‘So could you be vague when you hand this over? Help me out?’
‘Keep your name out of it, you mean?’
Matthew tilts his head and feigns puppy eyes.
‘I know I’m a stuck record but you should have stayed in the force, Matthew. You know that, I know that, so you can stop with the butter-wouldn’t-melt.’
Matthew does not reply. Melanie is one of the few people who knows why he really left the force.
‘Come on, then. Share. What did you make of the mother, Matt? The family liaison officer reckons she’s straight.’
‘I agree. I don’t think she sent them. She didn’t slip up. I implied it was hate mail and she talked about them as letters, not postcards. But there’s something not right there, Mel.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She pretended to want to call her husband. But I could tell from the body language that she didn’t really want him there at all. Bit odd . . .’
Melanie narrows her eyes again.
‘So what’s the deal with the parents, Mel? Are they really both in the clear? And what’s come out of the TV appeal? Anything promising?’
‘I tell you what. How about we talk about you becoming a dad instead. Much more interesting.’
CHAPTER 13
THE WITNESS
I was so lucky with Luke as a baby, though I had no way of knowing this at first. No benchmark; no experience.
To be frank, I was expecting it to be nigh impossible, trying to run the business with a baby. Everyone went so heavy on the dire warnings when I was in the last stage of pregnancy. Brace yourself, they all said. Lack of sleep is a form of torture, they said. You’ll have no time to yourself. No time even to take a bath in peace. Blah de blah.
I got to the point where I seriously worried whether I would be able to keep the business going at all.
When does it get easier? I remember asking a friend with three girls. That was about two weeks before Luke arrived, and I will never forget her reply. Oh, it never gets easier, Ella. Just wait until they’re teenagers . . .
I went home that day and cried and cried, catastrophising that the flower shop would have to be sold. But do you know what?
It wasn’t nearly as difficult as they all predicted.
Sure – I remember the panic outside the hospital when we couldn’t even strap him into the car seat, despite all our practising. I remember the sense of shock that they were actually going to allow us to take this tiny bundle home when we had not the foggiest what we were doing. I remember also waking in the night between feeds in those early weeks, convinced I had forgotten to put him back in his Moses basket and fearing he had fallen off the bed.
Where’s the baby, Tony? Where did I put the baby?
But it was a surprise how quickly it all settled down.
Luke was this really placid, smiley baby, you see. An easy baby. My mum came to stay and I had to bring in help to keep the shop ticking over, but by week ten Luke was sleeping through the night.
He was the kind of child who, once fed and clean, was happy to amuse himself. I could pop him on a mat with a mobile overhead and he would just smile and coo.
You were never like this, my mother said. He must get it from his father.
Luke’s placid nature meant I started back at the shop much sooner than planned. We put up a hook from the ceiling and bought him one of those bouncy contraptions. He would sit in his little bouncy sling for hours, just jiggling up and down, watching me putting orders together and gurgling at all the customers. Bounce. Gurgle. Bounce. Smile . . .
I have been sitting on the bed here for goodness knows how long, replaying all these pictures of Luke in my head. I smooth the fabric of my trousers. I have been worrying what to wear but I’m not changing. It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing, Ella. What you’re wearing won’t change this or fix it.
What matters is that my son – my beautiful Luke – has been going through hell and I had no idea. None at all. I have been so distracted, thinking about Anna and her family in Cornwall and the blessed postcards, that I have not seen what is right here under my nose. That my poor son’s life is in meltdown.
I was so shocked when he finally blurted it out. Again – so naive. I didn’t even realise they were having sex . . .
‘You ready, love?’ Tony is standing in the doorway. ‘Luke’s downstairs.’
‘Yeah. Sure.’
In the sitting room, I repeat to Luke what I have said so many times in the last twenty-four hours. That the time for regret and ‘if only’ is over, and we have to look this in the face now. All of us together. Reminding him that he is not on his own with this anymore. If she wants to go ahead and have this baby, we should support her. As a family. Luke should not feel that this has to involve them living as a couple. Or settling down. They are far too young for that. But he does have to offer to play a part in this child’s life. To be a support. To face up to what has happened here. And we will support him. Them. The baby.
Luke’s face is white. Tony’s face is white. I wonder if I am the only one thinking how much more terrible it is for Emily’s parents. She is sixteen . . .
We drive in silence. Twenty minutes. Luke offers directions for the final mile. The fact that we do not even know where his girlfriend lives says everything about this situation. I gave him lifts to the cinema. They met in town. Took the bus.
I wonder where exactly they have been having sex.
This thought leads me back to the train. To Sarah and that man. Wondering how they could do that. In a train toilet. And no – the irony isn’t lost on me, remembering my shock. Me and my high horse.
I put on the radio but Luke asks me if I will turn it off, please.
Left at the postbox. Second right. There. It’s the detached house at the end of this cul-de-sac. That one.
A nice house. Red brick with a climber around the porch. The windows look freshly painted and the front garden is immaculate. Neatly clipped lawn and beds of roses and lots of hardy geraniums. I don’t know why I take all of this in. Maybe it is because I don’t really want to get out of the car.
‘So. You ready, son?’ It is Tony who moves us forward. Opens his door first.
Luke shrugs. I look at him and see that he is still in shock. He keeps saying that they used protection.
We used a condom. I don’t understand.
‘Like I say, love. It is what it is. We’re here for you,’ I say. ‘Now – come on. Let’s go in.’
Emily’s parents introduce themselves but we don’t shake hands. None of us are going to pretend.
Emily is sitting all hunched up in a wide armchair, cushion to her stomach, as white as Luke.
‘Emily didn’t want us to meet like this but we felt – given how young they are – that a joint meeting was important.’ Rebecca sounds as if she has rehearsed this.
I notice that her husband has his eyes fixed on Luke. I can only imagine what may be going through his head, but I want to erase what he is thinking.
He is a good lad, Luke. He has stuffed up, yes, but so has she. And I wish I had the courage to tell the father to stop looking at my son like that.
‘Emily and Luke have been talking a lot about the options, but we feel we should know where the two families stand. Going forward.’ Rebecca is looking at me.
‘Well, I think you’re right. It’s important for us to talk. And the first thing I want to say is how sorry we are, as you must be – devastated, actually – that they find themselves in this situation so very young.’ I can feel Tony’s eyes on me and he tilts his head, a tiny sign of encouragement before speaking up to help me.
‘My understanding is that they did try to be sensible. To be safe.’ Tony turns to Emily’s father but the response is a cold stare.
‘She’s sixteen.’
‘Dad, please.’ Emily glances across at Luke who is still white, staring at the ground.
‘What we want to make clear’ – I glance at Tony again and then back at Emil
y’s parents – ‘is that as a family we will do whatever we can to support Emily.’
‘Emily has decided against a termination. We want to be open about that. But she may want to consider adoption.’
I feel a punch of shock at this. Our grandchild . . .
Rebecca is looking her daughter in the eye. ‘We are still talking this through as a family. She has a lot to consider. A levels. University.’ Her voice breaks and I feel this terrible surge in the pit of my stomach.
‘Perhaps we can talk again about this?’ Tony clears his throat to continue.
‘We feel this should be Emily’s decision.’ Rebecca is now looking at her husband. ‘She will talk it through with Luke, of course. But we just wanted to check where we all stood. In terms of support.’
‘I’ve already told Emily that I’ll support her.’ Luke is looking straight at her. ‘I’ve told her that.’
‘Yes. Well maybe you should have thought about the consequences before you—’
‘Dad. Please don’t. Please.’ Emily’s voice is almost unbearably quiet.
‘So – is there anything else in particular that you need to know from us today? Other than that Emily and Luke have our full support?’ I can feel my left fist clenching with the tension.
‘No.’ Rebecca tilts up her chin. ‘I . . . We just wanted to make absolutely sure that everyone knows where we are.’ She stands, and I realise this is the cue for us to leave. That this was only ever about ensuring that Luke came clean with us.
I hand a piece of paper with my personal email address to Rebecca.
‘Thank you.’
And then we part in silence. No handshakes. Nothing more to say.
We drive back to the house in silence, too. It is real now. At seventeen years of age, Luke is about to become a father. I want to speak up – to say that I will bring up the baby. That they must not, under any circumstances, give the child away. Luke’s child . . .
And then as we pull into the drive there is another shock. Sticking through the letterbox is a new postcard. Half in. Half out. No envelope this time, and unmistakable. Black with bright lettering.
It is eight o’clock in the evening. Which means that whoever is doing this has been to the house.
I feel utterly overwhelmed as I stand outside the porch, imagining that other person standing in precisely the same spot. I am terrified of what this now means. For me – and for my family. I realise that I should have gone straight to the police. Told Tony. That I am properly afraid that everything is running away from me. I realise also that tonight shouldn’t be about me and Anna and whatever these postcards may or may not mean.
Tonight should be about Luke.
WATCHING . . .
9 p.m.
I like that she is not sure.
That is why I like to watch people. Have to do this.
I don’t even remember how it began anymore. Only that it has become important. You need to watch, you see, because it is extremely important – to work out the difference between how people behave when they know they are being watched . . . and when they don’t.
Some people, you see, are much the same whether they are being watched or not. But most people aren’t. You don’t get to find out for sure until you watch a lot.
Sometimes, and this is also important, you don’t need to do anything very much. People will simply come to know. Give themselves away. Then the watching becomes more interesting because they will eventually turn. To a window. Or in exactly the right direction, and they will pull a blind or the curtains. Turn on a light. Or check a door.
Other times I have to help them out a bit. Stir it up. Until I can see the look that I have come to understand and is probably the thing I like the very best.
When someone feels they are being watched but is no longer absolutely sure . . .
CHAPTER 14
THE FRIEND
Sarah is sitting up in bed, staring at the cold cup of tea on her locker. Why does her mother keep bringing her tea? She doesn’t like the hospital tea. It smells funny.
Her arm is still sore from the drip. At first she didn’t understand why all of this fussing had to go on for so long. She thought she would get her stomach pumped. Puke a bit. Say sorry. Go home. But no.
No one tells you the truth of this. But then – why would they? Anyone taking an overdose is supposed to want to die, so why would survival details matter? The problem, Sarah realises, still staring at the cold tea, is that she doesn’t ever remember thinking that she actually wanted to die. She no longer remembers precisely what she was thinking when she took the tablets. There was just all this panic about what would come out on the new TV appeal. That maybe everyone would find out about what happened on the train. What really happened in the club . . .
Yes. Just panic. Wanting everything to stop.
But not a conscious choice to check out. Die. Not that, not really. And she certainly doesn’t want to die now. Which is why it is so frightening to have to face up to the details. The obsession with her liver. All the tests. The whispering. The consultant looking so terribly grave when examining her charts.
Sarah can feel her hands trembling. When she looks down at them they are actually shaking, and she wishes that she had not looked it all up on the Internet. She wonders what dying really feels like. If it would really hurt. If you would know.
For a moment this makes her think of Anna, but she shuts this down. No. Anna is going to be found. Anna has to be found. It is like this twisted wrenching through her whole body. So torn. Wanting Anna back, but not wanting to be found out . . .
In the meantime, Sarah’s mother is trying to play down the tests; she keeps using her sing-song voice, saying everything is going to be just fine. But everything is not fine.
Her liver tests are still borderline. It is day four. Day four is apparently a very bad place to be.
They have given her back her phone and so yes, she has looked it up. Loads of people die of liver failure on day four.
Turns out surviving the paracetamol overdose doesn’t put you in the clear at all.
Is my liver going to pack up, Mum?
Stop it, Sarah. You’re going to be fine.
Not true. Her results are so borderline, she might need a transplant; it could go either way. It’s hard to tell with livers, apparently.
She’s had charcoal. And she’s had the drug by drip that’s supposed to help the liver cope with all this. But nothing is guaranteed. It’s a waiting game . . .
What Sarah wants more than anything is her sister. Lily. But her mum won’t talk about Lily, so all she has been able to do is message her on Facebook. But Lily hasn’t replied yet. Hasn’t updated her status for ages . . . The last picture was at some weird yoga retreat.
There is the sound of the curtain around her bed now. Her mother is back from the shop downstairs.
‘I bought you these.’ She has two magazines in her hand and the hospital cliché of grapes.
Sarah looks at her mother and feels a familiar and confusing myriad of emotions. Love. Anger. Frustration.
‘I’d better phone your father. Tell him how you’re doing.’
‘No. Don’t. I don’t want him here. I want Lily.’
‘Now come on, Sarah. He has a right to know the latest and if he wants to come—’
‘Don’t. I said I don’t want him here and I mean it. Why won’t you talk about Lily?’
‘Lily made her own choices. Lily has her own life now. Your dad . . . he’s been very worried.’
Sarah turns away. Bad enough that he had insisted on coming to the hotel in London. To talk with the police. Kept phoning. Checking up.
Maybe he was worried what she might say to the police.
Sarah looks at her mother, fussing with the grapes and the magazines. Moving the box of tissues and pouring cordial from a bottle.
How many times has she tried to broach it? To talk to her mother. To take the pin out of the grenade. But it’s always like this. She is dismis
sed. Shut down. The pin is popped straight back in. The pretence remains that their family is just a standard broken family. All very straightforward. Sad but neat. Nothing out of the ordinary. Loads of people get divorced after all.
Your father is gone. But we are going to be fine. It is all going to be civilised. We both love you very much still . . .
Occasionally, over the years, Sarah wondered about sharing the truth with Anna. But Anna had such a different life. Beautiful Anna. With her beautiful life.
Sarah leans back into the plumped-up pillows and closes her eyes.
‘That’s it, love. You have yourself a nice little nap. I’ll read.’
They met in the third year of primary school, she and Anna. Back then, Sarah’s dad was a lorry driver and away a lot. Her mother had always wanted to live in the country, so they bought a little two-bed modern terrace on a small estate on the outskirts of the village.
Sarah remembers how very shocked she was when Anna first invited her home to tea. The drive along the narrow lane to the huge farmhouse, with its chaos and its dogs and its line of wellingtons in the boot room which was bigger than her mother’s kitchen. Imagine, she told her family. A whole room just for boots and dogs. It’s nuts.
That first night after visiting the farmhouse, Sarah lay in bed, overwhelmed. Tea at hers after school was tinned spaghetti on toast, or oven chips made into chip butties. Only at weekends was there more effort, and even then it was from packets and tins.
At Anna’s it had been surreal. Her mother made this incredible stew – rich and delicious with herb dumplings on top – and apple crumble with homemade custard. It was a Wednesday, and Sarah had imagined it was a big and special fuss for her, but Anna said no, just a normal tea. Why? What do you like to eat?
Anna’s father came in from the fields to eat with them and was charming and funny, telling jokes, sitting at the table in his thick woollen socks and asking Sarah if she would like to come with Anna to see some of the new lambs.
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