Why is Craig suddenly asking about his father again? How easily the lies came out of my mouth. I should be ashamed of myself.
But he can never know who his father is. The truth would break him even more.
13
I knew it wouldn’t be hard to find another. It was almost too easy. I had to do the groundwork first, of course. Lay down the trap, so to speak. And I’ve learned a few more things since then. There’s a whole internet’s worth of chemicals, instruments, weapons, if you look hard enough, though I’ve been researching them for a few years anyway. And preferably, you should have a different address to send things to.
I should write a book on it. Wouldn’t that be a first? A person like me getting a book out there to help others. It’d have to be a work of fiction, though. And who’s to say life isn’t just one long storyline? A mate of mine inside – let’s call him Mark – said to me one night, years ago when neither of us could sleep:
‘What if this is all a simulation and we’re not really here? I read an article that said our whole life experience might be computer-generated and there are glitches visible to the naked eye. We might not even be lying down here at all. This might all be a test. We could be different people, playing this as a game.’
‘Where the fuck did you read that shit?’ I said.
‘Hey, it’s not shit,’ said Mark. ‘It could be real. How the fuck would you know? And I read it in the Guardian, probably.’
‘Keep your nose out of papers like that,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t suit you. You don’t want to be believing any of those conspiracy ideas.’
We had to put on an act, you see, in front of everyone else inside. If we were as soft in public, talking about newspaper articles and life’s glitches, then we’d get the shit kicked out of us.
I’ve spotted a couple of old cars for sale at Barry’s Motors. I know someone there who’ll write false registration details for me.
The police won’t find me until it’s too late.
Fucking genius, me.
14
Erica
It’s pouring down, so there’s hardly anyone on the streets. Craig wasn’t there when I woke up. Downstairs was a handful of flowers he must’ve picked from someone’s garden in a pint glass of water. He didn’t used to be one for flowers. He must’ve been drunk or hungover when he woke up. He’d also left a folded piece of paper with the word Sorry written on the front, alongside a five-pound note.
Craig and Jason had eaten almost everything in the fridge, and most of the decent stuff from the cupboards – as well as the asparagus soup and tinned peaches. I hadn’t noticed the mess when I came downstairs at four in the morning. He’s left all the dirty plates and bowls in the sink. I know I shouldn’t be angry – it’ll take him a while to adjust – but I didn’t want to leave the house today. I’ve got a pain in my right side and it’s niggling me – I don’t think I can walk far today.
I walk past the end of Denise’s road. I put my head down but glance along her street. Jason’s car is parked a few doors down. If we were still speaking, I’d ask her if she’d seen my son. Why did Craig even mention her? He was acting so strangely last night; it must’ve been the drink. I should’ve messaged Anne Marie about it all, but I didn’t want to put it in words. There was never any doubt in my mind about his innocence – and I can’t go back on that now, but something’s cast a shadow over it. The letters in Craig’s bag, and his behaviour towards me only a few hours earlier. No, last night was just a one-off. Letting off steam.
Craig said Denise asked about me. How dare she? She told lies to that newspaper – made up things about my son – and she should’ve known what the fallout would be after it was printed. I bet they paid her for her lies. I wonder how much she got. Was it worth a few hundred, maybe a thousand pounds, for all those years of friendship? She always said that Craig was like a son to her. She used to watch him when I had a later shift at Morrisons. Once, I came back to find him under a blanket on her sofa, sleepy, watching Coronation Street. Her husband Jim came through the back door.
‘Didn’t you see Erica waiting at the bus stop?’ she hollered to him from the living room.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I hissed to her. ‘I like the bus. I don’t want people thinking I’m after lifts all the time, because I’m not.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t harm him to offer occasionally.’ She leant towards me. ‘Was he on his own in the car?’
I shrugged. ‘I didn’t notice.’
She didn’t used to be suspicious of him. I can’t remember when that started. Gradual, I suppose, like these things tend to be. I don’t even know if they’re still together. I’m not privy to any gossip these days. People used to tell me everything when I worked at the supermarket. Some of them just wanted someone to talk to, have a bit of a chat. Some would say I’d be the only person they’d talk to all day – which is ironic really, now I don’t speak to many people. Others thought me invisible, part of the backdrop of the shop, so they used to discuss their problems with their friends as they walked around the aisles. And the older people got, the more honest they were about their problems. I’ve heard them all: Mrs Waterhouse has the depression, you know, or Gayle’s husband ran off with the man at the tyre workshop, that sort of thing. But now I know nothing.
God, I hate this town. Rows and rows of terraced houses; the back alleys with heaps of rubbish the council have given up clearing away, the bloody clouds and the bloody rain. I’ve lived here for most of my life. In the same house I’m in now.
I spot Brian Sharpe in the distance. My knees weaken; I rest my hands on a garden wall for support.
Deep breath. Deep breath.
What’s he doing around here? He must know Craig’s home now. He might be looking for him.
I stand up straight and turn into the alley on my right. If I walk slowly he’ll be gone by the time I get there.
The cobbles are uneven beneath my feet. Either side are wooden gates leading to the backyards of the terraces that block out the sun. There’s not as much rubbish down this one. No doubt Denise had something to do with that – she was always vocal about the goings-on in her precious street.
I’m almost at her gate and look up at the house. I can see from the movement behind the frosted glass of the window that there’s someone in the bathroom. I don’t want to be caught being a peeping Tom, but I steal a glance inside her bedroom.
There’s a man leaning against the window. It doesn’t look like Jim – this man’s taller, has all his hair. I walk slowly; I’m parallel to Denise’s bedroom window. It’s Jason; I’m sure of it.
He stands, and a head pops up from next to him. It’s a young girl; she only looks about seventeen from here; fair hair and she’s wearing a bright red top. She looks like the girl from earlier – Lucy … No, it can’t be. It’ll be my imagination, seeing her everywhere.
Oh God, she’s seen me.
She waves at me.
My face flushes with heat.
I put my head down as Jason is turning around. I hear a tapping on the window, but I don’t look back as I rush forward. I almost run to the other end of the alley. It brings me out on to the street and now the shop’s on my left.
I knew going out around here would be trouble. What did I come in for?
I fumble in my anorak pocket for the five pounds and the list and head to the fridges.
Oh God, it’s Pamela – every time I’ve ever been in this place, she’s always bloody here. She’s with two others I don’t recognise. The reason it’s quiet on the streets is because everyone’s in this damn shop.
Milk, bread, beans, sausages. That’s all I need and then I’ll be done.
I wish I’d got a basket; now it looks as though I’m thieving it all.
I reach the vultures and they’re standing in front of the tins. I’ll have to leave it; I’ve got tomato sauce at home anyway.
‘Are you wanting something behind me?’
Pamela folds her arms and grimaces
like she’s on an episode of Prisoner Cell Block H or something. She’ll think I’m scared of her, but I’m not. I just don’t want the bother.
‘Beans,’ I say.
‘Hmm,’ she says standing aside.
‘Thank you.’
‘Most I’ve heard her speak for nearly two decades,’ she says to the other two, who burst out laughing.
Oh Lord, I really want to ignore them, but there’s this feeling in my stomach and it’s coming up to my chest.
Walk away, walk away, I tell myself.
‘But she looks as though she’s aged forty years,’ says another. ‘I reckon she’ll move on soon, now that monster is back. What the hell were they thinking, letting him out? Life should mean—’
‘Excuse me,’ I say, walking slowly towards her. ‘If you’ve got something to say, then say it to my face.’
‘Well, that wouldn’t be as much fun, would it?’
‘What’s wrong with you people?’ I say. ‘Haven’t you got your own lives to get on with? He’s done his time.’
The clichés coming out of my mouth are straight from EastEnders, but I can’t help myself.
‘You can’t expect people to ignore it – he’s only just come out! And if I remember rightly, you loved a bit of gossip when you worked at the supermarket.’
‘I … there’s no point arguing with you. It’s my life you’re talking about.’
My heart is pounding. I’m as bad as them – spouting stupid rubbish that means nothing.
‘You’re lucky it’s only me,’ says Pamela. ‘If my Gordon were here, he’d have given you a few stronger words. He saw your Craig in the pub yesterday – off his face, he said. He would’ve given him a good kicking if he wasn’t with that smarmy friend of his.’
‘If your Gordon didn’t weigh thirty stone and could lift his leg higher than the kerb,’ I say.
Her mouth falls open. Finally, I’ve managed to silence Pamela Valentine.
I walk away. Why did I engage with them? It happened when Craig was first arrested – it’s like the conversations are on repeat. I’m living the same life over and over again.
‘People like him never change,’ shouts one of the other old cronies to the other. ‘I give it six months and he’ll be back inside.’
We’ll show them, I think to myself. My hands are shaking.
The cashier won’t look at me as she scans my items. She doesn’t bag them for me, and when I ask her three times for a carrier bag, she flings it at me.
‘I’m a paying customer, the same as everyone else,’ I snap.
She’s standing there, holding out her hand for the money while I’m flapping with the bag. Why are they so hard to open? I throw in my things and hand her the five-pound note. She pinches it off me – holding it as though it were covered in dog shit. She holds it up to the light, even though she doesn’t need to with these new plastic ones.
‘Hmm,’ she mutters, placing it in the till.
I hold out my hand; she drops the money into it, and shouts, ‘Next!’
This is why I go to the Co-op in the next town.
I turn to leave, but find there’s a man standing there. It’s Brian Sharpe. I really shouldn’t have left the house today.
‘I can’t believe I’m seeing you in my shop,’ he says to me.
‘It’s not your shop, it’s—’
‘You know what I mean.’
I go to open the door, but he stands in front of me.
‘I only came in for a few bits,’ I say.
He brings his head a little closer to mine. ‘You and that bastard son of yours don’t deserve to be living around here.’ He barely opens his mouth, speaking quietly so no one else can hear. ‘I can’t believe you’ve got the gall to show your face. Do you not get fed up, eh? Of everyone hating you? Can’t you feel it in that shell of a house you rattle around in?’
The shop door opens.
I’ve never been so glad to see Jason in my life. Brian stands slightly aside to let him past.
‘What’s going on?’ says Jason, frowning.
‘Was just telling Erica she’s not welcome in here.’
Jason turns; his face two feet from Brian’s.
‘Is that right?’
Brian pulls his head back, but his feet remain.
‘It’s upsetting, seeing her,’ he says to Jason. ‘What that evil cunt did to my daughter … my only child. You’d feel the same … I know you would.’
‘But Erica wouldn’t hurt anyone. You know that.’
Jason opens the door and ushers me outside.
‘No, I don’t know that,’ Brian hisses to him. ‘She never leaves that house … she obviously has something to hide. He must’ve inherited the badness from somewhere.’
I don’t hear what Jason says in reply.
He links his arm in mine and guides me down the road as if I were eighty years old.
‘Any time you want to go out again, Erica, I’ll come with you.’
‘Really, there’s no need. I won’t be coming here again. It’s only because …’
I was going to explain the pain in my side, but I think I’ve lost him. His eyes are glazed, focused on the road ahead. I expected Brian or the gaggle of women to be calling after me, but they don’t. It’s not like all those years ago when emotions were so raw that it was like everyone had been hurt. They were quite restrained today.
There’s someone waiting outside my front door.
It’s the girl who’s been watching the house.
She turns as we approach, rubbing her hands from the cold.
‘All right, Jason,’ she says, giving Jason a shy smile. She looks at me. ‘Is Craig in?’
So, she is real.
I look quizzically at Jason. He glances at me, slightly rolling his eyes.
‘What are you doing here?’ he says to her.
‘Who is this, Jason?’ I ask him.
‘This is Leanne,’ he says. ‘We met her in the pub the other night. She seems to have taken a shine to our Craig.’
The girl’s cheeks flush.
What is Craig doing, having a teenage girl calling for him? It’s not right. Hasn’t he learned anything from the past?
I open the front door, hoping I can close it on today and leave the horrible world behind.
‘Thanks ever so much, Jason,’ I say, ‘for the help at the shop.’
‘No worries. Any time. You know I’m always here for you.’
‘I’ll see you soon.’
I go to shut the door, but the young girl pushes it open, goes past me (she’s such a slender thing) and stands in my hallway. I wouldn’t have dreamt of doing that when I was her age.
‘Is it OK if I wait for Craig?’ she says. ‘It’s really important I see him.’
‘I’m not sure when he’ll be back, er … What’s so important that it can’t wait? You’re not in any trouble, are you?’
She shakes her head. ‘No, it’s nothing like that. It’s so nice to finally meet you.’
Finally meet me? What the devil is she on about? She holds out a hand and I shake it. Have I stepped into a parallel world? I’ve seen too many people today; I need to be on my own.
‘Five minutes should be all right, I suppose,’ I say wearily, ‘but he might not be back for hours.’
‘That’s fine,’ she says, taking off her coat and hanging it on the end of the banister.
Jason’s waiting outside.
I peer out of the door.
‘Who is she?’ I hiss at him. ‘Didn’t I see you with her earlier?’
He shrugs.
‘Nope. One of Craig’s new fans – I don’t think I’m dangerous enough for her.’ He taps the side of his head with his index finger. ‘Probably a bit cuckoo, but she seems harmless enough.’ He looks at his watch. ‘I’ll see if Craig’s down the pub. If not, I’ll give you a knock and I’ll take the kid— I mean, Leanne, home.’
‘But how do you know where she lives? Is she a relative of yours?’ I say.
I look either side of the street before closing the door, but there’s no one about. I don’t want anyone thinking I’m up to any funny business, letting teenagers come into my house. I’ll have to tell Craig that he can’t do this. I’m on edge as it is. I turn to go into the living room, but she’s in the kitchen, filling up the kettle.
‘What are you doing?’ I say.
It comes out a little too forceful, but she has the gall to be so brazen in my house. I should throw her out, but she seems so young.
‘Thought you could do with a cup of tea,’ she says.
‘Did you?’
She shrugs. All this shrugging. Mother used to hate it. There are enough words in the English language to not rely on your shoulders to say it for you.
‘Were you over at Denise’s before?’ I say, suddenly.
‘What?’
‘I thought I saw you with Jason earlier.’
‘I don’t know anyone called Denise.’
‘Really? I must’ve been seeing things, then.’
I narrow my eyes, trying to read her expression, but there is nothing. Why can’t they just tell me the truth – it’s all so odd.
She pours the boiling water in a mug from the tree, then opens the fridge.
I put the carrier bag on to the counter.
‘The milk’s in here,’ I say.
She takes the bag. Why am I standing here observing while a stranger makes a cup of tea in my own kitchen? It must be the shock from at the shop, and her presence here is so unnerving.
I watch as she looks out of the window, waiting for the kettle to boil. There’s nothing much out there to look at, just the side of the yard fence, which needed repainting years ago. She tilts her head from side to side as though dancing to music in her head. I get a waft of her perfume or hairspray; it smells like White Musk. I remember it from years ago. Where do I recall that from?
She smiles at me as she catches me staring at her, but I don’t smile back. She opens the biscuit tin and peers in.
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