Thirteen Stops

by Sandra Harris

  She was woken in the middle of the night by a steady tap-tap-tapping sound at the window of her third-floor bedroom. Rebecca sat up in bed, bleary-eyed, her heart beating fast. She slipped out of bed and padded noiselessly across the carpeted floor to the window, from where the rhythmic tap-tap-tapping was getting louder and more insistent.

  “Mummy?” she said, confused and frightened. “What are you doing out there?”

  “Let me in, Becka-Boo,” said Mummy from the other side of the glass, her eyes huge and pleading in her chalk-white face. “It’s freezing out here.”

  “But what are you doing outside in the rain?” Rebecca asked her, her own eyes wide.

  “Daddy locked me out, just to be spiteful,” Mummy said. “See? That’s the kind of man you have for a father. Come on, Becka sweetheart, you don’t want Mummy to freeze to death out here, do you? Open the window!”

  “I’m afwaid, Mummy!”

  “Of what, for Christ’s sake? There’s nothing to be afraid of, Becka darling, it’s only me, Mummy! Now open the window before I start to get cross!”

  Trembling with cold and fear, Rebecca slipped the catch and pushed the window ajar a little. Immediately, Mummy grabbed at Rebecca’s hand and began to pull her roughly through the window, but the hand that ensnared Rebecca’s wasn’t Mummy’s hand at all but a misshapen claw. Rebecca looked into her mother’s face and screamed.

  The next day there was no sign of Mummy anywhere, or of Mummy’s things. In the sitting-room, her goodbye note was gone from under the heavy glass ashtray on the coffee table. Even the heavy glass ashtray itself was gone. Rebecca thought that either Mummy or Daddy – more likely to be Mummy, she was the one who usually threw things – might have flung the ashtray at the other in a fit of temper and then swept up the pieces when it broke. Rebecca peeped in the bin but the pieces weren’t there. Strange, but no stranger than some of the things that had happened around here lately.

  Life went on. Although Rebecca never stopped missing her mother and wishing that she would one day come back (after all, Uncle Vic’s house at the seaside couldn’t be that far away, could it?), she adjusted to the new order of things, as kids do. She was sent to school and that occupied the best part of her time, and Daddy hired a stout, middle-aged woman called Mrs. Beech to mind Rebecca after school. Daddy still worked long hours, and when he came home he would eat the dinner that Mrs. Beech put before him, and then he’d spend the rest of the evening in front of the telly with a six-pack of beer from the fridge.

  Not an unattractive man when he made an effort, Stephen had had a few girlfriends over the years, but none of them ever lasted long. Rebecca grew into a teenager and decided she just wanted to be known as ‘Becks’ from now on. She called Stephen ‘Dad’ now, having decided that she was too old for the ‘Daddy’ of her childhood years. She experienced the agonising pangs and pains of first love and wished her mother was still around to talk to her about periods and crushes and what boys really meant when they said they loved you and would still respect you in the morning. (She now knew that that was a big fat lie.) Joanna never got in touch, though. Becks always just assumed that she was terrified of being dragged home to live with her boring, grumpy work-obsessed husband and tiresome daughter, and was heartbroken about it.

  Now Rebecca was twenty-eight years old, she had a good job that she loved and a boyfriend, Barry, who she really felt might be The One. From time to time, though, usually when she was stressed or anxious about something, she still had the nightmare about Joanna tapping at her bedroom window. Every time was as bad as that first time, leaving her sweating, with pounding heart and a scream of blind terror frozen in her throat. Stephen Jamieson, still only in his fifties, had clearly given up on trying to find love and just spent his days working and his evenings boozing, either in the pub or at home in front of the telly. He now had a fully fledged liver problem and the doctor had told him emphatically that if he kept on drinking the way he was doing, he’d be dead within the year. Becks talked to him about his drinking but the seed that had been planted that day long ago, the day that Joanna took off to go and live with Uncle Victor for ever, had grown powerful, far-reaching roots. Stephen seemed resigned to his grim fate. He didn’t act as if he cared all that much that he was going to die if he didn’t curb his drinking, and Becks couldn’t seem to reach him. Sure, he’d ‘cut down’ a bit when both Becks and his doctor had started getting heavy with him, but how serious he’d been about it was debatable. It even occurred to Becks that he might have been only pretending to drink less and just paying lip service to their concerns. The man he’d been when Joanna was still with them was now long gone, buried underneath layers and layers of protective coatings that stank of stale booze and self-pity. If Joanna hadn’t left them, things would be different today.

  Becks had regularly checked for a Joanna Jamieson on social media, because she could imagine that Joanna would love nothing more than taking picture after picture of herself in glamorous poses and chic little outfits and then posting the pictures online for all the world to see and admire, but she never found the Joanna she was searching for. For one thing, her mother almost certainly didn’t call herself Jamieson any more. She probably used Uncle Vic’s surname but Becks had never known what that was. It wasn’t even beyond the bounds of possibility that Joanna no longer even called herself Joanna. She might have changed her Christian name to avoid being tracked down by her husband. There was nothing bleaker or more depressing, Becks decided, than scouring the Internet and social media for someone whose full name you didn’t know. It was a bit like going to visit an old friend after a long absence and finding that their house, in which you’d played together as children, had been demolished. Becks reflected sadly too that she didn’t even know what her mother looked like now. Was Joanna still bleached-blonde and flapper-thin with short hair, or had she grown out her hair and put on weight? Had she had any more children? It would have devastated Becks if she’d ever found out that Joanna had had another child after her or even children. She especially hoped that Joanna had never given birth to another baby girl, a little girl she might have cuddled and called ‘her bestest girl’, and tucked into bed at night with songs and kisses and promises to stay close by in case her baby girl needed her. It would just be too hard to find out that she, Becks, was no longer Joanna’s only precious baby daughter.

  And what if Joanna was no longer even alive? Technically, she could have died at any time over the last twenty-three years. Becks tried hard to suppress this thought whenever it reared its head. It was just too depressing.

  Barry O’Donnell, you prick, you’re late again!

  It was twenty to nine and Barry was meant to have been at her house since seven o’clock. Becks had already bathed and was dressed in new silky pink pyjamas from Victoria’s Secret, which she wouldn’t have dreamed of wearing if she was by herself and spending the evening lounging around in front of the telly. These pyjamas were to be worn strictly for boyfriends. Under the pyjamas were new silky knickers, also pink, and a pink push-up bra that was as uncomfortable as fuck to wear. Anyone who thought that women dressed like this to please themselves was either nuts or a liar. Or a man. And if Barry O’Donnell didn’t turn up in the next ten minutes, she was changing back into her regular tartan pyjamas and the big comfy undies that didn’t cut into the soft skin under her boobs, and Barry O’Donnell could go and feck himself. No matter how hard he pleaded, she’d be closed for business for the whole night and he’d have only himself to blame.

  Typically, just as she’d decided this, he rang the front doorbell. She didn’t rush to answer it, although she felt the familiar rush of excitement when she peeked through the spyhole and saw his big bulky shape filling up the space the way it did.

  “You’re an hour and three-quarters late,” she said stiffly as she let him in.

  “Sorry,” he apologised, taking off his coat and putting it on a chair. “Rob from work was having a romantic crisis. I had to take him for a pint s
o he could cry on my shoulder.”

  “You’ve been with Rob-from-work since five o’clock?” Her voice clearly expressed the scepticism she felt but Barry merely shrugged.

  “You know what it’s like between him and Mel.” He was using that special tone of his that implied that, once more, she was being a tad unreasonable. “They have more ups and downs than a – well, I can’t think of something else that has a load of ups and downs, but you know what I mean, don’t you?”

  Reluctantly, Becks nodded.

  “Any chance of a coffee?” He clearly considered the mini-crisis to be over. “And a bit of grub? I’m starving. I’ve had about five pints and no food and I’m getting light-headed.”

  “I’m not cooking you anything in these pyjamas.” Becks could have murdered him for his thoughtlessness. “It’ll have to be a sandwich. Why didn’t you get some hot bloody bar food?”

  “I didn’t think of it.” He sounded maddeningly unconcerned as he followed her into the kitchen, hands stuffed casually in pockets.

  Becks was furious with him. She hadn’t got all dressed up like a bloody dog’s dinner just to be his skivvy in the kitchen. She hadn’t put on this torture device the marketing people optimistically called a bra just to butter slices of bread and slap a few hunks of ham and cheese between them. Even now, it felt like her poor boobs were being garrotted in the expensive garment. The pain would have been worth it though, if only Barry would notice how upright and perky her breasts were. She’d put these pyjamas on to be loved in, pampered, adored, worshipped, not to be hustled into the kitchen to make bloody food. She could make food any time. Tonight was meant to be about love-making, about reaffirming their supposed love for each other.

  “Your old man down in Dessie’s?” Barry asked, grinning, then he sat himself at the kitchen table and opened her dad’s newspaper, much to Becks’ annoyance.

  Now she had to compete with the news of the day as well? This was too much. She nodded.

  “He’ll be back around half-eleven.” She hated herself for sounding whingy, but she couldn’t seem to help it. “If you’d got here when you were bloody well meant to, we might have had more time to have the whole house to ourselves.” Stephen would indeed be back from the pub at around half-eleven or twelve. He’d walk home, because he wouldn’t be able to drink if he brought the car and he needed to be able to drink (that was the whole point of the exercise), and anyway the pub was only a short walk away. He’d hang his coat uncaringly on the hook next to Barry’s, and then he’d go to bed and be still asleep when Becks and Barry got up early the next day, tiptoeing around the place so as not to wake him. In the mornings, he would get up for work when he was ready, usually after Becks and Barry had already left for their own jobs. He wouldn’t go near Becks when Barry was with her but Becks still felt inhibited sometimes, knowing her dad was sleeping just across the landing from them while she was making love with Barry. That was a bit intense. She much preferred it with Barry when Stephen was out of the house altogether, and she knew that Barry did too.

  “I know, I know.” Barry’s mouth was full of the bread and ham she’d thrown together without any ceremony. “Blame me. I get the blame for everything anyway, so I might as well be blamed for this too.”

  “Well, who else around here turned up nearly two hours late for our date?” Becks handed him his coffee and didn’t care that a few drops slopped onto his expensive shirt. Actually, she’d been kind of hoping that they would.

  “I explained that. I told you I couldn’t help it.” He took a swig of his coffee and said “Fuck!” when it burnt the tongue off him.

  “It’s just that I’ve hardly seen you lately.” To Becks’ horror, she could feel the tears welling up and hear them in her wobbly voice. The last thing she wanted was to show weakness in front of Barry. It made her feel like such a typical little woman.

  “I know, I know,” soothed Barry, putting down his cup and stroking her face. “Look, I’m finished here now. What say we leave this lot here and just go up, yeah?”

  The face-stroking continued. Becks felt her anger at him – justified though it was – melting away. Dammit, he was way too good at getting back on her good side. They kissed and hugged at the kitchen table and then Becks led him upstairs to her bedroom, where she’d changed the bedsheets and tidied her bundle of ironing out of sight and sprayed an air freshener around the place to infuse it with the smell of violets, a flower (and fragrance) that Joanna had loved and that Becks loved too. They undressed each other (thank God, Becks thought as the hated bra was cast off and flung to the four winds, but not before the effect had been suitably observed by Barry) and made love on the newly made bed. Afterwards, Barry fell fast asleep straightaway, much to Becks’ disappointment. He always had a little nap after sex anyway, which Becks didn’t begrudge him because everyone agreed that it was an actual physical thing that men needed to do, but it looked now like he was down for the night. And after all her bloody effort too! She was looking gorgeous, her long light-brown hair was down and freshly washed and she’d waxed and oiled places where she hadn’t even known she had places, and for what? For Barry to just roll over and fall asleep? She poked and tugged at him for a minute, but he just turned over, with his back to her, and began to snore loudly. Becks stared at his broad bare back as if she was seeing it for the first time. On his left shoulder blade was something she had definitely never seen before. A tattoo. A fucking tattoo! Barry hadn’t been tattooed there, or anywhere else about his person, for that matter, when she’d last seen him naked, which had been about a week before, give or take a day or two. It was a pretty ordinary, bog-standard tattoo of a snake entwined about a rose. Hardly original, and kind of an odd place to put it, but all that was beside the point. When had he acquired this tattoo and, more to the point, why had he acquired it in the first place? It clearly wasn’t to impress Becks, because he hadn’t even bothered to show it to her properly. He’d let her discover it by accident. Then for whom had he had it put there? And, as far as Becks knew, Barry O’Donnell was afraid of needles. He’d have to have a pretty special reason for overcoming his fear and getting a tattoo. Or maybe a special someone? Filled with dread, she poked him hard in the back.

  “What’s the big idea, Becks?” he grumbled, half-asleep. “That bloody hurt.”

  “It was meant to,” said Becks tightly. “Barry, since when the fuck do you have a tattoo?”

  “Tattoo?” He was bleary-eyed. Then the fog behind his eyes cleared and he sat upright, yawning and scratching under his arms. “Tattoo, yes.” He said it as if he were only just remembering. “I did get a tattoo the other week, now you come to mention it.”

  “You never told me you were getting one.” Becks was gritting her teeth. She had a dull headache coming – she could feel it behind her eyes.

  “I didn’t know myself. It was kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

  “You got a tattoo on the spur of the moment?” Becks’ tone was positively glacial.

  “What can I say? I’m full of surprises!” He had a self-satisfied grin on his chops that made Becks want to slap him, hard.

  “Who did you get it for, Barry?”

  “What d’you mean, who?” He sounded puzzled. “I got it for myself, didn’t I? And, erm, for you, of course.”

  “Then how come I’m only finding out about it now, if it was supposedly meant for me?”

  “I had every intention of telling you tonight.” His face was turning a dull brick-red like it always did when they argued. “I would’ve told you, if I hadn’t nodded off there for a minute.” He was the kind of man who would have high blood pressure by the time he was forty because of job stress, too much booze and all the steak-house dinners with his work colleagues. Already he had an unnaturally high colour for a man in his late twenties.

  Now he was running his hands through his hair, something he did when he was playing for time. Becks had noticed this habit of his before.

  “Barry, are you seeing someone else
behind my back?” she asked him straight out. Straight out was always best. You got nowhere pussyfooting around things as if they were made of bloody china.

  In the split second before Barry answered her direct question, she saw a fleeting glimpse of something in his eyes that told her that she was right. He was seeing someone else. Becks felt like she’d been punched in the stomach, as if the air had all gone out of her. If his next words were ‘What makes you think that?’ then she’d have it confirmed for her. Guys who were cheating always said ‘What makes you think that?’ when you confronted them about it. It was a way of stalling for time, sure, but it was also because they were genuinely curious about what had given them away, the sneaky bastards, so they could know for next time what not to do. Well, she was damned if she was telling him.

  “What makes you think that?” The injured tones were all present and correct.

  “Get out, Barry,” she said evenly, picking up his boxers and flinging them in his face.

  “What’s got into you, Becks?” He crawled out of the bed and came to sit beside her on the edge. “This isn’t like you at all.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said sarcastically. “Am I not behaving the way someone who’s been cheated on is supposed to behave? Am I not being distressed enough? Well, here, try this on for size, knobhead.”