  ‘What’s up with you?’ demanded Mrs Walters as she put cold toast on the table for breakfast. ‘Cat got your tongue?’

  ‘Maybe she’s lost her voice,’ said one of the boys, scraping the last bit out of the marge tub. ‘Didn’t say nothing in the toilet queue this morning. Just peed on the carpet while she was waiting.’

  Everyone laughed.

  ‘Disgusting. The sooner you’re out of my house, the better. Isn’t that right, love?’

  She looked up at Mr W. Normally he wasn’t around at breakfast. Right now his black beady eyes were on her. Pinning her down.

  ‘Put a plate in front of her, someone,’ squealed Mrs W. ‘She’s being sick. All over the floor. Get out. Now. Go to school. Someone can clean you up there.’

  When she got back, Camilla was waiting in Mrs W’s kitchen. ‘In a few days, we’re going to be moving you to another family, love. You’ll have more restrictions. You won’t be able to go to a shopping centre with the other children. The new place is in the middle of the country. There aren’t many shops there. Just lovely green fields. It will mean another school too.’

  What about Mum? Scarlet wanted to ask. But the words wouldn’t come out. They’d stayed stuck inside her mouth ever since the bedroom door had opened last night. At school that day, she’d been given a black mark for ‘refusing to talk’.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s something else, Scarlet. Your mum did something wrong, you see. It’s to do with drugs. Never take them when you’re older, Scarlet. They wreck people’s lives. I’ve seen it over and over again.’

  She stopped. When she began again, there was a funny sound to her voice. ‘You’ll have another social worker at your new home. Hopefully you’ll be able to visit your mum again before too long. But she’s not allowed to see you for a bit because of her making you bring in those drugs. If she asks you to do that again, you must say no. Do you understand?’

  Scarlet nodded.

  ‘She’s sent you this. Said you’d always liked it.’

  It was the photograph of her mother when she was little in the place called Whales with the two grown-ups and the little dog. The one that she always carried with her in her bag.

  ‘The prison lets people keep certain things when they go inside. Your mum got special permission to give it to you because she thought it might give you comfort.’

  Scarlet held it against her cheek, pretending that Mum was still here. Right next to her. That everything was back to normal again.

  17

  Vicki

  I’m sleepy when I come round. Although I’ve never taken drugs, I imagine this is what it feels like to be high.

  ‘Vicki? Are you all right?’

  It’s someone in black. Slowly it dawns that this is the policewoman from earlier. She is kneeling over me.

  ‘Drink,’ I say. Then, because I’m dimly aware this sounds rude, I add the word ‘please’.

  My wrists ache. That’s when I realize I have handcuffs on.

  ‘Take them off.’ The metal is cold against my skin. It chafes against my bones as I shake them furiously. I hear my voice rising in hysteria. ‘I SAID, GET THEM OFF!’

  The woman’s face registers a sympathy which hadn’t been there before. ‘I’m afraid we can’t. Not until we’ve been to the station. Do you feel well enough to come with us now?’

  Might as well get it over with. I stumble to my feet. She takes my arm to help.

  ‘We can get you checked there,’ she adds, almost apologetically. ‘Unless you want us to call an ambulance.’

  ‘There’s nothing they can do.’

  ‘Why?’ cuts in the inspector. ‘Because you’ve just pretended to fit?’

  ‘How dare you? Is that why you haven’t called for help already?’

  The flicker in his eyes shows that I’ve hit the mark.

  ‘I could report you for that,’ I add.

  He looks distinctly uncomfortable now. I’ve a mind to carry out my threat. But he’s not the only one to react like this. David hadn’t understood either. You can rarely cure epilepsy, one of the doctors once told me, but you can learn to live with it. The same can’t always be said for your nearest and dearest. Or your enemies.

  I turn to the policewoman. ‘Can you fetch my tablets too? They’re in the high cupboard in the kitchen.’

  She looks at the detective as if seeking approval. He nods abruptly. And then we’re on our way.

  I was hoping not to come back to this police station. There’s a couple sitting on metal-backed chairs by the wall. The woman is red-eyed. She is silently weeping, holding a scrunched-up tissue in her hands.

  Instinctively I know she’s just received bad news. A son on a motorbike? A runaway daughter? A woman on my wing was once told that her daughter had died. ‘Which one?’ she’d cried. ‘I have two.’ But no one knew (the lack of communication was often appalling), so she didn’t find out until the following day. That haunts me still. It also makes me wonder how I would have coped if that had happened to a teenage Patrick.

  I smile in what I hope is a comforting gesture. In return, the woman turns away. No doubt this is related to the fact that there are two police uniforms on either side of me. At least they’ve taken off my handcuffs. Presumably they no longer think I’m going to make a dash for it.

  I am led into a side room. A youngish-looking nurse is waiting. She asks me the usual stuff. Did I feel unwell before the seizure started? Yes. I was under stress because I’d just been arrested. Was I hurt in any way? Only a bruise on my right arm where I had fallen. Nothing serious, she declares. Had I had anything to drink? A glass of water but I need more. Please.

  I gulp it down.

  The nurse has my tablets. I see her clocking the strength. What normally happens after a seizure, she asks. I explain that sometimes they increase the dose. But there’s a limit on how far you can go. I’ve almost reached that now.

  ‘Is she fit for interview?’ asks the policewoman. I sense from her pink cheeks that she’s been slightly rattled by our conversation. Maybe she knows now that epilepsy isn’t to be taken lightly.

  The nurse turns back to me. ‘How do you feel?’

  Terrible. But what’s the point in complaining? It would only delay the inevitable.

  I am led into another room. It’s smaller than the previous one. The window is dusty, and the sunrays shining through are dancing with little white specks as if mocking the darkness inside me. There is a worn oak desk. Two chairs with stiff backs. The man in uniform indicates that I should take the one on the left. Maybe the other is for my solicitor, whom I’ve asked to be contacted. Don’t say anything about David until she arrives, I tell myself. But it’s tempting. I have to make them see this is all one big mistake.

  ‘Doesn’t look good, does it, Vicki?’

  The detective speaks as though we are old friends instead of a stranger who has intruded into my already troubled life. I fix my gaze on that chin, which merges into the throat without the usual folds or curves. It helps me to remember that no one is perfect.

  ‘We’ve already got that photograph of you with your ex plus your wedding album. And now there’s this.’

  He places in front of me the small black book, which the policewoman had shown to him earlier
. My personal diary.

  ‘I didn’t mean any of it,’ I say quickly, forgetting my earlier pledge to keep quiet. ‘They’re just … you know … thoughts.’

  The look on his face can only be described as a ‘Do you think I’m simple?’ stare.

  ‘I was encouraged to write them down.’

  ‘Therapeutic, is it?’ His voice is mocking.

  I feel the old anger rising up inside along with the bitter taste of bile. I was physically sick for days on end after Mum died. And after Patrick too.

  ‘Actually, yes.’

  He opens one of the pages, which has a chirpy yellow Post-it sticker on it. Not mine. ‘So when you say “I wish he was dead”, you don’t mean it?’

  ‘No. Of course I don’t. It’s just one of those silly ideas that might pass through your head. It relieves the pressure inside.’

  His eyes clear. For a minute, I think I’ve convinced him. Then they harden again. ‘So the “him” and the “he” in this diary of yours, do actually refer to your ex-husband, David Goudman, then?’

  Instantly I realize I’ve walked into a trap. I could have pretended this wasn’t mine. That someone had forged my distinctive neat handwriting. Or that I’d been talking about someone else.

  ‘Yes … No …’

  The door swings open to admit a tall woman with blonde hair and a swan-like neck. The kind who is almost beautiful but stops short at handsome. She is well dressed in a tailored navy-blue skirt and cream jacket that’s elegant rather than mumsy. Her handshake is warm but firm. ‘I’m Penny Brookes. I’m filling in for Lily Macdonald. She’s got a lot on so she’s asked me to step in.’

  I don’t want someone who is just a reserve. I need a sharp solicitor who can get me out of this hole. How old is this woman? Maybe late forties? Possibly younger. What kind of experience has she had? I suddenly feel cold. My future is in the hands of a complete stranger. How often have I heard that?

  ‘Is it all right if I call you Vicki?’

  I nod. ‘One c, one k, two i’s.’

  When you’re different, like me, you feel defensive about your identity.

  ‘I noted that from your records, although I should add that your divorce files are separate. Because I wasn’t involved with that, I don’t have access to them unless you give me permission.’