by Ruth Dugdall
The river is full, rippling in the middle with a band of stillness before each bank, so I know a boat must have recently passed, the water is still settling. I can see all this, but I can also see another bridge and hear shouting, Noah and Adam’s voices as clear as if they were next to me, so I squeeze my eyes and come back to Ipswich and this moment and being Ben.
I need to put my feet in the water.
On the other bank, to the left, a line of red brick houses, crumbling, they must be way older than the bridge, they must have seen the river being the main route through, the docks in the distance with cranes reaching into liners carrying cargo. Now their view must be red lorry, yellow lorry, Bartrums and China Shipping. Dock lorries, from Felixstowe port to the rest of the UK, onwards to the rest of the world. This bridge allows all this travel but those houses just have to watch. Do they like it, the activity, the signs of life, or do they curse the sound of lorries and sight of the concrete bridge ripping across the sky?
A head appears, a man’s face. I turn to go, thinking it’s a builder and I’ll be told off for ignoring his sign. Then I see he’s wearing waders and carrying a fishing rod and walking towards the water. He too is ignoring the sign because he wants to fish. My mind flips back, I can’t help it, to Roger Palmer. When I saw him in the courtroom he was a different man from the one I’d known in the classroom, like he’d been shrunk and all the colour had bled from him. The court trial was so long, six whole weeks, so tedious and stuffy. Boring, even though my freedom was at stake.
By the end of those six weeks, through the tedious repetition of facts, the struggle to keep awake, came the sharp realisation that what happened on the bridge didn’t just change three lives, Noah’s and Adam’s and mine, it changed other people’s lives too. And Roger Palmer’s was one of them.
That man can’t be Roger Palmer. My mind is playing tricks again, like it did when I thought the boy with the orange rucksack looked like Adam. It’s like my brain hasn’t caught on to the fact that my life has begun again. This is a different bridge, but I won’t ever go to any bridge now without thinking about that red trainer going over the side, then the boy following.
When I arrive back at the flat I see I have a letter.
In the lobby are mail boxes, one for each flat and I wouldn’t have even bothered checking but I could see the corner of an envelope caught in the flap. I use my key to open the box and there it is, a small white envelope handwritten to my new name, at my new address. It’s Adam’s handwriting, so I know that my card to Mum arrived, because that’s the only way he could know my address.
I feel the thin paper between my fingers and the serrated edge, this page was ripped from a jotter, the biro-ink smudged on the page and I can detect the faint whiff of Lynx body spray. Even when he was fourteen Adam was vain, always thinking about what to wear. He can’t have changed.
We shouldn’t have any contact, Cate made that clear, it’s a condition of my parole. A breach, and I could be hauled back to prison. Many people would cheer if I was back behind bars. I can’t give them any excuse. The past puts me at risk, but he’s my brother, my family.
I gently peel open the envelope.
Hey Bro.
How’s life, then? Must be weird, being able to walk about and that. They’ve sent you miles – I didn’t even know where Ipswich was until I looked it up yesterday on us computer. New start for you, our kid.
Mam got your card. She can’t write just now, give her a chance to get used to it, okay? But she’s fine, no worries.
Summat to make you smile. I’ve got a girl. SHE KNOWS. She started writing to me, a few years back. Really sweet letters. And then she wanted to visit us and that’s rare, right, so I thought why not? I was so nervous I couldn’t sit still, but she was lovely. Pretty. And she kissed us when she left.
We’re thinking of moving in together. Seems like my luck is changing. Hope yours is too.
Anyway, I know where you are now so I might just come and see you one day. I’ve missed you, bro.
I check the postmark on the letter and see it was sent second class, two days ago, from Hull. Just that word mixes me up inside, and part of it is that he’s there and I can’t be. He’s seen Mum, but she won’t even write to me. Adam’s given me no details, how could he when a letter could get lost, fall into the wrong hands. But even this isn’t my main thought, the one that goes round and round is whether Mum knows that Adam has written to me. Does she care?
I read the letter again, this time zoning in on the fact that Adam has a girlfriend, and SHE KNOWS. The capitals are so he doesn’t have to spell it out, but can she really know everything? Is it possible, that a girl can know about Noah’s death and still want to be involved? Not be put off at all? Could I get a girlfriend too, someone who knows about my past and still wants to be with me? But then I remember that she’s with Adam, not me. Adam wasn’t convicted of murder. A girl may want him, but they’d never want me – how could they when my own mother doesn’t?
I put the letter back in its envelope and go to my bedroom, yanking the bag from under the bed. This letter has to be put away along with the others, the ones I received during my eight years in prison. Inside the bag is one letter that I can’t even stand to look at, but I know it by heart. My mum sent it, just days after the trial, and I was stupid enough to open it. The letter is worn thin by my fingers, the ink has rubbed in places under the pad of my thumbs and the folds are floppy and torn from all those times I read and re-read it, looking for one word of comfort or pity or even forgiveness.
I’ll say it for you and save you the trouble – I’m a crap mum. There. Said and done so let’s be straight with each other. Nowt you do from now on can hurt me anyway – I’m your mam so the blame was always gonna be put on us. Is that what you wanted?
Okay, so I admit it. I never loved you. I was rubbish at love because no-one loved me much either. Make you feel better, does it? I doubt it.
I try to not torture myself with the rest of the letter, though I can never bring myself to bin it, and even folded away the letter is still being read in my head. I was ten years old, had just been locked away for murder, and the letter exploded something inside me like a bomb, shocking me with its brutal honesty. Mum hated me. Even though she’d sat through the trial and heard all the evidence she still thought that what happened on the bridge was all my fault.
It wasn’t my fault, Noah climbed over the railing himself.
Thinking about concrete and steel, the forever strength of the Humber Bridge, is so much more preferable to remembering Noah’s face, the broken skin of his lower lip, which was puffed and bloody over his chin, dripping red down his front, splattering his T-shirt. Who would have known a lip could bleed like that?
And now, this letter from Adam.
Adam, who stuttered in court. Whose father pointed at me, and said I led his son astray.
“I’m Ben,” I tell myself. “This is my new life. I have no brother.”
25
The Day Of
Mrs Patel felt herself stiffen when she saw the three boys outside her shop. She knew about the teacher’s strike, it was why her daughter Nazma was upstairs doing her maths homework, rather than sitting in class where she should be. These teachers did not seem to understand that teaching was a privileged occupation, and she found their demands for extra money vulgar. Why wasn’t six weeks holiday each summer enough? She hadn’t had a holiday in twenty-three years.
Through the window she recognised all three, two of them brothers and the third boy – the smallest – who would often come in with his mum. Polite boy, well-raised. The brothers she felt sorry for, though the oldest one made her nervous too. He was edging towards adulthood.
The bell rang as the door nudged open and in they came, bringing their vinegary sweat and old socks smell with them. They positioned themselves along the sweet counter, the eldest boy nearest to her at the till smelling heavily of deodorant and dressed in the sports top of the local team, then his br
other with the white hair, finally the young one who hadn’t looked at her once although when he came with his mother she always made him say hello. They thought she was a fool, pretending to be browsing the wares, when really they were looking for the chance to steal. Other shops had signs, not allowing children in groups, but Mrs Patel didn’t like to do such things. She preferred to hope for better.
“Hello, Mrs Patel.”
To be fair, the eldest boy always greeted her this way, and he had a nice smile even though he looked in need of a wash. She nodded, and waited by the till for him to hand her whatever chocolate bar he wanted, but the two younger boys were shuffling nearer to the smaller sweets, the ones that cost just a few pence each and were easier to slide into pockets. It was taking the eldest boy a long time to decide which chocolate bar he wanted, though her selection never changed and he had visited the shop hundreds of times. Finally, he chose a tube of Rolos and gave her the money. He then led the other boys from the shop.
She walked from behind the till to the window and watched them go. Once outside, they began to run. She turned to face the empty place on the alcohol shelf, where the half-bottle of peach schnapps had been. It was cheap and strong, it would probably make them sick. She wouldn’t admit this to anyone, but she enjoyed this thought as she went to the stock room to replace the stolen bottle, the mental image of the three of them on all fours like dogs, vomiting into the grass. Then she placed another bottle in the empty space and returned to her position behind the till, thinking no more about it.
26
Now
FACEBOOK: FIND HUMBER BOY B
Sue: I saw a man today who looks like the boy in the photo you posted, but older. He was a right thug, roaring at his poor kid on the beach today at Scarborough. He had a tattoo on his neck.
Noah’s mum: Thanks, Sue, but it can’t be him. Parole Board say he’s not allowed in Humberside. But please spread the word and we’ll find him somewhere. At least when he was behind bars, I knew where he was. I’d sacrifice a great deal to have him back there again.
Silent Friend: This country isn’t so big that he can hide forever. And I’m getting closer.
27
Cate
Resisting the urge to indulge herself on a Sunday evening by watching a soapy crime drama, Cate sat at her dining room table in front of her laptop, trying to concentrate. Her thoughts kept taking her back to her ski-slope trip with Olivier, and she was unsure if she enjoyed the tight knot of excitement she felt when she thought of him, something she had not felt since dating Tim, back when she was in her teens. She told herself to concentrate. Tomorrow at nine sharp was a Risk Management meeting, called by the police. Olivier wouldn’t talk about it on their date, he’d simply said it was to do with a potential risk of attack, but the team would want to hear how Ben was, so she had written a report on his progress. It would be the first that they had heard of his work placement at the aquarium, and she didn’t want any of them to say Ben had to stop. It was early days, but Leon who managed the aquarium seemed to like Ben and said he was doing well. She’d have to convince the panel that giving Ben a purpose, a structure to his day, would fend off the depression that usually struck long term prisoners following release. To her knowledge there had been no sign that Ben’s identity or location was compromised.
The doorbell trilled, making her start. She wasn’t expecting anyone and wanted to finish her report. Maybe it was someone collecting for the Blue Cross or something.
But through the glass panel of the front door she saw a silhouette she recognised, and her heart dropped like a stone. It was her mother.
“Hello, Catherine.” She said it primly, and Cate immediately felt like a naughty child. “I thought if I phoned first, you’d make an excuse not to see me.”
Cate thought even more longingly of whatever crime serial was on TV, a bit of escapism from the drama in her own life that always seemed to start when her mother re-appeared.
“Isn’t it a bit late for a casual visit, Mum?”
“It’s only just nine.”
“Yeah, but that’s not exactly what I meant.”
Cate’s mother was smartly dressed as usual, but as she walked past her into the hallway, Cate detected a whiff of alcohol. “Where’s Amelia?”
“Where she should be on a Sunday night at this time. In bed.”
“Can I see her?”
“I’d rather you didn’t. She’s sound asleep.” But it was too late, a call from upstairs revealed the lie. “Is that Nanny?” And then, as Amelia appeared in her nightdress at the top of the stairs, “I’m thirsty!” She clambered down and was immediately hoisted up in her grandmother’s embrace.
“Well, Amelia, what a colourful nightie. Is that a princess on the front?”
“Yeah, it’s Anna from Frozen. Dad bought it for me from the Disney shop in Norwich.”
“Ah, well that’s nice. She’s got beautiful hair.”
“That’s what he said when he bought me the nightie. He said it was red like Mum’s.”
Cate raised an eyebrow in surprise that Tim would say anything complimentary about her. Sally must have loved that. Luckily, with the innocence of youth, Amelia carried on without noticing her grandmother and mum exchanging a look.
“Dad says that’s why Mum has such a temper too.”
Oh. Sally really would have liked that one.
“He says he might take me to Euro Disney next year, it’s really for Chloe’s fifth birthday, but they have a park that’s all about films, so I bet there’s a Frozen section. I’d like that best.”
“Where is Euro Disney?” Her mother asked, vaguely, “Paris? Well that would be lovely, wouldn’t it?”
Cate saw with detached interest that her mother was indeed capable of affection. Realising she was fighting a losing battle, Cate pointed her daughter and mother to the lounge. “Okay, Amelia, I give up. Tell Nanny about Paris while I get you some water. Want a drink, Mum?”
“Yes, please. A gin and ice would be good.”
“I’ll put the kettle on then.”
From the kitchen, Cate listened to her mother ask Amelia about school, about dance class, about Chloe. She didn’t want to leave them alone for too long, but when she re-appeared with the tray, her mum pulled a face at the weak tea.
“Look, Mum, I’ve got work to do for tomorrow and I don’t want Amelia to be tired in the morning so if this can wait… ”
Her mother stopped rummaging in her bag and wiped her mouth quickly. “If what can wait?”
“Whatever it is you came for.”
Her mother tried to pull Amelia back onto her lap, but she was sipping her water and rubbing her eyes sleepily.
“Can’t I call round to see my only grandchild?”
Cate shrugged, knowing there would be more to it than that. Her mother only turned up when something bad had happened, like some bloke had dumped her or someone had slighted her at the rotary club. And her eyes did look oddly focused, like she was really thinking about something or someone else. She took a deep breath, staring at the tea, which she no doubt wished was gin.
“Elizabeth called me.”
So there it was. The real reason for the visit.
“Why?” Cate was incredulous.
“Is that your sister?” Amelia said, suddenly alert and no longer sleepy.
Cate was stunned. Her mother carried on regardless of Amelia hanging on every word. “Of course it is, Amelia, your Aunt Elizabeth who lives far away. She called to say she wants to see us.”
“Amelia, time for bed now.” Cate’s voice shook. “Say goodnight to Nanny.” Amelia reluctantly placed a kiss on an over-rouged cheek, pulling away as her grandmother held her too tight but still not making a move to go until Cate gave her a gentle shove. “Bed, Amelia. Now.”
When she had gone, Cate turned on her mother.
“I can’t believe it. Where is she?”
“She wouldn’t say.” Her mother sighed with a show of patience, as with a petulant chil
d. “I know I made a mess of things, Catherine, but it wasn’t my fault entirely. If your father had been a better husband, then things might have been different at home. You must take after me, when it comes to relationships. If only we didn’t fall for such bastards.”
“Don’t bring Dad into this, or me, please. You’re responsible for your own drinking.”
“Is there any wonder I drink when my own daughter takes that tone with me? And what about Elizabeth? How would you feel if Amelia didn’t want to see you?”
“Please don’t compare me to you. I love my daughter.” Cate said quietly, with barely supressed bitterness.
“And I love you, both of you. I must say, I think Tim may have had a point about that temper of yours. Do you think if you dyed your hair brown you might feel calmer?”
“Mum, don’t be so impossible. You know you’re just avoiding the truth.”
Her mother primly smoothed down her skirt. “And what truth is that?”
“I’m talking about why you drank. If you hadn’t been drunk all the time things would have been different. For me. For Liz. Maybe she wouldn’t have walked out that day and never come back.”
Cate’s mother fell back into the chair, as if exhausted. “You’re so selfish, just like your sister. Don’t you think it’s been hard for me? Don’t you think I suffered, having to pretend everything was fine?”
There was a pause, a stillness, as they both mentally re-adjusted their positions, deciding how far this argument could go. Concluding that she was too tired, Cate said coldly, “So why does she want to see us now. What’s changed, after all these years?”
“She says she’ll tell us when we meet. She’s going to call you.”
“Well I’ll have to see if I’m available. After all, I’ve been trying to find her for two decades.”
Her mother was on her feet now, scrabbling for the keys at the bottom of her bag. On her way out she came face to face with Cate in the doorway.
