A Mother Never Lies

by Sarah Clarke

  I had planned to just slip out of the house to avoid any awkward questions, but that feels selfish now. When it came down to it, Flora kept my secret. I’m not sure how long a lifeline she’s thrown me – neither of us has been in the mood for talking much since the wine rack incident – but I should at least wish her a merry Christmas. I push open the door. She’s stood at the easel, her new favourite position, paintbrush in one hand, gin and tonic in the other. It could be any day of the year if it wasn’t for the flimsy paper hat sat lopsidedly on her head, the entrails of a Christmas cracker discarded on the floor. My heart melts a bit more.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Flora.’

  Her head jolts upwards. ‘Gosh darling, you startled me. It’s the hair, I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to it being that short.’

  ‘Sorry. I thought a fresh start would be good.’

  ‘Well yes indeed.’ She hesitates. This is the most engaged she’s been since I lost my temper with her over Charlie, so I wait for her to say more. Perhaps this is our Christmas Day truce, a chance to find some sort of peace. Eventually she continues. ‘In fact, Paul and I were saying something similar only yesterday.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, you have a job now. Money in your pocket, friends of your own.’ She looks me straight in the eye and I realise what’s coming. ‘And of course there’s your duplicity to consider.’

  ‘You want me to move out?’

  She nods. ‘We do. It’s for the best.’

  ‘Because of Charlie?’

  ‘You killed his father, Phoebe.’

  Pa rum pum pum pum.

  ‘There were reasons – you said you understood.’

  ‘Charlie was sat so close that there were blood spatters on his clothes. But still, you expect us to feel most sorry for you. Poor Phoebe, her life ruined, her child taken away. What about him though?’

  I played my best for Him, pa rum pum pum pum.

  ‘I wasn’t thinking straight. The baby …’ My throat closes up. I can’t say any more.

  ‘And what about your father and me? Our only grandchild, taken away. But still, you put your own grief before everyone else’s.’

  ‘I took my punishment,’ I just about manage through the tears. ‘I did my time in prison.’ How dare she lecture me? She could have stayed that night, demanded a better explanation from Dan. There’s blood on her hands too.

  ‘All those years in prison, and you didn’t learn a thing.’ She puts her paintbrush down, turns to face me. ‘Not remorse for Dan’s death. Not gratitude that Charlie gets to live a better life. You just licked your wounds and waited it out. And now you think you have the right to see him again. To lie to him; play with him like a toy.’

  ‘I’m protecting him, not me.’ Why the hell can’t she see that? Shock has given way to anger. I can feel it pulsing through me.

  ‘You can try all you like to convince yourself, but it won’t work. We all know what you’re capable of.’

  I see flashes of Dan’s head whacking against the radiator, of Charlie’s frozen frame as I tried to hold him. Adrenaline surges through me and I fight the urge to push her stupid easel over, let paint splatter over the threadbare carpet. She walked out that night, told Charlie that she’d washed her hands of me. If she’d fought harder, questioned Dan more, refused to go, then maybe things would have turned out differently.

  I reach up to my earlobe and rub the hard diamond between my fingers. She has no idea what kind of mother I was, how good I was. She could never understand the strength of my bond with Charlie, and how much damage it can sustain without breaking. It’s not something our own relationship has ever known.

  Chapter 35

  SEPTEMBER 2005

  Phoebe

  ‘How are you feeling today Phoebe?’

  I still can’t relax in this room. I’m sure the bright seascape on the wall and the fresh flowers on the side table are designed for that purpose, but it’s too empty for me. My chair on one side, hers on the other. A chasm between us, both of us knowing what that represents.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  She gives me a sympathetic smile. Half of me wants to fall at her feet in gratitude, while the other half wants to scratch it off her face with my fingernails.

  ‘It was a tough session yesterday. I hear you had a difficult night.’

  That dream. His dark hood and the white of his eyes. Except in the dream Charlie is with me. And I daren’t look down in case the dead weight on top of me is actually my son. Even thinking about it now takes my breath away. I shake the image out of my head and pull my knees up into my chest. My shoes leave dust prints on the dark velvet armchair, but I don’t care, and she doesn’t seem to either.

  ‘I feel better now,’ I lie.

  ‘That’s good.’ The smile deepens. ‘Are you ready to talk about Charlie?’

  Her words take me straight to that staircase. My beautiful son, his face crumpled up with fear. I blink furiously. I can’t let her break me down again. ‘No, I don’t want to.’

  ‘I understand how painful it is, Phoebe. But it’s only by talking that you can begin to heal.’ She falls silent, waits. She’s better at this than me, but I have so much more to lose. Seconds pass, perhaps minutes. Eventually she continues. ‘And remember that I also have a responsibility to the courts.’

  While she says it softly, the meaning is clear. My bail is conditional on staying at this residential clinic, and the magistrate explained that cooperating with my therapist was part of the deal. If I don’t keep talking, I’ll be transferred to Bronzefield women’s prison until my trial. Well, fine. Let’s play the game. But don’t expect me to be honest.

  ‘Yes, I remember.’ I force a smile. ‘We can talk about Charlie.’

  ‘He was there – he saw it all,’ she coaxes me.

  I take a deep breath, wrap my heart in lead, and pick up the story. ‘He’d pushed himself back against the wall, covered his face with his rabbit.’ I think about his catatonic state, his wide, petrified stare. ‘Not his eyes though,’ I add.

  ‘And did you go to him?’

  ‘How could I?’ I snap back. I need to be careful though; I’m losing my cool already. I pause for a moment to let my pulse rate settle. ‘My hands were covered in blood, his father’s blood. I couldn’t touch him like that.’

  ‘Yes of course, I see.’ But she can’t see. She could never imagine the horrific scene that I created in our hallway that night.

  ‘I went into the kitchen to wash my hands. The solicitor said that was a mistake, that it weakens the loss of control defence or something. But I couldn’t stay like that, could I? It wasn’t fair on Charlie.’

  My words hang in the air. How ridiculous they sound now, floating around my head. Was it fair that I took his dad away from him, or that I forced him to witness the killing? Was it fair that I left him alone with Dan’s corpse so that I could clean myself up? Of course not. Right up to the end, I was putting my needs before his. My chest tightens, so I dig my fingernails into my palms, soak up the pain, and it releases a little.

  ‘And after? Did Charlie allow you to get close then?’

  I can’t think about that moment; when I reached out, and he squirmed backwards; when I pulled him into my arms and pretended not to understand why his body shook so hard. I was taking comfort, not giving it. Bile forms in my mouth and I wonder if I’m going to be sick.

  ‘Take a moment, Phoebe.’

  ‘I told him how sorry I was. And that I loved him.’ I blow my nose and take a few gulps from the glass of water next to me. ‘And then I phoned 999.’

  ‘That was brave.’

  I look up. Was I brave? I never considered absconding; I always knew that I had to pay for what I’d done. ‘Charlie needed help.’

  ‘After everything you’d been through, you put him first.’

  ‘I killed his dad! How is that putting him first?’

  ‘Phoebe, you suffered a terrible trauma, then many more traumas piled on top of the first. Anyo
ne might have been driven to do what you did in the same circumstances.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ I whisper. The smallest hint of kindness, and I can’t help pushing it, trying to secure some kind of redemption. ‘Maybe this is his fault, the boy on the bus, his casual brutality.’

  ‘Go on,’ she encourages.

  ‘That night, it was like violence and death had become normal. There was this ball of tension inside me and releasing it on Dan, well, that felt normal too.’

  ‘And does it still feel that way?’

  Seeing his skin split open and not caring. Feeling his skull crack and enjoying it. ‘No of course not. Murdering my husband was not normal.’

  ‘Murder? That’s for the courts to decide.’

  ‘I know what I’ve done.’ Of course there’s no chance of redemption for me. ‘I knew it as soon as Dan’s broken head slipped out of my hands – that’s why I phoned the police.’

  ‘Did Charlie speak at all, before they arrived?’

  ‘He said sorry.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘For wetting his pyjamas.’

  Silence hangs between us, both of us mourning a childhood lost. How could I have done that to him? Every choice I ever made was for him. Taking Dan back after his affair, trying so hard to get pregnant, to give Charlie a sibling. All I wanted was to be a better mother than my own. How could I have got it so wrong?

  ‘Did the police take Charlie?’ she asks.

  I shake my head. ‘There were only two of them, both younger than me. I’m not sure they’d really believed my phone call.’

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘Two paramedics. They knelt down and talked to him, told him he would be safe with them. He didn’t speak, but he took their hand.’

  ‘Did you get to say goodbye?’

  I nod. My whispered words. His little hand, raised in a tentative wave. ‘I think they called a social worker after that, but I was upstairs by then.’

  ‘They let you go upstairs?’ she asks, surprise in her voice. For some reason it rattles me.

  ‘Don’t be stupid. I’m a killer, remember? I was with another paramedic; she’d arrived a few minutes after they took Charlie and noticed that I was bleeding.’

  ‘Your miscarriage.’

  ‘She was the first person to see a mother before a murderer.’

  ‘And she looked after you?’

  I can still see her face and the thousand messages it carried: I don’t care what you’ve done; I can see you’re in pain. I know what you’ve lost; I’m here for you. It was the greatest kindness I’d received since my world had shifted hours earlier on that bus. My knees had buckled under the weight of her compassion, but she’d held me up.

  ‘She did everything that she could.’

  Chapter 36

  CHRISTMAS DAY 2019

  Phoebe

  The doorknocker makes a louder bang than I was expecting, and I skitter backwards. When Rosie opens the door, I’m trying to regain my balance and cursing the heels that had felt so empowering only an hour before.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, I’m Fiona, Ben’s friend from work.’ It comes out more defensive than I’d planned, and she looks at me suspiciously before opening the door wider.

  ‘Would you like to come in?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘Yes please. And merry Christmas.’ Like a peace offering, I hold out a plastic Sainsbury’s bag. It’s full of presents, carefully chosen, painstakingly wrapped. But they feel cheap now against the backdrop of this perfect house.

  She takes it with her free hand, the one not constrained by plaster cast, but doesn’t look inside. ‘Thank you. You shouldn’t have though.’ The honesty in her voice is unsettling. ‘Anyway, come in.’ She leads me through the mosaic-tiled hallway, but instead of going into the now-familiar kitchen area, she ushers me into a formal living room. The fire is crackling in the hearth and tiny fairy lights twinkle melodically in the Christmas tree. Other than the deep blue fireplace and oak wood flooring, everything in here is a delicate shade of grey. Even the Christmas cards seem to blend in.

  ‘Dad’s just opened some champagne so that’s good timing.’

  My stomach lurches at the thought of more champagne. I definitely drank too much of it at the Bittersweet Christmas party, and spent most of Christmas Eve feeling sorry for myself, necking paracetamol and munching crisp sandwiches while trying not to remember how the night ended. I still can’t believe how much blood there was; Hana fussing with tissues, Marco distraught. And Charlie in the distance, looking so upset. Even as my nose throbbed, I’d felt a happy glow when I’d noticed how concerned he was.

  ‘It’s a little early for me,’ I say, lowering myself onto the velvet sofa so that we don’t have to make eye contact.

  ‘Sparkling water then?’

  I nod and watch her unscrew the cap of a San Pellegrino bottle using one hand. I want to offer my help but her determined expression holds me back, and it doesn’t surprise me when she manages the task without spilling a drop.

  ‘Here you go,’ she says, passing me a glass. ‘I’m sure Ben will be through in a minute.’

  I hope so. Charlie has told me so much about Rosie, but in my nervousness, I’m struggling to filter out the private confessions from the public persona. I take a gulp and wonder whether I should have chosen champagne after all. It’s then that I hear the voices.

  ‘Just back off, okay!’ Charlie’s anger floats through the wall. I shuffle awkwardly on the sofa, smile at Rosie as though I haven’t heard a word.

  ‘Don’t you dare tell me to back off! You’ve been holed up in your room since yesterday, haven’t lifted a finger to help.’

  Rosie returns my smile, but then picks up her phone and starts manically swiping and tapping. Within seconds the room erupts with classical music and I spot the four small speakers nestled into each corner. It does a good job of drowning out the argument, until it reaches a crescendo.

  ‘YOU’RE NOT EVEN MY PROPER DAD!’

  I hear a door slam and then feet pound up the stairs. Where did that come from? Charlie has never talked about his real father to me. I think of Dan, what might have been if I’d gone to the hotel, or taken a cab rather than the bus, or even gone to the police station like they’d asked. But none of those things happened. And now Charlie is calling for the father I denied him. Imagining him alone upstairs makes me fidget in my chair; I desperately want to go to him, but of course I can’t.

  The living room door bursts open and Greg steps inside. He’s exactly as Charlie described him: broad chest, wide smile, salesman eyes. The classic rugby player turned advertising executive.

  ‘You must be Fiona.’

  I stand up, take his proffered hand, force myself to look into his eyes. There’s not a hint of recognition there. Thank God. He must have seen photos of me back then – enough newspapers ran the story. It seems fourteen years in prison and a radical haircut have done their job.

  ‘I must admit, it was rather a surprise,’ he continues with contrived geniality, ‘Ben announcing that he’d invited a colleague from work.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to have me,’ I manage, before adding, ‘Ben says you make the best Christmas lunch.’

  The compliment appears to do its job, as Greg’s eyes turn from accusatory to welcoming. He drops into the sofa opposite and accepts a glass of fizz from Rosie with a wink.

  ‘Sorry about the noise,’ he continues. ‘Ben can be a grumpy sod at times.’ That smile, smoothing over the cracks.

  ‘Perhaps I should go. Let you sort things out.’

  ‘Not at all. We can’t turf you out on Christmas Day, can we?’ There’s an undercurrent to his tone. Greg is clearly someone who’s used to getting his own way; no wonder Charlie struggles with him. ‘Lucy will sort him out. When he’s like this, she’s the only one who can get through to him.’

  I try to match his smile, but I can’t stop a snake of envy slithering through me. We spend the next few minutes in polite conversat
ion. Greg is good at this, but I quickly realise that I can’t let him ask the questions; there’s too much I need to hide. So after a few splutters and false starts I introduce the subject of Rosie and that works a treat. He’s mid-flow about her university offer from Durham when I hear new, more gentle, footsteps on the stairs. The door opens slowly.

  ‘Sorry, everyone, Ben will be down in a minute.’ I look up at Lucy. Every strand of her sleek blonde hair is perfectly in place; the cobalt blue silk dress looks like it was tailored just for her. She turns her head towards me, and our eyes lock together.

  My heart stops.

  ‘Oh God, not you.’

  *

  ‘Lucy? What’s wrong?’ Greg’s voice; concerned for his wife.

  I can’t move. The world is crashing down around me, but I can only sit here. Watch it happen.

  ‘Not who? What do you mean, darling?’

  What was I thinking, coming here? Of course she would recognise me. I know she was given my name, details about my life. I can only guess at the number of nights she’s spent scrutinising my face on her computer screen, unable to sleep, too worried about her son’s murderous birth mother coming to claim him.

  I imagine her slipping out of bed, making a chamomile tea to calm her nerves, opening up her laptop. Dan’s death might not have made the headlines, but it still featured in the inside pages. And the trial was covered more widely. Middle-class family, the link with gang violence, my celebrity clients; it was a scandal worthy of more than a few paragraphs. The accompanying photos were too grainy to give much away, but she could have looked at my Friends Reunited page. Stared at it, committed the contours of my face, the unusual blue of my eyes, to memory.

  ‘Sorry, nothing. Ignore me. Did someone say champagne?’

  I don’t understand what’s happening. Why is she not screaming at me? Kicking me out of her perfect house? The British stiff upper lip is not something I’ll ever recognise. Is this what’s happening here?

  ‘I’ll pour it for you,’ a sullen voice rings out from the doorway. It’s Charlie. He looks terrible. Those beautiful blue eyes are bloodshot and framed with dark circles and his skin looks even paler than usual. Is this Hana’s doing? Kissing him then just upping and leaving? Messing with his head? A jolt of annoyance shoots through me; she might be my friend, but she shouldn’t have played with him like that.