A Mother Never Lies

by Sarah Clarke

  He wishes he had Rabbit. Even the other rabbit might be okay. But he only has his picture so he holds that to his chest and wonders if the fat lady is coming back.

  Chapter 38

  CHRISTMAS DAY 2019

  Phoebe

  ‘Fiona, can we talk?’

  I take a sharp intake of breath and the cold air hits my lungs. ‘Wow, you scared me. What are you doing out here?’

  ‘Waiting for you.’ Charlie takes a step forward, and the streetlamp shines on his face, lighting up his anguish.

  ‘Lucy said you were tired, that you’d gone for a lie-down?’

  ‘She sent me upstairs when you left the table. But I didn’t want you to go without checking that you were okay. I thought it would be easier to wait outside, figured you’d want to leave pretty quickly. After everything.’

  ‘After making a fool of myself, you mean?’

  He kicks at the gatepost, won’t look me in the eye. This is because I’ve let him down; I’m supposed to be the stable one, supporting him, not the one who falls apart.

  ‘I shouldn’t have asked you to come here.’

  The regret in his voice makes me want to cry. I was so looking forward to today, and now I’ve messed everything up. ‘I’m sorry about my panic attack.’

  ‘My family can have that effect on people.’

  ‘You just took me off guard, talking about trauma like that.’

  He looks up, stops the monotonous kicking. In the shadowy light his expression casts a menacing glow. I search his face for understanding, or pity, but it’s just blank.

  ‘You don’t like talking about yourself, do you?’

  ‘I guess I’m quite a private person,’ I mumble. And I have so much to hide.

  ‘Even from me? You said you trusted me, remember?’

  I nod. ‘I do trust you.’ I know he’s challenging me, testing my loyalty. But I don’t want to say too much. I took a risk by coming here today, and I’m still trying to process how much damage that has caused.

  ‘Will you tell me what happened to you?’

  Should I tell him? He’s confided in me so much, perhaps I owe him this, a small piece of the jigsaw. And it’s not like this revelation will give away my identity; he’s got no idea what I went through before I walked through our front door that night. It some ways, I wish he did.

  ‘Fourteen years ago, I witnessed a fatal stabbing.’ I watch him catch his breath, push his hands deeper into his pockets. ‘The victim was just a teenager. I did what I could, but he died.’

  ‘That must have been terrible,’ he says, his voice low and quiet. ‘But fourteen years is a long time. Why does it still affect you so much?’

  It’s a fair question; it was a lifetime ago. But I can’t tell him the real reason I still carry it with me. ‘Maybe I never faced up to it properly, the fear.’

  ‘What about guilt?’ he asks, his voice suddenly harder.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Survivor’s guilt. That’s a thing isn’t it?’

  My heart settles down again. ‘Yes, that’s a thing. Seeing someone so young die, while I got to live.’

  ‘Do you ever wish you didn’t?’

  I don’t want to talk about this now. I’m exhausted. Lucy’s threats are still ringing in my ears, and now Charlie is trying to peel back my layers. I need some time by myself, to decide what to do next. ‘It’s getting late, I should be going.’

  ‘I’d understand, you know. If you’d preferred to have died instead of that boy.’

  ‘I’m walking home, so I’d better go,’ I mumble, trying to block out his words. The truth is, I would never have swapped places with him, not with Charlie at home, and my daughter growing inside me. Although, in the end, I lost them too.

  My head feels full of cotton wool. One good night’s sleep and then I’ll know what to do. I give him an awkward flick of a wave and turn to go.

  ‘Fiona, stop.’

  His voice is plaintive rather than demanding, but I pivot back to face him.

  ‘Don’t go yet; I want to show you something. Will you come with me?’

  ‘Tonight?’ I ask, stalling for time. I want to go home, but he’s been in a strange mood all day; perhaps I should try to lift him out of it. And of course the thought of spending time together, just me and him, is always tempting.

  ‘It’s important.’

  I sigh. ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He reaches his arm out towards me, and I brace myself for his touch. I can’t help imagining him drawing me into his arms, feeling my son’s heartbeat thud in time with mine. It’s been too long. But he changes his mind, drops his arm back down by his side again. He looks at a Ford Fiesta parked on the street. ‘Quicker if we drive there.’

  ‘Is that your car?’ He’s never mentioned being a driver before, but he nods.

  ‘It’s mine and Rosie’s. It was a joint present for our seventeenths, even though Rosie’s birthday is five months before mine. And she passed her test before I’d had a chance to work out the gears.’

  ‘Do you have your licence now?’

  ‘I can drive,’ he says, trying to dodge the question.

  ‘I’m not sure that it’s a good idea.’ I try to sound placatory, but I’m on probation, so any brush with the law could put me back inside. ‘If it’s far, maybe we should do it another time instead?’

  ‘No.’ The forcefulness of his answer shocks me, and I can tell it’s taken him by surprise too because he immediately softens his tone. ‘I mean, I’d prefer us to go tonight. Since Rosie broke her arm, I’ve been thinking about stuff. About how angry I get with myself. Yesterday I walked for ages, like you do, and I found somewhere special. A place that makes me feel happier in my own skin. I want to show you.’

  I look at his hopeful expression and my heart swells. Even without knowing my true identity, he wants to tell me his secrets, share his more vulnerable side. I wonder where he means, a tranquil spot by the river maybe, or a highpoint with views over London.

  ‘And you could drive,’ he continues. ‘It’s insured for any driver.’

  I look at the small car, how the different panels fit securely together. I haven’t driven for over fourteen years, but I feel an urge to climb inside now, to let the door clunk closed and drive away, with Charlie. ‘If it means that much to you, then let’s go tonight,’ I say, smiling up at him.

  ‘And you promise not to change your mind once we set off?’

  A sense of foreboding tingles on my skin. Why would I do that? Is his special place somewhere illegal? Will I be risking my freedom anyway? I look at his beautiful face, the shared blue of our eyes. ‘I promise,’ I say, and try to hide the unease growing inside me.

  Charlie grins then and it reminds me of the child he used to be, getting an extra ten minutes before bedtime or winning a race in the park. He rummages in his pocket and pulls out a single key, the Ford halo glinting in the dark.

  And it leaves me wondering whether he’d planned it all along.

  *

  As it’s Christmas night, the roads are quiet, and we don’t pass another car on the spiderweb of streets that take us out of Charlie’s neighbourhood. Lots of people have forgotten to close their curtains though and I feel like I’m intruding as I stare at families playing charades or delving into tins of Quality Street in front of the TV. On Charlie’s instruction, I turn onto Garratt Lane, the main thoroughfare in the borough that links Wandsworth town with the sprawling treasures of multicultural Tooting. I have walked these streets so much over the last few months that it feels strange, rushing past them at thirty miles per hour. But then he directs me down Kimber Road, a line of tarmac that cuts King George’s Park in half, and their familiarity starts to change, become more distant.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘A surprise.’

  I pause. The shortness of his answer reminds me of the boy I first encountered all those weeks ago. This isn’t the Charlie I’ve become used to, the one who bares his sou
l to me with an ease that still fills me with joy. ‘I’m not a big fan of surprises,’ I say carefully.

  ‘I thought you trusted me?’

  The car heater is on full blast, but this new hardness in his tone sends a chill down my spine. I take my eyes off the road for a moment and glance at his face in profile. He’s just staring at the road, his hand fiddling mindlessly with something in his pocket. He has been sensitive all day. Is this about Hana? Dare I ask him? The low light and lack of eye contact spur me on.

  ‘I’m sorry about Hana. She told me about her grandmother.’

  Charlie doesn’t respond, just continues staring out of the window. The silence is too oppressive.

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be back as soon as she can. You two are so right for each other.’

  ‘Not right.’

  He’s so quiet that I can hardly make out what he’s saying. ‘Of course you are. Don’t let her leaving London put you off.’

  ‘NO RIGHT!’ His roar makes me jump so much that I nearly swerve into a bollard. Then he drops it to an acidic murmur, which scares me almost as much. ‘You have no right to comment on Hana and me. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ I whisper back. But I can’t hide the tremble in my voice.

  Especially when I reach the traffic lights and he tells me to go left, then right. We’re getting too close to a place I promised I would never set foot in again. The scene of my crime, but also so many others. The loss of my daughter, my husband and finally my son. Losing my liberty meant nothing after that. I want to spin the steering wheel and put my foot down, get the hell away. But instead, I keep driving, following his instructions with my lips sealed and my heart imploding.

  Could it just be some terrible coincidence?

  Or am I heading for a cliff edge?

  But whatever the outcome, after everything I’ve done, I can’t deny him this.

  We pass Southfields station and the images come tumbling forward. Dan and I running from our little flat to catch a tube, after I’d convinced him to stay in bed an extra five minutes. Meeting at the exit after work, then going to Lexi’s for a glass of Chablis. And later, negotiating Charlie’s buggy down those concrete stairs as I attempted a trip to meet Dippy the dinosaur at the Natural History Museum or to explore the real-life magic in the basement of the Science Museum.

  So many happy memories. How did it all go so wrong?

  Then he gives the direction I’ve been dreading. And I slowly pull into Clanwell Street.

  Even in my petrified state, the memories keep coming. The boozy street party we held in that long summer of 2003, evening strolls with Cara as we tried to get our teething sons to drift off to sleep. But all too soon, Charlie gives his final instruction, and I stop the car outside our old home.

  My whole body is shaking, I can’t bear to look at the house that once symbolised all my dreams for the future. And I’m not ready for this conversation with my son. I wish I could run home and pretend it isn’t happening. But I know there’s no chance of that now. Whatever reason Charlie has for bringing me here, to this place where we both lost so much, I need to let him play it out. That’s what unconditional love means.

  I wonder who told him. Did Flora sneak out when I was at work one day, choose not to warn me? Or did Lucy change her mind, do the big reveal, while I climbed the walls in her downstairs toilet? And how much does he know? Flora might tell him about me, but I can’t believe she’d relay Dan’s story, label me a murderer without giving me the chance to explain. Lucy might hate me enough, but would she really do that to Charlie on Christmas Day?

  ‘Let’s go,’ he says, but it’s an order not a request. Any friendship we’ve built up has disappeared now.

  I open the car door and the cold air rushes in. I shudder at the thought of leaving the warmth of the little Ford Fiesta. In contrast, he seems oblivious to the freezing temperatures; just launches himself out of the car and starts pacing up and down the pavement.

  ‘Come on,’ he shouts impatiently.

  I close the car door and dredge up the courage to look at my old house. The front door is a different colour, but otherwise it’s the same. To a house built in the 1800s, fourteen years means nothing. I wish it were the same for Charlie.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask.

  He throws me a look of disgust, like I’m even more of a coward than he thought. Still not owning up to what I’ve done. ‘Into that garden,’ he replies, playing along. He points to the wall that runs down the side of our old garden. Once it was a symbol of pride, signifying our rare end-of-terrace house. But now it just feels like the end of our journey.

  ‘How will we get in?’

  ‘We can climb over.’

  I look at the six-foot wall. Even if I wanted to, there’s no way I could climb over that. I don’t speak, but the scepticism must show on my face.

  ‘I can get you over.’

  ‘No really, I can’t do it Char … Ben.’ Oh God, I’m so tired.

  ‘What did you call me?’

  ‘Ben, I called you Ben.’

  He smirks then, and for a moment, he looks evil. ‘Come here,’ he demands, and I find myself obeying him. He cradles his fingers and instructs me to step up and push off. I’m shaking so much that it’s hard to find my balance, but I do as he says, and then I’m reaching for the top and he’s pushing me over. I wonder if the police will come, or the owners will rush out of the front door, hurling abuse at us. But the house is in the darkness and the streets are still, and a moment later I’m tumbling over the wall.

  I stifle a yelp as I lose my balance on landing and fall hard onto my side. My ankle screams and I close my eyes as I try to ride the shot of pain radiating through my leg. I take a deep breath and roll onto my knees. The pain isn’t subsiding. I realise I can’t put any weight onto my left leg, and it makes me feel even more vulnerable. From my crouched position I watch Charlie appear at the top of the wall, transfer all his weight to his arms and then twist over like a gymnast. His lean frame hides how strong he is.

  I gingerly pull myself to standing and look around me. Like most London houses, it’s a small garden, patio next to the house, and just enough lawn for a trampoline and a shed. On sunny days, I’d push open the wide bifold doors in the morning and Charlie would potter in and out all day. But the sky is black tonight, and all I can see is Dan and that woman, lying together.

  ‘Is it all coming back then? The memories?’

  It comes out as a snarl and I take an unsteady step backwards. I can’t bear the acid in his voice, the pain on his face. Not my beautiful Charlie.

  ‘Because it’s amazing how much you seem to have forgotten, isn’t it, Phoebe?’

  And there it is. The truth laid bare.

  Tears roll down my face. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I remember the moment I saw his face in that newspaper, the elation I felt on finding him. I remember the first time I saw him, racing through the school gates. And then later, the horror of witnessing his self-destruct mode when he confronted that gang of kids. There have been so many good moments too, shared confidences. Charlie and me against the world.

  But now all I see is pure hatred.

  He knows it all.

  It doesn’t matter how anymore.

  I can’t believe it’s come to this.

  I need to put this right.

  Chapter 39

  OCTOBER 2006

  Charlie

  ‘Hello, Charlie. It’s good to see you again. Do you remember me? I’m Celina.’

  Charlie looks around the room. The wood-coloured table is in the same place, although it looks smaller now. And the desk. And the window. He suddenly remembers the sky picture and whips his head round to the wall. It’s still there. The birds flying. He can’t remember how many times Aunty Lizzie brought him here when he first went to live with her. Quite a lot though. The lady called Celina always asked if he wanted to talk about his mummy and daddy. He never did so he’d shake his head. At first she seemed okay with that but one
time she started talking about them anyway. He got really angry with her then. He might have hit her. Maybe that’s why Aunty Lizzie stopped bringing him.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any crayons today. But I’ve got some toys. Would you like to play with them?’

  Charlie follows her gaze to the corner of the room. He’s not sure he wants to play with her toys but there are some knights on horses. He wants to be a knight one day so this might be good practice.

  ‘Okay.’

  She walks around the desk towards him. He worries that she might try to hold his hand, but she doesn’t; she just bends her knees so that they’re the same height and smiles at him. Her face is covered in tiny freckles and her eyes are the colour of water, which isn’t really a colour at all. She looks like an angel, Charlie decides. And that makes him feel even worse about hitting her.

  ‘Shall we sit in the corner? There’s loads of cushions; it’s really cosy.’

  Charlie walks to the corner of the room. It’s a bit like book corner in his classroom, which is his favourite place to sit. He reaches for the knights on horses. They’re really heavy. That’s probably because they have big muscles.

  ‘So I hear you’ve started school now, Charlie?’

  The blue knight must protect the king. He’s very brave and strong.

  ‘And your teacher says you’re brilliant at art.’

  Uh-oh. The black knight has arrived. He wants the castle for himself. He’s going to kill the king!

  ‘And that you like books, that you love the book corner.’

  He attacks the blue knight! Bang bang bang. The horse rears up! But the blue knight is strong. He gets back up, settles his horse. But can he save the king?

  ‘But also that sometimes you’re a bit quiet.’

  He must kill the black knight. He attacks! Again, again. The black knight is injured. But he must be sure. He keeps hitting him.

  ‘And your foster mum, Aunty Lizzie, said the nightmares have started again.’

  Charlie looks up. So that’s why he’s here. It’s a punishment for wetting the bed again. He hates Aunty Lizzie anyway.