by K. L. Slater
‘Your mum has worked really hard for months and months getting all this stuff set up for you.’ Robert lifted his flinty eyes to the mirror. ‘You might show a bit of gratitude.’
‘It’s fine, Robert. He’s tired, that’s all it is.’
Tom sighed. ‘Thanks, Mum, I appreciate it, but I have some plans of my own I want to follow up on, too.’
‘What sort of plans?’ I said carefully.
‘I thought we might discuss it later.’ His voice sounded strained. He must be under tremendous pressure with this new, intimidating world bearing down on him. This was when he most needed our reassurance.
‘If it’s money that’s worrying you, Tom, there’s no need. I don’t want you to be embarrassed to talk about finances and I’ve put something in place for that too,’ I said with renewed vigour. ‘I know all this must seem immense so soon after your release and I won’t go into all the details right now, but I wanted to set your mind at rest.’
‘He’ll have to earn his own money at some stage,’ Robert said coldly. ‘The last time I looked, there was no money tree growing in the garden.’
I’d noticed he kept sniping about money. There certainly never seemed to be much of a balance in our current account any more. I knew we had modest savings to fall back on, but that wasn’t the point. I barely went out, so if money was being squandered, it was Robert’s doing.
‘I’ve every intention of earning my own money,’ Tom said, and I felt surprised at how resolved he sounded.
‘I very much look forward to hearing how you intend doing that,’ Robert said with a smirk.
I set the Oasis soundtrack playing at a low volume. I saw Tom had closed his eyes, but he was feigning sleep, because his face was too still and tense. He’d done the same thing as a small child when he didn’t like the way a conversation was going.
I sat back in my seat and folded my arms. He’d been through such a lot, I couldn’t blame him for shutting us out. It didn’t matter because at last I had my son back home. We had all the time in the world to discuss his plans, and I felt confident, if they turned out to be a bit too ambitious, he’d be open to some gentle encouragement.
He’d always been the same. If he had his heart set on something inappropriate, I had only to pick my moment to distract him and set him on a different path.
That was one thing about my boy. He always saw sense in the end.
Ten
Bridget
Tom texted to say they were leaving the prison and I’d quickly sent a message back.
Can’t wait to see you. Can’t wait for us to be together.
Three hours to go and it would be time.
There were many people that were going to struggle to accept our decision to be together but that was their lookout. We were a couple in the eyes of the law. We’d been through too much to let anyone get in our way now.
Following Jesse’s death, there was an explosion of unexpected press attention when Tom was charged with the assault. The dubious glamour of Tom being a professional boxer, that he was Jesse’s best friend and a good-looking young man from a respectable family seemed to feed the media’s appetite for a sensationalist story.
But even in the midst of debilitating grief, I noticed a subtle change in the reports in newspapers and online. They began to refer to Jesse as a known troublemaker and the fact that he had a knife on him that night supported this image. Nobody mentioned that the weapon was a legal Swiss Army penknife that he kept on him for any impromptu repairs to his unreliable old motorbike. The obvious subtext of it all was that he had somehow contributed to his own demise.
I was the first to admit my son hadn’t been perfect, but did those spells of laddish behaviour cancel out his life completely? Did they render what had happened to him unimportant, as if he’d somehow deserved to die? No, they did not.
The anger at the injustice of the media’s reporting of the incident engaged the thread of steel I’d always had inside me. It had provided the inner strength I’d clung to as a young person in foster care, the resolve that had kept me going for years bringing Jesse up on my own and working two jobs to pay the bills.
I fought against the inequality of being different. Of being poor. Of being a single parent with a son who’d died in a violent situation. I clung on to my resolve like a life jacket.
Inside I was breaking into pieces, but I didn’t let them see that. When the older kids at the children’s home slapped my face and called me ugly, I stood tall and swallowed down the hurt until it was nothing but a little hard knot in the bottom of my stomach.
I remember feeling that fighting for my boy’s memory was the final thing I could do for him.
I didn’t have to look far to find examples of young working-class men who had died in tragic circumstances over the last ten years. Men subconsciously labelled failures, perhaps because they were not university-educated or did not have high-flying careers.
I made some noise, online, offline, anywhere I could. As the incident was still fairly new, several newspapers and women’s magazines were happy to talk to me. I gave them some of what they wanted; that was, to talk openly about my grief. To have my picture taken against a grey sky with tear-filled eyes. But I also got in a line or two about the derisory attitude I’d noticed towards Jesse in the popular press.
Some newspapers changed their tone, talking about the attitude of the media as if they themselves had never been guilty of it.
Incredibly, people sat up and listened. Thanks to the tracing skills of the Royal Mail, I received letters vaguely addressed in the style of ‘Bridget Wilson, Notts. (Mother of Jesse)’ from parents who’d lost their own sons in similar circumstances, thanking me for speaking out. They wanted to share how they had experienced the same attitude from the press and public. More magazines asked for interviews. As time went on, I received invitations to speak in public by various organisations such as bereavement groups and support networks for victims of crime.
My simple, genuine message about kindness and equality quickly garnered more attention, and within a few months I was receiving messages of support from Europe and even the US.
Responding to a public need and with support and funding from sympathetic organisations, I set up the Young Men Matter charity. It grew quickly and prospered. The funding paid for my salary as CEO, and enabled us to operate as a charitable business, accepting payment for events and attracting donations. It had been my full-time job now for the last five years, giving me a good standard of living and no need to work two jobs at minimum wage any longer. But I’d give it all up in a heartbeat to go back to those days with Jesse, when we’d feasted on beans on toast like kings.
After work, through the long evenings at home, I felt so lonely.
Jesse’s father had been nothing more than a one-night stand after a boozy night out. The guy was from out of town and I’d never set eyes on him again. Had no telephone number or address. I didn’t even know his surname. I had lots of contact with Coral, of course. She had gone to school with Jesse and obviously knew him well but she hadn’t had what I’d call a ‘meaningful’ relationship with him. I doubted they’d have stayed together if she hadn’t fallen pregnant with Ellis.
There was literally no one who missed Jesse like I did.
Too much water had gone under the bridge to reinstate my friendship with Jill Billinghurst. Coral had heard on the local gossip grapevine that Jill was a virtual recluse these days, living in a stupor of misery. She’d given up her job at the library, and apart from helping at a local charity shop, she barely left the house.
The thought of such self-pity lit a furnace inside me. Jill should be ashamed of herself. Her son was still alive, wasn’t he? He was the one responsible for Jesse’s death, whether or not by accident. He would start a new life in a couple of years’ time, while my boy languished underground in a cold sleep that would never end.
About two years ago, I received a letter from the prison inviting me to take part in a restorativ
e justice programme designed to bring closure to the families of victims of crime. They enclosed a booklet explaining how it worked, that it would begin with a visit to the prison.
For the first twelve months of his sentence, Tom had written to me with alarming regularity. I hadn’t opened a single one of the letters. Instead, I’d bought a shredder and kept it by the front door. Within seconds of the prison-franked mail hitting the mat, I’d churned what I assumed were his meaningless platitudes and pleas for forgiveness into satisfyingly insubstantial paper strips.
Back then, to open those letters would have felt so disloyal to Jesse’s memory. But in later years, I’d wished I hadn’t destroyed them. Whatever I thought of Tom, he was the only other person who shared my closest memories of Jesse. Memories that were still as vibrant as ever, like beautiful living blooms, far too precious to be buried under a blanket of grief as I’d been trying so hard to do.
It was that realisation that prompted me to complete the enclosed visiting order. Impulsively I took it to the postbox at the end of the street before I changed my mind.
Three days later, I received emailed confirmation of my first visit to see Prisoner #A1756TF Tom Billinghurst at HMP Nottingham the following week.
The morning of the visit I felt queasy, and mooched around the house in my dressing gown, unable to eat any breakfast or lunch.
The visit was at two o’clock. Still debating whether I should follow through with it, I forced myself to shower and get ready, opting for jeans, roll-neck sweater and a leather jacket. I smoothed my hair back into a simple ponytail and applied minimal make-up. Dabbed enough concealer to help disguise the shadows under my eyes and a couple of sweeps from the bronzer brush to brighten the pallor of my skin.
The prison was in the Sherwood area of Nottingham, about a thirty-minute drive from Mansfield. The roads were quieter than I’d expected and I arrived early. I waited in the car park for twenty minutes, reclining the seat a little and closing my eyes to listen to a playlist on Spotify.
Once I got inside the building, the security checks I had to undergo along with hordes of other people took another fifteen minutes.
The visiting hall was large and echoing and filled with grim little square tables and plastic chairs with bowed metal legs. With the other visitors, I filed past bored-looking prison officers standing like sentries around the room and took my seat at the next available table.
The wait for Tom to emerge from the inner door seemed to last forever. More than once, I thought I might be sick right there in front of everyone. I contemplated cutting my losses and going back home when I looked up and he was suddenly there. He filled the doorway, dwarfing the other men who were filing in and the diminutive officer who escorted them.
My breath caught in my throat, my eyes widening with shock. He was so much taller and broader across the shoulders than I’d remembered. His short dark hair had grown longer, wavier, and framed his thick brows and serious dark eyes. He had a couple of days’ worth of stubble on his well-defined jaw and his features looked chiselled and angular.
This mature, brooding man barely resembled the slightly hesitant, polite boy I’d seen grow up. I held up my hand in case he had failed to spot me, but he’d already fixed his eyes on mine as he headed straight for me.
‘Bridget.’ His voice emerged throaty and deep as he took his seat opposite. ‘Thanks for coming. Even after I saw you’d scheduled a visit, I didn’t know if you’d turn up.’
‘I didn’t know whether I would until the last moment either.’ I felt ridiculously shaken by his presence.
What had I expected? I wasn’t sure, but it hadn’t been this. During the past eight years, Tom Billinghurst had clearly grown into his own skin. But there was no trace of arrogance, he was just … mature Tom. A self-assured but still humble man.
He’d linked his fingers and placed his clasped hands on the table. His nails were short and clean, and there was a scattering of fine dark hairs on the top of each hand, thickening as they traced up to his muscled forearms.
‘I’ve been waiting a long, long time for this,’ he’d said, his voice low and level as he looked into my eyes. ‘I want to say that I’m sorry, Bridget. I’m so, so sorry that Jesse died because of me. Because of how I reacted that night.’ His voice cracked. ‘I never, ever meant for that to happen. I should have stepped back, I should have left instead of reacting.’
That had been the start of it. I looked down at my left hand, at the simple gold wedding band.
Later today, we’d begin our new life together.
Eleven
Jill
I was first out of the car when Robert parked up on the drive. I’d visualised this moment a thousand times in my head, imagining Tom trying to control his emotions when he saw his family home again after all this time.
I’d hung winter flowering baskets either side of the porch and filled a wooden trough with cheerful pansies and violas in front of the window. I’d cleaned the glossy green front door and bought a nice new woven doormat that read Home Sweet Home.
I stood back and watched as Tom unfolded his broad frame from the back seat. He took a moment to look at the house and I watched with growing anxiety as his dark brows beetled. His mouth tightened and he walked around to the boot and retrieved his holdall and rucksack.
‘Welcome back, son,’ I said and pressed his old front door key into his hand. He pocketed it without even glancing at it.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ he said and we walked to the house together, tears blurring my vision. I opened up and Robert strode past us, down the hallway and disappeared into his downstairs office.
‘Tom?’ I said faintly as he stepped inside the hall. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ he said, pasting a small smile on his face. ‘I’m tired, I guess.’
I waited a moment or two for him to comment on the brighter hallway. I’d had the ugly old flooring ripped up and replaced with a smart light oak. Over the past twelve months, Joel, our decorator, had freshened up all the downstairs rooms ready for the big day. Our new start.
‘Anyone would think we were expecting a visit from royalty,’ Robert had grumbled. ‘We’ve had to live with it long enough, I don’t see why you’ve done it for his benefit.’
‘It’s not really for Tom,’ I’d said, practising tolerance. ‘It’s marking a new chapter in all of our lives.’
Robert had snorted and made himself scarce. Even so, I kept the vision of our new family life together alive. I admit I felt deflated when Tom appeared not to have noticed my efforts at all. He didn’t even seem happy to be home.
‘Come on through to the kitchen. I’ll make you a cup of tea and a sandwich.’
He pulled a regretful face. ‘I need a lie-down, if that’s OK. Try to get my head around everything.’
‘Take as much time as you need,’ I said, although I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by ‘everything’. After ten years of being without his family, I felt a little concerned that he immediately wanted to be alone in his bedroom. ‘I’ll make our tea for about four thirty.’
I imagined what Audrey would say to reassure me. ‘Of course he wants some time alone, Jill, it’s what he’s been used to!’ She’d roll her eyes and give me a hug. ‘Nothing at all to do with how he feels about being home.’
Tom lugged his bags upstairs. I followed him up and watched as he hovered in the open doorway of his bedroom. My heart swelled as his head turned slowly, taking it all in. The Manchester United poster still above his bed, his model Star Wars memorabilia still displayed on his desk, the boxing trophies on the windowsill. I’d cleaned his room every week, dusted his collections, and last month, I’d cleared out his wardrobe and drawers ready for his new clothes.
‘I kept everything the same as the day you went away,’ I said softly behind him.
He turned around to face me. ‘But why? I mean, I didn’t expect you to do that. You and Dad could’ve used this room.’
I laughed. ‘Used it for
what, exactly? This is your bedroom, Tom. It’ll always be your bedroom even when you’re eventually married and settled down with your own young family.’
‘I’ll be down in good time for tea,’ he said, his expression unreadable. He stepped fully into the room and gently closed the door, leaving me on the landing.
Coming back to the family home and his own bedroom must be fraught with emotion. His reaction wasn’t what I’d expected, but I felt sure it was nothing to worry about. It was completely normal … wasn’t it?
* * *
With Robert ensconced in his office as usual and Tom up in his bedroom, I found myself, as on so many other occasions, alone in the kitchen.
I poured myself a glass of water from the fridge cooler and sat at the breakfast bar. I hadn’t expected the dull, heavy sensation in my chest. Of course, I’d known realistically that Tom’s homecoming would probably be different to how I’d imagined it, but this … well, despite me telling myself it was normal, the situation was not what I’d hoped for at all.
I knew now that I’d been overly romantic and optimistic in my imaginings. Coming out of a ten-year prison lockdown would never be easy for Tom, and the biggest shock of all was how much I’d forgotten: the tensions, the moody undertone that had been the everyday backdrop to our family life, the crushing pressure I’d felt to keep the peace between Robert and Tom, to defuse arguments before they even started. I’d run myself ragged trying to absorb the resentment and negativity that had buzzed between them like an electric current, like I’d tried to do as a child with my mother and father.
After we’d lost the business and the house and had to move into a rented one-bed flat when I was ten years old, I’d somehow convinced myself that if I behaved perfectly, Dad would stop drinking, Mum would stop screaming at him and they wouldn’t get divorced. Then everything would be fine again. Things would soon get back to normal.
