by J. A. Baker
I sit with the engine running at the bottom of her immense driveway, my stomach churning with anger. How can it be fair that she is in there, living a life of luxury while other people suffer because of her actions? How is any of that acceptable? White hot hatred eats away at me as I picture them both sitting inside, luxuriating on their expensive furniture, chatting, laughing. Not giving a toss. And just look at this place! I stare at the grandeur of it all, the wide and sweeping views of the North Yorkshire hills she has, the sprawl of her garden. Her house is flanked on either side by houses of the same ilk, all exuding wealth and a sense of genteel tranquillity. She has it all, living here. I ponder over how she came by this sort of money. I know for a fact her parents are still alive and have pissed any money they had up the wall. The woman who brought her up after she was released from prison, perhaps? She didn’t seem overly wealthy but then you never can tell, can you? Or is this what the British justice system does to people once they are released after committing terrible crimes? Set them up for life so they don’t become a drain on society and are less likely to re-offend? The thought of it sickens me to the pit of my stomach. My mother still lives in the same tiny, terraced house in County Durham where it all took place. She exists on a pittance of a pension, still has the same dreary, threadbare carpet and yellowing wallpaper, and all the while she is here, lording it up in her bloody mansion, living like fucking royalty.
I sit and seethe for what feels like an age, my veins bulging with fury. I have to use all my self-restraint to stop myself from marching up that wide, gravel driveway, knocking on her door and dragging her out by her hair telling her that if she doesn’t give it all up, and get the fuck out of here, then her face will be printed across every national newspaper by tomorrow morning. But then that would make it all too easy for her. I want her to suffer a bit more, to try to work out why everything in her life is suddenly falling to pieces, why her daughter has turned out to be such a bitch. Just like her mother.
A noise alerts me, drags me out of my thoughts. My eyes flicker over to the house to the right of hers. A man is at his car; an expensive looking, black Audi, long and sleek and polished to within an inch of its life. He opens the boot and heaves a large, black sack up off the ground then places it inside before slamming the lid closed. I watch him turn around, his hand up to his forehead to shield his eyes from the glare of the sinking sun, and on instinct, I duck down behind the dashboard, my heart suddenly thrashing around my chest. I have no idea why. I’m not doing anything wrong here. I’m not breaking any laws or hurting anybody. There are some dreadful people out there committing all kinds of atrocities but I am most definitely not one of them. The things I have done pale in comparison with those awful criminals. I am a decent citizen whereas she is a complete monster, sitting in there, in her huge house, wearing a mask of decency when all the while she is entertaining evil thoughts.
I peek my head up a fraction and watch as he gets in his car and reverses off the drive. I consider pulling away, but it’s too late. This man already has me in his sights. He stops at the end of the gravel path, his rear tyres slowly edging over the pavement and on to the road where I am parked. I sit up, my face hot at being caught out. His Audi is directly in front of me. He reverses some more, slowly edging closer until our bumpers are almost touching. My cheeks burn with shame as I look ahead to see his eyes, a narrow strip of darkness in his rear-view mirror. He is watching me intently, his close scrutiny of me clearly obvious by the concerned and lingering expression in his gaze. For a split second, I wonder if I should pretend to be lost; get out of my car and stroll up to his window to ask for directions to one of the outlying villages. But I get the feeling this man is no idiot and would see through my tissue of lies. So, I sit, my fingers clutched tightly around the steering wheel, my heart banging around my ribs, and hope he gets fed up and leaves. I fumble with the keys in the ignition, ready to drive off when he doesn’t move. What if I do that and he follows me? Reports me for loitering or some other such nonsense? I take a deep breath and tell myself not to be so stupid. I am not doing anything wrong. I just need to calm down and start thinking logically. And then, just as I am going through all these possible scenarios, his car growls into action and he drives away, the wheels kicking up a storm of dust.
I almost laugh out loud. Alone once more. I reach into my bag and grab my phone, my palms still slippery with nerves, and compose a message to Erica. As I type, telling her the sort of things I would love to do to that bitch and her daughter, I am almost dizzy with euphoria at not being caught. She replies almost immediately some garbage or other about me going home and leaving them both alone. I send one back saying that will never happen. A shiver of exhilaration ripples through me as I picture Erica’s sour little face now she’s decided to be all pious about the whole thing. Sod her and her prim and proper little ways. I made myself a promise and I’m sticking to it.
I throw my phone on to the passenger seat where it slides about on the leather, and turn the key in the ignition. Actually, this place is perfect. Almost deserted, apart from one nosy neighbour. Still, I can always check to make sure his car isn’t here next time I come back, park my vehicle further up the road, around the bend. There are loads of options open to me. I just need to man up a bit and think laterally so I don’t get caught.
I swing out on to the main road and turn the stereo up loud, listening to Snow Patrol on the radio, thinking it’s everything I ever dreamed it would be, this retribution caper. Everything and so much more.
Erica
I try to forget all about Beverley and her message as I head north on the train to meet Freya. I am determined not to let her ruin the precious time I have with my daughter. Freya has herself a summer job in Sunderland and, unlike the other students who are heading off home at the end of this semester, she is staying there to work. The local newspaper has offered her a position in the office carrying out menial tasks and she jumped at the chance. It gives her an opportunity to see what the environment is like and gain some experience in the world of journalism. It was too good a chance to turn down. I feel a pang of worry when I think of her in the student accommodation on her own. Arthur and I tried to convince her that she should come home, but she was so excited about this opportunity that there was no swaying her. Until I told her of my diagnosis, that is. Then she was ready to jump on the next bus and head home, jack it all in to be with me. We had to do an about-turn and tell her to stay, that she was right about it being too good a chance to miss, and she should give it her best shot. And so here I am, my head almost bursting with excitement at the thought of seeing her again.
My phone vibrates and I snatch it up greedily, ready to savour every one of my daughter’s gorgeous words. She is meeting me at the station, and I sent her a message to say we were slightly delayed at Newcastle so I would be a few minutes late. She has spent the last ten minutes sending me every emoticon she can find that contains love hearts and people blowing kisses at each other. I smile and shake my head, then feel myself freeze as the message opens. Not Freya but Beverley, this time. Again. She has sent me a photograph of something, a piece of paper. It’s too small to see. I bite at the sides of my mouth anxiously and open the picture, a loose flap of skin coming away between my teeth as I swipe my fingers over the screen to enlarge it. It’s an address. I can guess who it belongs to before I even read what she written underneath it.
Peartree Lodge
Oaklove Hill
North Yorkshire
DL6 9DP
Mobile number 07491 188192
I close the message and lean back on my seat. Why won’t she leave me alone? How did I not see it before; how odd she is? Completely unhinged. If only the memory of her hospitalisation had come to me earlier I may well have had second thoughts about speaking to her and getting involved in all of this. I don’t doubt for one minute that she has been damaged by the murder of her brother and the awful circumstances of his death, but then so have I. My family and I lost my
sister. My poor dad went to his grave a heartbroken man, a shadow of the person he was. We all have our emotional baggage to lug around day after day. I only hope she doesn’t do anything too rash, but I fear she has begun a downward spiral of vengeance and is too far gone now to back down.
I close my eyes and hug the phone to my chest, feeling the dull rattle of the train as we chug into motion and leave the station. Perhaps I should contact Lissy, tell her she is being watched and to be on her guard. I quickly dismiss the idea. That would very possibly make me look like the crazy one. She would be well within her rights to report me to the police for harassment.
I am still mulling this over, thinking how close I was to losing it all and how blessed I am to have, somehow, been given it all back again, when the train pulls into Sunderland and I spot Freya on the platform waiting for me. She is wearing a pair of low slung jeans, that hang just above her narrow hips, and a white T-Shirt. A green knitted bag is slung over her shoulder and she is carrying an armful of books. She looks like a typical student, slightly frayed at the edges whilst managing to maintain an air of studied calm. My heart beats solidly and I have to stop a crazy, wild smile from spreading across my face when I see her through the window.
The crowd of people on the train shuffle along the aisle at a snail’s pace, everyone murmuring and chuntering on about how dreadful it all is, and that with the prices of trains nowadays you would think the least they could do is be on time. Eventually, the doors slide open and we all spill out on to the platform, a sea of passengers spreading over the area like scurrying ants, some searching the throng of waiting faces while others march towards the exit, eager to get home.
I feel a warm hand slip into mine and turn to my daughter beside me, her face the picture of concern. ‘Mum, you look shattered!’
She reaches up and plants a soft kiss on my cheek, then takes my bag from me, pulling at my arm as I resist.
‘No, Mother, I’ll take this,’ she says with a grin. I try to stop her, to tell her I’m not an invalid, but she puts her hand up to stop me and I find myself going along with whatever she says. I am putty in her hands.
The taxi takes us through a busy street of Victorian town houses, some still residential while others have been changed into offices for solicitors and accountants. They tower over either side of us, casting long, grey shadows in the dying light. It’s a short ride, no more than five minutes, and I protest that I could easily have walked it, while Freya tells me to hush before leaning forward, tapping the back of the driver’s seat and saying, ‘Here is fine, thank you.’
The flat looks empty, most of the other students already packed up and gone to their respective homes scattered across the country.
‘There’s only Dora left. And me, of course.’ She laughs as she drags my bag across the hallway and into her room. ‘She’s leaving in a few days so I’ll have the place to myself.’
I think of her here on her own and carefully eye the lock on the door. It looks sturdy enough. She’ll be fine, I know she will. I must keep telling myself that or I won’t get a wink of sleep for the rest of the summer.
‘I thought we might go out for a meal tonight. You know, you and me in a posh restaurant?’
She laughs and kicks a pair of battered old trainers out of her way before flopping down on to a chair. ‘Round here? Are you kidding me?’
‘It looks fine to me,’ I say chirpily, ‘we can get a cab into the city centre. You can show me the highlights of Sunderland. Give me the grand tour.’
She juts out her lip and nods, a mischievous twinkle in her eye as she speaks, ‘We can go clubbing, eh? Get you signed into the local strip joint, see if they can give you lessons.’
I laugh and she gets up and throws her arms around me. ‘Mum you’re being really brave about it all. If it was me I swear to God I would be shitting myself, but here you are looking bloody amazing, and I know I don’t tell you it often enough, but I think you’re an absolute star; the best mother in the world.’
‘Yes, well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ I chuckle softly. ‘Seeing as I’m paying tonight.’
∞∞∞∞
The evening is a riot. We eat, drink, tour the town, enjoy the relative calm of the pubs now the university has all but emptied itself of students. We send a series of grinning selfies to Arthur, who replies with a row of kisses and hearts, then we return to Freya’s flat satiated, mildly drunk, and giddy with happiness.
I flop down on the bed still half dressed, and fall asleep almost immediately.
When I wake the next morning, Freya is still snoring softly in the chair next to me. I stroke her hair before getting up and showering. I’m making us both a cup of tea when she saunters in, bleary-eyed, hair sticking up comically at opposite angles. Her mouth gapes as a yawn escapes. She brings her arms up and stretches like a cartoon cat, her lithe limbs looping around her body.
‘Morning, lovely. Cup of tea?’
She nods enthusiastically and flops into a kitchen chair. ‘What time’s your train?’
I stare up at the clock and let out a low whistle. ‘In an hour. Best get a wriggle on, hadn’t I?’
The kettle boils and we drink in silence for a short while. It’s highly likely that the next time Freya sees me I will be in a hospital bed. But we don’t need to talk about that. Instead, we discuss her new job, next year’s course and how her application for her student loan is going. Mundane stuff, but then, sometimes boring is what’s required to keep the bad stuff at bay.
My taxi turns up with only ten minutes to spare before my train is due to leave. I hope traffic is light and, for once, pray for a delay at the station. Freya hugs me tightly and I have to prise myself away with promises to call her as soon as I arrive back home.
The train is sitting on the platform as I dash through the station, sliding past the crowds, saying excuse me, excuse me, over and over until I am finally in the carriage and safely ensconced in my seat. I am flooded with relief at having booked a train that requires no changes. After last night’s shenanigans, I don’t think I would have the energy for it; dashing from platform to platform, pushing through people, dragging my bag along behind me. I’m too tired for it all. I rest my head on the back of the seat and let myself be carried along with the soft, lulling regularity of the engine. We set off and power through the greyness and shadows of the towns and cities, passing the towering red brick walls and industrial skylines and head off into the countryside once more.
I pull out my book and read for a while, then check my phone, a small shiver of dread running through me as I stare at the screen. One new message from Arthur telling me to have a safe journey and saying he’ll be waiting for me when I get to the station. And that’s it. I close my eyes and let the relief wash over me. No manic messages from Beverley, no idle threats. Nothing. I feel a huge release of tension seep out of me and close my eyes to stop the tears I feel welling up from spilling forth.
When I wake up, we’re pulling into King’s Cross and I can’t quite believe I’ve slept for that long. Groggy and disorientated, I stagger up and am close to tears again when I spot Arthur on the platform. I grab my bags and shuffle along, suddenly eager to be home.
Arthur kisses me lightly on each cheek as I teeter over to him, tiredness folding in on me. We head off for the car in near silence, the gulf between us not yet fully mended.
I practically fall through the door after we pull up outside the house, the familiarity of it all such a welcome sight it makes me feel quite giddy. My phone vibrates and I reluctantly pull it out, afraid of what I might find written there. It’s Freya checking to see if I’m home yet and sending me lots of kisses. I scroll through my previous texts and consider deleting the messages that Beverley sent me. Incriminating evidence is what they are, if she ever does anything stupid. I stare at them and am just about to hit the delete button when Arthur strides up behind me and tucks his arm around my waist, taking me by surprise. I swing round to see a bouquet of flowers in his other h
and. Tinged with guilt I stuff my phone into my pocket, hoping he didn’t see anything. I will do something about all of this. Get rid of her messages, detach myself from it all. Tomorrow. I will do it all tomorrow. Right now, I have a marriage to mend.
Lissy
I slept on the sofa, afraid that Rosie might sneak down during the night and try to leave me. I hung on to all our sets of keys just in case but, as far as I’m aware, she stayed in her room all evening. I gave up trying to get in there. She refused to communicate with me and I got fed up of talking to a piece of wood. Sometimes I could hear her sobbing in there and it tore me apart, but no matter how hard I tried she stonewalled me. There seemed little point in the end. I kind of hope that today will be better, that time has allowed her to cool down, and she will let me talk to her without any shouting or crying, but I’m not holding out a great deal of hope. She is in shock. This is all to be expected.
I make us some breakfast, desperate to keep things as normal as possible. The paradox of my actions isn’t lost on me. We are about as far from normal as it is possible to be, at this moment in time, but if I don’t do this, I fear the void where our life used to be will grow so large it will swallow us both. We need normality. We need each other. Rosie is my anchor in the choppy seas of fear and uncertainty that are ahead of us.
I set the table, making sure everything is in place ; the best cutlery, a jug of juice, a toast rack; things we rarely ever use, I lay them all out with military precision. I want to make a good impression, show my daughter I am not the monster she thinks I am. Laying the table is the easy part. The difficult bit will be coaxing her down from her bedroom. A horrible idea forces it way into my brain. I swat it away but like an annoying fly it keeps coming back to me, a persistent, insidious thought that taps away at the back of my skull, resolute in its need to terrify me.
