‘Wolves,’ he said to Barry, but not looking at him. ‘Wait here.’
Barry chuckled. ‘Always the knight, eh, Jon?’
Jonathan was already moving towards Sam and Bridget, shoving his way through the journalist pack and recognising a few of them.
‘Come on, people, give them some space!’ A few moved sideways. Jonathan grabbed Bridget’s arm. ‘This way.’ He pulled Sam, too. ‘My car’s parked illegally at the back of the building. I’ll give you both a lift home.’ Jonathan motioned to Barry, who’d followed him. Probably hoping for some story. Jonathan didn’t mind; it was his job, both their jobs.
With Barry’s help he got Bridget and Sam to his car, Bridget panting by the time they got there. Sam looked greyer than the canopy of sky that spread over Birmingham.
He ushered Bridget into the back seat. Sam sat in the front. With them safely inside, Jonathan nodded towards Barry. ‘Thanks, mate, I owe you one.’
‘You do. A line or two about Rachel and Liam Dune’s state of mind? Are they intending to appeal?’
‘I hope they are, Barry,’ Jonathan said.
‘More?’
‘Rachel’s devastated. She doesn’t believe Michael Hemmings has a mental disorder.’
‘And Liam?’
‘I know fuck all what Liam thinks.’
‘Enough said, mate.’ Barry was quiet for a few seconds. ‘All not well between them?’
‘I’d say probably not. But who would be well after this?’
‘Point taken.’
Jonathan was getting into the driver’s seat. ‘I’ll call you soon, Baz, OK?’
The old hack smiled. ‘Look forwards.’
Spotting a few reporters making their way over, he slammed his door, turned on the ignition and sped away. Feeling like a character from a movie, he smiled.
Bridget leaned forwards from the back seat and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Thank you, Jonathan.’
He turned. ‘My pleasure. We’re not the nicest people when hunting for a story.’ He glanced at Sam, who was staring straight ahead, silent, before looking back to Bridget in the rear-view mirror. ‘It’s good you came for the sentencing, Bridget.’ Now she didn’t look terrified, only worried, preoccupied. But what mother wouldn’t be? Your only son convicted of the brutal murder of your seven-year-old great-nephew.
She slumped back into the seat. ‘This is a nightmare.’
Sam, still gazing straight ahead, said, ‘It is.’
Jonathan peered at Bridget in the mirror again. He liked her, but, as he’d always felt, something was definitely amiss.
CHAPTER SIX
It was a Tuesday during the school term when the judge decided that my son’s killer was not a murderer and could be rehabilitated.
The park we were driving by was empty. The car slowed as an old lady crossed the road. I peered from the window; my eyes lingered on Joe’s favourite game, the zip wire. The petrol blue flickered for seconds. A strong smell of the toffee popcorn. I felt as if Joe had slipped inside the car.
‘I’m fine.’ I thought he said. ‘No, this is not fine, Joe,’ I replied, unsure if I’d said it out loud. I love you Joe, more than the universe, more than infinity. I used to say that to Joe when he was feeling low. It always made him happy.
Liam looked at me. ‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing, I didn’t say anything,’ still staring at the park, the petrol blue gone. ‘I don’t want to see Margaret.’
‘You have to. She’s your mother.’
Yes, she was my mother. So much unsaid, so much I had never told Liam – not because I hadn’t wanted to – I had, especially after I knew I was pregnant with Joe. But something always stopped me, and I halted myself from questioning exactly why. Now I sighed and remained silent. Perhaps the problem in our marriage was me.
Charlotte was standing outside our front door when we pulled up. Petite and pretty in a sea of winter-grey. The hem of her long red dress flipped in the tight wind. She’d declined to come to court, saying it was better if she stayed and got some food ready. She’d filled the hanging basket outside our front door with winter pansies. It had been empty since Joe. She’d kept herself busy. Spotting the batch of reporters waiting, our driver accompanied us to the front door. Liam and I mumbled ‘no comment’ as we made our way up the driveway.
We went inside. Charlotte had made what looked like a celebration feast. That’s what she did when anxious: cook and fill hanging baskets. She had a superb kitchen in her own rambling house on the edges of Sutton Park in Birmingham: a prime location. The house was courtesy of her son Jacob’s burgeoning success within the British film industry. A twenty-year-old Jacob had bought her a very nice holiday home in Venice Beach, California, too.
I wondered what Joe would have looked like at twenty.
Charlotte was a determined optimist. She had been when we first found out about Joe’s disappearance, and later, on the likelihood that Hemmings would spend the rest of his life in a mainstream prison. And she was about Liam’s suspected affair, too. Charlotte refused to believe that he was having one. In fact, she refused even to contemplate the possibility, which had made it difficult to discuss with her.
Charlotte seemed to exist in a bubble where only good things happened. Jacob had come along soon after we’d left university; she’d had no intention of marrying his father. Everyone told her to have an abortion – apart from me. Her early life was hard, yet she’d managed well, and with good humour. Liam and I had been transferring money into her account for years to help put Jacob through theatre school. His success allowed her to pay us back every penny with interest. Sometimes I thought Liam loved Charlotte as much as I did.
When we were safely inside I hugged her. ‘Have they been here all day?’ I asked, peering through the window at the gaggle of journalists.
She nodded. ‘I made tea for them.’
‘Charl?’ I tried to smile. ‘Have you made masses of food?’
‘I thought Tom would be coming with you ... Jonathan?’
‘Just us, and yes, hopefully Jonathan will come ... and Dad, Margaret.’ Calling her mother had become even more difficult since Joe’s death.
‘Oh, OK. Fine, your mum ...’ she faltered.
‘Sorry – ’
Her caramel-coloured eyes flickered with amusement. ‘She’s your mum.’
My mother didn’t like Charlotte. Because Jacob had never known his father. Because Charlotte was black. Because she lived in a fuck-off house and my mother didn’t. The feeling, I knew, was mutual.
‘I know. Never mind.’ I looked at the kitchen table, heaving with quiches and salad. Two cakes. Charlotte must have made those at home. Beautifully decorated, they would have taken her hours. The chocolate cake was missing a half. I hovered by it.
She smiled. ‘Cake with the tea for the journos.’
‘Did you speak with them?’
‘About the trial? Course not. I talked about Jacob, gave them a few titbits, kept them happy.’
Again, I attempted to smile.
Liam had opened a bottle of wine, and poured himself a large glass. ‘Good tactic, Charl.’ A mild guilt crossed his features. ‘I’m going down to the den. Give me a shout if you need me.’ He was already opening the patio door. The guilt, I thought, because he was hiding.
‘He’s going so he avoids Margaret,’ I said, watching his slim form disappearing down the garden. ‘Or more precisely, avoiding me with Margaret.’
‘It’s been hard on him,’ Charlotte said. She’d always had a soft spot for Liam. ‘For you both. You look terrible.’ She turned her head slightly. ‘Someone at the door?’
‘Dad and Margaret, probably,’ I said. ‘Can you let them in?’ I took a glass from the draining board and poured myself a large glass of wine, too, keeping it near me so that Margaret would know it was mine. Margaret hated people drinking alcohol. I waited.
Everyone around me, including my dad, had diminished in the last months. The ageing process was speed
ing up for all of us. Even the perennially youthful Charlotte looked older, more drawn, the translucency of her skin dulled.
This was not so for my mother. As she walked into the kitchen, she appeared rested and serene; cold and detached, too, but even in my exhausted state I questioned if it was only I who saw that; that my aversion to Margaret distorted my view of how everyone else saw her.
The doorbell rang again. I hoped it would be Jonathan and, moving quickly past my mother, I made my way towards the door, anything to remove myself from her. It was Jonathan.
‘I’m glad you came,’ I said.
‘Everything OK?’ He pushed dark curls from his forehead and reddened. ‘As OK as it can be ... I mean.’
‘I know what you mean,’ I smiled minutely. ‘My mother’s here.’
He grimaced.
‘But Liam’s disappeared to the den, so not all bad.’
‘Rachel, I’m so sorry about the sentence.’
‘It’s OK. I half expected it. Come in.’
Jonathan and I walked into the kitchen. The smell of lavender hit me hard; the same perfume she’d worn for years. The smell mixed inside my mind with the image of Hemmings. Lavender and Hemmings together in the courtroom had disorientated me.
‘Hi Jonathan,’ Charlotte said. ‘Would you like a drink? And you Margaret, would you like one?’
‘I’m fine ... thank you.’ Her glance moved straight to the wine that I was now sipping.
The acid taste made me feel sick. I gulped it back.
Jonathan watched me and answered Charlotte. ‘Beer’s good, thanks.’ He turned to Margaret and my dad. ‘Good to see you both again. I saw Bridget and Sam at the court, about to be mauled. I took them home.’
Margaret pulled out a chair but didn’t sit down. ‘That was kind of you. I’m sure Bridget wouldn’t thank you for it.’
‘She did actually, Mrs Hemmings.’
Margaret touched her hair and then fingered the top button of her blouse, making sure it was done up right to the collar, but she didn’t answer Jonathan.
My dad hovered, looking more ill as each second passed, but managed a smile aimed at Jonathan. Then he looked at me. ‘Your mum has something to tell you, love.’
‘I am more than capable of speaking for myself,’ Margaret said, addressing the table, then peering at Jonathan and Charlotte.
Charlotte took two beers from the fridge, giving one to Dad and one to Jonathan.
‘What is it?’ I asked, trying to soften my voice.
‘Perhaps Charlotte and Mr Waters could leave?’ Margaret said.
‘No, they can’t leave,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t it have waited? The trial only ended today.’ I tried to like my mother. She had lost a grandson.
‘Drinking wine won’t make this situation any better,’ Margaret said.
With anyone else in the world that statement would be valid, caring. I watched the muscles in her neck tighten, pushing violently against the fabric of her blouse. I lost myself, and didn’t answer.
‘... Will it?’ she carried on, a softer tone detectable in her voice.
‘Would you like a piece of Charlotte’s cake?’ I asked.
‘No, I would not.’ She took in the table, the food. ‘This isn’t a celebration.’ She paused. ‘Where’s Liam?’
‘In the den.’
She nodded.
‘What do you want to say, Mu ...?’ The word puckered in my mouth.
Finally she sat down, her bottom perched on the edge of the chair; she was ready to go at a moment’s notice. She skimmed a look at Jonathan and Charlotte before turning back to me. ‘Do you remember when Joe came to stay? You should remember, because you didn’t allow him to come very often.’
I wondered where this was going. I took a long breath. ‘That’s because you weren’t the best grandmother.’
‘I’ll ignore that. Why are you always so aggressive?’ She faced me. ‘Your dad had to go out that day.’ For the first time since entering the kitchen she looked uncomfortable.
‘Go on,’ I said quietly.
‘While your father was out, Michael Hemmings came to see me.’
The wine lacerated my throat. I fixed my eyes on her. ‘Why did he come to see you?’
‘I have no idea,’ she said, touching her neck.
I looked at Dad. ‘You never told me. You were there?’
‘I had to go into work that day.’ He hesitated. ‘I did try to tell you, but you didn’t want to listen when you picked Joe up.
‘Joe was alone with Mum?’ It came out without thought.
‘Yes,’ my mother answered. ‘Alone with his grandma, Rachel.’
‘Why are you telling me now?’
‘Because it might be why Joe was happy to go with Michael that day on the field.’ She crossed one thick thigh over the other. ‘Why did Joe run to the field, Rachel?’
I placed my empty glass back on the table and stood. I heard the higher pitch of my voice. ‘Why have you said nothing about this to the police?’
She uncrossed her legs. ‘There was no reason to.’ She gently touched my scarred left hand, and a rush of something cold flooded through me. Again, she asked, ‘Rachel, why was Joe on the field?’
I pulled my hand away. ‘How long did Hemmings stay?’ I asked. ‘I don’t know why Joe went to the field.’ Hysteria in a voice that didn’t seem to belong to me.
‘He stayed most of the day. He played with Joe. I couldn’t see what harm it would do.’ Her face fell. ‘I wasn’t to know then, was I?’
I looked across at my dad and asked again. ‘You knew?’ The same discomfort crossed his face as I had seen many times as a child, when he had attempted to protect me from my mother’s coldness, while at the same time trying not to upset her. ‘Is this the day you told me about, just before Joe disappeared, that someone had upset Mum?’
He nodded.
‘Why didn’t you tell me, then?’
‘You didn’t want to know, if you remember? It was you who cut the conversation short, love. Anyway, I thought Joe would tell you to be honest.’ Joe hadn’t said a word and I could only think it was because Margaret had told him not to.
‘I can’t believe this.’ I looked at my dad. ‘You should have told me before today. You should have told the barrister; you should have told Tom.’
‘Your mum ...’ he stuttered.
‘Don’t speak for me, Alan,’ she said, interrupting. ‘It was irrelevant.’
‘Then why are you telling me now?’ I said.
‘I could hardly turn him away, could I?’ She said coolly, calmly. ‘I thought you should know. That’s all. Thought it might help you.’ Her face crumpled into something. Was it real grief? I was unsure.
I paced towards the sink, the window. ‘If that’s it, then you can go.’
‘Aw, love,’ Dad said.
‘You both should have told the police. So,’ I looked at Margaret, ‘the only reason you’re telling me now is because Dad said he would tell me anyway, am I right?’
‘Your mum’s only trying to help, love,’ Dad said.
‘Am I right?’ I asked again.
‘Yes, you are right,’ Margaret answered quietly, getting up from the chair. ‘Clearly Joe was upset the day Michael found him on the field. Something happened that I think you,’ she looked at me with a mild smile, ‘and Liam are holding back. Such a secretive child, you always were. I only want to help.’
‘Just go,’ I glanced at my dad, ‘both of you.’
And they did, leaving me with the strong smell of Margaret’s perfume.
Charlotte sat on the floor, crossing her legs. ‘Christ.’
I leant over the sink, trying to catch my breath. Trying to understand why I felt such guilt.
Liam returned from his den. Jonathan quickly finished his beer. ‘I think I should go, Rachel.’ He went to touch my hand but stopped midway. ‘You’ve got my number.’
‘Thanks for looking after Sam and Bridget,’ I said.
‘No problem.�
�� He made his own way out.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Five days later
Charlotte had left for California on a two-week holiday, staying at her house in Venice Beach, and catching up with Jacob who was filming in the States. Liam had taken her to the airport the day before; they had both said I should stay home and rest.
Jonathan had called me earlier in the morning asking if he could come and visit. I’d said yes easily. Liam was going on to visit his parents from the airport.
I could not rest.
The house was desolate and empty and I was spending too much time in Joe’s room. Waiting for the toffee popcorn, waiting to glimpse the petrol blue, but seeing and sensing barely anything; only hearing the ticking of the Doctor Who clock on the wall, the ruffling of the matching Doctor Who curtains, feeling the cold breeze that floated through the open window. No Joe.
I sat in the rocking chair. Liam had bought it for breastfeeding, which, to my distress, I’d been unable to achieve. I’d done all the right things: I’d loved my baby, but the milk didn’t flow. As Joe grew, I blamed myself for his propensity for sore throats and bad colds, and had convinced myself they were due to the lack of mother’s milk.
As I thought of my inability to feed Joe, cool air from the window blew into a mini gale giving me goosebumps, but it was good to feel cold, good to feel anything. I rubbed at my breasts roughly and from nowhere the image of a young Michael Hemmings’ face intruded. I squeezed my eyes shut as if this would erase the impression, and gradually it did fade.
A plate with one lone muffin and a knife sat on the floor. I slipped downwards onto the carpet and cut it into equal halves, as I’d always done.
One half for me, one for Joe.
I ate my half and it tasted of nothing. I placed the plate with the remaining muffin on Joe’s bed, in the middle of the blue Tardis image that filled the duvet cover, thinking back to the last day of the trial. Of Margaret and Dad’s confession. It explained why my son had gone easily with Hemmings.
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