by Kerena Swan
‘What does it say?’ Mum leans over the back of the sofa to peer at the letter and I read it out to her.
‘Conclusion: Based on our analysis, it is practically proven that Mr. John Butcher is not the biological father of the child Sarah Butcher.’
I leap off the sofa and dance around the room punching the air. ‘Yes! He’s not my father.’ That’s why he didn’t love me.
‘They’ve got it wrong!’ Mum’s face is contorted with disbelief. ‘I told you these kits were unreliable. I haven’t been with anyone but your Dad. Let me see it.’ She holds out her hand for the letter and I give it to her.
I can’t think straight. I’m in shock but I’ve never felt so happy. ‘You’re a liar, Mum, but I don’t care. He’s not my father and I’m delighted. Come on; tell me who my real father is. Tell me all about Colin.’ Mum doesn’t reply but I carry on. ‘Don’t you see? You should be happy. This means we’re free of John Butcher now. We can cut all ties and not be tarnished with his crime. We can build new lives.’
But Mum is ignoring me and staring at the letter, tears filling her eyes.
‘They’ve looked at twenty-one genetic markers, Mum. They haven’t got it wrong.’
Mum isn’t looking at the same information, though. She’s reading the page underneath.
‘How did you get a sample from me?’ she asks. ‘I didn’t want to provide a sample.’ Her eyes look haunted as she lifts them to mine. ‘What have you done, Sarah?’
‘It made the test more accurate. I wiped a stick inside your cheek while you were asleep.’
Mum drops the paper onto the sofa and goes to the kitchen. She’s back within a minute holding a glass of vodka. She sits on the sofa and takes a deep swig. Her hands are shaking. I pick up the paper and read it again then turn to page two. At first my brain can’t comprehend what I’m seeing. This can’t be right. It says that Rosemary Butcher is not my biological mother. My lungs stop working and I sit down hard in the armchair.
‘You’re not my mother?’ I whisper.
Chapter 29
The Following August | Jenna
I stand in the middle of the kitchen feeling overwhelmed by everything I have to do. I know it’s my own fault because, for some reason, I keep turning my alarm off in my sleep and now I’m all behind. I only have an hour before I leave for work and I need to put another load in the washing machine, hang the wet clothes outside, make myself a packed lunch, wash up and do an online Sainsbury’s order. I don’t know what to do first. Lucy will be here to take Mum to the hospital soon, and she’ll take one look around the room, sniff, and then criticise me for my lack of effort. I mustn’t oversleep again. I’ll have to buy an old-fashioned alarm clock with huge bells on top and position it across the room.
I wish I could take Mum to get the results of the X-ray but I’m needed to look after the twins as it’s a teacher training day and their mother has an interview. Apparently, there’s no one else to help. Lucy has managed to book the day off work. She’d better call me as soon as they know the results. Ever since I looked up Mum’s symptoms online the possible diagnosis has been eating away at me like acid in my stomach. I might be wrong, though, and I know I have to cling to that thought to get me through the next few hours.
I sit at the old pine kitchen table and open my laptop to do the Sainsbury’s order first. The cupboards are nearly empty and we’ve almost run out of washing powder. I click on a few items from my favourites list and am searching for inspiration for meals when I hear the back door open and close. Lucy walks in and I brace myself.
‘Yuk, it stinks in here. Have you been cooking your disgusting vegetable curry again?’ She looks around the room and sees the heap of washing up. ‘Why do you leave the pans until the next day? No wonder it smells. And why is there a pile of washing on the floor? Surely you’ve had time this morning to sort all this.’ She waves her arm around the room.
‘I had to see to Merlin and clean his stable out. I’m about to do the chores.’ Why can’t she just knack off and leave me alone?
‘Surely looking after the house for Mum should be your priority. Why are you on your laptop? Is checking Facebook more important?’
‘I’m doing a Sainsbury’s food order. Look, why don’t you go and see if Mum’s ready? She’s been quite unwell the last couple of days.’ As you’d know if you’d bothered to call and ask.
Lucy stares at me. ‘More stomach pains?’
‘She’s been sick a few times and getting pain when she lies down.’ I pause. ‘What do you think it is, Lucy?’ I hold my breath hoping she isn’t going to confirm my worst fears.
‘It’s the doctor’s job to diagnose, not mine. Maybe it’s a gastric bug or something.’ I’m sure she doesn’t believe this because she looks at me and her voice softens. ‘I know you’re worried, Jenna, but we’ll find out soon. I’ll call you after the appointment.’
I’m surprised by the sudden warmth in her voice. I rise out of my chair for a hug but she’s already turning away and heading for the stairs. I bite my lip to stop my eyes filling with tears and turn back to the screen to distract myself by clicking on carrots and bathroom cleaner. By the time I’ve finished the shopping order my emotions are under control. I’d hate Mum to see me upset.
I hear voices approaching and glance around the kitchen again then up at the clock. Damn, there isn’t time to sort out the washing now. I’ll have to do it when I get back from the twins. I wish Grace were here to give me a hand but she usually only works Tuesdays and Fridays. Since Mum has been feeling unwell, most of the household tasks have fallen to me and I admit I’m not very domesticated. I was just about managing the small tasks initially, but now I see chores that demand my attention everywhere I look. The lawn needs mowing, the windows are dirty and the cooker is filthy. But does any of this matter? Really? It distresses Mum, though, if the house isn’t clean and tidy so I do need to get it sorted.
‘Oh, Jenna,’ Mum sighs as she walks into the room and sees the mess. She’s dressed in a pair of smart trousers and a jacket, and for a blissful moment it’s as if this has just been a horrible nightmare and she’s going to work.
‘I’m sorry, Mum. I ran out of time.’
Lucy stands behind her and slowly shakes her head in disbelief at my incompetence.
‘I promise I’ll sort it all out when I get back from work. I’ve got to go now.’ I open the fridge to see if there’s anything I can take for my lunch but it’s almost empty. I grab a tub of red pepper houmous that’s three days out of date and a packet of breadsticks from the cupboard then shove them into my work bag. They’ll have to do. I don’t have much of an appetite anyway. Before I leave, I hug Mum and wish her luck, then remind Lucy to call me with the results. She gives me a small nod and on impulse I pull her into a hug too. She stands as stiff as an old soldier on Remembrance Day and I let her go, turning away with a heavy heart.
‘What’s the time, Mr Wolf?’ Aimee’s voice is pitched high with excitement.
It’s so easy to please five-year-olds. I hear the twins whispering and shuffling across the lawn behind my back.
‘Two o’clock,’ I answer, and glance at my watch. It’s actually three o’clock and Lucy still hasn’t rung or replied to my messages. My stomach is taut with worry but I can’t let the twins see my distress.
‘What’s the time, Mr Wolf?’
Jake is almost within touching distance so I spin around and shout, ‘Dinner time!’ before chasing them across the garden.
They squeal and dart away like fish from the jaws of a shark. They’re lovely kids and I enjoy looking after them but today I feel trapped. Every minute seems like an hour and I still have two hours before I’m free.
I build an obstacle course around the garden using the hosepipe, watering can and flowerpots, and use the stopwatch on my phone to time the children as an excuse to keep checking my messages. I watch the kids hopping, jumping and throwing a ball into a basket, and when they look at me, I give them a big, fake smile
before glancing at my phone again. We go indoors to make crispy cakes then I settle them in front of the television so I can call Lucy. My anxiety goes up a notch as it rings out then goes to voicemail. She must have her phone on silent.
I wish the hill in the middle of Bow Brickhill wasn’t so steep. I run as fast as I can and try not to topple over. Mum is more important than a skinned knee but if I fall it will delay me. When I get to the bottom I charge along the street and up the gravel drive, panting as I throw open the kitchen door. Grace is standing at the sink, washing the pots and pans from last night’s dinner. I barely register that it’s not her usual day to be here. She turns to look at me.
‘Are they back?’ I can’t breathe properly. ‘Any news?’
‘Not yet.’
I scrabble in my bag for my phone but Grace dries her hands and gently takes my arm.
‘Come and sit down, Jenna. You look wrung out. I’m sure they won’t be long. Maybe they needed to stop off somewhere.’
‘They know I’m waiting to hear the diagnosis.’
Grace looks away again. ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she says.
‘I’m sorry about the mess. I was going to do it when I got in. I didn’t know you were coming.’ I rest my arms on the table then lower my head onto them. The suspense is unbearable.
‘I called in to drop off your mum’s dry cleaning and thought I’d wash a few dishes while I waited for you to come back.’
I’m embarrassed by my lack of coping skills and about to make an excuse when Grace says, ‘I know it’s hard for you at the moment. You’re holding down two jobs as well as looking after your horse, so all this on top is a lot to deal with.’
I’m pathetically grateful for her empathy, especially after Lucy’s judgemental stance earlier.
‘I’m really pleased you’re here, Grace. In fact, I wish you could come more frequently.’
Grace tilts her head to one side. ‘I suppose I could come in one extra afternoon a week – if your mum agrees of course.’
‘I’m sure she will. She struggles to do much at all at the moment.’
‘You must find it difficult to watch that when she’s always been so capable. Let’s hope the hospital has good news. I know how much your mum means to you both.’
Grace looks away, as though to hide her emotions.
‘Lucy told me your mum died. I’m sorry, Grace.’
‘I lost her suddenly. There was no warning or time to get used to the idea of being an orphan.’
‘What happened?’
‘She choked to death.’
‘That’s terrible. Was anyone with her?’
‘She was on her own. It was horrible.’ The kettle clicks off and Grace jumps to her feet, seemingly eager to end the conversation.
A moment later I hear a car on the gravel and all thoughts of Grace’s history leave my mind. I rush outside and study Mum’s face and then Lucy’s face as they climb out of the car. When I see them side by side I notice how yellow Mum’s complexion is compared to Lucy’s and my heart sinks.
‘Why didn’t you call me?’ I say to Lucy.
‘Mum asked to visit the tree cathedral at Willen Lake. She said she’s always wanted to see it but never had the time.’
‘We didn’t want to call you at work,’ Mum says with an undecipherable expression on her face.
I know now what they’re going to say. We go indoors and sit at the table, and I have a strong urge to clap my hands over my ears and sing, ‘La, la, la,’ at the top of my voice.
‘Jenna, love,’ Mum says taking my hands in hers.
No. Don’t say the words. I don’t want to hear them.
Mum gently rubs the back of my hands with her thumbs and says, ‘I’ve been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.’
Chapter 30
The Previous March | Sarah
‘You’ll be late for work,’ Mum says, her voice flat.
Only she isn’t my mum. Not my real mum.
I stop pacing the living room and stare at her, open-mouthed. ‘I don’t know what to call you now.’
Tears fill my eyes and my voice trembles. I watch her as she sits on the sofa with her elbows on her knees and her shoulders slumped. One hand clutches her glass of vodka and the other is tangled in her dirty hair. She may not have been the best mother in the world but she’s the only one I’ve ever known.
‘I can’t go to work like this,’ I say. ‘I need answers.’
Mum releases the hold on her hair and shakes her head slowly. ‘I don’t have answers, Sarah. I am your mother. The test is wrong.’
‘It can’t be wrong.’
‘They can make mis― Wait there!’
She bolts off the sofa and stumbles to the stairs then rushes to her bedroom, pulling herself up by the banister. What’s she fetching?
While she’s gone I mull over the results. They have to be correct. John and Rosemary are not my parents. Did they adopt me and never have the courage to tell me? Maybe the adoption was all Mum’s idea and Dad went along with it to keep her happy.
Mum’s back within minutes, clutching a dusty, old cardboard box. She flips the lid open and thrusts her hands in. She scoops up a double-handful of old photographs and drops them on the floor then kneels down and spreads them out, flipping some over as she does so. I watch in fascination. It’s been years since I looked at these but now they’ve taken on a deeper meaning. Will there be clues within them to reveal my true identity? I kneel down next to her and pick up a photo of me aged around five, clutching the handle of a scooter. I remember that day. I’d been desperate for a bike like the one my friend next door owned but Dad had insisted I was too young to learn to ride a bike so they’d bought a second-hand scooter out of the paper. My serious face in the picture tells the story.
Mum takes it from me. ‘Sorry you didn’t get a bike, Sarah. I tried to persuade him but he wouldn’t listen.’ She puts it down and takes more photos from the box then continues to sweep them from side to side.
‘Here,’ she announces, holding one aloft. ‘Proof that I’m your mum. That’s me with you in the hospital after you were born.’ She passes me the photo eagerly.
‘How old was I here?’
‘What do you mean? New-born, of course.’ Mum tucks her hair behind her ear as she leans forward and pulls another photo from the pile.
I haven’t seen her this animated for years.
‘You looked so cute in your little nightdress with the row of yellow ducks across the front.’
‘How many days old?’ I peer at the photo. Mum certainly looks like she’s recently given birth. Her face is pale and her eyes are dark underneath, but she’s got a radiant smile and she’s holding me close.
‘A day or two, I think. It’s hard to remember because I was so tired that I felt spaced out. They made us stay in hospital longer in those days and you were jaundiced so the student midwife kept taking you off to go in one of those special incubator thingies. Here.’ She hands me another photo triumphantly. ‘This is you straight after the birth. My friend Ruth took these pictures because I didn’t see your dad much while I was in hospital. He was working overtime. Ruth was always so good to me. I missed her dreadfully when she moved to Australia.’
I barely listen to Mum rambling on. From what I can see, Mum did give birth to me so maybe the test result isn’t actually reliable. The more I think about it, the more I wonder if Mum’s saliva sample might have been tainted by her drinking or if I contaminated it, carrying it around when I helped her up to bed. It must have been five minutes or so before I sealed it in the bag. Or maybe there’s been a mix-up at the lab. One digit entered incorrectly on a system and the results could have been sent to the wrong person. There could be someone else out there with my result thinking they’re not related to their family either. Mum must be right. I am her daughter. But am I John Butcher’s?
I clamber to my feet and brush my trousers down. ‘I think I’ll go to work after all.’
‘Good girl. I know t
his has been upsetting but you mustn’t let the kebab man down.’
I don’t tell her that as soon as I’ve been there I’m going to the library to check the internet and see if other people receive wrong results. Damn it, I still don’t know who my father is.
Chapter 31
March | DI Paton
‘Found anything?’ Paton pulled up a chair beside Mitchell and peered at the screen.
The phone records from Nash’s PAYG phone showed it was only used to call one number but that phone hadn’t been used since the call was made to it on the day Nash was picked up from Paisley. Paton hoped Mitchell could give him better news.
‘Look at this.’ Mitchell consulted his notepad then entered a reference number into his computer. A photograph of a silver Fiesta joining the motorway appeared. ‘This is from the next junction along from the crime scene. It’s the first of four matching cars seen on the day of the murder.’ He zoomed in on the number plate. ‘I checked their registrations and the registered owner of this one died two years before the murder.’
Paton worked out what he was saying. ‘So, whoever was driving this car had no tax or insurance?’
‘Nope.’
This was interesting. ‘I’m surprised they weren’t picked up before now. They can’t have used the car very much.’ Paton’s mind raced ahead. ‘I need you to check the cause of death for the previous owner.’
‘Already done it, Boss. He died in a hospice from secondary lung cancer. There were no suspicious circumstances.’
Paton looked at him with admiration. ‘Good work, son. Ever thought of a career as a detective?’
Mitchell grinned, and couldn’t hide his smile of pleasure at Paton’s warm praise.
Paton felt a rush of warmth for him then couldn’t stop the pang of loss he felt because Tommy would never get an opportunity to be a policeman or detective. If enthusiasm were the most important quality, then Tommy would be fantastic, but, sadly, his level of intelligence precluded him from this career. ‘Anything else?’ Paton asked. It would be a big leap from driving offences to murder but Paton’s instincts were stirring. Not that he intended to jump to any conclusions. ‘What about the other three Fiestas? Traced the owners yet?’
