The Good Mother

by A. L. Bird

  Who?

  Who?

  ‘Who?’

  He smiles and shakes his head. Ruefully?

  ‘It will come, Suze. I know it will. I’m not going to force it. Just take your time.’

  And, with that, he leaves the room.

  Chapter 45

  The other side of the door

  A good investment, that gun.

  Because it’s the first time she’s shown signs of remembering. Of some recollection, of who I am.

  I hadn’t meant to threaten her with it. But then, she wasn’t meant to be standing at the window shouting for help. And that sign! God, I should have spotted it long ago. Botched. The whole thing could have been botched because of that.

  But yes, the gun. I owe it so much.

  Seeing, feeling, Suze’s look, when I touched her with the gun. Recollection. Empowered by the power of threatened bullets. And, of course, the other stuff. The stuff that she’s been eating and drinking, knowingly or not, since I started this whole thing. A heady combination.

  Soon, now then, we’ll be reunited. Properly. Cara, too, can come out of the woodwork. We’ll sit down, talk it all through. I knew it could happen. I knew it could. Just a little patience. And the rest. But I mustn’t be too meek. The gun has shown me that. Exhibit a bit of the old power. The old force. The old magnetism. That she loved. Loves. Deep inside. And—

  Doorbell.

  Why now?

  What now?

  Him?

  Well, with the gun, I know what to do about that, don’t I? If it is.

  Creep up to the spyhole.

  Oh shit.

  Not him.

  Worse.

  Her.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Not today. Not when I’m so close to the goal.

  What to do? Open up?

  Hide?

  But what then? A return? With more of them? These bloody nosy people? I thought they’d bought my story. I thought they’d leave me alone. But no. They can’t keep away. Think they’ve got an interest. Well, they bloody haven’t. It’s nothing to do with them. I’ll do it all. I’ll do it all alone, my way, and I know best. With my gun I am omniscient. Omnipotent.

  Oh shit. Look at her, wandering round the outside of the house. Have to go out, invite her in, put a stop to it. She’s driven far to get here. From her Home Counties middle-age comfortableness. Hair put up specially. She won’t go away without an audience. Have to put the gun away for a moment.

  Open the door. Stick my head out.

  ‘Marge, hello there.’ Look at her. ‘Oh, hello, love!’ She sounds surprised. Why surprised? It’s my house; why wouldn’t I be here? She’s the one who turned up.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ I say. Pointedly, I hope.

  ‘No, well, you weren’t answering the phone, so …’

  Yes, you may well trail off. Admission of your nosiness, your temerity, your inappropriateness. Why should I answer the phone? When I know it will be him. Or the PPI robots. Both annoying, one dangerous.

  ‘I just wanted to see. That everything’s OK.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

  I know why, of course. We both do.

  I stand at the threshold of the front door. Arms crossed. Gun, my dear gun, in my pocket.

  She’ll want to come in though.

  Invite her in, to allay suspicion? Or keep her out, to evade the truth?

  Not mutually exclusive. Get her in. Hedge.

  ‘Won’t you come in, Marge? You’ll have driven a long way.’

  ‘Thanks, love.’

  Stop calling me your love. There is no love here. Love means trust. It means what I have with Suze. If you trusted me you wouldn’t have come.

  ‘So …’ she says, once she’s in. Does she think that her one syllable will distract me from those roving eyes, scrutinising everything? I look round, seeing it as she sees it. The plain walls, thank God, after I took the photos down. And yes, she can see the mess. The half-empty mugs. The packaging from deliveries cast aside. The crusts of toast, abandoned. Her lips purse in disapproval. And, if we turn to the kitchen – the trays. Oh dear. The trays.

  ‘Sit down there.’ I point at the sofa. ‘Let me get you some tea.’ Whirl into the kitchen. Distract her with activity. Stick the trays into the sink.

  ‘Oh, right, thanks.’ She takes off her coat. No, don’t do that. I don’t mean I want you to stay long enough to get warm, for God’s sake. Just to have a mouthful of tea then be off. Look at you, sitting so neatly and prissily. That same blush-pink anorak folded on your lap. Why don’t you share its shame on your cheeks? Instead of the unnatural rouge you’ve applied for your big trip out?

  Talking now. Words from your lips. The kettle is boiling, though, so you’re obliterated.

  ‘Sorry?’ I say, hands cupped behind ears.

  ‘I said, how’s everything? How’s …’

  ‘Oh, you know. As good as can be expected.’

  She nods. Like she knows. Something, everything. Nothing.

  ‘Of course,’ she says.

  Yes, of course. Everything is obvious, isn’t it? To you, in your simple little world, where 2 + 2 = 4. No complex equations. No codes. Just straightforward cause/effect. Just sorrow, grief, cure. A natural flow. ‘Piss off. Just piss off’, I want to yell.

  ‘I’ll get back to that tea,’ I say.

  She nods.

  Into the kitchen, turn my back. Lean momentarily against the wall. Give me strength oh gun.

  Stand straight again. Tea bag in the mug. No pot for you. You’re not a special enough guest. And it denotes leisure. Time.

  Leave the bags in. Take the mugs over. Milk, still in its plastic bottle, alongside.

  ‘There,’ I say.

  A frown of distaste. Looking at the tea bag.

  ‘Is there something I can use to … ?’ She indicates pulling out the tea bag.

  I wonder what would happen if I offered her the gun for the purpose. Suggest that she fish it out with the muzzle?

  Up again, I get her a spoon. Can’t fob off this lady.

  ‘So have you heard … Well, you must have done. But have you had much contact? Everything OK?’

  I nod, slowly, seriously. ‘From time to time,’ I say. ‘I think—Well. It’s going to be slow, of course. But I think, you know. Getting there.’ I duck my head. Give me sympathy. Suspect me not.

  She copies my nod. ‘Of course.’

  What would it take to get her to stop saying that? My hands slide to the gun. There, just separated by the cloth of my trousers. So easy to pull it out. See what powers it will give me this time. But then, another body maybe. The last thing I want. Or next to last. Something bad, anyway.

  ‘I just find it a bit odd,’ she’s saying. ‘Just to go away so soon after it all.’

  I shrug. ‘Who can predict how people will react?’ I say. ‘Do you know what you’d do?’

  Do you, do you, you bitch? Can you possibly imagine, in your small little world, the width and breadth of human suffering and emotion? Over the years? Have you ever been able to understand any of it?

  She shakes her head. ‘I can’t imagine,’ she says. No. Thought not.

  Looks into her tea. I slurp mine. It’s too hot. I bite my tongue. Against the pain and the shouting.

  ‘Can I use the bathroom?’ she asks, abruptly.

  So. She wants to look around, does she? On a mission, yes? That stupid non-emotionally intelligent newt of a husband sent her to gather facts? I’m surprised she managed to keep him away. Maybe they agreed she would be better at this. More sensitive. More likely to cajole information out of me. Hah.

  Can I escort her? Check she doesn’t ‘forget’ where it is, try to go into rooms that she shouldn’t. Locked rooms that don’t concern her.

  Let’s try.

  ‘Of course,’ I say. She’s got me doing it now. ‘Just along here.’ I stand with her, and begin to walk with her.

  She puts a hand gently on my a
rm. Speaks, quietly. ‘I know where the bathroom is, love.’

  I nod. Pass a hand over my brow. Feigning forgetfulness in the awfulness that she is still trying, but failing, to imagine (but secretly thinks she can). She gives me an ‘understanding’ smile.

  Well then. We’ll have to chance it. Off she goes. Along the corridor. Watch her back. Gun slightly out of pocket. She rounds the corner. I can’t see her any more. Strain to listen. A door opens. Good, not a locked one then. What’s in the bathroom? What will she see? There’s nothing to incriminate me now, is there? Think, think. Chew the lip, it helps the brain. I think I’m OK.

  Toilet flushing. Right. Come back in an orderly fashion, then, please, Marge. No wandering off the route. Footsteps coming towards me. Slide the gun back in. Sorry, fella, false alarm.

  Here she is, back into view.

  What’s that she’s carrying? A towel, but – why?

  ‘I didn’t know which was the guest towel, love. Seemed to be so many of them. All a bit damp.’

  Freeze in putting the gun away. Fucking Miss Marple. Brought down by the towels? When I’m this close? No. No. No. Should I … The power of the gun … Not yet. Wait. Just downplay it. Try a little laugh.

  ‘Yeah, sorry, washing isn’t exactly top of my priorities right now.’

  A blush. Finally, a blush.

  ‘Of course. Sorry, love. Look, let me help.’ She bustles off back to the bathroom.

  Returns with the towels. ‘Let me put these in the washing machine.’ And she barges over there, into the kitchen, the kitchen with the trays, the washing machine with the—Oh Christ! The clothes! The clothes with the blood!

  ‘Look, just leave it. Just leave it OK? I’m doing fine. I can manage. Just … you shouldn’t have come.’

  And I feel the anger. I feel the frustration, the anguish, the stress of what I have in this house. How near success and failure. And I feel the gun. Oh God, I feel it. My hand on my thigh. Ready. Steady.

  She stands in the middle of the kitchen. Hands droop with the towels. Lips quiver. Doesn’t know what to do.

  I should maybe defuse. Hug. Apologise. For what? Not shooting off her nosy little head?

  I take a step forward. She takes a step back. Is there something in my eyes maybe? Something that suggests—

  The doorbell. Again. Why so popular today?

  She opens her mouth. Speaks, in a wavering voice. ‘You’d better get that.’

  I nod. Sure thing. Why not. What harm could it possibly do? NB Sarcasm.

  Can’t look through the viewfinder. Can’t show I’m hiding from the world. Must just open the door the door brazenly. To find …

  Oh Lord. Him.

  ‘Hello,’ he says.

  And she hears his voice. Recognises the threat in it. She must do. Because she’s dropped the towels.

  Chapter 46

  The doorbell again!

  The police. I know this time. I can see them. Right in front of me. As though it were me opening the door. ‘We’re here about Cara,’ they’re saying. I’m sure they are. I can hear them. At last, at last.

  But then why am I so terrified? Why do I see myself sinking down onto a carpet, one of them trying to catch me. Why am I crying? Wipe away the tears – with a hand that’s shaking. Why shaking? Stop it, Susan. Stop it. You’re about to be rescued. This is it!

  I rush to the door of the room and press my ear against it.

  Listen.

  A man and the woman.

  But wait.

  Surely not.

  Is it … ?

  No. It can’t be, can it? Yes, it is. It’s him. And, my God, that’s her, isn’t it! They’ve found us! They’ve come with the police to save us!

  I shout as loudly as I can. ‘Hello! Hello! I’m here! It’s Susan! I’m here! Help!’

  The voices stop. Where’ve they gone? Don’t leave. I need you to help me.

  ‘Cara, shout too! This is it, they’ve come to save us!’

  Cara hears me – she must, because she shouts too. We both shout and scream at the top of our lungs. But still no one comes to beat the door down.

  ‘Please!’

  Still there are no footsteps.

  ‘In here! Get us out!’

  Still no sirens.

  ‘Keep shouting, Cara!’

  And we do, we do. Because, please God, let us out of here! This horrible, horrible place where we’re stuck, trapped, deserted, so apart from the outside world, from light, from love, from happiness. Please get us out. Please let me and Cara and Paul be together again!

  So I shout and I shout and I shout. And I shout so loudly that I can’t even hear Cara any more, can’t hear if the voices are responding, can only hear my screams. The whole world is my voice pleading for escape. I can see in my head a huge great big roof of my mouth, all the pinky-red grooves and ridges raised, and at the back the black hole with engorged tonsils and uvula, tongue flat, just screaming, screaming, screaming.

  But not so loud to stop me hearing the gun shot.

  Suddenly, I am quiet again.

  All is quiet.

  It’s his gun, is it? Or someone else’s? The police’s? Are they armed? No, not in this country. Unless they sent the snipers. His, I bet it’s his.

  Has he … ? Surely, no, please, not!

  All quiet except the Captor talking.

  So he can’t have killed them. Not if he is talking to them.

  Unless he is only talking to one of them.

  I can’t hear what he’s saying. I press my ear so hard to the door that you’d think it would melt through to the other side. Mumble, mumble, mumble. Speak up! I grab the cup. The lovely ceramic death cup. And I put it against the door, like they do with glasses in the movies, to try to help me hear. Still it’s not clear. Still just indistinct words that I don’t understand. And only two voices, those two voices that I know. The police don’t seem to be saying anything at all.

  Maybe Cara can hear? She is closer.

  I scribble a quick note asking her and feed it through the grate.

  No response. She doesn’t know, you see, who those voices are. Well, she knows one of them. But she doesn’t even know the other one exists in relation to her. So how can she worry? That’s good. She’ll feel safe. Be safe.

  Even though I can’t hear the words, I keep my ear against the door.

  And then there they are – the others again. The Captor hasn’t killed them. Thank God. Or thank the Captor. Maybe he is merciful after all.

  More talking. More useless words. I daren’t shout again. Bullets sound when I shout.

  But oh – no, please! Oh, maybe I should have shouted once more. Because that’s the sound of the door, isn’t it? The front door. Slamming shut.

  ‘Help! Help! Hello! Help us!’

  But there’s nothing. There’s silence. They’ve gone. They’ve somehow gone. Why? How? How can they do that when they know, they know that we’re here! And what kind of police work is that? How could they not check every room, every crevice, for Cara? And why only call about Cara, not about me? I slam my hands off the walls. Bastards. Bastards, bastards, bastards. I don’t care if it’s not their fault. I don’t care about the gun. They should have found a way.

  I close my eyes. I take a deep breath. I try to force down the sickening failure of hope that I can feel like acid rising in my throat. Swallow down the despair. Make a meal of the regurgitated sadness and disappointment. Breathe. Just breathe.

  Open my eyes.

  So.

  I’m still here.

  We’re still here.

  It seems, perhaps, that we’re doomed still to be here.

  I shut my eyes again. It doesn’t help.

  What will help?

  I tear another sheet of paper from the diary.

  ‘I love you Cara,’ I write. Because that’s the only hope-giver, isn’t it? In all of this. Life with Cara. I love my little girl.

  And I cry. I cry and I cry and I cry.

  Yet part of me smile
s.

  A dark, wrong part. The recalcitrant rainbow, sun through the rain. The part that is glad it wasn’t the Captor who was shot. The part that is looking forward to seeing him in here again. Because I know. I know, I know, I know. That he is someone. Not someone whose identity I actually, currently, know. But still, a person, known – formerly – by me. Once. And that something inside me is rediscovering him. And that something – well perhaps, perversely, it might quite … not hate him. Completely.

  Chapter 47

  The other side of the door

  I knew the gun would help me again.

  That it would help them understand. Buy me time. Let them have a space to think rather than just react.

  When I heard the shouting from along the corridor, I thought that was it. Done for. I was ready to point it at their heads, bang, bang, then at mine, bang, finito.

  But the gun, the gun shone through. Some force within it compelled me to raise it immediately. Like it could sense my need. No hesitation, it came bursting with a life surge out of my pocket.

  ‘Listen!’ it said. I was its ventriloquist’s dummy. My lips moved while the gun made me talk, kept them silent.

  ‘Listen!’ And because the gun was there, they did listen. They listened with wide, wild eyes. ‘Don’t second-guess me. Don’t question me. What I’m doing here is completely necessary. It’s none of your fucking business, OK? So you think now you’re going to be on some rescue mission? Well, hear this: you’re not. You understand nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.’

  They didn’t speak at first. The gun helped me check their hearing. Yes, they heard it click, as I took off its safety catch.

  ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ he mumbled.

  But oh, the gun showed them. That shot. It was beautiful. I loved the way it ricocheted round the room. How it made them duck for cover. Quiver and shake. Good work. Because they understood a little bit then, even with their lack of empathy.

  And, when I explained further, told them everything, made them promise on pain of death – not just their own – that they would not summon the police, that they would walk out of here and leave us alone, they listened. They properly listened. It was my words that soaked into them then. The gun gave me the time, the opportunity, of course. Without it, I would be spread-eagled on the floor with the cops on top of me and my capture long gone. They wouldn’t have bothered listening otherwise, without the gun; just have said what I was doing was wrong, have rushed past me along the corridor. But when I told them everything, explained it all, they began nodding. Agreeing. Marge’s eyes even misting. Of course, she would always side with me in the end. Once she’d been given permission not to react conventionally.