by Jessica Ryn
‘But you saw him,’ Dawn whispers. ‘Days after I’d moved in. He was here, in this room with all of us.’
‘You were always talking to him. Everywhere you went you’d be muttering away. I just got used to it, I s’pose. Didn’t think it was worth mentioning. I didn’t realise you thought you could see that Shaun.’
‘But he’s still…’ Dawn breaks off as she realises she hasn’t seen him since she woke up and glances at the blister pack of new tablets that’s lying on top of her chest of drawers.
A tear falls down her cheek and she allows herself to cry on Cara’s shoulder as she holds her tight, just like she had for her a few weeks back when she had vomit in her hair.
‘I knew Shaun a bit,’ Cara says in a gentle voice – gentle for Cara, anyway. ‘Enough to say hi to in the park. He was a good kid. Screwed in the head like we all are, but nice. You’d have liked him if you met him. He’d have liked you.’
‘I did meet him,’ Dawn sobs. ‘The night I moved in. The evening before he… was found. He knew I’d got this place over him and I just let it happen. I might as well have killed him myself.’
‘Course you friggin’ didn’t,’ Cara says, her no-nonsense tone wrapping itself around Dawn and holding her up a little straighter. ‘Shaun was an addict – always in that park or using in the toilets. Didn’t like doing it in front of his mum, I respected him for that. It could have happened any time. Even if he’d got the room over you, he wouldn’t have just stopped using straight away.’
‘But I was helping him.’ Dawn’s voice cracks and she swallows down the sobs until her throat hurts. ‘I was keeping him safe, protecting him.’
Cara stays close and keeps hugging her. ‘He wasn’t Rosie,’ she says after a while.
Dawn doesn’t answer that.
‘How did his mum take it?’ she asks, suddenly.
Cara shrugs. ‘No idea. Don’t know who she is. Don’t know anyone who knows her. All I do know is her boyfriend used to batter her. Shaun was covered in bruises a while back when he’d tried to get between them.’
‘I’m going to go see her,’ Dawn decides out loud. ‘I think Shaun would have wanted me to make sure she was okay.’
Something tells her there wouldn’t be a queue of people lined up to do the job.
Chapter 31
Dawn
SHAUN’S MUM LOOKS AS if she’s been stuck to her chair for several weeks. Greasy strands of greying hair sit flat to her scalp and her eyes are like two black holes. The ground-floor flat smells like it hasn’t glimpsed sight of a hoover or dishcloth for a long time, and there are overflowing bin bags in the kitchenette corner.
‘Who did you say you were again?’ Suspicion burns from her eyes.
‘I was a friend of Shaun. Well, someone who really cared about him,’ Dawn amends.
‘I really cared about him,’ his mum says quietly and into the distance. ‘I know people probably thought I didn’t, Shaun included, but I loved the very bones of him. He was the only good thing I ever brought to this world. And then he was taken from it.’
Dawn waits for her to cry and looks wildly around for some tissues to offer her. She should have brought some with her, Lord knows she’s been through enough of them herself that past week.
‘I wondered if you needed any help,’ Dawn ventures.
‘Now that’s not something I’m offered very often. People are quick to tell me I need it often enough, though.’ She reaches for an almost empty pouch of tobacco and picks up a stray Rizla from the cluttered table beside her, already filled with overflowing ashtrays.
‘You want one?’ she asks, finally looking in Dawn’s direction.
‘No thanks. I quit a while back. Love a bit of second-hand smoke, though,’ Dawn smiles.
Shaun’s mum doesn’t answer or look at Dawn as she rolls her cigarette and then puffs away. Dawn starts to wonder if she’s forgotten she’s even there.
‘The funeral,’ she announces. ‘It’s this week. I wanted some stuff to be said but don’t know anyone to say them. Don’t think I’ll be able to get the words out, what with everyone staring. Judging.’
‘Why would they do that?’ Dawn asks, keeping her voice as gentle as possible without sounding patronising. She knows how it feels when people talk down to you when life starts feeling out of control.
‘Let’s just say I had a run of bad luck when it comes to men.’ She coughs as she flicks her ash. ‘Shaun got caught in the crossfire a few times over the years. Never when he was little though,’ she adds in a firmer voice. ‘But that’s not the point. I know that now. I finished with him, the day they found Shaun. If I didn’t listen to him before, the least I can do is take notice now…’ She breaks off and then the tears come.
Dawn drops to her knees beside her chair and puts her hand awkwardly on her sharp shoulder blade. ‘I’ve just realised I don’t even know your name.’
‘Irene,’ she sniffs.
‘Well then, Irene,’ Dawn smiles. ‘I’m sure Shaun would be really proud of you. And it just so happens that I have rather a talent for speaking at other people’s funerals. Why don’t you tell me all about him and what you would like to be said, and I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thanks, love,’ she says, squeezing her hand with surprising strength given the boniness of hers. ‘I’d offer you a cup of tea but I’m pretty sure the milk’s off.’
Dawn nips to the shop at the corner of the road then pops by the chippy to collect two extra-large steaming wrappers filled with golden, puffy chips.
‘The best in Dover, these are,’ she announces brightly as she places them on a plate. Dawn had spent ten minutes washing it up due to the lack of clean ones in the cupboard.
They eat in silence, both of them only managing half their huge portions. It’s the most Dawn remembers eating for a very long time. She’s surprised by how satisfying it feels to be full.
She washes the insides and outsides of Irene’s kitchen cupboards and cleans the windows and the bathroom. She can’t find a hoover but makes do with the dustpan and brush she finds on top of the fridge.
Dawn makes Irene and herself a cup of tea and they sit under the open window, breathing in the fresh air as Irene tells her all about Shaun. About her son.
‘Thank you,’ Irene says before Dawn leaves.
Dawn wants to tell her it’s Dawn who should be thanking her. Today’s the first day for a long time that there’s any light inside her and now she has it, she never wants to switch it off again.
The service takes place in the same church as the funeral of good old Brian. It’s a better turn out this time. A couple of Irene’s neighbours are sitting at the back and all of St Jude’s residents are here. Cara and Teardrop Terry sit in the front row either side of Irene and Dawn. They have been taking it in turns with Dawn to visit her each day this week in the run up to the funeral and they seem to have an extra spark of life in them too.
Dawn’s throat closes around the lump lodged inside it many times as she spins slowly and clearly through the eulogy. She may not have known him for very long whilst he was alive, but she owes so much to his memory. She’s not only saying goodbye to him along with his mother, she’s saying goodbye to the Shaun she’d thought she could take care of for those weeks after his death. In a weird sort of way, Dawn feels as if she’s saying goodbye to the years of blaming herself for giving up Rosie.
St Jude’s café hosts the wake. Fresh pastries and mini sausage rolls are munched and appreciated by those who had known him, as well as those who hadn’t. Dawn picks up a cream cake and scoffs it down in Shaun’s memory, remembering their day at Dover Castle. She knows it didn’t really happen the way she remembers, but it had been real to her. She tells Irene all about it, and she laughs when Dawn tells her how they’d sneaked into the wedding fayre for the free champagne and cakes, and how he’d stuck up for her in the café when the snooty woman hadn’t wanted Dawn to speak to her baby.
‘Well, it might’ve been all in your head –
like what happens to you when you’ve lost your marbles – but I tell you what,’ she says as she dabs at her eyes, ‘you somehow got him spot-on.’ Dawn is still clearing up after the wake when Peter walks back into the café carrying a bass drum.
‘It was Shaun’s,’ he explains. ‘He was in a band a couple of years ago – him and a couple of mates before they all went off the rails and lost touch. His mum had kept it all in her bedroom in case he ever went back to it. She wants St Jude’s to have it.’
‘Bloody hell. Come and look at all this!’ Cara calls across the café after Peter has been back and forth from his car carrying various bundles in his arms.
‘When did this appear?’ Grace asks.
Someone lets out a long whistle. A chipped black drum kit and a dented speaker. A microphone sitting in its crooked stand and a well-loved guitar held together with an assortment of Radiohead stickers.
‘Woah.’ Teardrop Terry rubs his hands together, both eyes shining at full beam. ‘You guys are about to hear some percussive genius once I’ve put this together.’ He grabs the big bass drum and immediately starts fiddling with the pedal.
‘I didn’t know you played.’ Jack sounds excited and Dawn follows his beady stare all the way to the battered guitar.
‘Maybe we should clean it all up a bit first… then there’s paperwork, risk assessments…’ Grace begins.
‘The only risk here is that people might mob us cos we rock so hard,’ Terry grins.
Jack has already strapped the guitar around himself and is fiddling with the little knobs at the top while strumming the strings with his other hand, letting out some distinctly untuneful sounds. ‘Okay, so it needs a tune-up. It’ll sound amazing with a new set of strings though.’
‘I had no idea we had musicians living under this roof,’ says Grace. ‘How come neither of you ever said anything?’
She’s asking them both but is only looking at Jack, Dawn notices.
‘You never asked,’ Terry shrugs.
Ten minutes later, the drum kit is in place and Jack has managed to adjust the strings enough to get something out of them that resembles a tune.
As Dawn listens to the opening chords of ‘Wonderwall’ and marvels at the rhythm of Teardrop Terry’s drumming, another sound catches her attention. The gentle, sweet voice that belongs to Grace who’s singing softly next to her.
‘Grace. You sound like an angel,’ Dawn gasps. ‘Get behind that microphone!’
Grace’s cheeks blush poppy-red. ‘I used to sing sometimes at uni. I was in a band, but Mum told me it was a waste of time.’
Dawn grabs Grace by the shoulders and walks her to the microphone. ‘Pretend we’re not here,’ she says. ‘And just sing your heart out.’
Jack does something with the microphone wire, the stand and the speaker and then Grace’s angel voice can be heard reverberating around the café. Her hands are shaking, but she keeps going.
It doesn’t escape Dawn’s notice that Jack is staring at Grace as if she’s made of pure gold.
‘That was amazing!’ Cara shouts and jumps up and down when they’ve finished. ‘Where did you learn to sing like that?’
Grace shrugs, her face still the shade of salmon. ‘I always loved singing. Tonight was great, we should make it a regular thing.’
‘I was thinking about another regular thing we could do,’ Dawn says, crossing her fingers that Grace says yes. ‘I was thinking we could put on other wakes – for people who don’t have families to do it for them.’
Grace and Peter share a look. ‘I think that’s a wonderful idea,’ Grace says. We’ll go over the details tomorrow.’
Dawn is still buzzing from the live music as Cara, Terry and even Grace wedge themselves into number six. They stay up till midnight, grazing on smart-price cola and cheesy wotsits. Dawn’s French manicure kit (£5.99 from Savers) catches Cara’s beady eye and she insists on doing Dawn and Grace’s nails. Teardrop Terry declines the offer.
‘Right, I’m off home,’ Grace says eventually. ‘You should all get some sleep too. We’ve got our big sleepout coming up in a couple of days – we’ll need as much energy as we can get.’
It’s only as Dawn’s eyes are closing that night that the little niggles begin gnawing at the back of her brain with their tiny, sharp teeth.
This is too good to last. She doesn’t deserve to feel like this, to have real friends. Icy fingers of fear squeeze around her heart as she pictures what could happen to each one of them if St Jude’s closes down.
Chapter 32
Dawn
DAWN IS SITTING ON her favourite swivel chair in the office whilst she has her fifth-ever keyworking session with Grace.
‘How do you feel you’re coping now you’re on your new meds?’ asks Grace. ‘And how was your first therapy session?’
It’s okay to be honest, her therapist had said yesterday. Looking on the bright side doesn’t mean you shouldn’t face the darker one too.
‘I’m doing better,’ Dawn starts after taking an extra breath. ‘But it was bloody hard to start with – talking to a stranger about what happened, but I think it will help, and I know how lucky I am to be offered sessions so quickly when the waiting list is usually so long.’
Grace smiles. ‘Only you would find the lucky in having therapy after all you’ve been through.’
‘The meds are helping too – I think. Except I still feel a bit groggy in the mornings. What’s helping even more though, is knowing that… that scumbag is in prison. Knowing he can’t hurt any more women. That he can’t hurt me, and he can’t hurt Rosie.’
Grace nods. ‘I’m glad I told you. I was worried that showing you the article might make things worse.’
‘It did in some ways – to begin with. I kept worrying about whether I could have prevented it happening to those other women had I said something sooner, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. I am glad you told me, though.’ Dawn wheels her chair from side to side.
‘There is something else I wanted to talk about – it’s that social-and-family networky bit of my file. I think I’m ready to look at the goals on it.’
‘Really?’ Grace raises an eyebrow and holds Dawn’s file a little closer to her chest as if guarding her from a monster that’s hidden inside. Perhaps there will be once Dawn has filled that section in.
‘It’s just that this is your first keyworking session since…’
‘I know. But I want to. Meeting Shaun’s mum and seeing how much stuff they never got to tell each other; it got me thinking.’
‘About your own family?’
Dawn takes a slurp from her mug and her mouth fills with bitterness. Perhaps the milk’s off. Must be why her tummy feels so dodgy all of a sudden.
‘Mum’s obviously non-contactable where she is.’ She tries to laugh, but it gets stuck in the back of her throat.
‘And your dad?’
Dawn’s heart rate gathers speed. Must be the damn caffeine. She takes another gulp of her drink regardless, as her mouth has dried out faster than a cheap perm on a hot day.
She starts the words off but has to swallow and breathe again before they will fit through her throat. ‘Now, he…’ Easy, Dawn. That’s it, just blow all that air out in one continuous breath. ‘He was a good dad. Before he left. The best, in fact.’
He’d taken her to school every morning as Mum found it tricky getting up early. He was always the one who put a plaster on her knee, and his shoulder was there to cry on every single time the other kids in the street made her cry.
That’s why Dawn had been shocked when that same shoulder was missing, right when she’d needed it the most.
Grace lowers Dawn’s closed file onto the desk between them, staring at the label on the back of the shiny purple Lever arch binder. ‘I know where your dad is. I’ve been waiting for the right time to tell you. I needed to be sure you were ready.’
Dawn shuffles down the hill leading away from St Jude’s with Grace at her side; her legs still wobbling from the shoc
k. Grace’s car is parked in its usual spot. Grace climbs into the driver’s side and Dawn stands still beside the passenger door.
‘It’s unlocked,’ Grace calls from inside.
Dawn tries to move her arm to open the door, but her limbs feel like they don’t belong to her and her chest constricts with fear.
‘It’s okay.’ Grace opens it from the inside. ‘We’ll take our time. We can just drive there if you like. See where he lives. You don’t even have to get out of the car if you don’t want to.’
Dawn stares through the window as they move through the town, watching Grace as she checks her mirrors.
They’ve reached the top of the hill by the castle before Dawn trusts herself to venture into words. ‘I just can’t believe he’s been so close by all this time. I was sure he’d still be somewhere up north if he was still alive.’ Dawn shakes her head, trying to order her thoughts into a neat line. ‘I want to see him. However hard it is. I need to know what happened and why he left.’
The rain is pelting down even harder now, and Grace flicks the windscreen wipers up with the twig that makes them go faster. ‘I’ll be right there with you for as long as you need me to be.’
‘Thank you.’ Whoever invented the English language should have made more words. Better ones, that are up to the job for conversations like this. ‘How did you find him?’
The car radio starts to lose signal as they move past the roundabout and take a slip road to the left. Grace turns the crackly music off.
‘I did an internet search. Turns out there are more Brightsides than you might think. I left a voicemail on a few of the phone numbers that came up. A couple of days ago, we had a call from a nurse at one of the care homes I’d left a message with. It was your dad’s care home. She said he’d been asking after his daughter. His Dawn-light. With a name like Dawn Brightside, you weren’t hard to find once you had the same address for more than week. So, he actually found you, in a way.’ Grace slows the car to a crawl behind a minivan as the road starts to heave with traffic. All the cars around them are nose-to-butt.
