Gillian gets up from the stool and plucks several tissues from a box on the counter. She turns away from Luke as she dabs at her face and blows her nose.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ she says, sitting back at the island. ‘I never know when it’ll hit me. I could be sat in traffic, see one of her friends pushing a pram, or on their way to work, and it’ll overwhelm me. Lucy never had any of that. She’d barely turned eighteen. She will always be eighteen. If it’d been a month before, she’d have been classed as a child … Craig would never be released.’
Lucy seems such a young person’s name, he thinks. Would she still’ve suited it if she’d had the chance to grow older?
‘Would you like to take a break?’ Luke says.
‘A break?’ She gives a bitter laugh. ‘I never get a break from this. It makes some people uncomfortable when I cry … even my own father. He thinks I should be over it by now.’ She covers her face with her hands for several moments, her shoulders rising as she takes a deep breath. ‘He’s always been so cold, especially when I was a girl. How can anyone get over losing a child?’
‘I don’t know.’
Luke feels pathetic, helpless. He hates his job sometimes. What’s the point of it all if you can’t change anything? All he does is tell readers about events after they’ve happened. Helen says it’s important, that people have the right to know what’s going on in the world. She wouldn’t feel the same way if it were her own life being read about by thousands.
‘Did Lucy know Jenna Threlfall?’ says Luke. He’s probably asked the question before, but there’s nothing about it in his old notes.
‘Vaguely,’ says Gillian. ‘They went to the same school, same college, but they didn’t spend much time with each other. I’d never met her – didn’t know she existed until …’
‘But they could’ve spent time together at college and you might not have known about it?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘It’s just too much of a coincidence that they went to the same place and were both—’
He stops himself, knowing he’s pondering aloud to one of the victims’ mothers.
‘I know,’ says Gillian. ‘The police would’ve looked into it at the time, though, wouldn’t they?’
After a few minutes’ silence, Luke says, ‘Have you ever thought of moving away, like Jenna’s parents did?’
Her mouth falls open; she leans back, and Luke worries she might topple from the stool.
‘Why should I leave?’ she says, raising her voice for the first time. ‘Lucy’s room’s upstairs. How could I get rid of that? She’s still my daughter. I’m still a mother. She’s with me every single day, I can feel her. Where would she go if I weren’t here? Don’t look at me like that, Luke. I haven’t lost my mind. But when you lose a child, you have to believe there’s something else after this. Otherwise, I couldn’t carry on living. I want to do her proud … live my life for her because she can’t. She was passionate about so many things. I volunteer in several of the places she did … I’m not going to list them now because I think it should be private. Can you believe an eighteen-year-old volunteered in her spare time? It was like she—’
Loud footsteps sound from the staircase above.
‘That’ll be Brian.’ Gillian slips gracefully from the stool. ‘Do you have everything you need?’
Luke stops the recording app on his phone, places it in his pocket, and swipes his notepad off the counter. On it, he’s drawn thirty or forty triangles of different sizes, the imprint of the pen gouged into the paper.
‘Thanks for your time, Gillian.’
She stands at the kitchen door, almost beckoning him out. The heavy treads stop, and Gillian’s husband appears in the hallway. He’s a tall man: around six foot two.
Luke’s forehead feels cool with newly formed sweat.
‘Luke was just leaving,’ says Gillian.
Brian nods and stands aside to let Luke by. His right shoulder tingles as he passes Lucy’s father. Luke’s always had a vivid imagination – he pictures Brian grabbing him by his collar and flinging him out of the front door. He’s surprised when he steps out of the house unscathed. He wants to run to the safety of his car but turns to face Gillian.
‘Bye then.’
She closes the front door gently.
Luke wishes he could speak to people without sounding like a bumbling schoolboy. Perhaps he should get on with writing that novel instead of reporting real life and mixing with the public.
He gets into the car and pulls away from the Sharpes’ house, turning left at the end of the road.
There must be a connection between Lucy and Jenna. Gillian didn’t mention where her daughter volunteered, but Luke knew it was at an animal sanctuary. Perhaps Jenna visited there, too. He makes a note of it on his pad.
He passes the shops on the parade three miles from the Sharpes’. The houses are smaller here: rows of red-brick terraces with different coloured front doors. There are people on the street: some alone with shopping bags; others chatting on their doorstep or next to the postbox.
Another left, then a right and he’s driving on Erica’s road. He slows before he passes the house. The front door is still painted green, though he can tell from here that it’s seen better days.
Erica’s curtains are closed, but that’s not unusual. Every time he’s passed before, it’s been the same. He checks his watch: five to ten. Homes Under the Hammer’s on soon. Luke watched it every day when Megan was off school with chicken pox.
Erica must have her own routine; he doubts she goes out very much. Why the hell does she stay here? For her son? It’s a question Luke asks himself whenever he thinks about her, which has been a lot these past few days.
He sees movement in the upstairs bedroom window and looks away quickly. Is that Erica’s room? He remembers how he and a colleague, Rebecca, spent all day out here, waiting for any activity inside the house or from the police officer guarding the front door.
Luke presses his foot on the accelerator. Within the week, Craig will be back here. As a young man he did such horrific things. God help the people living on this street. Someone like that can’t be rehabilitated, thinks Luke. He’s seen it before – there are plenty of cases like it. Sometimes within hours of release a person will reoffend. How has Craig convinced the authorities he’s changed? Luke can’t help but shudder. This man murdered two young women one week apart. There must be evidence linking them, and Luke feels a new determination to find the connection.
6
Erica
He always loved potato waffles. He used to make them into sandwiches; he made everything into sandwiches, even mushy peas. I add them to the shopping list of his favourite foods – things I never eat. I always have the same meals so I don’t have to think about it. Today is Tuesday, so I’ll have beans on toast for dinner and a cottage pie ready meal for tea. Sometimes, I get the notion of trying something different, perhaps an avocado or an artichoke – I’ve seen things like that on Come Dine with Me and MasterChef – but there’s no point making all that effort for only one.
I can’t believe Craig’s coming home tomorrow. I thought something might come up that would stop everything; it hasn’t. I’ve imagined over the years what it would be like to have him home, but I’d pictured him as he was before he went inside. He’s a different person now. I’m afraid he’ll either withdraw into himself or enjoy his freedom a bit too much.
I’ve had so many messages from my forum friends.
AnneMarie2348: He’ll be a bit shell-shocked at first. He might be quiet for a few days while he gets used to being free.
Anne Marie’s from Bristol, so we’re relatively close – she’s the one I talk to the most.
TexanDude: Why not throw him a party? We had a little get-together for our Shane and it went down a real treat.
Trevor’s from Texas, obviously. I just said I’d think about that. I don’t think a convicted murderer partying the night away on release would go down v
ery well in this town.
I cross out the cans of lager I wrote on my shopping list.
Some of our members can be a bit strange, but I try not to judge. I have to lead by example, being a moderator. It can get out of hand sometimes. The worst fallout was when a victim’s relative found his way on to there. I don’t know how he found the site, or how he knew that Martha was on it. He said that he was going to hunt her down and kill her family after what Martha’s brother had done to his daughter. She left because of that, which is a shame because she was a really sweet person.
But that’s in the past. There are more stringent verifications for admission to our group now.
I look at the first-ever picture of Craig on the TV cabinet. My friend, Denise, took the photo and gave me the print. He was premature. So tiny, wrapped in a blue hospital blanket.
I was sitting in this very chair when I felt pains at thirty-three weeks. I thought it was those practice ones, Braxton Hicks, but then my waters went. I ran out into the street, my skirt sopping wet, still wearing my slippers. Denise lived on the next street. I’d known her since we were at primary school. She was the only blonde in a classroom of mousy heads. Bit gobby, too, which was OK if you were on the right side of her.
I waddled all the way to hers, my hands between my legs in case the baby fell out. I must’ve looked a sight, but you don’t think about that when it’s a case of life or death.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ Denise said, opening the door to my banging and screaming. She was carrying her baby boy; his chubby legs gripped her waist, but her blond hair was perfectly styled, make-up always intact.
‘My waters have gone,’ I said.
‘OK, OK. Calm down, love. It’s going to be all right. How far apart are your contractions?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve only had a few, I think. I had a couple of twinges in the frozen section at the VG, but I thought it was only growing pains.’
She ushered me in.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘I’ll give the hospital a ring – ask them what to do.’
She was always helpful. I was twenty-three, but I knew nothing about life, even though I thought I was experienced in the ways of the world. When my mother died, I had no one. My brother didn’t visit much, but he didn’t even when Mum was alive.
Denise only asked about the baby’s father once. I was silent on the subject and she never asked again. She must’ve known I’d made a mistake. I’d known her since secondary school and we used to tell each other everything. It was shame holding me back.
An ambulance took me to the hospital and I was in agony for nearly twenty-four hours on gas and air before Craig made his appearance. He was silent; everyone said babies should scream when they come out. I saw the panic on the midwife’s face, though she pretended everything was fine. She whisked him out of the room and I was left on my own for an hour before anyone came to talk to me. It was one of the longest hours of my life. I imagined the worst – that he’d died, and they couldn’t bring themselves to tell me. I was in pain with my stitches, so I couldn’t even go and find him.
Eventually, they told me his lungs weren’t as good as they should be because he was early.
I didn’t see him for three days. I lay there on the ward while all the other mothers tended to their little ones. I pulled the curtain around my bed because I cried all day, thinking they’d soon tell me he was dead. The nurses dragged it back open every time. ‘It’s best if you’re not alone.’ I didn’t know why some of them were in the job; they obviously didn’t like people very much.
They kept me in for a week before I was discharged. ‘How can I go home without my baby?’ I asked, but they said they needed the beds. I travelled every day on the bus to come and see him before they let me take him home three weeks later. I finally had him to myself and I didn’t want him to leave my arms.
Kit Kats. Craig loves Kit Kats.
I write it on my list.
I see Denise in the street, sometimes. My heart yearns for that closeness, for the times we knew what the other was thinking without saying. Our children grew up together – they were inseparable during the school holidays.
But I don’t talk to Denise any more. Not after what she did.
It wasn’t that far to the Co-op. It’s in the next town and I could’ve taken the bus, but I have to watch the spends this week if I’m buying all this extra food – my money only stretches so far. I’ve been putting away something each month for my travels – money I used to spend on ciggies. I gave them up years ago. There’ve been times when I think Sod it, I’ll buy some. Who needs dinner? But when I tried going without food for a whole day, my stomach won. It’s difficult to concentrate on anything else except food when the body’s starving. I didn’t go further down that dark route, though. Instead, I opened a tin of tomato soup and tried to forget about the nicotine monster (a phrase I read in a self-help book from the library).
If they know I’m Craig’s mother in this shop, they never let on – not like the one at the top of my road. They treat me as though I’m the criminal.
I’ve found everything on my list and watch as the young lad scans and packs everything into my bag-for-life. They’re good like that at the Co-op.
‘Hello there, Erica.’
A man’s voice, loud and self-assured behind me.
I turn around, relieved to see it’s only Jason Bamber. It’s not often I see a friendly face out and about.
‘Hello, Jason love,’ I say.
I turn back to the cashier. The bill comes to £27.50! That would do me a fortnight, but I shouldn’t complain.
I can sense Jason standing behind me. He’s always been kind since Craig’s been inside, and I’ve known him since he was born.
‘Great news about Craig,’ he says.
He strides towards me and takes me in his arms. I’ve only one hand to return the gesture. He’s wearing a suit today, but I don’t know for sure what he does for a living – I’ve not had a proper chat with him for ages. He must be doing well for himself. I feel an actual pain in my chest when I compare him to Craig – how my son’s life could’ve been so different.
‘I … How did you know?’ I say, but I know the answer.
I’ve avoided looking at the newspapers since that reporter Luke Simmons telephoned the other day. I glance at the row of papers near the door and I see it: Murderer to Return to Preston.
My fingers start to tingle; I tighten my grip on the carrier bag.
I knew they’d run with something, but I didn’t think I’d be in a shop full of people when I read it. What did I expect? A warning from that reporter? No. He owes me nothing because I gave him nothing.
‘You OK?’ says Jason. He follows my gaze. ‘They don’t half print some crap these days. Must’ve been a slow news day.’
I smile at him, knowing he’s trying to console me. A convicted murderer returning home is big news, though.
‘Yes, yes. I’m fine.’
How will I get home now? It’s a mile away and my legs are like jelly. I walk out of the automatic doors. Cars whizz past; the road’s so busy. Oh God. I knew everyone would find out, but I wasn’t prepared for it, mentally – not today.
I wish I could buy every single copy of that newspaper and burn the lot.
I could start packing up our stuff when I get home. Craig won’t want to stay around here, I know it. I hear a car pull up next to me.
‘I’ll give you a lift.’
It’s Jason. How did he get his car here so quickly? I didn’t see him leave the shop.
‘It’s OK. I’ll be all right. Don’t worry about me, love. I’m sure you’ve got things to do.’
His car crawls alongside the kerb as I walk.
‘Erica!’ he shouts. ‘Come on. I wouldn’t want my mother walking so far on a day like this.’
I look up to the sky and he’s right. The clouds are grey and heavy; it feels like it should be six o’clock at night. I stop walking. The hairdresser’s on my right has
a sign in the window: Highlights, cut and blow dry, only £50. Imagine spending that much money on hair! Mine was about fifty per cent grey the last time I looked.
Jason gets out of his car, the engine idling. He takes the carrier bag from my hands.
‘I know Craig’s innocent,’ he says, looking solemnly into my eyes, his lips pursed as though he might burst into tears. ‘He’d never do anything like that.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘Craig really appreciates you believing in him. Not many people did.’
He puts my shopping into his boot then opens the passenger door.
He’d never do anything like that.
‘I saw Lucy’s mum the other day,’ he says, as we set off.
The blood in my arms and legs runs cold. Jason’s never mentioned the past before – though we haven’t said more than a quick hello in passing recently.
‘Did you speak to her?’ I say.
‘God, no. What would I say? I doubt she’d recognise me now, though. We’ve all changed so much since back then.’
He glances at me. There’s sweat on his top lip and down the side of his face. He smells strange … sickly sweet.
‘Do you still live with your mum, Jason?’ I say.
He gives a short bark of a laugh.
‘Shit, no. Can you imagine that? She’d bloody nag me all day. No. I’m a free man, me.’ He looks at me again. ‘Sorry. No offence, like. And pardon my French.’ He laughs again.
‘It’s all right,’ I say.
I can’t imagine Jason’s mother ever using language like that, but at least he’s not talking about Gillian Sharpe any more.
We pull up outside my house. I daren’t look.
I don’t need to.
‘Oh God,’ says Jason, after undoing his seat belt and opening the car door. ‘I’ll find the little shits, Mrs Wright. I’ll tear their fucking hair out.’
Only a Mother Page 3