by cass green
I apologized, repeatedly, and told her that there had been some things happening at home that had put me off my game lately. She looked almost eager then, hoping, I think for some mitigation that she could work with. A bereavement would have been good, perhaps. Ironic, because there had been a death. But it was one I couldn’t begin to tell her about.
I could see her disappointment when I didn’t go into detail, but I hoped we would be able to work this out. I would write another full apology to Bennett and accept my punishment.
I couldn’t face telling Zoe, who would find out soon enough.
Rain-laced wind stung my face now, like it contained gravel. I thought about my mum and how proud she would have been that I got away from the estate and turned my life in a different direction. But maybe I wasn’t cut out for this career I’d wanted so badly. Maybe I wasn’t made of the right stuff to be a teacher, after all.
When I got home to the dark, empty house, I dried my head with a towel and then curled onto the bed, where I immediately fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
IRENE
Irene forced herself to drink the cup of tea. It was the oddest thing, but she couldn’t seem to taste anything. She had always been fussy about tea, needing exactly the right strength and amount of milk, but since the funeral on Monday, she had been drinking it black. It all tasted the same. She wasn’t eating much, just toast, really, and once the weight loss would have been a source of pleasure, but it didn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things.
Various people had been coming over: a couple of friends from the knitting circle brought food she ended up throwing in the bin, and her oldest friend Judith, who was quite infirm now, had been round with her son. Irene went through the motions of making them welcome and assured them she was quite alright, but the effort of talking was exhausting, and she longed for the house to be quiet again so she could be alone with her thoughts.
That woman Rowan had been calling her too. She had, Irene had to admit, been a bit of a godsend at the funeral, organizing sandwiches and talking to people when Irene hadn’t felt up to the task. But it wasn’t as though they were friends.
For the first time, she was allowing herself to wonder whether Liam really was dead too. This was something so appalling she could only go at it with tiny pecking motions.
All these years she had been living in a sort of fog of denial and now it seemed both ridiculous and terrible that she could have been such a fool. Why would he never have contacted her? Colin and he had a difficult relationship, sure. But why would he cruelly ignore her for so much time?
Could it be possible that she once had these three people in her life, who she loved more than anything, and now there was just her left?
Irene began to cry within deep within her stomach, pressing the back of her hand against the anguished square of her lips. It wasn’t so much that she had periods of crying now. More that the tears came and went for most of the day, and sometimes at night too. She was like a leaky vessel, endlessly being filled with wet sadness.
She had thought about going to church and seeking out Reverend Thomas. She always liked him but had long ago fallen out of the habit of church. She would have liked to know, though, how he might justify that she should be given such horrible luck by God. Would he tell her that Michael had committed a sin in taking his own life? She’d have liked to see him try.
Irene got up and walked into the conservatory, where rain was drumming against the ceiling with a hard, insistent beat. The leaves were beginning to turn on the beech tree at the end of the garden, a sight which normally filled her heart with pleasure.
She sighed and her gaze fell on the box she’d taken from Michael’s flat when Rowan had helped her with the terrible task of clearing it out. She hadn’t been able to stand the thought of going through it, but now she forced herself to pick it up and bring it to the table.
Inside, there were various papers, ranging from utility bills to a folder of neatly kept bank statements. It felt wrong to look at her son’s account, even in these circumstances, and she was surprised to find she wasn’t particularly curious. Who cared how he had spent his money?
As she lifted the next file – a collection of tax-related documents – two small passport-sized photos fell onto the table.
They seemed to have been cut from a strip of four. There was Liam, making faces at the camera, and someone who was quite clearly the younger version of that woman, Anastasia. She was laughing widely in one and in another pressing her lips against Liam’s cheek, while he grinned cheekily at the camera.
Irene stared at the photo of her gorgeous boy, her hand shaking.
That Anastasia woman was lying through her teeth.
SUMMER 2003
LIAM
Christina Aguilera is warbling away about being beautiful as they mooch about in Woolies. Anastasia pretends to sing along, making her eyes all googly to make him laugh.
She has pocketed a handful of Pick and Mix and now offers him one, with a cheeky smile.
‘Fuck off,’ he says. ‘No one likes the purple one.’
‘You’re a heathen,’ she says, unwrapping the sweet and putting the whole thing into her mouth so it bulges in her cheek. Liam tries to suppress the twinge of irritation, but she sees it and nudges him hard in the side.
‘Stop being so sensitive,’ she says. He flushes, feeling caught out, as though she can see his thoughts, is laying out his insecurities for all to see. Is it any wonder he feels that way though? Especially after that thing last night.
They’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks now, on and off, but it feels as though it is always on her terms. She will suggest he turns up at a party, or a certain pub, and at first he thought it was only about buying product from him, but even if he is being a little used, it’s hard to care.
Then she had allowed him to come back to her college, which she had a stupid name for – Tit Hall, she called it. Liam wasn’t sure why. They had come through an entrance like something out of the Harry Potter movie, past some snotty-faced blokes – porters, she said – who looked at him like he was something on the bottom of their shoes and eventually into her bedroom.
It hadn’t been what Liam was expecting, for a student room. He thought it would be all posters of worthy shit and Che Guevara. But it was just a bed, a desk, and a wardrobe. There were some photos above the desk but, when he went to look, Anastasia steered him away.
After they’d gone to bed, they lay there, getting their breath back, skin slicked with sweat. Moonlight poured down on them through the skylight, bathing their limbs in silver.
Anastasia held up one of her long, pale legs and then pressed it next to his.
‘We could be brother and sister, couldn’t we? Or twins,’ she said, not for the first time.
It was one of the things that seemed to delight her when they met, the shared colouring. Both had dark red hair (although hers had a few streaks of blonde she had dyed into it), the same eye colour, and fair skin. She was obsessed with this.
He rolled over and leaned up on one elbow, looking down at her.
‘I’m glad we’re not,’ he said and began to stroke the inside of her thigh.
She gave a dirty laugh.
‘Me too.’
As he bent down and kissed her softly on the lips, he had been lit up inside with a feeling he’d never had before. It made him want to run around the room, sing loud songs, do press-ups. Was this being in love? The daring prospect of telling her had jabbed him inside but it was too risky. Instead he had buried himself in her and tried to make the most of the moment.
He doesn’t want to admit he still lives with his mum and dad. It doesn’t really go with the ‘bad boy’ image she seems to have of him, because of the dealing.
Last night she had actually made a point of inviting him along to meet her friends.
He’d been nervous, which had made him pissed off, and so he hadn’t really gone into that pub with the best attitude, he knew that.
The Eagle was a big student place and it wasn’t somewhere he usually went. It was packed out and hard to hear what anyone was saying. Her friends had been alright, he supposed. Two girls called Lydia and Cam were okay, even though Cam clearly had the hots for him and seemed to stare at him all night, turning on a full-beam smile whenever he caught her. There was a bloke called Brynn, who was one of those men who camped it up and fooled all the girls into thinking he was gay, so by the time he made his move, they were too surprised to resist him.
It was the one called Robert who had really got up Liam’s nose though. He had handed Liam a bottle of Sol and then said something about how it was exciting to imagine Watson and Crick drinking in this very pub.
Liam had said, ‘Who?’ and for a moment there had been a silence in which he’d caught Anastasia’s expression. She was embarrassed.
He’d looked on the way out at the blue plaque on the wall. Yeah, okay, maybe the people who’d invented DNA or whatever were not exactly on his cultural radar. But it didn’t mean he was somehow less than the rest of them.
‘Come on,’ says Anastasia now, ‘let’s get our pictures taken.’
She is looking towards the photo booth at the back of the shop. He starts to laugh.
‘Seriously?’ It’s the kind of thing he did when he was twelve, thirteen.
‘Don’t be a spoilsport!’
There’s a mother and a very overweight kid using it right now, clearly getting passport photos for the kid, who is whining.
When the mother isn’t looking, Anastasia makes a gun of her fingers and pretends to shoot the kid in the back of the head. Liam laughs, but is a little shocked all the same, despite himself. The boy’s only about seven, after all. But she does make him laugh, even if sometimes her edginess takes him by surprise.
Soon it is their turn and she pulls him into the photo booth, wrenching the curtain across so savagely it screeches on the runners.
He sits down and she turns and straddles him on the seat, so he gasps and says, ‘We can’t, not here,’ and she sighs and calls him a spoilsport again, climbing off.
She sits demurely on his lap the right way round but they both crack up laughing because it’s not exactly comfortable for either of them, thanks to her behaviour a moment before, and they are still laughing when the camera goes pop, pop, pop, pop and takes their pictures.
AUTUMN 2018
ELLIOTT
It was early October. So far on my enforced absence from work, I’d mended a squeaky wardrobe door, sorted out some boxes that hadn’t been opened since we moved in, cooked a range of new dishes (with varying degrees of success) and been running every day.
The worst time was around four pm when I would normally be leaving school and I’d see and hear local kids arriving home. It was hours until Anya would be back. It was the time of day, now autumn was kicking in, when the walls seemed to close in.
I had written my apology to Bennett and was waiting for a formal hearing in a week’s time to find out what was ultimately going to happen. Anya and I’d had several late-night conversations about what I would do if things didn’t go my way, which usually ended up with her suggesting we borrow money from Julia and Patrick so I could ‘retrain’.
As what? I only wanted to be a teacher. And the thought of living off my in-laws for the foreseeable future made me want to gnaw off my own arm in frustration. Anya claimed not to understand this attitude and called it ‘macho bullshit’, at which point I would usually sulk in a different room for a while until we made up again.
So things were strange at home. We hadn’t yet worked out the new shape of our life together after it had been thrown into the air and scattered in pieces.
The letterbox clanged and, keen to avoid my run on what was turning out to be a cold day, I went into the hall to collect the post.
There was a Visa bill for me, and what looked like a card. It wasn’t either of our birthdays.
I turned it over and saw it was handwritten just to ‘Anastasia’. There was one of those small stickers on the back and it said: ‘Irene Copeland’, then an address in Cambridge.
My heart jolted and I walked into the kitchen, holding the envelope like it was radioactive.
I sat down at the table and stared at it for about three seconds, during which I debated whether it was right to open someone else’s post, then concluded that this was only going to upset my wife and I needed to intercept it.
I tore the manila envelope open with trembling hands and one sheet of writing paper and a piece of A4 paper fell out. I opened the A4 sheet first and saw that it appeared to be a clumsy copy of some photographs, the originals of which had clearly been Sellotaped to paper.
My mouth went dry as I looked down at Anya, about ten years younger or more, with shorter hair in its natural curls, rather than straightened as it was now. The person with her was a man who was, I had to admit, strikingly good looking. He had similarly pale skin from what I could see and his hair was sort of curly and floppy on the top. He looked like the heartthrob from an indie band of the nineties.
With a grimace, I put the sheet down on the table and opened the letter.
The handwriting was very neat and small, and it looked as though the words had been written very carefully. I read them, and my stomach began to churn.
Dear Anastasia,
I am sorry to bother you but you would not talk to me when I came to your house and I feel that I need to try again to talk to you.
You see my son Michael had your name in his possession and also these photographs of my son Liam his brother who I haven’t seen since he left home in 2003. It seems very clear to me that you knew Liam and I think this is what lead Michael to track you down.
I have no idea why he would want to hurt himself in the way he did and the fact is that I now have neither of my boys at my side and if you could give me any context at all for what has happened, it would help me greatly in the greaving process.
Michael had a friend called Rowan who is talking about going to the police about it all and insisting they investigate it all a bit more carefully. For now I think that getting together and having a conversation would be the best thing.
I can come to you, or you can come to me. If you would prefer to meet in London or somewhere else I’m sure that will be fine too.
I don’t wish you any harm. I just need to find some answers so I can begin to properly greave for my son whatever he was to you. I’m sure you will understand and I hope you will do the right thing.
You can write back or call me on my mobile phone. The number is above.
Yours sincerely,
Irene Copeland (Mrs)
I don’t know if it was the spelling and grammar mistakes, or the way it all seemed to have been vomited out onto the page in a rush of grief. But her words hit me squarely in the solar plexus. I pictured this old lady, sitting in her house unable to understand what had happened to her.
Surely it would be better if she had an answer, even if it was a painful one?
The idea felt toxic as it began to form in my mind, so much so that it actually nauseated me and sent me rushing to get a glass of water, which I poured with shaking hands.
I was going to try and put an end to this whole business. For her, but mainly for Anya and for me.
I picked up my phone and tapped out a reply.
IRENE
Irene had never had such a lot of messages as she had in these last couple of weeks, so when her phone had vibrated on the coffee table, she almost ignored it at first.
It seemed that all sorts of people were getting in touch with her, which was nice, of course. A few weeks ago she would have been delighted to hear from old friends in that way. But now she had little inclination to see or speak to any of them.
This was a bad attitude though, she knew that. It was the kind of thinking that sent you into an early grave. Not that this held much fear for her any more, not now.
So with a slight groan she made herself
lean forward and pick up the phone.
When she read the message a bolt of surprise pierced her so keenly that she let out a little gasp.
Mrs Copeland, I will talk to you if you think it will help you come to terms with the death of your son. I will come to you, or you can suggest a place to meet. If this sounds acceptable please text back where and when we should meet.
Anastasia Ryland.
Irene hadn’t replied straight away. She was too flustered. She contemplated asking Rowan’s advice but knew that the other woman would insist she was there for the meeting.
Irene wondered, now, as she hoovered every inch of the house, what on earth she had been thinking in sending that letter. Did she really want to meet this young woman? There had been something so cold in her eyes when Irene had tried to speak to her on the doorstep. There was no sympathy at all for the terrible thing that had happened to Michael.
Irene turned off the Hoover and carefully carried it down the stairs, breathing heavily as she did so. She needed to eat something, before this meeting. It wouldn’t do to go all wobbly when she was trying to be strong.
An hour later, Irene was sitting on her sofa, her hands twisted together in an attempt to stop them from shaking. They felt damp, and she wiped them on her skirt – one of her best. It felt important that she presented a smart face to this woman, however she had been connected to her sons.
Irene picked up the photos she had found in Michael’s possessions again, grateful that she had the idea of getting them photocopied to send with that letter. She would never have seen them again otherwise, she was sure of that.
Her chest cramped as she stared down at her son. Liam seemed to gleam with life. Didn’t they say that mothers knew when their child died?
