I put a hand on his arm.
‘No, no, love. I’ll be OK. I knew it’d start again. And they might not be so little these days.’
He gets out of the car and opens the boot, lifting out my carrier. We walk to the front door and stand two feet from it. The smell is awful; I want to gag, be sick, run away.
‘At least the keyhole’s clear,’ I say.
‘I’ll get Stu the window cleaner round. He’s used to clearing up dog crap.’
‘I’ll be fine, Jason. Thanks for the lift.’ I grab the bag from his hand. ‘You take care, now.’
His mobile phone bleeps and he takes it out of his pocket.
‘Give me a ring if you need me,’ he says before leaping back into his car and screeching off.
I stand a little closer to the door. I’d almost forgotten the smell.
The letters, this time, are vertical: WHORE. I’m surprised they managed to collect enough shit to write it in such big letters.
It shouldn’t hurt, but it does. It’s the worst thing anyone could ever call me; I’ve tried hard to learn from my mistake.
I don’t look around because I don’t care who’s looking at me. I open the door and carefully step inside; there’s nothing on the doormat this time.
In the kitchen, I put the frozen food into the ice compartment and leave the rest on the counter in the bag. Still in my coat, I kneel on the kitchen floor, leaning against the back door. I should be heating my cottage pie; Tipping Point’ll be on in a minute. My knees are shot; I might never get up. I allow myself a few minutes to wallow before I try to stand. There’s so much to do. They didn’t break me last time, and they won’t now. I’m stronger than I was then.
7
Tick tock, tick tock.
Soon it’ll be time. Can you imagine what I’ve been thinking about for all these years? I’ve not been able to do anything about it – I need the timing to be perfect, like before. And it’s nearly time.
I need to be a bit more careful now, though. They know more these days. People are filmed almost everywhere; phones are tapped, computers are monitored. You might think – if you’re an ordinary person – that no one is watching you, but they are. Especially online, because that’s easy. Those big internet companies get away with so much. Have you ever wondered why? They know everything about us. So you need to be clever about it. If you want to do something … under the radar, so to speak … you can never have a phone with you (those gadgets are always listening), and you must always know where CCTV is. People – normal people – have cameras pointing at their driveways … they like to protect their property. I suppose that’s reasonable, but why don’t they protect their loved ones in the same way?
It would only take one sighting and I’d be inside. Again.
Though it might be worth it.
So I have to work quickly; get as much done as I can.
Lucy was so good, you know. So pure. With her white-blonde hair, she was almost an angel … so trusting. Perhaps she’s looking down on me now: my very own guardian angel. We will always be linked. Sometimes, I talk to her and she always replies in some way.
I don’t think about the words she said near the end. She didn’t mean them. She loved me, I know she did. She brought out the good in me.
It was different in those days. Not as many mobile phones – there were those shit Nokia ones – if you had one at all. But Lucy didn’t have one. Her parents didn’t trust them.
They trusted me, though.
Her dad was ever so protective. He never wanted her to grow up … didn’t want men to spoil her.
He doesn’t have to worry about that any more.
8
Erica
I was two hours early, just in case. I’ve walked around the housing estate opposite three times. They could do with a coffee shop or something around here.
I’m so tired. I set my alarm for three a.m. this morning, but I needn’t have. There were taps and bangs on the front door and living room window all night. I was too scared to sleep until they stopped. It sounded like children, but surely their parents wouldn’t have let them stay out so late. What’s the point of things going wrong if people don’t learn from our mistakes?
When it finally got to three, the alarm rang out and scared me half to death. It was quiet outside, so I went downstairs and put the kettle on, getting the Dettol out of the cupboard. I had several pairs of marigolds, scrubbing brushes, and there are four big bottles of bleach that I can’t remember buying. I’m sure I didn’t have that many.
It hadn’t rained since four the previous afternoon, so I expected some of it would’ve dried into the cracks of the paint.
I cried the first time I scrubbed dog dirt off the door, but last night I just got on with it and imagined what I’d cook Craig for tea, where we’d sit, and what we’d talk about. I couldn’t think of many subjects. He’s had a television in there, and that’s all we’ve had in common so far.
I know I shouldn’t be nervous now, waiting outside the prison for him, but I am. I haven’t told him many details about my life as it is. He wouldn’t be interested in my online group or my knitting. To be honest, I’m not bothered about knitting any more. Mother tried to teach me, but I only got the hang of the basic knit stitch. Concentrate, Erica! You look like you’re going to stab yourself! I’ve knitted enough squares to blanket the whole of Lancashire, I expect.
I could talk to him about the books I’ve read (though they’re silly, romantic novels); the documentaries we watched at the same time in different places. And I’ve got my folder of places I want to visit, even though that’s not something I’ve actually done yet. I’ll tell him what favourite foods I’ve bought him, and that I recorded that film he used to love.
After buying those treats yesterday, I can’t stretch to a taxi home for us. I hope he doesn’t mind getting the bus.
No, it’ll be fine. He’ll just be glad to be out.
I stand next to the towering doors. It’s strange, waiting here alone. People passing don’t even glance at me; they must be used to it. I want to tell each of them that my son is coming home, that he’s going to be free! My hands are shaking but I don’t bother to hide them. I don’t care. This is the day I’ve been waiting for after seventeen long years.
At eleven o’clock, on the dot, the door opens.
Adrenaline surges through me. It creates a strange combination of feelings: excited, happy, nervous.
Craig steps out. He towers over me, but there are tears in his eyes. He holds out his arms.
‘Mum!’
I rush into him. I promised myself I’d be strong, but I can’t stop the tears. The slam of the door makes me jump, so Craig hugs me tighter. It feels so good to hold him tightly and not have to be mindful of the time.
‘I can’t believe it,’ he says into my hair.
His tears are warm on my scalp.
‘Oh, my boy. I’ve missed you so much.’ I stand back, holding his arms. ‘Look at you! Haven’t you grown?’
He laughs a little as he dabs his eyes with his jumper.
‘You’ve seen me every week, Mum.’
‘I know, but it’s not the same. You’re in daylight, now … in the real world. I can see the colour of your hair properly – it’s gone darker. Did you notice that? Oh, you must be freezing – don’t you have a coat?’
He shakes his head.
‘I got your favourites in …’ I say. ‘Mushy peas, crispy pancakes … You still like all of those things, don’t you? I suppose you will, after the terrible food they’ve been giving you in there. And you’ll like a nice hot bath, won’t you? I got you some bubbles … they’re only Co-op’s own, but they’ll be as good as—’
‘Mum?’
‘Yes, love?’
‘Can we go straight home?’
‘Course we can, Son. I hope you don’t mind the bus, it’s just that I—’
‘The bus is fine.’ He puts his arm through mine as we walk slowly. ‘I’ve never heard you
talk as much.’
‘It’s hard to talk freely in there. I thought of so many things to say to you on my way here, but they’ve gone right out of my head.’
‘I’m sure you’ll think of them. And the food inside wasn’t so bad, you know.’
I squeeze his arm towards mine. I never want to let him go.
I can’t stop staring at him. It’s like when he first came home as a baby and I didn’t think he was real. I’d gaze at him for hours as he slept, afraid he’d stop breathing at any moment.
His crispy pancakes and potato waffles are heating in the oven and he’s sitting in his old chair next to the telly. I’m not sure about his choice of programmes, though: Banged Up or something, I think it is. If I’d just come out of that place, it’d be the last thing I’d want to watch.
‘One of the guys inside said that when his missus was pregnant,’ he explains, as I stand in the doorway, ‘she’d watch One Born Every Minute all the time. He didn’t get why she’d want to put herself through watching it … She carried on recording it for weeks after the birth until she got fed up of being knackered all day … Never watched the programme after that … well, until she got pregnant again.’ He scratches his head. ‘We talked about loads of rubbish, you know. It wasn’t all bad stuff.’
He’s wearing the jeans and jumper I ordered for him from the catalogue. They seem to fit him well, and he hasn’t complained about them. He’s so much bigger now. The last time I bought him clothes was when he was thirteen years old.
‘I can’t go out in this!’ he’d said, holding up the black T-shirt.
I’d spent ages in town searching for it; they weren’t as easy to find as you’d think.
‘There’s nothing wrong with it,’ I said. ‘It’s as plain as I could find.’
‘Exactly. People’ll know we got it on the cheap – it hasn’t got a label.’
‘Course it’s got a label. I didn’t steal it!’
He rolled his eyes – always so dramatic.
‘Not that kind of label, Mum.’
I’d thought myself lucky that he still spoke to me. Anne Marie from the forum said that before her daughter, Ashley, went to prison, she barely spoke to her. She knew she was hiding something because she’d rush straight upstairs after coming home. Drugs were to blame for what she did, Anne Marie says. Makes them secretive, erratic. I’ll have to ask her what drugs they were because secretive and erratic isn’t a combination I’ve ever heard of.
‘Something’s burning, Mum,’ says Craig.
His voice is so different now: deeper, confident. Perhaps that’s how he needed to be in there. Especially after what happened to him for the first five years.
‘Oh, good grief,’ I say.
I open the oven and luckily find that only the edges of the crispy pancakes have caught. I plate them and pick off the burnt bits. They’re probably better than the food he’s been used to.
I put it on a tray and carry it through.
‘Good old crispy pancakes!’ he says. ‘I’m surprised you can still buy them. They’re so seventies.’
‘Some things never change, Son.’
‘You not having any?’
‘I’m too excited to eat.’
I watch as he layers up his fork.
‘Oh, man, that’s hot,’ he says with a mouth full. He chews it quickly and swallows. ‘I’d forgotten what really hot food was like.’
I pat his shoulder; I’m hovering near the doorway, unsure what to do. He’s going to get fed up of me if I carry on like this.
‘I’ll get you a drink.’
I fill a tumbler with water. It’s so strange having someone else in the house. It’s like the place has come back to life – that the wallpaper and the carpets aren’t as drab as they were yesterday.
‘Here you are, love.’
He raises his eyebrows briefly.
‘Don’t suppose you have any beers in? Haven’t had one of those in a while.’
‘No, Son. And it’s only four o’clock.’
We sit together in companionable silence. His prison programme has finished and Tipping Point’s just started. His eyes glaze over as the theme tune ends. This is the life I’m used to, but I don’t think it’s going to be enough for him. It might be like going from one prison to another. I’m itching to get on to my computer and tell my friends that he’s home, but I can’t just go and sit in the corner – not on his first day back. I get the notifications on my phone. There are twenty-three so far, but it would be inappropriate to talk about him while he’s still in the room. I can catch up with them all later.
The letterbox sounds. There’s a burning smell.
I rush to the hall, where a scrunched-up piece of newspaper smoulders on the wooden floor. I pour the jug of water I keep on the window sill over it. I hadn’t put the litter tray down … I hadn’t wanted Craig to see the reality so soon. He’s only been home three hours.
Everyone on the street will know now – it’s like that around here. I walk calmly back into the living room and draw the curtains.
‘What was that?’ says Craig.
‘Just takeaway flyers,’ I say. ‘I wish they’d stop wasting the paper.’
‘I can smell burning.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s only the oven – I forgot to turn it off.’
His plate is clean, and the knife and fork are at six o’clock. At least he’s retained his manners.
‘Why’ve you closed the curtains?’
‘Didn’t want the light to get in your eyes while we watch telly.’
We both know it’s a lie; the sun isn’t showing itself today.
I take the tray from his lap and place it next to the sink. I’ll wash it up later; there’s no point wasting hot water on a few dishes.
I thought we might’ve had at least one evening with a bit of peace. My son spent all that time in prison when they should have been targeting the real killer. It might be seventeen years too late, but I’ll prove them all wrong. I’ve been searching for the man named Pete Lawton for so many years now. He worked at the Anderton & Campbell garage on Poulton Street. Craig had given the police the details of where he was when Lucy disappeared, but the police couldn’t find a man by that name who worked there. I’ve written to every Peter Lawton I can find the address of. I’ve only had one reply. It was from a Mrs B. Lawton, telling me that her husband had passed away, he’d never set foot in Preston, and had certainly never been a mechanic.
At first, I was excited by my search, but after all these years, I’m beginning to lose hope. I’ve messaged twenty-three Peter Lawtons on Facebook – most have ignored me, but there are three who have yet to open the message. They thought Craig was making him up, but I knew my son wouldn’t invent something like that. And the truth will always find a way of finding us, won’t it?
Car headlights dance across my bedroom curtains. It’s quiet and I feel safe with Craig in the house. It’s like our roles are reversed. I was meant to keep him safe – it should’ve been an easy job, but I couldn’t even get that right. It can’t be because I brought Craig up on my own – my mother did a good job with us – my brother and I have never been in trouble, unless you count my getting pregnant while unmarried, but that’s not even unusual these days.
I wonder if my father’s even alive. Mum said he was around for the first few weeks of my life then scarpered. She’d say it was history repeating itself, but she’d be wrong. I never told Craig’s father he had a son. Not straight away, at least.
Perhaps my brother managed to trace our dad, but never told us. ‘He’s got ambition, that one,’ Mum said about Philip. ‘But you’ve got the brains. You could really do something with your life, Erica. Not like I did with mine.’
She said it as though bringing us up on her own was a cross she had to bear, but it wasn’t as bad as that. She never made it feel that way.
I turn on to my side, punching the pillow until it’s plump. I feel a little better knowing I put the litter tray under the let
terbox after Craig turned in. When I went upstairs, I listened at his door for a few moments before knocking.
‘Come in, Mum,’ he shouted.
I opened his door and he was tucked up in bed, his covers across his chest and his arms out either side. He was holding a book from the bookcase on the landing.
‘Which one have you chosen?’ I said, excited as I’d read them all before I put them there.
‘The Da Vinci Code.’
‘Do you like it?’
‘I’m not sure yet. I’m not much of a reader.’
‘But …’ I stopped myself.
I must’ve given him at least three hundred books over the years. I wish he’d told me it’d been a waste of time. But, to be honest, The Da Vinci Code wasn’t the best book I’ve read either. Mother would’ve hated it; she was a staunch Catholic when it suited her.
‘Do we still have that portable TV?’ he said.
‘I don’t know. I’ll have to check,’ I said, a bit too quickly. ‘Night, Son.’
I walked out and closed the door. I didn’t want him to see my face. It was silly of me, getting upset over a few books.
I close my eyes, shutting out my old-fashioned bedroom curtains that always let in too much light.
I picture in my head a detached house with a crescent-shaped drive that has two gates: one for in, one for out. Inside, three children are sleeping (two girls and a boy) in their own bedrooms, with nightlights that create constellations on each of their ceilings. Downstairs, I’m sitting at a large pine table with three chairs on one side and a long wooden bench on the other. A man – I can’t see his face – passes me a cold white wine in a glass decorated with silver stars. He puts a bowl of pasta (creamy tagliatelle topped with pieces of roasted artichoke and parmesan) in front of me.
A car door slams outside and my dream disappears.
I wipe the tear that’s dribbled down my right temple. I’ve never liked white wine anyway.
9
Luke
For the first time since he doesn’t know when, Luke almost jumps out of bed – despite being a little hungover.
Only a Mother Page 4