A Mother Never Lies

by Sarah Clarke

  In the end, he made it through. Managed to block out the images and concentrate on those breathing exercises he secretly relied on. But he didn’t dare take his suit jacket off for the rest of the day. The sweat patches were disgusting.

  Ben looks over at his clock. It’s only 2 a.m. but he knows he won’t get back to sleep now. He starts thinking about his project on the railway line and feels that familiar itch. Decision made, he pushes back the duvet and quietly removes his black sweatpants and hoodie from the wardrobe, as well as his rucksack of paints.

  He’s practised this before, leaving the house in something close to silence. He knows which stairs to avoid and how to unbolt the front door without making a sound, so he’s outside his house in minutes without disturbing anyone. The freedom of roaming the empty streets sends a rush of pleasure through his limbs and he starts striding, pumping his arms a little against the night air.

  He thought that the dry weather over the last few days would make his descent easier, but as he gets closer to the bridge he realises that the clear skies and cold temperatures have caused a film of frost to develop across the brickwork. Thank God he brought his climbing gloves with him this time. He pulls them on, draws the Velcro strap tight at his wrists, and starts the climb.

  *

  Ben stares at his writing and lets out a sigh of relief. It was unlikely that the authorities would have removed it this quickly, but there’s always the chance that some other tagger could have sabotaged it. There’s a code amongst graffiti writers to respect each other’s work, but a community built on anarchy isn’t always good at following the rules. But thankfully it’s there, just as he left it early Friday morning.

  Havana. Have Hana.

  Ben opens his rucksack and pulls out his spray cans. He plans to draw Che Guevara sitting in a bright pink American Cadillac. History, irony and revolution: the true markings of genuine graffiti art. And a red-lipped Czech barista serving Cuban cigars: the sign of a fucked-up graffiti artist.

  Ben is so lost in his work that he doesn’t notice anything until the three men are less than fifty metres away, running along the tracks screaming in laughter. Instinctively he knows they’re taggers too. For people like him, the railway is a second home, not the dangerous environment Network Rail tries to make out. And that’s what he can hear in their voices. Excitement. Of course people have died, Ben forces himself to remember, but there are risks everywhere. And right now, Ben’s immediate risk is four rail track workers in fluorescent orange jackets chasing after the taggers.

  He could run with them, but he’s pretty sure their pursuers haven’t noticed him yet. His best bet is to lie low and hope he stays hidden. The human hyenas are making so much noise that the workers aren’t likely to look in his direction anyway. Ben carefully drops to the ground and buries his face into the long grass; with a slight turn of his head, he can still watch the action.

  The hyenas sprint past him, although their laughter is more raspy now as the effort of running catches up with them. The railway workers are showing their fitness levels too as most of them start to flag, one of them stopping completely, hands on his knees, heaving like he’s going to be sick. But one of them is fitter than the others, upping his pace if anything.

  There’s a tangible shift in mood as the kids – not men, Ben can see that now – realise marathon man is gaining on them. Their fight-or-flight hormone kicks in properly and suddenly the only noise Ben can hear is their feet smacking against the metal tracks. They reach his bridge, and he watches as they fling themselves at the brick wall, scaling its many foot holes with a speed that shows they’ve done it before. The rail track worker apparently doesn’t count climbing amongst his hobbies because he just stands at the bottom, shaking his fist and shouting at them; offsetting his failure by hurling abuse at them.

  He’s still pissed off when his colleagues catch up with him, but some backslapping and gold medal talk seems to lighten his mood, and, as they wander back along the track, it’s as though nothing has happened. What do they care really? It’ll be the end of their shift soon and someone else’s problem.

  Finally it’s quiet again. Ben sits up and inspects his clothes. His jumper and sweatpants are soaked, and he can feel the dampness seeping through to his T-shirt. He’ll be freezing cold in minutes. Checking his watch, he realises the trains will start running in half an hour anyway. It’s time to go home.

  He collects up his cans and traces the boys’ steps back along the railway line. He could take the easier way home, but he wants to play homage to their escape. It’s his way of recognising the risk they took, the risk they all take to spread their art. He’s almost at the bridge when he notices a dark shadow at the side of the tracks. Getting closer, he realises it’s a rucksack similar to his.

  Ben picks it up and can hear the tell-tale signs of cans clinking against each other. One of the taggers must have thrown it when their escape was in the balance. He pauses for a moment, unsure what to do. While spray paint is expensive and you can never have too many cans, he doesn’t want to steal from one of his own. But on the other hand, rather Ben has it than one of those railway workers. It could even be used as evidence against the taggers if they’re ever caught.

  Decision made, he hoists the bag onto his shoulders, above his own rucksack, and pulls the straps as tight as they’ll go. He’ll notice the extra weight when he’s climbing up, but he’s capable of adjusting for that so it doesn’t faze him. With a drop that’s only the height of the wall, he doesn’t even feel an adrenaline spike as he levers himself over and lowers his feet onto the road. It’s an uneventful walk home too, just a nod from a passing milkman, and within twenty minutes of leaving the track Ben is back in his room.

  His body is crying out for sleep, so he scrawls a lie on a Post-it note and sticks it outside his bedroom door. Study period first thing. Don’t wake me. He puts both bags inside the file box in his wardrobe, then strips off his wet clothes – for the second time that night – and finds a dry T-shirt in his drawer. He pulls the duvet back onto his bed and slips underneath. He’s so tired that he can almost feel the heavy weight of nothingness descend on him.

  Except it doesn’t. He can’t relax; something is stopping him. Curiosity, he realises. He needs to look inside that bag. With his body still screaming in protest, he pushes back the duvet and retrieves it from the wardrobe. Crawling back under the covers with his new hoard, he slowly unzips it.

  There are four cans inside. Green, yellow and two shades of blue. Taking commuters to some paradise island through graffiti; those guys should get medals, not abuse. There’s also a sketchpad; a black book of past designs and future plans. He leaves through it. The colours might be happy, but the messages are angry. The voices of people who want to destroy the status quo, to say fuck you to the establishment.

  Ben wants to say fuck you too, but he’s not sure what his anger is aimed at. Not lack of opportunity. Not poverty, or gang violence, or a chaotic family life. He’s got no excuses, but still he can’t stop the urge. To destroy things. To stick two fingers up. Just like these taggers.

  He reaches further into the bag and finds a hard plastic handle. Not a paintbrush, he knows that. His heart rate seems to slow a bit as he realises what he’s holding. Self-protection probably. He pulls the duvet a bit further over his head and carefully lifts the knife out of the bag. It looks innocent enough with just its handle on show, but Ben can’t help opening it up, releasing the three-inch blade.

  Even in the darkness the knife manages to glint a little and Ben fights the urge to run his finger along its edge, feel the sharp sting of splitting skin. He thinks back to that talk at school, the warnings about too many young people carrying knives. In this moment, with the weapon in his hand, he understands what drives them; the feeling of power that a knife brings.

  Eventually he folds the blade back inside the contoured handle. The bag can go back in the wardrobe, but the knife needs a better hiding place. He pulls the art case out from under
his bed, clicks it open with the four-digit code, and slips the knife inside.

  Chapter 15

  Phoebe

  ‘It’s good to see you again, Phoebe. How’ve you been?’

  I shouldn’t feel nervous here. This is only the second time I’ve met Tom, but I liked him straight away, and talking to him came easily enough in our first session. But now that I have a secret, one that I’m not ready to share, I don’t feel so comfortable anymore. ‘Yes, fine thanks. Good, I think.’ I shuffle in the chair and check my watch.

  ‘Do you have somewhere else to be?’

  I look up at him, force myself to make eye contact. Tom has one of those open faces, curious without being nosy. Warm hazel eyes and faint freckles across his cheeks. He doesn’t deserve my frostiness. ‘Nowhere special,’ I say, and force myself to lean back against the soft cushioning of the armchair with a smile. ‘I’ve got plenty of time.’

  He smiles back and reaches for his mug of coffee. ‘It’s good that you’re keeping busy.’

  I try to resist, but we both know it’s a statement loaded with questions. How are you keeping busy, Phoebe? Are you avoiding those memories, staying on track? ‘Well, I’ve been job hunting,’ I offer, my go-to lie since I’ve been back in London.

  ‘That’s great to hear. Any ideas on what you want to do?’

  ‘Be a theatrical agent,’ I murmur, sadness creeping into my voice. I almost didn’t go back to work after having Charlie, and perhaps things would have turned out differently if I’d stayed at home, made Charlie and Dan the centre of my world. But I always loved my job, the rollercoaster ride of carving careers for creative people, their crazy dreams and unpredictable responses to every job offer. I can’t regret making that decision now.

  ‘Perhaps you could go back?’

  I think about how I’ve changed over the past fourteen years, how scared I now get when I’m in crowds, or alone when it’s dark. The panic attacks that come almost without warning. Not like the old Phoebe who paraded around the West End like it was a second home. ‘I think it’s time for something new.’

  He nods. Perhaps he was just being polite all along. ‘A new start; put the past behind you. That sounds like a good plan.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I say, shuffling again, Charlie’s teenage face gate-crashing my mind.

  ‘Perhaps you could look for work closer to home,’ he continues carefully. ‘Something …’ He pauses for a moment. ‘Something less demanding.’

  ‘That’s a good idea.’ I smile again, because I know he’s right. The job centre is less than five minutes from here. If I dropped in after our session, I’d probably have a job by the time I left. As a cleaner maybe. Or a care assistant at one the local care homes. But I know I won’t go. Not because I think these roles are beneath me; I’ve done plenty of menial jobs over the last fourteen years and I know they’re important. But I have Charlie to think about now, and how would that look to him, his birth mother working as a cleaner?

  But I also know that I can’t rely on my Universal Credit forever – even living rent-free, seventy-odd pounds a week doesn’t last long. And now that I’ve found Charlie, I don’t have to dedicate all my time to searching for him anymore. But the thought of actually looking for roles, writing a CV, figuring out LinkedIn, selling my experience to interviewers half my age. It’s just too overwhelming. ‘I’m sure I’ll find something soon,’ I promise.

  Tom nods, then his voice softens. ‘And, ah, have you thought about Charlie at all? Since you’ve been back?’

  A gasp rises in my chest, but I catch it before it escapes. Of course he was going to ask about Charlie, that’s his job. He’s read my notes, understands what I’ve lost. He gets that my welfare is inextricably linked with my son’s. But he can’t see inside my head. I get to choose how much he knows. ‘Not really.’ I smile. ‘I need to focus on the future now.’

  A look of relief spreads across his face, like he doesn’t want to have a difficult conversation with me and he’s grateful that I’m playing ball. A knot of tension forms in my belly. Why is everyone so sure that Charlie and I should be kept apart? The maternal bond has been around for millions of years, long before adoption processes or court rulings. Why am I the only person who gets that?

  I see out the rest of our fifty-minute appointment, make positive noises about settling in with Flora and Paul when Tom asks, but I’m not really engaged anymore; I’m back in Bittersweet, staring at my son.

  *

  I decide to buy a book. I’ve never been a big reader, but it feels like the perfect prop for my afternoon plans. So I browse the shelves in Waterstones, dismiss the psychological thrillers, and choose a new romantic comedy by Sophie Kinsella. When the shop assistant asks for seven pounds in exchange, and I scrabble around in my purse, another wave of frustration hits me for my dire financial state. And for the decision my parents took on my behalf. I know they were trying to help me, and that they possibly saved my life. But spending all my money from the house sale on sending me to that clinic feels so wasteful now. And here I am, in my mid-forties, and totally broke. The other half of the proceeds will be waiting for Charlie somewhere. Not a fortune – most of it went on paying the mortgage back – but a nice nest egg all the same. He’s richer than me, I realise, even if he doesn’t know it yet.

  My desire to get a job comes in waves, and I feel another one washing over me now. I’ve found Charlie, so there’s nothing holding me back. It might be too much to ask for him to be proud of me, but if I could find something half decent, perhaps I can avoid him being too disappointed. It won’t be easy, persuading an employer to take me on, but it’s true that I haven’t even tried. I’ll go to the library, I resolve, use one of their computers to register with job websites, apply for anything going in Wandsworth.

  But not today. Right now, I’ve got somewhere more important to be.

  I wander up Old York Road. It’s past 4.30 p.m. and if Charlie is on shift today, he’ll be arriving soon. By the time I reach Bittersweet I’m so nervous that my tummy is doing backflips. I stand in the queue and try to distract myself by reading the long list of drinks on offer. It’s a whole new language, and not one I understand. I decide on an Americano. It’s one of the cheaper options and its heat gives me an excuse to stay longer.

  There are at least five people in front of me, and the two baristas are clearly feeling the pressure. I hope this doesn’t mean that Charlie’s late for work. Or even worse, that he’s quit. As I look hopefully towards the café door, it suddenly flies open. But it’s a whirlwind of blonde hair and grey pashmina that rushes inside.

  ‘Sorry! Sorry, guys. I got caught up at the wholesaler’s. I’m here now. Traffic was a nightmare too. Give me a sec to get an apron.’ The volume trails off as she disappears into the back room, but the monologue continues. ‘Thanks for covering. Honestly that Jim can talk. I was trying to get away for ages. Now what shall I do?’

  ‘Everything needs restocking, Jo. Can I leave that with you?’ The Italian guy. Sounding a lot more professional than he did on Friday.

  ‘No problem, Marco.’

  ‘And maybe another barista, while you’re there?’

  The sarcasm is sneaking through now, but she isn’t offended. ‘You’re right,’ she sighs, pausing at last. ‘Ben was supposed to be helping out on our busier days – Thursday, Friday and Saturday – but actually every afternoon is busy now, and those days are even worse. I’ll put an advert in the window today.’

  I can’t help feeling a stab of disappointment that Charlie doesn’t work Tuesdays, so I won’t see him today, but at least he hasn’t quit. I think about her need for staff and my conversation with Tom, how desperate I felt handing over seven pounds for a book. Then I think about spending three days a week in Charlie’s company. Could I do this?

  No, this is crazy. It’s one thing getting to know him from a distance, but working with him would be way too risky. And anyway, I’ve never worked in a café before. I wouldn’t have the first clue how to
operate a coffee machine.

  But I need a job. And I’ve been away from him for so long. This is the best chance I’m ever going to get to spend time with him. Am I really going to let this opportunity pass me by?

  ‘Good afternoon, madam. What can I get you?’

  I’ve reached the front of the queue, but before I get chance to order, I see a spark of recognition cross the café manager’s face. ‘Hi, Marco,’ I start cautiously, unsure whether this level of familiarity is appropriate after just one meeting. I doubt he’s been replaying the evening in his mind since Friday.

  Luckily, his recall is good. ‘Ah, of course! It’s Ben’s friend, Fiona isn’t it?’

  Fiona. I need to remember that.

  ‘I’m afraid Ben’s not working tonight. Or is it a coffee you’re after?’

  ‘Yes, a coffee, Americano.’ I pause. ‘Maybe something else too.’

  Mistaking my vagueness for indecision over my order, Marco leans over and whispers, ‘The banana and walnut cake’s good.’

  Instinctively I follow his gaze. It does look good too. My body relaxes a little and with it, my resolve grows. ‘I overheard you talking about a job; I’m looking for one you see. I just wondered …’ I pause, before spurting it out. ‘I wondered if I could apply?’

  ‘Wow, I didn’t think it was going to be this easy! Grab a table with your coffee and I’ll get Jo. She’s the owner – you can have a chat.’

  Relieved that he can’t hear the drumbeat of my racing heart, I give Marco a grateful smile and carry my mug over to the window. The wonky wooden table in the corner already feels like mine so I’m grateful that it’s empty. I sink into one of the chairs and stir a packet of sugar into the steaming liquid. I can’t decide whether to feel elated or petrified about the wheels I’ve just put in motion. Could this work? Will she need all my details for her records? Of course she will, I realise. Marco even thinks I’m called Fiona. This is stupid; I need to get out of here.