A Mother Never Lies

by Sarah Clarke

  ‘My daddy is dead.’

  ‘Do you miss him?’

  The black knight isn’t dead after all. He’s crawling towards the blue knight. He must be killed. Die, black knight!

  ‘Maybe you could tell me something about your daddy?’

  Charlie stops banging. The black knight is dead now. But the blue knight isn’t moving. He might be dead too.

  ‘I already told you something.’

  ‘Sorry, Charlie, you did – that’s right. What I meant to say was—’

  ‘Someone killed him.’

  Charlie feels powerful saying that, like the knight. Her water-coloured eyes look even more watery now.

  ‘I know Charlie. And that must make you feel sad.’

  She looks sad, Charlie thinks. Perhaps she loved his daddy too. Like the lady he saw through the banisters that night.

  ‘I was scared at first.’

  ‘Of course you were.’

  ‘But I’m not now.’

  ‘That’s good, Charlie. Do you feel safe with Aunty Lizzie?’

  ‘Yes. Because he’s gone now.’

  ‘Sorry Charlie, who’s gone?’

  ‘The big boy. The one that killed my daddy.’

  Charlie can tell that the lady doesn’t know about the big boy because she looks really surprised. Well, how could she know about him? She’s never been to Aunty Lizzie’s house so she won’t have seen him. She won’t have heard him shouting horrible words or slamming the kitchen door so hard that it cracked the glass either.

  ‘Why do you think the big boy killed your daddy?’

  ‘He’s bad.’

  The big boy has scary eyes and sometimes he would stare at Charlie and laugh at the same time. One time the big boy laughed so much that Aunty Lizzie shouted back at him. But that was when the scary laughing had made Charlie wet his pants, so she was probably just mad with him.

  ‘I’m sorry that the boy scared you, and I’m glad that he’s not living with you and Aunty Lizzie anymore. But it’s important for you to know, Charlie, that the boy didn’t kill your daddy.’

  Stupid lady. Of course he killed Daddy. Charlie saw him do it. At least, he thinks he did. He can’t actually remember for sure. But he remembers feeling angry and sad and scared all at the same time. And that’s how the big boy made him feel. So it makes sense really.

  But he only knew for sure that the big boy killed his daddy when the two policemen came to Aunty Lizzie’s house. They all went into the kitchen together and shut the door, made Charlie go into the front room. He watched a whole DVD of Peppa Pig before they came out again. Then one of the policemen winked at Charlie, which must mean they’d caught his daddy’s killer. And the big boy never came back after that.

  ‘Yes he did. And one day I’m going to kill him back.’

  Chapter 40

  CHRISTMAS DAY 2019

  Ben

  Ben stares at her snivelling face and he wants to punch it. Still acting the victim when she’s actually a fucking killer. It hadn’t taken him long to work that out. All those news websites flashing up once he’d started the online search. Man bludgeoned to death. Theatrical agent convicted of husband’s murder. The grainy pictures that proved he wasn’t going crazy. He’d been certain it was his fault; he’d almost told her as much. And she’d just let him believe it, hadn’t said a word. Fucking bitch.

  He can’t let himself think about how much he’s confided in her, what he’s told her about his life. To the woman who murdered his dad, ruined his life. Acid rears up in his chest, but he swallows it down. He won’t give her the satisfaction of showing how much this hurts.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Ben, for keeping this from you. I should never have let it come to this. Please, let me explain.’

  She’s rambling some pathetic apology now. Does she really think that will work? That she can talk herself out of this? Oh yes, I killed your dad, left you with social services, then when you least expected it, I tricked you into telling me all your secrets. Oops sorry!

  ‘Please, Ben, say something.’

  She’s begging now, her voice cracked and desperate. Ben feels a tiny worm of sympathy work its way into his consciousness. But no; he can’t allow it. He slaps it away, and the sting of his palm against his face feels good, invigorating. ‘How could you do it?’ he asks, pleased that his voice is firmer than hers. He watches her hesitate, weigh up how to answer him. Realisation hits and he feels a sudden urge to laugh. She doesn’t know what he means, which terrible act he’s referring to. How could you murder my dad? How could you leave me? How could you lie to me about who you are? So many fuck-ups, Mummy dear. Eeny, meeny, miney, moe …

  ‘I’ve made a lot of mistakes.’

  ‘Understatement of the fucking year.’

  ‘But I never stopped loving you – you have to believe that.’

  ‘Like you loved my dad, do you mean?’

  ‘I did love him.’

  ‘So what; you’re going to kill me too?’

  He listens to her sharp intake of breath, then her voice crack. ‘No, of course I’m not!’

  She can’t speak for a while after that. She’s crying too hard. Ben watches her fold into herself, collapse onto the patio. He hadn’t stuck around for long on the night of the Christmas party, but he’d taken more time on his second visit last night. He’d needed to check that the place was empty, but it was more than that: a craving to reconnect with his roots, to try and make sense of what he read on those websites. He’d climbed over the wall easily enough, then prowled around the garden looking for traces of his past. But it was only when he sat where Phoebe is now, staring through those wide panes of glass at the kitchen beyond, that the memories had started to surface.

  Memories of his dad, his hero.

  ‘You chose to kill my dad though, didn’t you?’

  ‘It didn’t feel like a choice.’

  ‘What? Even now, you won’t take responsibility!’

  ‘I was broken. He broke me.’

  ‘HE WAS MY DAD!’ The flowerbed by Ben’s feet is edged with rocks. He picks one up, then throws it. He’s not sure whether he meant to hit her, but it connects with her shoulder and he feels better for it. Calmer.

  ‘I know, I’m sorry. He loved you.’ She brushes at her shoulder vaguely, like she didn’t notice what just happened, doesn’t understand why it’s hurting.

  Ben stares at the back of the garden. There’s a hint of a mound in the turf next to the fence, and it sparks a new memory, the three of them stood solemnly, holding hands and saying goodbye. ‘Do you remember Lola?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘We had a hamster. I called her Lola, after the Charlie and Lola books.’

  ‘Yes, Lola,’ she says in a faraway voice. ‘She wasn’t with us for long.’

  ‘Seems to be a theme in our family,’ Ben growls. But Phoebe doesn’t react, it’s as though she’s become immune to his anger. A coldblooded monster. Ben picks up another rock, but throws it against the back fence this time, enjoys the sound of the wood splintering. ‘Do you remember burying her? I do. You finding a little box, me drawing her a picture. Dad digging a hole. All of us stood over it, sending Lola on her way.’

  ‘You were upset. It made you feel better, saying a proper goodbye.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Do you know how many times I’ve visited my father’s grave? Laid flowers for him, honoured his important dates? Jesus, I don’t even know if he has a grave!’

  ‘It wasn’t my choice,’ she whispers. ‘To keep the truth from you.’

  ‘So now it’s my parents’ fault is it? You’re developing quite a pattern here, Phoebe. Yeah, they should have fucking told me. Like they should have thrown you out of our house today. I watched; I waited. But you’re all the same. Hiding your dirty secrets, thinking you’ve got the right to keep my truth from me. But whatever they’ve done, don’t you dare use them as your excuse.’

  ‘I wrote to you. Twice a year. They kept those letters from you.’

  ‘And did
you explain my dad’s death? Own up to what you’d done?’ Her silence says it all and any wisp of hope Ben might have felt dies before it was ever really formed.

  ‘I only remembered him yesterday,’ he continues. ‘I was his little hero; I remember him calling me that now. And yet, for all these years, he’s been alone. You killed him, and I forgot him.’ The strength in Ben’s legs seems to disappear and he fights the urge to collapse down next to her. Instead, he walks across the patio and leans on the arm of a rattan sofa, its cushions elsewhere, packed away for winter.

  ‘Don’t think like that. He wasn’t so perfect.’

  ‘I remember him pushing me on the swings, daring me to close my eyes.’ In honour of the memory, Ben closes his eyes now, imagines swaying from side to side. It isn’t difficult; he’s hardly slept for the last two days.

  ‘He was never there; I raised you, not him.’

  Ben watches Phoebe push herself to standing. Her face contorts in pain and she drops her weight onto her right side. She must have hurt herself on the climb over. It’s nowhere near punishment enough.

  ‘He worked hard, nothing wrong with that,’ he spits back. The urge to defend his father is intense.

  ‘He always put himself first.’

  She’s taking uneven steps towards him now. Ben’s breathing quickens; pinpricks of adrenaline tap-tap-tap at his arms. ‘It’s you that I remember shouting, not him,’ he throws back. ‘He tried to calm you down.’

  ‘He pushed me to it. I need you to understand that, Ben.’

  She’s hovering so close. He can’t look at her. How dare she blame his dad, taint Ben’s memories. After everything she’s done. ‘I’ve only just got him back. And you want to ruin it, even now?’

  ‘He cheated on me; didn’t even care enough to hide it from you.’

  A stranger with red lips arriving in the darkness, her hand reaching behind Daddy’s neck. Ben forces the memory out of his head. ‘He didn’t deserve to die.’

  ‘I was pregnant. I was sure I was going to give you a sister. But my baby died inside me. That’s on him.’

  She’s lying. A wave of revulsion sweeps over Ben, so powerful that he thinks it might drown him. But instead, it recharges his exhausted body. He lunges forward, grabs her by the neck; pushes against her. He doesn’t remember making the decision, but the knife appears in his hand.

  Did he plan this? Had he chosen to bring her here because it’s where she murdered his dad? A private garden where he could be certain of no witnesses? And he’s brought the weapon. He opened his art case, cradled the knife in his hands, zipped it carefully into his jacket pocket. As he stares at the broken little bird in his grip, he knows he didn’t need it for self-defence.

  It doesn’t matter now though. Pre-meditated or impulsive; it’s happening either way. Perhaps this is why his parents chose not to love him, not properly like they do Rosie. It’s shame that’s fuelled their silence. And why he’s never made anything of himself at school, or found friends who actually care about him. Maybe this is why Hana left as soon as he admitted how much he liked her. Because they all knew before he did. That his life as a Moreton, a rich kid with a future, was only ever a temporary thing.

  He looks at his mother. The murderer. Her blood running through his veins.

  This is his destiny.

  And his duty. He made a promise to avenge his father’s murder. He’s remembered that too. He got the wrong person then, but he knows the truth now. She should have been stabbed on the bus with that kid. Then his dad would be alive, and they would be celebrating this Christmas Day together. But she didn’t. She survived and got the chance to ruin two lives. Well not anymore. It might be fourteen years too late, but it’s still going to be worth it.

  He pushes the blade up against her throat. He can feel her shaking beneath his grip.

  ‘Please, Charlie, don’t do this.’

  She warbles like a bird too. And pecks at him. She needs to shut up. ‘Don’t ask anything of me,’ he growls. ‘I owe you nothing.’ He pushes harder, can sense the splitting of her skin, the thin dribble of blood trickling down her neck. He listens to her breathing get faster, shallower, her voice starting to panic.

  ‘I’m not asking for me. This is about you. Don’t ruin your life like this. I’m not worth it.’

  ‘Don’t put this on me!’ he howls. ‘It was you who ruined my life. The moment you smashed my dad’s face in; sprayed his blood all over me. The moment you walked away. Turned me into an orphan. That’s when this started.’

  ‘I know what I am, what I’ve done. Don’t you think I haven’t longed for this? To have all the guilt and the pain snuffed out by a blade or a packet of pills?’

  ‘Then why didn’t you?’

  ‘For you, Charlie. For you.’

  He starts to correct her again. His name is Ben. But it isn’t anymore, he realises. He’s given that life up now. He needs to accept who he really is.

  ‘For those precious three years when you were my world.’

  He wishes she’d just shut up. He needs to get on with this.

  ‘It was all so ordinary at the time. Trips to the park, cuddles on the sofa, races down the street. Do you remember that tipi that Grandma got you? You’d sit for ages in there, with your colouring books.’

  Ben shakes his head violently. He does remember but he needs to knock the images out of his head. They’re confusing him. He pushes her roughly onto the bare sofa, pulls his arm away from her. He can’t slice at her neck. But he can stab her. Like that boy she didn’t save.

  ‘But then it stopped, and it wasn’t ordinary anymore. It was a collection of the most wonderful memories, special moments that no one could take away from me.’

  He can see her now. Chasing him with her tickling fingers. Tucking him into bed. Kissing him and his rabbit goodnight. His mum. Her face. Those eyes.

  ‘It wasn’t much, Charlie. But it was enough to keep me alive.’

  Ben can’t bear it anymore. He raises his arm, releases an animal call of pure rage and stabs the knife in, feeling the splitting of flesh, the gush of blood. The release it brings is incredible. A sense of euphoria sweeps over him.

  It’s done now. There’s no turning back.

  And it feels so right.

  Chapter 41

  Phoebe

  No, no, no. This can’t be happening. Not again. Not here.

  ‘Charlie! What have you done? Please, Charlie, talk to me.’

  But he’s just looking at me weirdly, like he’s high or wasted. For a second I see Flora, her knees buckling, her falling to the ground. But it’s not Flora with a knife jutting out of her midriff. It’s my beautiful boy.

  I don’t know what to do. The street is so dark, no one else around; this is on me. But I can’t think straight. It easier to just freeze. Sit and watch. Pretend it’s not real; just a cheap Netflix movie that I can turn off at any point. I want to turn it off now, but I don’t have the control. I can’t stop this.

  I need to do something.

  I lurch forward, almost falling on top of him in my sudden attempt to help. His eyes are open, that’s a good sign, but his face is deathly pale and there’s a film of sweat forming across his forehead. His breathing is shallow and rapid like an excited puppy. Except it’s fear and panic that I see in his eyes now.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘It’s going to be okay.’ Neither of us believes it but it still feels worth saying, if only to mask the horrific sound of him searching for air.

  Tentatively I reach my hand towards the knife. It’s just under his ribcage on the right side. Not his heart, thank God, but my fingers still squelch in the sea of blood flooding out from the wound. I scream. Then my mouth starts to claw at the air, searching for oxygen.

  And with my growing panic, the images come.

  The blood seeping out of that tiny hole in the boy’s chest, flooding my vision.

  The blood in my bathroom; nothing I could do.

  And Dan’s blood. My doing.


  I can’t let history repeat itself.

  The panic attack is all in your head, I scream at myself. It’s enough to halt my constant inhaling; miraculously, it’s also enough to force out a long angry blow of carbon dioxide. I reach into Charlie’s pocket for his phone. With shaking fingers, I press 999 and prod at the speakerphone button. But it’s too passive; I need to do more than that. I rip off my jacket; ignore the cold air that grabs me. With nothing but instinct to guide me, I push it down onto Charlie’s body, either side of the knife, and sink my hands into the wound. I couldn’t stem the blood of that boy, or stop him dying, but I can’t let history repeat itself. Not Charlie.

  ‘Which emergency service do you need?’

  ‘Ambulance.’ It’s just a whisper though. Too quiet. ‘Ambulance!’ I repeat.

  ‘Putting you through now.’

  ‘London Ambulance Service. What is your location?’

  I want to scream it all out, tell her everything. So that she’ll understand how important it is, how they need to save him. But I have to stay calm, do something right for once. The stakes are too high.

  ‘It’s 55 Clanwell Street. In the garden. There’s a back gate, off Brookfell Road. I think there’s a padlock and chain; you’ll need bolt cutters.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s very useful. What’s your name?’

  ‘Phoebe.’ Comply with the rules, don’t let your impatience show.

  ‘Are you hurt, Phoebe?’

  Yes, I’m hurt. Everywhere hurts. But this isn’t about me. This has never been about me, but I’ve been too blind to see that.

  ‘It’s not me. It’s my …’ And that must start with me acknowledging who he is. And who he isn’t anymore. ‘It’s a friend of mine. Ben Moreton.’

  ‘What’s happened to Ben?’ Her voice is so professional. I need to match it.

  ‘He has a stab wound. Self-inflicted. Right side under the ribcage.’

  ‘Is he conscious? Can I talk to him?’

  I’ve been concentrating on his wound. The task of trying to stop the never-ending stream of blood has given me something to focus on, distracted me from the enormity of what’s happening. I look back towards his face and see that his eyes have closed. Maybe he’s just resting.