A Mother Never Lies

by Sarah Clarke

  Ben leans back a bit further but stays focused on Hana’s face. The words make his stomach lurch, but he loves the deep brown of her eyes, so much better than the dark blue of his own. ‘You’re married?’ he jokes, anything to delay her confession.

  ‘No, idiot.’ She stifles a giggle and pushes his knee with hers. It feels good, making her laugh, but the satisfaction is temporary. ‘I’m leaving London.’

  ‘What?’ Hairs rise on the back of his neck.

  ‘Going home for a while.’

  ‘When will you come back?’ he asks, trying to keep his voice steady. Why does this always happen to him? A taste of something good, then bang, it’s gone again.

  ‘I don’t know, my grandma is sick.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ Ben manages. He thinks about what life could have been like, Hana as his girlfriend, someone this amazing in his corner. What it won’t be like now. ‘It sounds like you could be gone a long time.’

  Hana drops her head, and her face disappears from view, her warm eyes out of sight.

  ‘Are you definitely even coming back?’ he asks, a new hardness to his tone.

  ‘Yes of course.’ But she doesn’t look up.

  ‘I’m going to get a drink,’ Ben murmurs. He needs to get away. How could he have been so stupid? He’d allowed himself that moment of happiness, opened himself up to thinking life might actually be getting better, yet again. When will he fucking learn?

  He pushes his way through to the counter, doubling up as the bar this evening. He’s sick of prosecco, its dancing bubbles taunting him; he needs something stronger. He spots an unopened bottle of vodka, and with a satisfying twist, cracks the seal. He half fills a plastic cup and takes a large gulp. He’s not used to spirits and the first mouthful sets off his gag reflex, but he swallows it down and the second one is easier. Fuck Hana. He doesn’t need her. Fuck his family, his teachers with their condescending smiles, and Jake with his sympathy stare. Fuck them all.

  Ben scans the room, his vision more fluid now. Hana is sat on one of the tables, leaning against Fiona, confiding in her. The older woman is listening attentively, asking the odd question, concentrating on the answer. He feels a stab of jealousy. Fiona is the only person he has left; he can’t let her be taken from him too. He watches them both stand up, and Fiona lead Hana onto the dance floor. ‘Fairytale of New York’ is playing again, and Fiona clearly loves the song because she’s spinning around, arms swinging high. Not like her at all, and Ben allows himself a little smile at her antics. Marco is dancing too, like a crazy gazelle, limbs flying in every direction.

  So it’s not surprising that they collide.

  Marco’s elbow smashes into Fiona’s face. Her head flies back. When it rights itself, blood is gushing out of her nose. Ben watches, transfixed, the vodka adding its own vivid filter. The blood is dripping now, down her chin, onto her dress. The brutality of crimson against the tranquillity of pale blue. It looks familiar somehow.

  And terrifying.

  ‘You okay, Ben? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  He can’t stop looking at her, the shock on her face, the bloodstained dress. He was watching them dance; he should have warned her.

  ‘Poor Fiona, what a klutz Marco is. Hana’s looking after her though; nosebleeds always look worse than they are.’

  Ben feels Jo’s hand run up and down his arm, as though she’s trying to rub some life back into him. This is like her. Disrespectful of boundaries, tactile with everyone. He wants to rip her hand away and scream in her face. ‘I’m fine, Jo.’

  Why can’t he stop staring at Fiona?

  He forces his head around, away from the bloody scene. Then he takes a step back, and thankfully Jo’s hand slips away. ‘I might head off now.’

  ‘Really? I thought you teenagers partied until dawn.’

  Ben’s urge to escape feels primal, so having to delay it for some modern-day social nicety is excruciating, but isn’t that what he’s taught himself over the years? Hide the compulsions, pretend to be sane? ‘Only if there’s class A’s on offer.’ He grins to soften his response, but it does its job, leaving her speechless for a moment, enough time for him to disappear into the shadows of the party, and then out on to the street.

  Ben breathes in the freezing cold air and enjoys the relief at being free of them all. But it’s so overwhelming that tears threaten. He can’t fucking cry. He screws his eyes closed to stop the flow, but there she is again, behind his eyelids. Fiona. Blood on her dress. Then it’s Hana, telling him she’s leaving. He whips his eyes open and starts to sprint, under the bridge and over the main road. He runs down Smugglers Way, where the borough’s waste disposal centre shares prime riverside frontage with high-rise luxury apartments, and out onto the river path. When he gets to the Thames, he leans against the iron railings and stares into the water. Putney Bridge is to his left, a succession of lights under its arches creating a streak of fire beneath, but the glow doesn’t stretch to where Ben is.

  In the darkness, with the only noise coming from the water lapping against the river wall, Ben allows himself to replay what just happened. Gripping on to the cold iron bar, he brings back the image of Fiona, blood smeared across her dress. Why did it terrify him so much? And if it was so frightening, why couldn’t he stop staring?

  And why did it feel like it was all his fault?

  He closes his eyes and the image gets stronger. He can’t see her face though, just the stain of red, the cut of her dress slicing her chest into a V. He opens his eyes. Fiona’s dress had a high neck – that’s why the blood dripped onto it so quickly from her nose. Why is he getting that mixed up? But the background is different too. In his mind he sees a small window and a front door, not Christmas decorations and disco lights.

  Why is his mind playing tricks on him?

  Swearing into the darkness, he pushes off the railing and starts walking along the river path. It’s eerie and he half wishes that a gang of kids would show up, push him over the railings. Clear his mind permanently. But the path stays empty and eventually he cuts south, nowhere to go except home.

  He doesn’t know this side of Wandsworth very well, and when he reaches a gridwork of narrow streets, he realises he’s lost. Pastel-coloured terrace houses run in long regimental lines, only broken up by three or four matching streets at right angles. With trees planted at regular intervals, bare branches sparkling with frost, Ben finds the pattern comforting, and he walks the length of one street that follows the tube line from Southfields. But when he reaches Wimbledon Park, he realises how far he’s walked in the wrong direction. Instead of just retracing his steps, he chooses another street to make the return journey by. It’s almost identical, and yet feels different somehow. Safer. He looks up at the street sign attached to one of the houses that sits at the end of a terrace. Clanwell Street. He says the name out loud.

  Jesus, now a street sign sounds familiar. He’s really losing it.

  He looks back at the sign attached to the cream render, then down at the front door. It should be blue, not grey. He knows that for some reason.

  Then he sees a child’s cuddly toy. A rabbit. Lying on the pavement. Two black eyes staring up at him. He blinks, looks again. There’s nothing there. What the hell is happening to him?

  Finally, he gives in to the urge that has followed him through the streets of Wandsworth. Tears flow down his face. Loud sobs rack through his ribcage. He’s losing his mind; he feels so alone. He suddenly wishes Fiona was there; she’s the only person who comes close to understanding him.

  He looks back at the house and imagines her standing there.

  Her hair looks longer, darker; her face a little fuller.

  He wants her to hold him, but he’s scared.

  Because there’s blood on her dress.

  And he’s angry, guilty too.

  He turns away from the house with the sign and the wrong colour door, and runs for his life, for his sanity. And the safety of home.

  Chapter 31 />
  SEPTEMBER 2005

  Phoebe

  There’s a boy lying on me, bleeding. The brutal irony of carrying a weapon, then having it wrenched from your grip and thrust into your chest.

  But I can’t look at the boy. I can only stare into the whites of the man’s eyes, the one now pointing the knife at me.

  The blade isn’t shining anymore, it’s dirty, smeared with someone else’s blood.

  ‘What did you see, lady?’ he growls.

  I’m sobbing in fear, but I can’t let a sound escape in case it makes him angrier, brings me further out of the shadows, so I swallow each one, my body swelling with the effort. ‘Nothing,’ I whisper. ‘I saw nothing.’

  ‘Right answer.’ But he still jabs the knife at me, and I can feel it slicing my skin before it even reaches me. I let out a scream, but he just laughs, stopping the knife just short of my face. Then it disappears inside his jacket and he follows his mates down the stairs, banging and clattering, hoods up against the glare of the CCTV cameras.

  They’re gone, and I want to cry with relief, but I can’t. I’m in a warzone, like a scene from one of Dan’s PlayStation games. One of the boys has pushed himself into the back corner of the bus, his knees up against his chest. He’s shaking like Nana’s old washing machine and I love to see it because it means he’s alive. Another is lying face down on the floor, blood seeping from his head. I should go to him, try to help, but how can I when the weight of the third boy, the young one who I reassured with a smile, is leaning on me?

  ‘Jesus, fuck!’ The girl leaps up out of her seat, her voice ringing out across the bus, headphones crashing to the floor. The old man is awake now too, gasping in horror.

  I pull on the boy’s shoulder, turning him round. His white sweatshirt is heavy with blood, the stain spreading at a terrifying speed.

  The old man lunges for the emergency alarm. A loud siren-type noise explodes in my ears and seconds later the bus heaves to a stop.

  But the blood doesn’t stop flowing. I spot the small tear in the fabric, less than an inch in size, but right by his heart. How can I possibly save him? All those missed opportunities to stop this, and now it’s too late. He will die here, in front of me.

  I suck in some air and try to forget everything except his immediate needs. I bunch up some material and, with the heel of my hand, push it into the wound, like a roadblock diverting traffic back to the safe zone.

  Footsteps pound up and down the stairs. Screams and cries and swear words sail around the small space. The dark-haired girl wraps a jumper around the head of the boy on the floor. And finally, I hear the faint sound of an ambulance siren, and I pray that it arrives in time.

  *

  ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

  The police officer looks down at the pavement, pulls at the bottom of his stab vest. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t …’

  ‘I watched them. The paramedics. I heard them say it.’

  He shrugs and I can’t look at him anymore. ‘Have you been checked over?’ he asks. ‘You’ve had a shock too, remember.’

  ‘I’m fine. I just want to get home.’

  ‘I understand that, but why don’t I ask one of the paramedics—’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I repeat, interrupting him.

  He shrugs again. ‘It’s your call. But I’m afraid you can’t go home just yet. I need you to come to the station, give a statement.’

  Panic starts to rise again in my chest. My whole body is exhausted; I can’t do this now. ‘But I’ve told your colleague everything I know; that guy in the grey hoodie,’ I say, pointing to the detective who calmly took notes as I relived each moment, the violent images threatening to overwhelm me with each new revelation. Flashes of the boy’s lifeless expression filter into my mind and my belly aches with the sadness of it.

  ‘Thank you, we appreciate that. But we’ll need your clothes too, as evidence,’ he says quietly. I look down at my dress. I remember being in the shop, picking it off the rack. I was drawn to its ice-blue colour, it seemed so fresh and pure, a blank slate for a new type of future. Now it’s stained red. Ruined.

  A noise erupts at the edge of the police cordon, distracting us both. The bus stopped on Millbank, a wide road that runs parallel to the River Thames on the north side, and the police have sectioned off a wide area around the bus. It’s a busy road, exposed on all sides, and dozens of onlookers are staring at the scene, curiosity shining on their faces. But the noise is coming from one woman. News is so swift nowadays; I know that she is his mother.

  ‘Wait here,’ the officer instructs me. I watch him walk over to her, put his arm around her shoulder, hold her up when her knees buckle. My belly moans again and I cover it with my hands, holding my own child up.

  I don’t make a decision to leave. I just need to get away from the wailing, so I take a few steps backwards. Then a few more. Everyone is looking at the crying woman, so no one notices me slip under the cordon, or start walking towards Vauxhall Bridge. I’ll go to the station first thing in the morning, I promise myself. I will wrap my clothes in clingfilm, protect the evidence. There won’t be any anyway – he didn’t touch me. Not physically at least.

  I just need to be with my family.

  On Vauxhall Bridge I stop, retrieve a pair of trainers from my overnight bag, and throw my stilettos into the river. They hardly make a sound as they hit the water, and I watch for a moment as they float towards the North Sea. It’s quieter on the south side. A run of alleyways cast dark shadows on the pavement as I walk, and I try not to think who might be hiding there. I think about the whites of his eyes, the tip of the blade, the implied threat if I talked.

  And I did talk. I told the police every tiny detail that I could remember.

  I owed the boy that at least.

  Were they watching me confide in that detective?

  I look over both shoulders, then quicken my pace. Are they following me now? It’s past midnight and the street is all but empty. They could pull me down any one of these alleyways and no one would notice. I start to run. My belly feels heavy, but it’s good to give my adrenaline an outlet. I keep going, past the vast warehouses of New Covent Garden Market, then Battersea Dogs Home, where I dreamed of finding a playmate for most of my childhood. I slow down when I get to Battersea Park. I feel safer here, somewhere familiar, but I’m also exhausted. I can’t run anymore.

  I just hope that the silhouettes that have followed me here are just my imagination.

  Chapter 32

  DECEMBER 2019

  Ben

  Tears prick at Ben’s eyes yet again, but this time it’s out of relief. The house is in darkness; his family all tucked up in bed. He walks into the kitchen and smells the residue of home-baked mince pies. He runs his hand across the smooth marble of the island unit and enjoys the calm of the clean, white surface. Lucy would never go to bed without making sure the house is spotless. Usually it annoys him. Tonight he’s grateful for its certainty.

  Something catches his eye in the garden beyond the bifold doors, gleaming in the moonlight. It’s a robin, skittering around on its tiny toes. He thinks vaguely about something he read once, that robins symbolise Christmas because they reminded people of postmen delivering Christmas cards back in the Victorian times. Is that why the robin is staring at him now? Is he hopping from foot to foot because he has a Christmas revelation for Ben?

  Suddenly he can’t sit still anymore. He starts pacing the room, ten steps across, ten steps back. The repetitive marching helps, and he finds his mind clearing, just enough to put his thoughts into order. Fiona’s nosebleed scared him because it sparked a memory from his childhood. And it’s plausible that he recognised the house on Clanwell Street, even that he lived there. He was born in Wandsworth after all, and he had to live somewhere. But Fiona stood there in a bloodstained dress? And wanting her arms around him? That just doesn’t make any sense.

  Maybe he’s mixing things up. Perhaps it’s just the dress that’s familiar, and he’s joining dots
that don’t exist. Is he remembering his real mother in a similar dress? Is that why he wanted to be held?

  But that’s not where the memory ends. He was scared, petrified.

  Something happened that was much worse than a nosebleed.

  Something terrifying.

  And he can’t shake the feeling that the terrifying thing was also his fault.

  Ben senses that the answer is locked in the case under his bed, that those drawings will give him the clues he needs to kick-start his memories. Feeling like a lifer heading for the electric chair, he walks out of the kitchen and up the stairs towards his room. He’s never really questioned why he doesn’t remember anything from before he was fostered; he hasn’t wanted to know before. But now it’s started, he needs to know it all.

  With a shaking hand, he drags the case from under his bed into the centre of the room. He twists the four numbers of the code into place until he hears the click, and then empties the contents onto the floor. He sees the knife first, gleaming up at him. He picks it up, holds the cold blade against his flushed face. The cooling effect feels good against his skin. It would be so simple. Twist the knife, disfigure himself forever. He deserves it – he’s sure of that.

  But why does he deserve it? He needs to find the truth, to work out what he did. With a renewed sense of purpose, he puts the knife down and fans the collection of drawings out onto the carpet. He stares at them, his portfolio of fear and rage. Some of the pictures are crinkled and ageing, others are smoother, newer. But all of them follow a theme.

  He picks up one of his most recent drawings. The dark pinpricks stare at him, but they seem different now. Friendly rather than menacing, like the warmth of Hana’s eyes. The rest is mainly just a block of thick red brushstrokes, the anger and fear evident from the splatters of paint reaching into the corners. But there’s a darker mass in its centre. Is this just the core of his anger, or does it represent something else?

  He picks up another, one of the first pictures he saved. The dark part has more form in this one. He fights the urge to look away, forces himself to think about what it represents. He’s never done this before. These pictures have always been his dirty little secret. Painted fast, hated instantly and stored away as some act of penance, a reminder of his rottenness. He only ever looks at them when he wants to hate himself even more.