Only a Mother

by Elisabeth Carpenter

  ‘The reason the police dropped it …’ She takes a deep breath, tears still running down her cheeks, ‘… was because I gave Jason an alibi.’ She looks down at her hands. ‘I didn’t think he’d take it a step further, actually kill someone …’ She pauses for a moment, taking a tissue to dab her face. She scrunches it and puts it up her sleeve and finally looks me in the eyes. ‘I got one of the old blokes from work, Charlie Sumner, to tell the police he’d seen us … that Jason had helped us at work all day. I think Charlie had a bit of a crush on me, so I used it to my advantage. But when the police couldn’t find anything on Craig about the second girl, well.’

  ‘What?’ I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. ‘You mean you gave him an alibi for Lucy? Why the hell didn’t you admit it then? Denise, how could you have kept something so important quiet? It’s my son’s life we’re talking about.’

  She looks to the floor, and I stand.

  ‘Don’t think I’m going to feel sympathy for you just because you’re sorry now. It’s too late for your tears, Denise. Do you even understand the enormity of this?’

  I go into the living room, pacing the floor, but it feels as though I’m not really here. I lean against the mantelpiece – the room is spinning; it’s far too hot in here.

  Denise sniffs, retrieves the tissue and wipes her nose. She’s standing at the doorway.

  ‘But … you see,’ she says, finally, though barely audible, ‘I was thinking about my son.’

  I consider my lie – my lies: plural. The top that I burned, the things I told the police years ago. But I can’t tell her about that now. It’s what I’ve had to live with. Now isn’t the time for my confession, to trump hers. This might be some kind of trick. She might be recording our conversation on that fancy phone of hers.

  I go back into the hall, to the front door and open it.

  ‘You’d better go,’ I say.

  She walks out of the door in silence. I close the door and reach over for the telephone, but I stop mid-air. I can’t ring the police, can I? Because, when they asked where Craig was when Jenna died, I gave my son an alibi too.

  26

  Luke

  The kids have been asleep for an hour, so Luke reaches into the fridge for a beer, thinking it’s the perfect reward. He shouldn’t really be drinking on a school night but it’s not every day he chases down someone on the street for a story.

  Alan Lucas, he said his name was. He must have heard about the abandoned car at the docklands too. Luke can’t believe his luck that he stumbled across Craig’s father, assuming he was telling the truth and didn’t give a false name – it wouldn’t be the first time that’d happened. No one else in the press has delved into Craig Wright’s paternity – or if they have, they’ve been as unsuccessful as he was. Luke has never dared to ask Erica who her son’s father was. It’s such a personal question if you’re not on The Jeremy Kyle Show.

  When Luke questioned Alan after his revelation, he admitted that Craig hadn’t known who his father was. Alan had made contact with his son after seeing him all over the news. It seems that Erica is very good at keeping secrets.

  He opens his laptop on the dining room table, placing his bottle of beer on a coaster. Helen’s shift doesn’t finish until ten, so he has a couple of hours to kill. He types in the name, then clicks on the most recent article:

  27 July 2002

  MEN JAILED FOR SERIES OF ARMED ROBBERIES

  Two robbers armed with imitation firearms who targeted seven petrol stations during a three-month period have been sentenced to nine years in jail. Alan Lucas, of West Derby, formerly of Preston, and Lee Traynor, also of West Derby, were sentenced after pleading guilty to five charges of robbery, two charges of attempted robbery and seven charges of possession of an imitation firearm.

  Luke scans the rest of the Google articles, but none are a match for the Alan Lucas he’s interested in.

  He leans back in his chair.

  Jesus Christ. No wonder Erica didn’t want to tell her son who his father is – an armed robber!

  So this Alan Lucas can’t be trusted any more than she can. He’ll be trying to protect his son, too, after abandoning him and Erica.

  Luke knows he can’t run with this story. He would need actual proof that Alan Lucas was Craig Wright’s biological father. Would Erica confirm it? Luke seriously doubts that she would, but it might be worth visiting her again.

  On Genes Reunited he types in Craig Wright’s name and year of birth. The transcript results only show the name of the mother. The father isn’t listed. He’d have to order a copy of the birth certificate, which would cost over twenty quid – and there’s no guarantee it will tell him anything.

  The front door clicks gently shut. Luke glances at the clock. Shit, it’s twenty-five past ten already. Helen walks into the kitchen, clutching a bottle of white wine.

  ‘Hi, love,’ she says, weary from a fourteen-hour shift. ‘Thought we deserved a drink since we’ve been so good with our diet.’ She reaches into the cupboard for the glasses, still in her coat. ‘Though it looks as if you’ve started without me.’

  ‘Guess what happened today,’ Luke says.

  He’s been dying to tell her all day. He even contemplated ringing her at work, but she’s never happy about that these days. Far too busy.

  Helen takes off her coat, hanging it on the back of a chair.

  ‘Give me a second,’ she says, sighing. ‘I’ve had a shit day today.’

  After pouring the drinks, she flops on to a chair. Her hair’s scraped back off her face in a ponytail. Luke likes it better when it’s down, but he doesn’t say things like that to her any more. She’s liable to assume he’s criticising her.

  ‘Go on then,’ she says. ‘What is it?’

  She doesn’t sound as interested as her question suggests.

  ‘I think I met Craig Wright’s father today. I’ve been trying to check the birth certificate online, to see if he’s named on there, but you have to order—’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘Craig Wright again? Sorry to burst your bubble, but there’s no way you can confirm who his father is unless you have DNA samples.’

  ‘There was talk that Erica might have had an affair with Denise’s husband.’ Luke pauses, rubbing his chin. ‘Actually, until today, I’ve always thought that made sense. If Denise had suddenly found out, that would explain why she gave me the story about Craig. Revenge.’

  Helen stifles a yawn. ‘I’ve no idea who these people are.’

  ‘The kids from Sunningdales recognised Craig from his mugshot as the same man who kidnapped Leanne.’

  ‘You’re talking in riddles, love. Craig’s paternity, now random kids you’ve been talking to.’

  ‘Pamela Valentine must’ve rubbed off on me.’

  ‘Now that sounds more interesting.’

  ‘Glad you’re secure enough in our relationship not to be jealous.’

  ‘Hah! You don’t half talk some bollocks when you’re pissed.’ She laughs.

  He hadn’t meant it to be funny. He’s slightly stung by her implication that other women wouldn’t find him attractive. OK, the woman in question was in her eighties, but still.

  ‘Are you going to be on there all night?’ she says, pointing to his laptop with her glass.

  ‘Give me half an hour, then I’m all yours.’

  She doesn’t reply but gets up, grabs a massive packet of crisps from behind the tins and goes into the lounge. He says nothing about her choice of snack.

  They used to watch television together every night when Helen wasn’t working a shift. Most nights, she would get into her pyjamas as soon as she came home, then they’d settle down with a box set and a buffet of snacks. No wonder they’d got into the mess they’re in now. He doesn’t know if it’s his own physical shape or the state of their marriage that he’s most concerned about.

  It’s been years since he was this interested in a story, and his wife is already pissed off. She’s been telling him for mo
nths that he should get more involved with life. He can’t win.

  He turns back to his laptop, frustrated. He shouldn’t really message people when he’s had a bit to drink, but he clicks on Denise Bamber’s Facebook profile and fires off a quick note. She might give him more information about Alan Lucas, her son, Jenna … Denise spoke to him last time – with a bit of luck she’ll do it again.

  27

  Erica

  Denise is long gone, but I can’t bring myself to go to bed yet, not while Craig is still out there, and not while Leanne Livesey isn’t home safe. I’ve been lying on the settee for what feels like hours. I keep thinking I’m about to vomit, but I’ve managed to hold it down. I try to lift my head to get a better view of the telly, but it feels like too much of an effort.

  They’d announce it on the news straight away, wouldn’t they – if they’d found her? The news report an hour ago said that she lived in a home for Looked After Children. What must that be like? Denise told me, when we were about fifteen, that a friend of a friend of her cousin, or something equally questionable, gave birth at one of those mother-and-baby homes. It was the early seventies and she was unmarried. Denise said that the girl cried for three whole weeks after they took the baby from her. She’d been with the baby for a fortnight before that. It sounded horrific, barbaric. She said the child would be six now and the woman was counting the days, the years, till that child reached eighteen and might contact her.

  When Craig was growing inside me, that story preyed on my mind. I began to feel so close to him – that I was placed on this earth to be his mother.

  It might not even be true about that distant acquaintance giving away her child. Denise said her mum told her to tell me, too. It might’ve been to encourage us to keep our legs closed, hem down, and knickers up. Didn’t work, though, did it?

  The loneliest time of my life wasn’t when Craig was in prison, it was when I was pregnant with him. After my mother died, I worried about how I was going to cope as a single mother in a community that was less than forgiving (which was rather short-sighted of them, considering most of them went to church on a Sunday). It overtook my grief for my mother. Denise suggested lying to everyone – I could say I’d had a shotgun wedding and he’d scarpered. ‘People would believe that,’ she said, ‘because it happens all the time.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ I said. ‘Not enough times for it to be normal.’

  I kept thinking about Mrs Delaney who lived near the chippy. She had four kids to bring up on her own. She was always working somewhere (the post office, the local pub). Her kids were looked after at various neighbours’ houses. She always seemed so exhausted; that was my future.

  Perhaps it was because my mother had not long died – and her being so well known in our town – but no one said anything to my face about my situation. If Denise heard anything, she didn’t let on.

  The kids at Craig’s school years later were different. They had no filter from the brain to the mouth and usually accepted what their parents told them as gospel.

  ‘What’s a bastard?’ Craig asked me one day after school. ‘Someone said I was one of those.’

  ‘Who called you that?’ I said, shocked at the word that came out of his mouth. I stopped in the street, the rage building inside me but wanting to hide it from my little boy. He was only four then, so I couldn’t tell him off for swearing; I didn’t know what to say. I thought times were changing, but there was still that stigma in some people’s minds about children born out of wedlock. I wanted to run back to the school and find the little brat.

  ‘Kelly Winters.’

  I took several breaths and forced a smile.

  ‘I think you must have heard her wrong, love.’

  Denise was right earlier today, though – about mothers and their children. It’s what we’re here to do: shield them. She’d told a lie to protect her son, years ago, and I had done the same.

  It had come so easily, the lie.

  The third of January 2000: six days after his twentieth birthday and Jenna was still missing.

  ‘Craig says he was with you on the first of January for the whole day, but on the thirtieth of December, you were working. Is that right?’

  ‘I was only in work for a few hours – did the early shift. But he was definitely with me on the first. He was hungover from the night before.’

  ‘Did you leave the house? Were there any other witnesses to this?’

  ‘Next door … she came in for a cup of tea … was here a few hours.’

  ‘Name.’

  ‘Mrs Eckersall.’

  I said that even though Mrs Eckersall was only sixty-five, she was a bit hard of hearing and often got her days mixed up. Made her sound a bit senile and eccentric.

  The fact was, she hadn’t dropped by at all. Yet my lie came so quickly, so easily.

  When he arrived home from the police station a few hours later, his voice was quiet, and he stood in the doorway seeming half the size he was before he left. His T-shirt was dirty, his hair greasy. He held his denim jacket limply before letting it drop to the ground, looking so much like the little boy whose hand I held walking home from school.

  ‘I love you, Son,’ I said, my voice shaking, but he said nothing in return.

  A single tear ran down his face.

  But that was then. He’s different now. Stronger. Quicker to lose his temper.

  There’s a noise from the rear of the house. I stand and realise I’m sitting in a darkened room. I go into the kitchen and open the back door. It sounds like there’s a car in the alley, which isn’t that unusual, I suppose. The gate rattles, then opens.

  A shadow of a figure.

  ‘Craig? Is that you?’

  It is him. He rushes at me. I jump but he’s moving past, almost pushing me aside as he pounds up the stairs. I close the back door and follow him up quickly. I stand on the landing as he pushes his bedroom door open. He grabs his holdall and starts packing what little he has.

  I rush into his room, trying to snatch away the bag, but he tugs it from my hands.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I shout. ‘You can’t leave!’

  ‘I can’t stay here, can I? The police will be back for me soon, and I’ve stuff here that … won’t look good.’

  ‘Where have you been?’ I say. ‘I’ve been worried about you.’

  ‘Walking around … clearing my head.’

  ‘What will I say if the police come again?’

  ‘Tell them you haven’t seen me.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can keep on—’

  ‘Lying?’ He’s scowling at me. ‘You didn’t have to lie for me. It didn’t help then, and it won’t help now.’

  ‘Denise was here earlier,’ I say to him, calmly, trying to remain unaffected by his anger.

  He looks up quickly.

  ‘What did that cow want?’ He almost spits out his words.

  ‘Don’t call her that!’

  ‘You’ve changed your tune, haven’t you?’ He’s shouting louder at me now, his face is contorted. ‘Whenever I’ve mentioned her in the past, you’ve stuck your nose in the air – said you wouldn’t have anything to do with her, after what she said about me.’

  ‘I haven’t changed my mind,’ I say quietly. ‘I just don’t like name-calling.’

  There’s a slight shake of his head. He never used to shout at me.

  ‘She seems to think Jason’s got something to do with the disappearance of that young girl. Is that true? Denise said she lied about where he was the night Lucy disappeared.’

  He doesn’t answer but gets up to grab a few towels from the airing cupboard.

  ‘Jason can look after himself,’ he says eventually, brushing past me so quickly I almost fall.

  ‘I had a reporter round this morning,’ I say.

  My voice feels as though it’s getting quieter every time his gets louder. Didn’t he notice that he pushed me?

  ‘Don’t tell me – it was that wanker who printed Denise’s story.
’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  He shrugs.

  ‘A friend told me about him. Said he spoke to him earlier,’ he says, sounding slightly calmer now. ‘I saw him driving past the other day. What’s his fucking problem?’

  ‘He showed me a picture – wanted to know if I recognised you in it.’

  ‘He should keep his nose out.’ He thrusts the towels into his bag with such force, he’s almost punching them. ‘How would he like it if a member of his family was front-page news? Someone needs to teach him a lesson … he’s got a family … I looked him up online.’

  ‘Did you?’ I linger at the doorway. I don’t want to get in his way again – not while he’s like this. ‘Why? I didn’t think you held a grudge against him. He was only doing his job.’

  ‘Yeah, and so were the police who fitted me up in the first place. That Luke Simmons better watch himself.’

  ‘You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?’

  He zips up his bag and hoists the strap on to his shoulder.

  ‘I’ve never done anything stupid, Mum.’

  There’s the slam of a car door outside.

  He stands, grabs his deodorant from the windowsill and bounds down the stairs.

  ‘Craig, please, don’t do this.’ I say. ‘You’re safer here with me!’

  But there’s no reply.

  28

  Luke

  Helen was still in bed when Luke left the house this morning. He brought her a cup of tea, but it was untouched when he went up to say goodbye. He felt the effect of the few beers (and two glasses of wine) that he’d drunk last night. He’s drinking too much, he knows that, but can’t fathom if it’s down to what’s going on at work, or because he feels lonely in his own home.

  Thankfully, his daughters got themselves ready for school. He remembers as a kid that his own mother used to do everything for him in the morning: lay his uniform out on his bed, hand his bag to him as he opened the front door. How easy life was then.

  His eldest, Megan, usually gets her and her sister’s uniforms out of their chests of drawers and loves to pour the cereal into bowls. He’s trained them well; Luke wonders how long that’ll last.