Only a Mother

by Elisabeth Carpenter

  Why did she say those things about Craig? Why couldn’t she have just been there for me?

  I lean against the inside of the back door as it clicks shut.

  Come on, Erica. There’s no point crying now. I blink quickly, even though there’s no one here to witness if I cry or I don’t.

  I go through to the living room to clear up the tray after the visitors. Luke seems a nice sort, even though he did print those lies Denise told about Craig. But he was only doing his job.

  I pause.

  If I can forgive a stranger so easily, why can’t I forgive Denise? She’s knocked on the door a few times over the years. She even carried on sending me birthday cards after – though she’s not done that for the past three years. She sent me a letter a few years after the newspaper article came out, but I burnt it. I wish I hadn’t. I remember a few of the lines: Not a day goes by when I don’t think about you. Remember the time we caught the bus to Morecambe and got straight back on the bus home because the place was full of old people … The night before my wedding is still the best night of my life … It’s been so hard living without you as my best friend.

  And then I recall why I haven’t forgiven her: because she didn’t ask for my forgiveness. She has never said she was sorry. I thought remembering that would strengthen my resolve, push her further away from my mind, but it doesn’t. I think about her every day, too. My old best friend.

  But I can’t be sentimental about it; I must keep my resolve.

  I go to the bookcase, and in between The Lives and Loves of a She-Devil and Watership Down is Denise’s article. I unfold the now-yellow newspaper.

  INSIDE THE MIND OF A KILLER

  Denise Bamber, once a close family friend of Craig Wright, has today revealed the secrets behind Preston’s most hated man.

  Craig Wright, 20, was jailed last week for the murder of Lucy Sharpe, after dramatically changing his plea mid-trial.

  A source close to the family has revealed she knew he was capable of murder.

  ‘He was quiet, and you know what they say about those,’ said Denise, 44, also from Preston. ‘My son was friends with him, but it all went wrong when Craig turned to drugs.’

  Ever-present and loyal during Craig Wright’s trial was his mother, Erica.

  ‘He never knew his dad, though,’ said Denise. ‘In fact, no one did. She didn’t even tell me, and I’m her best friend.’

  I don’t need to read any further. I put the article back in its place and wipe my hands as though they’re covered in filth.

  I grab the cup and saucer from the arm of the chair. Lipstick all over the rim. That Amanda could’ve at least wiped it with a tissue from the box on the table – or even her finger, for goodness’ sake.

  I wanted to scream out when Luke showed me that photograph on his mobile. The words wouldn’t come out that it was Craig.

  I’m sure they’ll figure it out for themselves soon enough. They probably didn’t believe me when I said that it wasn’t.

  I try Craig’s mobile phone but again there’s no answer. It’s ten past five – teatime. I can’t even remember if I have any food in the house and I can’t go outside, not today. Not when the police are probably watching the house and I’ve just flushed all those drugs down the toilet. I washed the tins with bleach and put them back in the shed, but there still might be a trace of it on them. And probably my fingerprints, too, as I didn’t think to wear gloves.

  I should go and wipe them again, but all motivation has left me. It wasn’t me who’d grown the stuff.

  In the living room, I pull open the curtains. I’ve nothing to hide – I’ve done nothing wrong. All I’ve done is protect my son.

  I go over to my laptop. I haven’t been on the forum for a while. I log on to find three messages from Anne Marie, and one from Trevor.

  AnneMarie2348: Hi, Erica. Wondering if you were OK after the other night? x

  AnneMarie2348: Send me a quick message, will you? I’m worried after what you said about being afraid of Craig x.

  AnneMarie2348: I’ve seen the news online. Please message me ASAP. He looks so different now compared to the pictures you showed me. Can you give me your phone number? Can’t believe we haven’t spoken. Lots of love xx

  TexanDude: Hey there, Erica. Anne Marie contacted me. Said your boy’s in the news over there. I know how you’re feeling. Shane was arrested three days after he was released, but they had the wrong guy. Let us know you’re ok, hun.

  I wish he’d stop calling me hun.

  But it’s nice they’re thinking of me; it makes me feel less alone.

  NorthernLass: Hi both. I’m fine, just. Craig came home about half an hour ago, so that means he can’t be with the girl, doesn’t it? He wasn’t himself, though (I’m wondering what that actually is these days). He was so angry, but I don’t blame him. I made some bad choices years ago and now they’ve come back. I think some journalists already know what I’ve done. I should contact the police and tell them what I know, but I might make things worse for him.

  I stand and walk towards the living room window, resting my hands on the windowsill. The message to my friends was probably too rambling, it won’t have made sense to them, but I can’t put too much on there. If the police were to seize my computer, then it will incriminate me as well as Craig. It’s what I deserve, anyway.

  There’s nothing outside to the left, but there’s a car slowly crawling along the road from the right.

  I will myself to stay there and see who it is. My shoulders are tight, tense, my legs feel unstable – I hope my knees stay strong. The car’s getting close. I inch my face forward, so my nose touches the net curtains.

  It’s him.

  Oh God, it’s him.

  I haven’t seen him in over thirty-five years. I didn’t know he was out. I turn quickly away, sliding down to the floor, the sill scraping the whole of my back as I do.

  He can’t have seen me properly through the nets, but he knows where I live, he’s always known. He’s not in the same car, of course. He wouldn’t be seen dead in an old banger unless it was a classic.

  I close my eyes and I can still see inside that rusty brown-coloured Cortina; I can smell the leather seats, my legs stuck to them in the heat.

  It was the beginning of March 1979 and I was wearing a dress, because he’d told me to wear one. It was yellow, and it skimmed my knees and was made of a stretchy, jersey fabric. He drove us to Southport and along the road that runs beside the beach. The evenings were getting lighter so Blackpool Tower was visible over the water. I yearned, right then, to be with Denise, and for us to be teenagers when the days seemed to last longer.

  I was twenty-three, then. I didn’t feel twenty-three; I felt fifteen. But there I was, with him, parked up in a car park surrounded by sand dunes. He flicked the radio off – even though I was enjoying listening to ‘Hopelessly Devoted to You’.

  The silence after that felt charged. He twisted in his seat to face me. I looked out of the window behind him, but it seemed we were suddenly alone. I wanted to shout out of the window or run away, but I had chosen to be there, hadn’t I? I’d got myself ready that evening, knowing what was about to happen. Denise had told me all about it. She said that it would hurt at first and that she bled a bit, but it was good to get it over and done with. She hadn’t wanted to be a virgin forever and neither did I. But she was married now, it was different for her.

  I’d waited for him at the top of Brindle Street near the library.

  ‘Will you pick me up from my house next time?’ I said to him after I closed the passenger door. ‘My mother would love to meet you.’

  I don’t know why I said that because an introduction to my mother was the last thing I wanted. But I was curious to hear his reply. If I was about to give myself to him, then I reasoned I could ask him anything and he’d have to give an answer.

  ‘You know that’s impossible, Erica.’

  ‘But why? I know you said not to mention I was seeing you to anyone –
and I haven’t – but I want to know that you care about me … that we have a future.’

  We’d been courting for nearly three months, but our meetings were infrequent: sometimes once a week, sometimes fortnightly. ‘Maybe he’s a spy,’ Denise had said a few weeks before, but I didn’t like talking about him – it didn’t feel right. I felt my loyalties were with him, however misguided. Maybe that was when our friendship began to be tainted.

  He reached over and slid my thick fringe to the side. I hated that – my forehead was small compared to the rest of my face; it was mine to hide.

  ‘Let’s not spoil the evening,’ he said. ‘Do you remember that time when I took you to see Watership Down? Even though you knew I thought it was a kids’ film. I did that for you, didn’t I?’

  He said it as though it were years ago, not weeks.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But I wouldn’t show that to a child. It made me cry.’ I laughed.

  Sometimes I could be myself with him, at other times I felt shy, self-conscious. He seemed much older than me but, at twenty-four, it was only a year’s difference.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘the sun’s setting. Bet you’ve never seen that before.’

  Of course I have, I wanted to tell him. From my bedroom window. I can see the sunset every day in the summer because we live on a hill and I can see the water at the docklands. It’s prettier than it is now, in Southport, I wanted to say, because I can’t see the sea here for the sand dunes – they’re ugly and dry and covered in that grass that almost cuts you when you walk past it at the wrong angle.

  Then I looked into his eyes and it was like in the books that I read. His eyes looked deep into my soul and it was only us right then; we were alone in the world and then he kissed me.

  After a few minutes (I wanted it to be longer) he said, ‘Let’s get into the back. I can get closer to you there.’

  He’d laid a blanket on the back seat; he’d come prepared.

  ‘We should get engaged,’ he said as he put his hand on my thigh; I was sitting in the middle – he was behind the driver’s seat.

  ‘You’d have to meet my mother, then. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I’ve heard a few things about your mother,’ he said. ‘She’s quite a character in the town, isn’t she?’

  ‘No,’ I said, taken aback that he’d even heard of her. ‘Why would anyone want to talk about my mother?’

  He shrugged. ‘They say she’s loaded – has money tucked under the mattress, so to speak. I overheard one person say she had an affair with a millionaire … that he paid money for you and your brother’s upkeep.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ I said. ‘People have obviously got nothing better to talk about, so they make up stories. My dad ran off when I was born … they were married, you know.’

  He shrugged again and looked out of the window. I gazed at his neck and his ears while he wasn’t looking. His skin was so smooth. He reached into his pocket.

  ‘I got you something.’

  He handed me what looked like a ball of navy blue tissue. I peeled it open, and inside was a gold chain with a matching heart about half an inch in diameter. I couldn’t decide if it was really expensive, or really cheap.

  ‘Does it open?’

  He took it from me and pulled the hearts apart.

  ‘You can put two pictures in it,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t have a photograph of you.’

  While I was holding my hand up to admire it, he put his head on my lap, facing away from me. His fingers stroked my ankles, brought them up towards my knees and slid his hand up my skirt.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘It’s time, don’t you think? We’ve been seeing each other for ages. I feel like I’ve known you all my life.’

  ‘You feel that, too?’ I said.

  He sat up and gently pushed me down, so I lay on the back seat. I knew what was going to happen. I’d been worrying about that moment since I first knew it existed. I thought it would be in a bed, though. I thought people got naked to do it, but he just slid my knickers off and put his trousers around his ankles. It hurt so much I thought there’d be lots of blood when he finished, but I couldn’t see any. It must have sunk into the tartan blanket – it was red after all. Perhaps that’s the way he planned it. It only lasted a few minutes and I kept waiting for the passion to take over, but I barely felt anything but pain.

  He laid on top of me, his full weight almost crushing me, as though he were dead.

  ‘That was amazing, Erica.’ His breath was hot against the sticky sweat on my neck and I wanted to run out of the car and into the sea to get cool and clean again.

  ‘Yes,’ I mumbled, anyway.

  ‘Maybe next time you could go on top. You might enjoy it more that way.’

  I didn’t reply, but his words made me realise this wasn’t his first time.

  We saw each other for a month more after that, until he suddenly turned to me on the back seat and said, ‘How come you’ve never said no?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  And he said, ‘Your period.’

  I’d never heard a man say it out loud like that and so frank. Even Mother called them the monthlies. I blushed even more (the vodka that he always brought gave me flushes). He took his hands away from me and said, ‘I need to get you back home.’

  The look in his eyes, then, I thought, was pure hate.

  He probably still hates me. I wrote to him at his workplace when I found out I was expecting Craig but got no reply. I couldn’t very well turn up at his house or his office. He’d abandoned me when I was at my most vulnerable – couldn’t he see that? I felt so alone, especially after what happened with my mother.

  Is this the first time that he’s driven down my street, or is this the first time I’ve caught him? Why would he be coming here after all these years of no contact? He doesn’t deserve to have Craig in his life – I’ve done all the hard work. How dare he come back now!

  There’s a knock on the door. A shriek comes out of my mouth; I cover it with my hands. My shoulders are tight as I lean closer to the wall; I feel rooted to the floor, shaking.

  Why won’t people leave me alone? I just want to be left alone. Please don’t let it be him.

  A tap on the window above my head.

  ‘I know you’re in there, Erica. I can see your feet under the windowsill. It’s urgent. I need to speak to you about Craig.’

  It’s Denise.

  24

  Luke

  It’s not far to the docklands from Erica’s house. Usually, if anything has happened – a body in the water, say – the police will erect a white tent that’s visible from the roadside, but today, Luke can’t see anything that resembles a crime-scene tent along the waterfront.

  ‘Do you think she misheard the police?’ says Amanda. ‘Looks like there’s nothing here.’

  ‘I’ll drive all the way round. There’s that road just off the marina … leads to the estuary.’

  Luke turns the car around, eyeing up the burger van in the car park, but ignores his growling stomach. He’s tempted, but this is the most excitement he’s had at work for months, maybe years.

  They pass the boatyard on the right and immediately after see four or five police cars near another car that’s smoking. Luke turns down the road. There are houses on the left that overlook the water. He parks alongside the barriers and they both get out.

  Amanda pulls out a scarf from her inside pocket and wraps it around her neck. The abandoned car has been driven up a hill where the road ends. It’s a maroon 2001 Peugeot 406. Luke hasn’t seen one of those on the road for a few years.

  ‘Looks like someone tried to set fire to it,’ says Amanda. ‘But they didn’t do a very good job.’

  ‘All right, Mands?’ says a policeman leaning against the railings. He’s warming his gloved hands by breathing into them. ‘Never thought you were a hotshot reporter. Thought you just checked what was trending on Twitter.’

  ‘Too funny, Stev
e,’ says Amanda. ‘Call that proper police work? If you weren’t just standing around, you wouldn’t be so cold.’

  ‘I’ll have you know that standing around is one of the most important parts of the job.’

  ‘Is this the car Leanne Livesey was seen getting into?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you. How are you?’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘Well?’

  Steve shrugs. ‘I reckon there aren’t many of these about any more. Surprised it still runs.’

  ‘Was there anyone or anything inside?’

  It seems Amanda is far more comfortable questioning police officers than children.

  ‘You know I can’t answer that.’

  ‘It was worth a try.’

  ‘No sign of Craig Wright, then?’ asks Luke.

  The copper shakes his head, but Luke reckons he’s the last person Steve would be telling.

  ‘Whoever it was did a shit job of setting it on fire,’ says Amanda.

  ‘They didn’t try to set fire to it,’ says Steve, breathing another load of hot air into his hands. ‘It was the engine … it overheated.’

  ‘Come on, Luke,’ says Amanda. ‘Let’s go and have a look around.’

  ‘Hey, hey.’ Steve reaches out a hand. ‘You can’t just go wandering round. There are officers searching the area. Unless you fancy answering a few questions yourself.’

  Amanda rolls her eyes and tuts.

  Luke looks over at the Peugeot. The bonnet’s up and the smoke, on closer inspection, is just steam. There must be signs in it that Leanne has been in there – DNA, hair strands. He knows Craig’s behind this. It’s how it was with Lucy: the police found the empty car first.

  ‘Come on,’ he says to Amanda.

  As they turn around to walk back to his car, Luke spots a man in a car at the top of the road. He gets out. He’s tall, dark-haired; his hands are in his pockets. From here, he looks too old to be Craig, but there’s something familiar about him.