The Good Mother: Gripping psychological suspense, with a shocking twist that will leave you reeling

by Karen Osman

  ‘What do you fancy doing tonight?’ he asked one Saturday afternoon.

  ‘Well, Laura, myself and a few others are going into Newcastle for a night out to celebrate her birthday.’

  ‘Really? Should be fun…’

  ‘Yes, I hope so.’

  ‘Of course, I would rather you were here with me,’ he said with a wicked smile.

  ‘I know, but it is her birthday… I already cancelled on her twice this month.’

  ‘Aah, she won’t mind,’ he wheedled. ‘She’ll be fine. She’ll be too drunk to notice anyway.’

  ‘I know, but I promised. We already have our costumes and everything.’

  ‘Costumes? What are you going as?’

  ‘Well, the theme is Angels and Devils so I thought I would go as a devil,’ Alison replied, her smile suitably wicked.

  ‘Well, I have an idea,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you go home and get your devil costume and give me a preview?’

  Giggling, Alison agreed.

  She never made it to Laura’s birthday.

  Chapter 21

  Kate

  Kate and Jan’s friendship had extended beyond the classroom and Kate often popped round to Jan’s for a coffee. Jan’s was a busy, welcoming home, where the kitchen table was a hive of activity. Every time Kate visited there was someone there: a kid from the neighbourhood eating a piece of Jan’s home-made cake or Trevor and his work mates eating their lunch. More often than not, Jan’s daughter, Melissa, was also there with her children, and Kate envied the way Jan took all the chaos in her stride. Kate hadn’t really spoken to Trevor that much; he was a quiet man. She knew he had three brothers and that together they ran their family business, but that was about it. Kate also suspected that his business interests extended widely. His friends weren’t particularly talkative either. It was not that they were unfriendly, but they were what Kate’s mother would call ‘slightly dodgy’.

  ‘What does Trevor do for a living?’ asked Kate one morning as they sat at the table playing cards while her younger daughter was occupied with crayons and a colouring book.

  ‘Do you know, Kate, I don’t really know. A bit of this, a bit of that. He does a fair amount with the dog-racing course and I know he has various investments and business interests. As long as the money keeps coming in, I stay out of it!’ laughed Jan. ‘But I’ll tell you one thing, Kate, if I ever need anything, Trevor knows how to sort it. His family has been in Durham for generations and there’s no one he doesn’t know in this city and even beyond, in Sunderland and Newcastle.’

  Kate laughed. ‘You make him sound like the mafia! I can just imagine you as a mafia wife!’

  ‘Me, too!’ Jan laughed as well and began to do an impression of an Italian mafia ‘mamma’.

  ‘Can you imagine! No, my Trevor’s not quite as bad as that, but if you come round one day and I’m dripping in jewels, you know I’ve killed him and taken over the operation!’ she joked.

  Taking a bite of cake, Kate sighed, ‘If only life were that exciting.’

  Jan looked at her sharply. ‘You’re young, you’re beautiful – you have so much to look forward to. You make it sound like your life is half over!’

  ‘No, I don’t mean to. I just mean sometimes it’s all a bit of hamster wheel, isn’t it?’

  ‘You know, when I was working sometimes I used to feel that way, too,’ said Jan. ‘But one thing you have to remember is that there is always someone worse off than you. That’s what working in a hospital does to you – teaches you appreciation. There’s always someone battling an illness, dealing with depression, or poverty, or worse. It’s about taking the opportunities when you can.’

  ‘You’re right, Jan, as always.’ Feeling motivated, Kate started to gather her things. ‘OK, I’d better get home. I hope you have a lovely Christmas – see you in the New Year?’

  ‘Absolutely. Merry Christmas, pet, and take care getting home now.’

  Kate thought about her friend’s words on the way home. Age and hindsight were wonderful things but what happens when you just felt stuck? Trying to embrace a more positive attitude, Kate reminded herself that life was never constant and always changing. She just had to be patient. Slowly, things would get better. They had to.

  *

  Christmas Day dawned bright and clear. Both girls were up early and she smiled at their shrieks as they jumped into bed with her and her husband. ‘Merry Christmas, girls!’ said Kate, kissing each one of them in turn. Their excitement was infectious. Even her husband seemed more relaxed.

  ‘Who’s for pancakes?’ he exclaimed to shouts of, ‘Me, me, me!’

  ‘When can we open our presents?’ the girls cried.

  ‘Very soon – let’s just have some coffee and juice and get snuggled into our dressing gowns,’ said Kate. ‘Why don’t you go and see if Santa has left you anything?’

  The girls ran on ahead to the living room, while her husband went to the kitchen. As she put on her dressing gown, she noticed her manuscript in her bag, which she had dropped by the chair. The sight of her writing gave her a warm optimistic feeling, and she hugged it to herself like her own personal secret. Today was going to be a good day, she was sure of it. Jan would be proud of her.

  Chapter 22

  Catherine

  6 January 2011

  Dear Catherine,

  Thank you for your letter – it’s always reassuring to receive them especially at such a difficult time. How was your Christmas and New Year?

  For Christmas, we enjoyed some turkey, which made a nice change. This is my twelfth Christmas inside and probably one of the hardest times. For some inmates it’s made more bearable as they receive visitors, although this could just be a reminder of all they are missing so maybe I’m wrong. I have never had any visitors but I think it would be nice to have something to look forward to.

  Despite the cold this morning, we did our usual run in the yard and I’m really looking forward to some warmer temperatures. As you may remember, the North-East has a particularly cold bite that can really get into your bones. The slop they call prison food really doesn’t help either – on the coldest of days, I really miss good home-cooked food like Yorkshire pudding and gravy and roast potatoes. Watered-down stew and lumpy mash potato are not the most appealing, but I am used to it now.

  It’s the first time I have ever told an outsider about what goes on in here, and suicide – although it doesn’t happen too often – is particularly brutal. It changes the atmosphere of our wing. For me, at least, it brings home just how narrow our choices are. Some inmates see it as the easy way out – some see it as an admirable escape option (it’s very hard to get enough gear together to commit suicide) – others see it as a fit punishment, depending on their crime. Either way, I think it gets to even the toughest of men. Perhaps they just hide it well. The only upside is that there is one less inmate – it can get really crowded.

  When I first arrived, I honestly thought I had landed in hell. It took a lot of time (and a lot of beatings) to get to know how things work here. It’s a different world and you have to be constantly on your guard. You would think that the violence and the constant threat of attack for something as basic as a cigarette would be the most difficult thing to get used to, but it’s actually the noise. Sometimes, it’s unbearable. It rarely stops and the nights are the worst. During the day, you can keep your mind off things, but at night? Well, that’s when people’s fears really come out. Sometimes crying, sometimes whimpering, sometimes shouting. I don’t think a single one of us has had a good night’s sleep in years, and I’m sure many people would argue rightly so. And for many of us, that’s our real punishment – not so much being locked away but the unending void of time we have with our thoughts. I try not to think during the day as I suspect I would end up mad – in fact, a few of us in here probably are slightly mad. So many people take peace of mind for granted, but, for us on the inside, we will never, ever know it again. I think that’s what leads some of us to go to such ex
treme lengths, as we just want to stop the twenty-four-hour horror show that is in our minds.

  You’re right: hopefully he will have found some peace now but, having killed so many, even in death I’m not sure he deserves it.

  Michael

  The letter had arrived earlier than usual that morning, taking Catherine by surprise. She had only just come downstairs when she heard the rattle of the letterbox. Helen was almost at the front door to collect the post, when Catherine had panicked.

  ‘Leave the post, Helen, I’ll get it.’ Her words had come out a little more sharply than she had intended and Richard looked at her quizzically. Helen, still in her morning fog, just shrugged and sat back down at the table. There was probably no letter there, Catherine had told herself but she wasn’t prepared to take any chances. But there it had been, nestled amongst the bills. She had had to resist the urge to escape to the bathroom to read it; instead, she had sat down at the breakfast table.

  ‘You sleep OK, love?’ Richard had asked, as she handed over the rest of the post to him, the implication clear in his voice that she might need a little more rest.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, fine.’

  She had smiled at Helen, trying to make up for the tone in her voice earlier.

  ‘Do you have a busy day, pet, apart from your interview?’ she asked her daughter.

  ‘No, not really. I’m feeling really optimistic about this one though so keep your fingers crossed for me.’

  ‘I always do, love,’ responded Catherine, wishing there was something she could do to help her daughter. She had been job-hunting for so long now, it must get demotivating.

  Catherine had forced herself to sip her coffee slowly and to eat a piece of toast. As soon as she could, she stood up and went to the bathroom. She didn’t see her husband stare at her retreating back, the letter safely in her pocket.

  *

  It was one of his longest letters yet. Catherine felt she was making headway. Whether it was the suicide or the festive season that had made him open up, she was thankful. She had chosen to ignore the discomfort his last sentence had evoked in her. Perhaps he was right, but she wasn’t sure he was the one to be making such judgements. Again, Catherine got the feeling he didn’t really accept he was the same as the other inmates. Pushing it aside, as soon as she was alone in the house she started to write back.

  10 January 2011

  Dear Michael,

  Happy New Year and thank you for your letter. My Christmas and New Year were enjoyable but hectic. We had guests over Christmas, and then, at New Year, my husband and I went out for a meal with some friends. It’s not normally something we do – we tend to stay home, invite people over, have a glass of champagne and do the countdown – but my friend Ruth had suggested it months ago, and at the time New Year had seemed a long way off! It was a very late evening but enjoyable for a change to get dressed up and be cooked for. The food and wine were excellent (it should be for the price they charged!) although I suffered slightly the next day!

  Catherine put her pen down and looked at the view in front of her desk, remembering the night. It was so unlike her to drink as much as she had that evening, but lately she had the feeling that she had to make the most of life and enjoy it when she could. You just didn’t know what was going to happen in the future. She remembered Richard’s surprise and delight when she had pulled him up to dance after the meal. When had they last danced together? Catherine couldn’t remember. At midnight, they had kissed, not just a kiss on the cheek, but a long, lingering kiss that held a promise for when they got home. At around 1 a.m., they had got into their pre-booked taxi and, slightly intoxicated, had stumbled up the path to their front door before falling into bed. The next morning, Richard had brought her breakfast in bed along with the papers and an Alka-Seltzer, and they had sat in comfortable silence, nursing their headaches, and enjoying the opportunity to relax. It was one of the very few nights Catherine could remember over the last ten years when she and Richard had felt like teenagers, taking them both back to the early days of their relationship. She appreciated it because she knew better than anyone how a marriage could become stale and uninspiring. Refocusing on the letter, Catherine continued writing.

  From your letter, it sounds like you have done well to survive in there. I’m happy that you’re one of those who has decided not to take that route. Although, you’re right when you talk about the horrors of the mind. It can often be our worst enemy and even when we’re in control of our conscious thoughts, our unconscious mind will always bring the truth to the surface.

  She had been about to write ‘I believe we all get what we deserve in the end…’ but was that last sentence too judgemental? Thinking about it, she decided it was. She had already made a very pointed remark about suicide, and after receiving such a long letter from him, she didn’t want to scare him off. She needed to address the topic but she had to be more delicate.

  Hopefully your fellow inmate will find, if not peace of mind, then at least some relief while atoning for his crime.

  I’m sorry to hear that you haven’t had any visitors. Unfortunately, I’m not able to visit you in prison (the rehabilitation centre doesn’t allow that) but I hope in time your friends and family will come to visit, or at least support you during your parole and potential release. Did they give you a date for the hearing? Let me know if there is anything I can do to help – it’s what I’m here for.

  There. She had mentioned it. Catherine had been waiting for the right time to ask about his upcoming parole date and she hoped her curiosity hadn’t got the better of her too early. But she wanted – no, needed – to know. More importantly, she wanted to know the outcome. Was it possible that he would be released after eleven years inside? It seemed such a short sentence for the crime of murder. Catherine tried not to think about the victim but it was too late. She had promised herself that she would only focus on Michael but her thoughts had turned to his actions, and try as she might, she couldn’t help imagining the scenario. It made her feel ill. Hands shaking, Catherine took a break from writing the letter, grappling with the various lists on her desk, trying to stop the scenes in her mind from taking over. But it was no use. She imagined Michael lying on his bed in his cell, thinking the same thoughts over and over. Did he feel sick to the stomach like she did? Or did he recapture his crime for pleasure, planning how he would do it again once he was released? He had described his thoughts as a twenty-four-hour horror movie but some people actively enjoyed horror movies. It didn’t mean he was sorry – in fact, it meant nothing. Michael was right about one thing, though: peace of mind was something most people took for granted and Catherine knew that she would do anything to achieve it.

  Chapter 23

  Alison

  Alison was spending the day in the library and then visiting The Professor afterwards at his place for dinner. Alison had never eaten so well before she had met him. He was an excellent cook and, while his living room and dining room may have been sparse, his kitchen was well fitted out with the latest equipment. He even had a set of chef’s knives in their own roll-up soft case. He never kept them in the drawer but always on the counter top, saying that the drawer would blunt them. He had mentioned during one of their conversations that he would have liked to have been a chef. Either that or a writer. Unfortunately, his parents had had a different idea for their son and steered him in the direction of law. The Professor didn’t talk too much about his family but Alison knew he was an only child. Although he hadn’t said as much, she got the impression that he was the centre of his parents’ lives. They lived nearby and he visited them when he could, but she didn’t know much apart from that. She wondered if he would introduce her to them. Alison’s brain buzzed at the thought of it. What would they think of the age difference? While she knew she looked older than her eighteen years, mainly due to her height, and he looked younger than his late thirties, she knew her own parents would be deeply concerned at a twenty-year age gap.

  Arriving
at the library, she had no more time to dwell on this. As usual, the workload was heavy and she had a lot to get through if she wanted to spend time with The Professor that evening. Occasionally, they would work together, both at the dining table, taking turns to make tea, which they drank with sugar in it. It took discipline for her to concentrate, though, and she much preferred to work on her own. His sheer presence across the table from her was distracting, and there had been several nights when, work abandoned, they had succumbed to the physical need for each other. While Alison hadn’t been a virgin, she had had little experience when it came to sex. The Professor had opened up a new world to her, taking her on an exciting journey. He always set the pace and she was happy to follow, although some of his more adventurous suggestions left her feeling a little embarrassed. He liked to experiment – not just positions but with toys, dressing up, and role-play. Sometimes she enjoyed it but other times she would be happy just to lie in his arms and talk. But she wanted to make him happy. In fact, there was very little she wouldn’t do for him. She was conscious of how experienced he was and didn’t like to think how many partners he’d had before her. When she tentatively asked, he laughed, telling her he couldn’t remember as she had obliterated every other woman from his mind. Alison knew it was supposed to be a compliment but somehow it left her feeling a little insecure.

  Sensing this, he had turned to her. ‘Hey, don’t even give it another thought. Those women mean nothing. You are everything to me.’ As he leant in to kiss her, she had melted under his touch, and as his hands gently glided over her body, she felt safe in the knowledge that she was enough for him.

  *

  Arriving at his house that evening, Alison felt tired and stressed. Hours bent over her books had left a series of knots in her neck, and the right side of her back was particularly painful. As she knocked on the door, she moved her head from side to side, trying to stretch out the muscles. A few minutes went by and Alison knocked again. Strange, she thought. Have I got the day wrong? She waited a little longer before taking her phone and checking for any messages.