Only a Mother

by Elisabeth Carpenter

  I don’t say he already told me most of that during our visits over the years. Though when he’d said he worked in the kitchen, I thought he meant washing up, serving food – I hadn’t imagined they’d given them sharp objects. Why hadn’t I asked at the time? But it’s good news; it means they trusted him.

  ‘What time’s your supervising officer getting here?’

  He turns his back to me, his shoulders tense as he leans on the counter. The toast pops up and he scrapes butter on it. He takes a bite; almost half of it in his mouth at once.

  ‘Half twelve,’ he says, his mouth full. ‘Surprised they arranged a meeting at lunchtime. I could’ve done with a longer sleep.’

  I follow him into the living room. He’s so tall, but he can’t have grown since he was last in this house. The markings on the doorway only go a bit higher than I am because he wasn’t interested in measuring his height once he was an inch taller than me.

  Looking at him now, bulked out with his weight-training, it seems like he could be capable of anything. And he must’ve learned some new things in prison, too.

  Craig doesn’t want me there while Adam, his supervising officer, talks to him. I was allowed to answer the door, though. ‘… Just so he can see you’re around. I wouldn’t want them thinking I was lying about moving in with you. You don’t want to be bothered by all that official stuff though.’

  Adam seems nice enough. Young – though of course everyone is these days. I feel so much older than sixty. My mother used to say she knew she was past it when police officers started looking younger than her. Mum always seemed old, even though she wasn’t – such old-fashioned hair. All mothers looked the same when I was a child: permed hair (I imagine they thought they were Marilyn Monroe), skirts to the knee, and powdered faces. They never swore in public, but then got to a certain age when they thought they could get away with saying whatever they pleased, even if those words hurt people.

  I’m trying not to eavesdrop on them downstairs, but I’m itching to know what they’re talking about. This is my house, after all. I tiptoe to my bedroom door and open it slightly. They have the living room door open, so whatever they’re saying can’t be that bad.

  ‘So, to go over this again: travelling abroad is a no-no at the moment. You have to declare your record when applying for employment, although we have approved organisations that’ll offer you certain positions – sometimes on a volunteer basis to begin with, but it all helps … ease you back into life on the outside.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I know all this.’

  ‘Well, here’s a list of volunteer positions available to get you into the swing of things. Have you any questions?’

  There’s silence for a moment.

  ‘No. I think we’ve covered everything.’

  ‘We have courses you could enrol on, so you could—’

  ‘I’ve been on enough courses.’ Craig almost shouts these words, but then clears his throat. ‘But thank you.’

  ‘Here’s that leaflet again,’ says Adam. ‘It covers everything, and it’s laid out clearly.’

  ‘I’d say. It looks as though it’s written for a five-year-old. Number one: Be good. Isn’t that a bit obvious?’

  ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Have you got a mobile yet?’

  ‘No. Should be getting one soon.’

  ‘Let me have the details about that when you do. And only one phone – text only for the moment. No photographs.’

  ‘OK.’

  Craig’s sounding impatient – I hope Adam doesn’t pick up on it. I’ve read the leaflet they’re talking about. It is a little basic, but he has to behave in these meetings. His freedom is so precarious and I’m not sure Craig fully realises that.

  ‘Lucy’s mum still lives around here,’ says Craig. ‘They only told me the other day. I hadn’t expected anyone from then to be here now – except Mum of course and … .’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I can’t remember the name.’

  ‘Gillian and Brian Sharpe live far enough for it not to be a problem – we did check that out. But you know not to contact them.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And you’re not to mix with any known criminals.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Good. Here’s a card with details of your counselling session next week. Be on time – early, if you can.’

  ‘Are they really necessary?’

  ‘You know they are. It’s one of the conditions of your release.’

  Craig didn’t mention anything about counselling.

  They’re still talking downstairs when there’s a screech outside – a car breaking suddenly. I creep to my window, not wanting Craig to realise I’ve been listening at my door. I push the nets aside.

  Standing in the middle of the road is a teenage girl. Her hair is blonde; her skin is pale. She’s staring right at the house.

  The driver in the blue car that stopped for her puts a foot on the accelerator; the engine revs, but the girl doesn’t move.

  She meets my eyes and raises her hand to wave, but her palm stops mid-air.

  It can’t be her, can it? Ghosts don’t exist. It would be impossible.

  I can’t take my eyes from hers.

  The car horn sounds and my gaze is drawn away; there are another two cars behind the blue one. By the time I look back into the road, the girl is gone.

  I stagger backwards till I land on my bed.

  She looked just like Lucy.

  I wait a good two minutes after Adam leaves the house before going back downstairs.

  In the living room, Craig is in his chair, unmoving, looking out of the window. There is no one standing outside.

  ‘Craig, love?’ I ask tentatively. ‘Did it go well?’

  He purses his lips; his eyes narrow. No reply.

  ‘Can I get you a brew?’ I say, trying to sound cheerful.

  ‘A special one.’ Still he looks out of the window, his voice monotone.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Never mind.’ He stands, towering over me and stretching his arms backwards, making his chest look inflated. ‘I’ll make us both one.’

  I want to follow him into the kitchen, but resist. Instead, I look to the window, half daydreaming.

  My heart jolts when I make out a face that’s pressed against it. Young, female, blonde.

  A knock at the door.

  I stand motionless – hoping that will make me invisible.

  Lucy might be haunting us now that Craig’s been released. I shake my head. No. That’s ridiculous.

  ‘Shall I get that, Mum?’ shouts Craig from the kitchen.

  I dart out of the living room and join him in the kitchen, shutting the door.

  ‘No, no,’ I whisper. ‘We can’t open the front door. We don’t know who it is.’

  ‘Of course we don’t,’ says Craig, too loud. ‘But that’s usually the way.’

  Another knock; the letterbox flaps open and shut.

  ‘Oh no,’ I say. ‘I forgot to put the litter tray down.’

  ‘Litter tray? What are you talking about?’

  I look up at my son – his face in a frown.

  ‘It’s for …’

  He rubs his forehead, then pulls open the kitchen door, almost running to open the front one. He stands on the pavement, looking left and right for several minutes before coming back inside. He bends down and picks up a leaflet. It was only a silly leaflet.

  ‘You haven’t been getting threats … things through the door, have you, Mum?’

  I blink quickly. ‘I … no … I …’

  I thought it might have been the girl standing outside.

  ‘Shit. You have, haven’t you? Why didn’t you tell me? You should’ve told me … I could’ve had someone protect you.’

  ‘Protect me? Like who? And how?’ I shake my head. ‘No, no. That’s not been necessary, has it? Look at me: I’m fine.’

  He stares at me, hard, frowning again. If he weren’t my son, I could imagine myself being afraid of hi
m.

  ‘Yes, you’re fine,’ he says. ‘But, Mum … you look different, you act differently. Being here isn’t what it was like when …’ He puts his hands on my shoulders – they’re so big and his grip is so tight that it hurts me a little. ‘You’ll never have to worry about things like this again. OK?’

  I nod. ‘Yes.’

  Even though I know that will never be true. Craig used to be such a gentle soul. But I’ve noticed that something in him has changed. Perhaps he was never gentle – that might have been a picture I painted of him while he was away.

  It’s now three in the afternoon and there have been no further dramas – unless you count Craig getting up and down from his seat to peer through the curtains, mumbling, ‘Where the hell is he?’

  He said it so quietly, I didn’t want to ask what he meant by it.

  I can’t concentrate on the telly. The girl outside looked so much like Lucy it was uncanny. Her hair was the same colour, the same style. I remember Craig brought Lucy to our house one afternoon. She was ever so quiet, but very polite. She declined my offer of tea and biscuits, while Craig was mortified at the mere suggestion of refreshments.

  ‘We’re not staying,’ he said. ‘I only came to get something from upstairs.’

  When he came down, whatever it was must’ve been in his pockets because he wasn’t carrying anything. I was happy at the time that he’d found someone. I thought it might calm him down if he had a sensible influence. Before that, he was always off gallivanting with Jason, getting home at silly o’clock in the middle of the night.

  He never did answer me when I asked if she was his girlfriend. Perhaps he wanted to keep some things private from me. I had to accept that.

  I can’t have imagined someone being outside earlier – the car had stopped for her. They say everyone has a doppelganger, but they’re never in the same area. What was she doing, staring at the house – and was it her who peered through the window?

  There’s a bleep on my phone telling me I have a notification from my forum. Craig didn’t seem to hear it, so I open the application.

  It’s from Anne Marie. She’s online now.

  AnneMarie2348: How is Craig settling in?

  NorthernLass: I’m not sure. He seems different to how he was inside.

  AnneMarie2348: How?

  NorthernLass: He was quiet, vulnerable in there. It’s like he’s a different person. Seems taller but his temper’s shorter. He seems frustrated or angry with me for some reason. Does that sound strange? I’m almost afraid of him sometimes, but I suppose I can’t read his behaviour in the same way I could before all this.

  AnneMarie2348: No, not at all. Although Ashley was the opposite. She seemed smaller when she got home. It was almost like she didn’t want to be here. It took a few months for her to stop missing her friends inside. Said they were the only ones who understood her. Can you imagine how hurtful that was to hear? But I suppose I shouldn’t be selfish.

  NorthernLass: You’re not selfish. It’s as though Craig doesn’t want to be here either. It’s not how I thought it would be.

  AnneMarie2348: It’ll take time.

  Craig gets up and walks to the window again.

  NorthernLass: Better go. He keeps getting up as though he’s waiting for someone.

  AnneMarie2348: Take care, Erica.

  ‘Where is he?’ says Craig, louder than he did before.

  ‘Where’s who, love?’

  He puts his hands on his hips, still facing the gap in the curtains.

  ‘Jason. He said he’d be round as soon as … he’s a day late.’

  ‘But how would you arrange that? He’s not psychic.’

  ‘Psychic’s not a word I’d associate with Jase. We planned it … when I was away.’

  ‘Over the phone?’

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘You weren’t the only visitor I had inside.’

  11

  Luke

  When he got into work, Luke had expected a round of applause – like Jerry Maguire or something – but his piece was days old and no one gave a shit about Facebook likes until they were well in the thousands.

  At times like these, he remembers the words of his arsehole of a PE teacher: must try harder. He needs something more, to dig deeper. Luke’s tried telephoning Erica, but admittedly gave up after four rings. He can’t believe he’s afraid Craig will answer the telephone. Erica isn’t the person he should be chasing for an interview anyway. The person he should be talking to is Craig Wright, but will the man talk to him?

  Sarah’s not asked him for a story featuring the killer himself so perhaps he’ll surprise her with it. He’s already written the articles needed for tonight’s edition, and he has several others he needs to complete by midday tomorrow (a man with over three thousand indecent images of children sentenced to eighteen months; a woman arrested for benefit fraud totalling £52,000; a piece on a local artist’s exhibition), but his mind keeps drifting back to Craig. There must be something that everyone has missed.

  Luke goes into his old files, clicking on the notes for the article he’d written about Jenna Threlfall. There were certain bits of information that he’d gleaned from a police officer at the time, though he’d had to change the details when the CPS terminated proceedings against Craig. Luke thought they’d find new evidence; he imagined the frustration of the police when they found nothing. The police officer who helped him had retired now. Luke makes a note to track him down – he must be frustrated that the Jenna Threlfall case remains open.

  Luke’s article is sparse; there was so much more he wanted to say:

  A 20-year-old man from Preston has been arrested on suspicion of murdering a woman who went missing on New Year’s Day. Jenna Threlfall, 18, was found after a lengthy search by police and locals in the early hours of Wednesday morning. She had been raped and strangled.

  A post-mortem suggests that death occurred three days before the body was found.

  Police are appealing for witnesses. It is believed that several items of clothing were missing from the body.

  He goes back into his notes. There were facts about the crime that were under embargo: the body was cleaned with bleach after death; her remaining clothes were dowsed in White Musk perfume. Jenna’s T-shirt and necklace were missing and have never been found.

  Lucy’s body wasn’t cleaned. She was strangled, too, but there were traces of DNA on her body that put Craig Wright in the frame. Her body was hidden, but Jenna’s wasn’t – it was almost on display, like the killer was proud of what he’d done and wanted everyone to see it.

  Luke leans back in his chair.

  ‘Get us a coffee, would you, Mikey?’ he says to the work experience lad next to him.

  Mikey looks at him, his young face scrunched in a scowl.

  ‘I haven’t been taught how to do that yet,’ he says with a smirk.

  ‘What the—’

  ‘I’ll get us a drink,’ says his colleague, Amanda, sitting opposite him. ‘I’ve been staring at that screen for hours. I could do with a break. Come on, Mikey. I’ll show you how it’s done.’

  The lad tuts before standing.

  Luke doesn’t know why Mikey bothers turning up. It’s clear he’s not interested in serious journalism. He’s been engrossed in gaming forums since he started last week.

  Shaking his head, Luke brings up his article from a few days ago.

  MURDERER TO RETURN TO PRESTON

  Life should mean life, says victim’s mother

  Craig Wright, who was found guilty of murdering local teenager Lucy Sharpe in 2000, is to be released after seventeen years behind bars.

  Wright was 20 years old when he committed the crime that made a huge impact on the community. Lucy Sharpe was 18 years old at the time of her killing. Wright strangled then raped the teenager before dumping her body in woodland.

  The mother of Lucy, Gillian Sharpe, spoke exclusively to the Chronicle.

  ‘Lucy was passionate about so many things,’ said Gillian. The teenag
er volunteered at several charities.

  Lucy’s parents were both present at Craig Wright’s murder trial. They listened to details of their daughter’s final moments, before the trial was sensationally halted after Wright changed his plea.

  ‘Did he want the world to hear what he’d done?’ said Gillian Sharpe.

  Wright’s assumed return to the town will no doubt cause unease in the community. But Gillian Sharpe refuses to move. ‘Why should I leave?’ she said. ‘My daughter will always be eighteen, but I’m still her mother.’

  Luke remembers that Craig hung around with a local lad – they’d been inseparable, from what people had said. He clicks back on to his files on the case and finds him. Jason Bamber.

  He types the name and Preston into Google and clicks on the News tab. Several articles appear on the screen.

  29 June 2001

  LOCAL MAN SPARED JAIL

  Jason Bamber, 22, of Wignall Street, Preston, was sentenced to six months in prison after he was found guilty of collecting three weeks of his grandfather’s pension after his death, amounting to £217.50. The judge said, ‘I’ve taken into consideration that you have no previous convictions and appear to be remorseful.’ Bamber’s grandfather, Fred, who was a popular figure in the area, died 22 February 2001 after a short battle with cancer. Fred Bamber’s close friend Derek said, ‘I can’t believe Jason would do this. He’s always been a bit of a handful, but he’s gone too far this time.’

  The next article was written by Jeff Stanley, who retired two years ago. Luke remembers him for his bad temper and bad taste in ties, but he taught Luke a lot. His style was more ‘tabloid’ than the more neutral tone of the Chronicle – he was wasted here.

  31 December 2005

  NOTORIOUS PRESTON CRIMINAL CAGED FOR ASSAULT

  Serial criminal, Jason Bamber, 27, has been jailed after being found guilty of assault. Bamber, of Holden Road, Preston, punched Robert Gregory, 24, in the face, and held him by the throat, causing him to lose consciousness.

  Bamber pleaded guilty in Preston Magistrates’ Court and was sentenced to six months in prison.

  21 January 2010

  DRUG DEALER JAILED

  Local man, Jason Bamber, 31, pleaded guilty of possession with intent to supply after being found with 2 kg of cannabis on his person. Bamber, of Water Lane, Preston, was sentenced to two years in prison.