How I Lost You

by Jenny Blackhurst

  “I stopped them kicking the shit out of you, didn’t I? Do you want me to call them back? Tell them I made a mistake?” He turned to face the direction the boys had retreated, knew they were well gone. “Harris! Oi, Harris!”

  “No, I’m sorry, didn’t mean it.” The boy winced from the pain.

  “Jesus, you’re a mess. Come on, I’ll get you back to mine—my mum and dad are never home and Lucy will be able to fix you up.”

  “Who’s Lucy?”

  “The housekeeper. I kicked off when they said she was coming to live with us ’cos I knew they were getting her to keep an eye on me but she’s actually all right—she’s only like eighteen and got massive knockers, and she makes wicked sandwiches. I’m Jack, this is Matt. Why did they call you Shakespeare? Is that your nickname?”

  The boy tried to scowl through the blood. “No. I hate it. I got a hundred percent in an English test and Miss Bramall called me a little Shakespeare. Now that’s what everyone calls me. I’m—”

  “I like it,” Jack interrupted. “Makes you sound smart, and I like smart people. I can call you Billy for short if you like, like our little joke. We are mates now, aren’t we?”

  “Why do you want to be mates with me? I’m not like you and your lot.”

  “Oh yeah? And what are my lot like?”

  “Rich. And well . . . good-looking and stuff.”

  Jack looked at Matt and they both started to laugh. “You queer, Shakespeare? Fancy my mates, do you?”

  “No! I didn’t mean like that. I just . . .”

  Jack snorted. Jesus, was this guy really that square? He was going to have his uses, though.

  “Come on, let’s go and get you cleaned up.”

  4

  Like on most Saturdays the town is packed with teenagers, couples, and mothers dragging their toddlers sullen-faced and whining around the few shops we have left. “The recession has hit the town hard,” Rosie Fairclough tells me as she serves me a huge slab of sticky, warm chocolate cake. “We need more young blood like you to start bringing money back to the place.”

  I almost laugh out loud. Nosy Rosie would have a different opinion if she had the first idea who had come to live in her sleepy little town. That would be some gossip for the WI.

  Digging into my chocolate cake a little too hungrily, I risk a furtive glance out the window. Nothing but cobbled streets full of shoppers. I shake my head, feeling ridiculous, and try to remind myself I’m not living in a low-budget spy movie. No one is watching me. I need to try to forget all about what happened this morning, a hateful prank, so I switch my attention to the people around me.

  Another woman sits near the counter, lost in thought and nursing a slice of carrot cake without plowing in the way I have. She’s about the same age as my mum would have been but she doesn’t look like she needs to worry about her figure, and I guess from her expression that something’s wrong. Her long blonde hair falls into her face as she gazes at the newspaper in front of her and she doesn’t bother to push it away. I find myself wondering what her story is. A fight with a friend? An errant husband? Or something much worse?

  Almost as though I’ve called out to her, she abruptly looks up and catches me staring.

  Embarrassed, I move my gaze over to the door, hating the fact that I’ve been caught gawking at her. “Don’t stare, sweetie,” my mother used to tell me. “It’s rude.”

  “Well, that didn’t last long.” Rosie sees my demolished chocolate cake and smiles. “Can I get you another?”

  Oh God yes.

  “Oh God no.” I laugh a little too loudly. I’ve always had a struggle with my inner fat girl; food is my comfort. If ever I refused food, my mum would look at my dad and tut, “Uh-oh, I think we’ve got a problem on our hands, Len.” She’d tease me even though it was her fault we were a family of food lovers. Her homemade meals, especially her desserts, had my friends lining up to be invited for tea, and my lunch box was the envy of my classmates. Roulades, lemon drizzle cake, raspberry meringue—I was like the primary school version of a crack dealer. Much to my husband’s disappointment, my mother’s culinary skills never quite reached me, and he’d had to settle for a bloody good Sunday lunch at the in-laws once a week. “My hips would never forgive me,” I say. “Rosie, do you mind if I ask you something?”

  The older woman’s eyes light up as though I’ve asked if she would mind if I gave her a winning lottery ticket. Being a fountain of information is what Rosie does.

  “I was just wondering, what are people like round here? Do you get much trouble?”

  Rosie shakes her head. “Oh no, love, well, I mean you get the odd scuffle with the kids in town on a Saturday night, but not much else. Why, have you been having a problem with someone?”

  Instantly I regret asking. I knew Rosie was a gossip but now I’m wondering if she has it in her to dig for her next snippet. Will she be on the net as soon as I leave, looking for Emma Cartwright’s secret past? Ah, paranoia, my old friend, I’ve missed you the last hour.

  “It’s nothing really,” I lie easily. “I found an egg on my doorstep this morning; I just wondered if maybe the locals weren’t keen on new people moving into town.”

  Rosie looks disappointed. “That’ll be kids, love,” she tells me. “This place isn’t like some small towns, you know, where everyone knows everyone’s business. We mainly keep to ourselves. I wouldn’t let it worry you.”

  “No, of course,” I reply, relieved my tiny fib hasn’t raised any other questions. “That’s what I thought, just a prank.”

  The slab of chocolate cake weighs heavily in my stomach as I leave, Rosie’s words bouncing around my mind. This place isn’t like some small towns, you know, where everyone knows everyone’s business. They told me before I left Oakdale to be prepared for people to be hostile if they found out who I was. I was ready for torches and pitchforks; I didn’t expect stalking and mind games. The fact remains, stupid joke or not—someone knows my old name. Which means they know what I did.

  The bell above the door of Deli on the Square chimes loudly as I enter. The home of good food, Ludlow boasts some of the finest homemade and locally sourced cuisine in Shropshire and plays host to a food festival every September. The fat girl inside me loves Ludlow.

  “Emma, lovely to see you.” Carole beams as she spots me in the doorway. “How are you?”

  “I’ll be better with a box of your Camembert and some crusty bread.”

  Carole disappears for a second and returns with a brown paper bag. As she hands it over it still feels warm, and I catch a waft of the freshly baked bread inside.

  “I’ll take a bottle of wine too.”

  Carole raises her eyebrows. “Something to celebrate?”

  I force a smile. “More like comfort eating. I might tell you about it sometime.”

  She’s polite enough not to push the issue. I’ve been on first-name terms with Carole since I first found the deli, but we are far from friends. I don’t feel like I’ll ever be able to get close to anyone who doesn’t know my past. It’s just too risky.

  “Enjoy.” She takes my money and I venture back out onto the street. My mind is telling me to go home and destroy the photo, forget it ever came, but as I turn to make my way home, I catch a glimpse of something impossible. There is a woman in front of me, slim, with long, straight dark hair. She is stooping slightly, bending to hold the hand of the young boy at her side. The young boy I saw beaming up at me from a photograph earlier today. My son.

  I struggle to call out, my breath catches in my throat. Instead I take a few jerky steps forward, then break into a run.

  “Dylan!” I manage to shout. It can’t be him, this is totally impossible, but there he is. After all this time, the sight of him makes me want to drop to my knees. How can my son be so close to me after being so far away for all this time?

  A few people turn around to look at me; my son and his kidnapper don’t look back. It might be my imagination but it looks like she’s upped her pace. No
t enough, though; within a few seconds I’m upon them.

  “Dylan.” I reach down to grab the little boy’s arm and catch his navy coat. Adrenaline courses through my chest as the woman swings around to face me.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get your hands off my son!”

  She grabs Dylan up into her arms and I lose my grip on his coat as she steps backwards. Her face is a mixture of fear and fury.

  “That’s my son, that’s Dylan, he’s my . . .” My words trail off as the realization hits me. He’s not my son. My son is dead and this little boy is clinging to his mother’s neck, scared stiff of the crazy lady shouting at them. He suddenly looks nothing like the boy in the photograph; he doesn’t resemble me, or Mark, or any of our family. This little boy belongs exactly where he is, in the arms of his mother. I falter, take a step back. I want to run but my legs are playing Judas. The woman, realizing I’m no longer a threat to her or her little boy, launches towards me.

  “Are you crazy? How dare you try and grab my son? I should call the police, you bloody lunatic!”

  “I’m sorry, I . . .” Words fail me. I want to explain, but how? How do you describe arms that always feel empty? A heart that aches with loss? Eyes that see a dead child on every street corner? How do you make anyone, let alone a stranger in the street, imagine the loss of someone you sheltered inside your body?

  “So you bloody should be! You’re crazy.” Until she shoved my arm away, I hadn’t even realized I’d still been reaching out.

  “She said she’s sorry.” The words come from behind me, the voice strong and familiar. “She made a mistake. Maybe you should accept her apology and go on with your day.”

  Carole. I hear the woman behind me mutter once more about me being crazy, but footsteps follow and she’s gone.

  “Thank you.” I look around at the people who have stopped to watch the show. “Oh God.”

  “Forget them.” Carole takes my arm gently. She raises her voice, directing her next words at the bystanders. “They have nothing better to do.”

  A couple of them look ashamed; one woman shrugs and a group of teenagers snigger, but they all leave.

  “Are you okay?” Carole asks me gently. I’m not, and my eyes fill with tears at her kindness.

  I sniff and nod.

  “I’ll be fine, it was just a silly misunderstanding. Why did you follow me out here?” Carole holds out a piece of paper. “You dropped this when you took out your purse.”

  I don’t recognize it, but automatically my hand reaches out. It’s a newspaper clipping, and when I look closer, I realize. My baby son stares out at me from the black-and-white photo, one that was taken days after his birth. There’s no headline, but I remember, after all these years, what it was. MOTHER GETS SIX YEARS FOR SON’S MURDER.

  “I couldn’t have . . .” I begin to deny that this photo could have been in my bag, but Carole’s concerned look makes me stop. Where else could it have come from? “I mean yes, it’s mine. Thank you. Again.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I nod again, firmer this time. “Yes. Thanks, Carole, but I have to go. Sorry.”

  The other woman looks like she wants to say something but thinks better of it. Thank goodness.

  “You know I’m only a few doors down if you need me, Emma.”

  I nod again, then realize what she’s just said. “You’re what, sorry?”

  She looks embarrassed. “Sorry, I thought you knew, we live on the same street.”

  No, I didn’t. How did I not know that? Have I walked around for four weeks without seeing anything or anyone around me? Well, Carole’s certainly seen me . . . Who else has been watching?

  “Emma? Are you sure you’re okay? You look a bit ill.”

  I’ve never needed someone more than I do right now, but this isn’t the time or place to invite a stranger into my life. Even one who runs a cheese and wine shop. What do I say to my new friend? “Actually, this morning someone found out I’m a murderer and now I’m having hallucinations about my dead son and carrying around photographs of him I never knew I had. So I could do with a cuppa really, your place or mine?”

  “No, I’m fine,” I say instead. “Thank you again.”

  5

  The library is deserted, even for a Saturday. I’d wandered aimlessly through the town and down the odd side street, clutching the newspaper clipping tight enough to leave the print on my fingers, and come face-to-face with the big stone building.

  As I approach the desk, the stern-looking woman behind it doesn’t even bother to glance up. Her name badge reads “Evelyn.”

  “Yes?” she asks, her head still buried in the huge library catalog in front of her, leaving me staring at a mane of gray hair.

  “Um, I’d like a card, please.” The woman looks up in surprise at the sound of my voice. “Oh, sorry, love.” She smiles, her fierce expression morphing into a more welcoming one. She lowers her voice. “I thought you were that fellow over there again.” She nods towards a rather odd-looking man in a green wax jacket and a trilby, sitting in the corner staring purposefully at one of the computer screens. “He keeps jabbering on about the bloody security restrictions on our Internet. I’m afraid to go over and look at what he’s trying to find. It’s a library, for goodness’ sake, not a flippin’ porn convention.”

  I can’t stop myself and a short burst of laughter escapes my lips. This elderly, reserved-looking woman saying the word “porn” out loud in the library just sounds so ridiculous. She grins again.

  “Sorry, love, how can I help you, a library card, was it?”

  Ten minutes later I’m sitting in front of a computer screen—as far away from the trilby-wearing man as possible—and find my fingers typing the words “Dylan Webster.”

  I’ve always relied on research. The small room they called a library in Oakdale was nothing compared to this place. I hadn’t even known it existed for the first couple of months in prison. I’d spent weeks staring at the walls of my room, Cassie doing everything she could to engage the blank canvas she’d been roomed with in conversation. One afternoon she came to me after her shift in the canteen and took my wrist. This is it, I thought. She’s lost her patience with me; finally she’s going to attack me. Maybe I won’t survive. Maybe I’ll be with Dylan at last.

  “Here,” she said, and prized open my fingers. “Take these and come with me.”

  I opened my hand to see what she’d pressed into my palm. Three shiny silver coins, no more useful in the real world than children’s play money, but more valuable in Oakdale than gold bullion. Credits, our version of money, earned by hard work and good behavior. Credits could buy you the finer things inside—cigarettes, new underwear, magazines—and access to the luxury areas like the gym. Or the library. She pulled me to my feet and I allowed myself to be guided out of our room and down the steel-floored corridors to the communal wing. A door to the left of the common room that I’d never even registered before bore a sign saying “Library.” A rectangular hole to one side of the door was labeled “Three credits, half-day access” and there was a slot for an access card. Cassie took my card from her pocket—God knows when she stole that; that’s how much I guarded my property in the early days—put it in the slot, and inserted the credits.

  “There you go, half a day.” She pushed open the door and gave me a light shove. “Go and do your research on that purple thing Dr. Shaky keeps banging on about in therapy.”

  “Puerperal,” I muttered, unable to say what I really meant to. “Puerperal psychosis.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I said. When you come out, maybe you can teach me all about it.”

  It was in that dark, silent cavern, with its total of thirty-three shelves and two computers with security so tight you’d be lucky to find more than pictures of fluffy bunnies, that I learnt everything I needed to know about the condition I’d been afflicted with. The more I talked with Cassie about what I’d learnt, the more it made sense: the effect of the rou
nds of in vitro fertilization on my mental state, how C-sections could be traumatic enough to push a person into the depths of postpartum depression, the exhaustion and forgetfulness, my short temper I’d attributed to lack of sleep.

  Images I’ve fought so hard to hide from myself seep through like water through rocks.

  Waking up in a hospital bed, not gradually but thrust awake, my eyes snapping open.

  “The baby, help! My baby!” The room’s empty, I’m alone, and when I try to sit up my stomach screams its heated refusal. What’s happened to me? What’s happened to my baby?

  “Hey, hey, don’t move.” Mark is at my side in seconds; his thumb hits the call button next to my bed. “It’s okay, love, don’t sit up.”

  “The baby, Mark, is the baby all right?” My hands press against the hard swell of my stomach and a small fluttering from inside tells me it’s okay. It’s warm and comforting and I let out the breath I’ve been holding.

  The room smells of antibacterial hand wash, a smell that still reminds me of sickness and cancer, of watching my mother deteriorate. Mark is smiling, but before he can speak there’s another person in the room, a woman. She has dirty-blonde hair in a scruffy bun but the rest of her face eludes me.

  “He’s fine, the baby is fine,” Mark whispers. His smile spreads, as though there’s something I should know, something I should understand, but I don’t.

  “He’s doing well, all things considered. You can see him when the doctor’s seen you.”

  “What are you talking about?” I press my hand against my stomach once more. “Have I had another scan? Did they tell you it’s a boy?” What was wrong?

  Mark’s words are soft and comforting. “You went into labor, sweetheart, remember? There was a problem with the baby; they had to put you under. Don’t you remember? You said it was okay, you gave your consent.”

  You gave your consent. Why does my husband sound like a television lawyer? What is he saying? Why is that woman looking at me with such pity?