Two nights ago, the Chronicle published links of Luke’s article on to the Facebook page, as they always do. Since then, it’s gotten over three hundred sad and angry faces, which was pretty good for a local paper. Luke can’t help but picture people making those expressions as they clicked the button. People are acknowledging his work, seemingly for the first time in months – perhaps even years.
Craig’s mugshot was the image they used as clickbait. But that picture was nearly twenty years old. Luke doubted Craig looked the same now. When researching Craig’s case at the start of the millennium, he’d seen pictures on the internet of a child who killed several other children decades ago. He felt sure he’d recognise her in the street. But now, he remembers his daughters; Megan had blonde hair for the first two years of her life and then it turned into a mousey brown, now it’s darker. And his own wife has seen pictures of Luke as a nine-year-old and didn’t recognise him.
Last night, he’d been watching Megan do her homework. She had to write a story about the scariest monster she could imagine. She’d drawn a picture of her creation; it had a mouth that filled two-thirds the size of its purple face and contained at least fifty pointed teeth. ‘I wish all monsters were so obvious,’ Luke had said to Helen before he took the girls for their bath.
He read to them, as always, on his and Helen’s bed. Megan on his right and Alice near the wall as she feared she’d fall off the high bed, still used to sleeping in the toddler bed she won’t let her parents get rid of. They were half asleep when he finished reading Room on the Broom. He gazed at their little faces, their eyes trying to battle against sleep, and he vowed to always keep them safe. Then another thought washed over him: what if one of his daughters harmed someone? He conjured the scenario: Megan at twenty-one years old, a dark-haired taller version of Helen; she’s kneeling on top of someone – her hands around their neck. A shiver ran through Luke’s body. Why does he have to imagine every situation he thinks of so intensely? His imagination is so vivid, these tableaux almost become memories.
He ushered them into bed, handing Ted to Alice.
‘Thank you, Daddy,’ she said.
He thought then that he would do anything to protect his daughters.
Later, Helen, sitting crossed-legged on the dining chair in her pyjamas, had the laptop open on the kitchen table (it was always cluttered, like the rest of the house) reading the Facebook comments from readers. He had never had so many and couldn’t believe people were still reading it over twenty-four hours later. The paper must’ve sponsored the post.
Helen poured them both a glass of prosecco, not even mentioning the points value (though she’d heard it was less calorific than normal wine). He gazed at her as she leaned towards the laptop. He always loved the way strands of her blonde curly hair dropped on to her face and she seemed not to notice.
‘Can you believe,’ she said, ‘that a lot of slim people don’t even count the calories from alcohol?’
‘Have you been reading those celebrity diet magazines again?’ said Luke. ‘They lie, you know. Most of them don’t bloody eat anything. It’s probably the booze keeping them alive.’
‘You’re so cynical.’
‘Well … yeah, I am. It’s called being a realist.’
She tutted and rolled her eyes. He loved it when she did that – it meant they were getting along. Helen had been working the previous night, so they hadn’t had the chance to sit down and talk about his article. She was a charge nurse at Royal Preston Hospital and he’d always felt slightly jealous of her career choice: she actually helped people.
‘Oh, look,’ she said. ‘Someone’s just commented that they live on the same street as Craig’s mother. She’s a bloody loner. Weird. Nothing’s right with that family. I’ve been there for over ten years and I can tell with people like that. He didn’t put any apostrophes in. That must drive you mad. He got ten likes though.’
Luke gulped his minuscule glass of fizz down in one.
‘You know me too well,’ he said. ‘Shit, Helen. What if people target Erica again?’
She turned to look at him, her head wobbling slightly. Dieting made the drink go to both of their heads. This healthy-eating lark could have its benefits, he thought. They’d save a fortune and he’d be slim again, if a little bad-tempered during the day. He didn’t know why Helen wanted to lose weight, though – she was perfect as she was.
‘Did you kill anyone, Luke?’ she said, refilling his glass.
‘Eh?’
‘Well, it’s not your fault then, is it?’ She tilted her head to the side, looking at Craig’s picture again. ‘He doesn’t look like a murderer, does he?’
‘I don’t suppose many people do, until it’s too late.’
‘But look at him. He’s so slight. And those eyes are so sad.’
‘They’re sad because he got caught. Don’t fall for it, Helen.’
She nudged his elbow, almost spilling a drop of precious prosecco – though he didn’t usually drink it, he was grateful for it tonight.
‘I’m not falling for it,’ she said. ‘But I can see why his mother still loves him.’
‘What? You’re basing that on looks?’
She took another gulp from her glass.
‘Sorry. You forget sometimes … when you look at someone’s photo … what they’re capable of. They’re all human to me. I guess it’s because I have to care for people whoever they are, whatever they’ve done.’
‘You wouldn’t think that if you were in court during the trial. Didn’t you read my article? I mentioned that in the past, convicted killers have gone on to kill again … sometimes only weeks after their release.’
‘Sorry … sorry. No, I haven’t read it. I will, though. Tomorrow.’
Luke paused to look at her. When had she stopped reading his words? She used to read everything he wrote; she’d been so proud of him. But then, Luke doesn’t blame her. Until now, all he’d written about was petty criminals, village fetes, and takeaways.
‘Wasn’t there another teenager who was killed around that time?’ she said.
‘Jenna Threlfall. Found in the middle of a playing field. The police couldn’t link her to Craig. No evidence. With Lucy, he was seen with her just before she went missing and he had no alibi for the time of her death. But there was nothing that concrete with Jenna.’
‘Aren’t the police still looking for her killer?’
Luke shrugged. ‘I suppose they thought they’d found him.’
‘What must her mum and dad be going through? At least Lucy’s parents had some sort of justice.’
She stared out of the kitchen window, even though it was dark outside and all she could see were reflections. Luke wondered what was going through her mind. Did she picture imaginary events like he did? Perhaps she was visualising what—
She slammed the laptop shut, making Luke jump.
‘I think the kids are asleep,’ she said.
‘I should hope so,’ said Luke. ‘It’s ten past eleven.’ He looked at his wife as her eyebrows went up and down. How much had they drunk? ‘Oh. Right. Yes.’
She stood and cleared the glasses.
‘A few years ago,’ she said, ‘you would’ve jumped on me if I said that.’
‘Sorry. It’s just that …’
‘Whatever.’ She lingered at the doorway, staring at him. ‘You’ve not been yourself for a while now, Luke. It’s like you’re only half present most of the time.’
‘But we’ve been talking tonight,’ he said.
‘Yeah, I suppose.’
She went upstairs and was asleep in the ten minutes it took Luke to make sure the house was secure. He was relieved. What was wrong with him? Was it because he was so unfit (he got breathless just walking up the stairs) and thought that having him panting over her would put his wife off him?
But that was last night. He didn’t want to think about anything negative this morning. He’d actually got out of bed as soon as the alarm had sounded. It was progress.
OK, a person’s life may have been affected by his words a few days ago, but someone else would’ve written it if he hadn’t.
Luke had finally started to make his mark. He had several leads to go on: he could interview friends of Lucy and Jenna – perhaps find a link between Jenna and Craig that no one had found. Today was going to be a good day.
10
Erica
I’ve been up since six and keep hovering at the gap in the living room curtains. I’ve had four coffees so far. I’m not used to all this caffeine; my hands are shaking.
At 2.15 a.m. this morning, a sound woke me. I sat up in bed and stilled my breath.
It came from inside the house this time.
My heart pounded. What if someone had broken into the house? Would they try to harm Craig? We weren’t prepared for that.
I stood, listening at my door before opening it. Moaning, whimpering, coming from across the way.
‘Craig,’ I whispered in the hallway. ‘Are you OK in there?’
No reply.
I pushed the handle down and slowly opened his door. The light from the landing was enough to see that Craig was in his bed. He was fast asleep, but tears lined his cheeks.
I crept out again. It would’ve been cruel to wake him – he might be ashamed of crying, though he needn’t be. During the first five years in the first prison, I watched, week by week, as he gradually became a shadow of the person he was. Sometimes, he would sit opposite me with tears pouring down his face, yet he didn’t sob or put his hands up to cover them. It was like he was dead inside. I wanted to put my arms around him, to comfort him and tell him everything was going to be all right. But I couldn’t; I was helpless. It was one of the most heartbreaking moments, when I could do nothing to help my child. He’d never tell me what was wrong or if other prisoners were hurting him. I wish he had, because what I imagined instead was horrific.
‘They treat me like a kid in here,’ he said. ‘And not in a good way.’
‘What do you mean?’ I said.
‘You don’t want to know. Please, Mum,’ he said. ‘Tell me about home. Do you still go to your pottery class on Thursdays?’
I lied and said that I did because I wanted him to think life was carrying on as normal, just waiting for him to slot back in. But I hadn’t been to pottery since Craig’s arrest. Not one of the members of the group spoke to me in the street after that, so it was pointless. I’d thought they were quite an open-minded bunch, but you can never tell with people, can you? I didn’t tell him that I didn’t work at the shop any more either, but he probably knew that already as I’d taken so much time off during his trial.
I cried for the rest of the day after that visit, even on the bus home. No one asked if I was all right, assuming they even noticed. They probably thought I’d snap at them, like I was unable to control my emotions in public.
I wish I’d asked Craig more about his troubles, raised a grievance or whatever they do in prisons. I had a feeling it would be worse for him if I did, though. But I should’ve pushed him for an answer, complained to whoever would listen. It’s an internal argument I have with myself all the time. About Craig and what I could’ve done to make things different. I think it might have hardened him – after that, there was no hope, no light behind his eyes.
Hearing him cry last night brought all those memories back. I went back to bed, but I didn’t sleep much after that.
I’ve switched off This Morning because Granada Reports will be on again soon. I caught it in between Good Morning Britain earlier. They used the photo of Lucy wearing her school uniform – even though she was eighteen. They tried to make Craig out as some child killer, when he isn’t. I wished they’d mention the other girl – that he was arrested for her, but the police didn’t have enough evidence. If they didn’t think it was him, then surely it casts doubt on his conviction. But they’re biased, these television reports. In the past, there have been loads of people who’ve been wrongly sent to prison and it’s ruined their lives. I read a government website where a prisoner can make a claim for compensation if a sentence is overturned. It probably wouldn’t be much, but it would give Craig a good start; the start in life that he deserved.
The news articles on the local station usually only last a day, so hopefully it’ll be done and gone by six o’clock. I’m surprised they didn’t run with it the day before Craig was released.
I should know better than to have it on in the first place. When it first happened, the news was so raw, so horrific. But sometimes, it’s like it’s happened to someone I don’t know. I’ve had to distance myself from it, you see. I’m not as hard as you think I am. I can’t imagine my son doing … See, I can’t even think about the details.
Would Mum have made it better or worse for Craig and me if she were alive? I can’t envisage what she’d say about it – I’ve never been able to. She was so loyal to her loved ones in public.
No one around here cared about me after she died. All they talked about was how her husband left her and how she had to look after her spinster daughter – as though there was something wrong with me. Mother knew everyone around here. She was always talking about everyone’s business, and everyone else was the same. What they gossiped about was only true half the time; the rest they made up to fill in the blanks – I’d heard them when I was forced as a child to sit at the back of the church after the service with a lukewarm orange cordial.
Mother didn’t know the lengths I went to to keep my other life secret from her. I didn’t want to disappoint her because I knew what I was doing was wrong. She had such high expectations of me. She had no idea I had a boyfriend, let alone that I was pregnant out of wedlock (as they used to say). I had no other choice but to live with her – I had no money to start up on my own, even though I was working. Single people didn’t have as many points as families to get a council house, and this area was made up mainly of married couples with children. Mother inherited this house when she was only twenty-three. Her parents – I was only two when they died – were killed in a road accident, but I never asked my mother to elaborate. I wanted to ask how they managed to die like that. Wasn’t it rare in a place that didn’t have many cars? Had they been drinking? I didn’t have the courage to ask any of those questions.
There was one picture she kept in a display cabinet. In it, my grandfather’s wearing a light shirt with a knitted vest over the top, and my grandmother’s in a proper 1950s dress, belted in the middle. I like to imagine it was yellow and her belt was patent black. They were both smoking cigarettes and looking off camera, standing in front of a house with grass under their feet, so it can’t have been this house. It was as though they were so used to having their picture taken. They looked kind. I must still have that photograph somewhere.
My mother always used to tell me how wealthy her parents were, that they were involved in the cotton industry, but she never said how or what she did with the money– never showed an interest when the last mill closed. Instead, she said, ‘I could’ve been rich, too, after they died, had I made different life choices.’
I took that personally, of course, but she didn’t mean it in that way.
And now I’m in the same position as she was then. My mother and I might not have been that different after all, but we never found that out, did we?
Well, not until the end.
Now I’m six years older than she was when she died, yet I picture her in my head as an old woman, even though she was only fifty-four. She never let herself relax, and I wished she had. I suppose I’m like that now – I never drink alcohol, I worry about things that will never happen, and I can’t sit still for more than ten minutes. Is it inevitable that we turn into our mothers?
She didn’t leave a will, so I’ve been paying my brother rent for his share of the house since she died. I constantly wonder if he’ll announce he wants to sell. I’d get half, but what could I buy for that? A one-bedroomed flat probably – and I’d be grateful of that – but what would happen to Cra
ig?
I shouldn’t worry about something that’s not happened yet.
There’ve been no goings-on outside so far today. People have been walking to work and not giving us a second glance. It helps that only one person on this street has lived here from that time; most have moved on. Those who stayed live up near the shops. Many of these houses are rented out now – it’s where the profit is; I hear that all the time on Homes Under the Hammer.
It’s only at twenty past eleven that I hear Craig moving upstairs. He hasn’t said what time he was usually woken, but I doubt they gave him a lie-in. I’ve been dressed since I got up in preparation for him coming down. I don’t usually bother getting up until just before ten as that’s when the postman might knock. Sometimes a new one’ll be at the door with a package for a neighbour five, or even ten, doors down, which is ridiculous. It’s worse around Christmas – why don’t people have it delivered to their workplace? They must be so busy that they can’t be bothered going into town to buy presents. If I had the money and people to buy for, then I’d love to.
Oh well.
The regular postie knows I don’t take anything in. What neighbour would want to knock at my door to rescue their parcel?
Craig thuds down the stairs and leans into the living room.
‘I’m going to make some toast. Do you want any?’
He doesn’t wait for a reply, just carries on into the kitchen. I get up and stand at the doorway.
‘I’ve eaten, love,’ I say. ‘Do you know what to do?’
‘I didn’t die and come back to life,’ he says.
I frown at that, but he doesn’t see. I don’t think he realised what he said. He begins humming as he takes the loaf from the wooden bread bin that I’ve had for so long the pine-coloured varnish has worn off. He puts two slices in the toaster. It’s like he’s in his own little world and everything’s fine.
‘I worked in the kitchen for three years,’ he says. ‘I chopped onions, made sandwiches. It was fresh food, you know. Everyone has to work … and my mate Rob got a degree with the OU.’
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