by Ruth Dugdall
Amelia jumped up on the kitchen counter and for once Cate didn’t stop her. Amelia grabbed the half-empty bag of marshmallows that they toasted at the beach and sucked one thoughtfully. “If Chloe left, I’d try and find her. I’d be like Anna in Frozen, I’d search everywhere.”
Cate scrubbed at the cutlery and tipped the charred barbeque in the bin, going through the motions of clearing up while her head was full of Liz. Had she done enough to find her? Did she really not know why Liz had left? Nagging, niggling thoughts that she’d kept supressed for years now woken and moving around in her mind. The pain, too, of losing Liz began to throb under the scab that Cate thought was healed long ago.
“Tell me what happened in the second film, Amelia. Did the sisters live happily ever after?”
Amelia had a brain like a movie reel, scene by scene in chronological detail and she was unable to edit. As she started to tell the story of the two sisters, separated but then re-united, Cate listened closely, soothed as the sweet sound of her daughter’s voice tumbled over her.
She waited until she was sure Amelia was asleep before she called her mother, having administered a glass of Chardonnay and a strict warning to herself not to shout.
“Mum, it’s Cate. You gave Liz my number.”
She could hear the sigh down the phone and knew exactly how her mother would have pursed her lips, defending herself against any suggestion of wrongdoing.
“Well, you want to see her, don’t you, Catherine? She is your sister.”
Suddenly taken over, not by the alcohol or her own self-warning, she found she was simply too tired to argue. Too sad. “Did we let her down, Mum? Did we try hard enough to find her?”
There was silence on the other end, though Cate could hear the chink of glass. It seemed both women were armed with their tonic of choice.
Cate asked gently, “Are you drinking again, Mum?”
“No. It’s just water.”
Cate wished with all her heart that this were true. That Liz coming back into their lives was a good thing, that it might even heal their mother.
“I tried my best to be a good mother. I gave you all the love I could. Maybe it just wasn’t enough.”
Cate washed her glass and put it away. She brushed her teeth and went to Amelia’s room, pausing before she switched off the light to watch her daughter sleep, resisting the urge to kiss her because Amelia was the lightest of sleepers, unlike Cate who could sleep through an earthquake. She had slept through Liz packing her bags and leaving. She had slept through her parents’ rows.
The phone call felt like a watershed, it was a rare thing for her mother to use the word ‘love’. But also, Cate had heard a partial apology in her words, though she knew the blame had to be her dad’s too. Whatever had happened, it was the whole family that was rotten, not just one individual. Cate – or Catherine as she was back when she was a child – and her sister were reminders that her parents had once loved each other and earned the status of ‘family’, but her clearest memory was their simple lack of interest in her. She was discouraged from having friends over and remembered her mum saying things like, “Well, it’s a bit inconvenient at the moment, dear. Maybe another time?” Finally, Cate stopped asking. And as long as she was doing well at school, her mum didn’t see the point of going to parents’ evenings. Though they weren’t poor, Cate often went to school without lunch money, her shoes would be too tight before she got a new pair and her school uniform too small before it was replaced. Low-level neglect, a simple lack of interest.
Cate had actively sought her father’s love but he was always busy, more interested in work than family, always on the phone or at meetings, occupied with the shadowy world of business. Whenever teachers or other kids asked her what her dad did she struggled to answer.
“I’m a manager,” was all she ever got out of him, simply stated without even looking up from The Telegraph. It was an inadequate answer, but she didn’t want to push further in case she was told to give him some peace and go to her room. Just to sit silently by his side felt like a victory.
But Dad never ignored Liz. If she came into the room, he would put the paper down just to look at her. And he would read Liz a story before she went to bed, lying on the duvet next to her, in a way he never did with Cate.
No wonder then that, by the time she was a teenager, Cate slid from favour and sought the company of those who at least noticed her. Dad was no longer bothering to excuse his more frequent absences and her mother was drinking even more; Cate would arrive home late to find her mother collapsed on the sofa.
She longed to escape, longed to be loved. She was just eighteen and in the final year at sixth form she met Tim, during a weekend shift at the Great White Horse. At first she was afraid to trust him but the more she resisted, the more he persisted, and she started to think that she was safe. She convinced herself that finally here was someone who loved her. How wrong she was.
Amelia’s sleep was deep, her eyes were moving to whatever dream was playing in her brain, maybe happy thoughts from their day at the beach. Cate turned off the light and went back downstairs, wishing there was someone there to talk to.
44
Ben
I’m hiding and I know it, staying in bed to avoid leaving the bedroom and having to face my brother. I can hear Adam moving around, banging the cupboard door in the kitchen, clearing his throat noisily, and I can’t bear it, this proximity to him. My thoughts are jumbled with how they let him go back home. None of that is his fault, but was it really all mine?
I think back to the trial, how he looked so pathetic, so stupid and gullible. The jury bought it. Maybe that isn’t his fault either, he was just playing a cleverer game than me. I simply told the truth, thinking that was what mattered. Hearing him moving around, opening up the window, yawning, I realise that if I allow any of my feelings to surface I’ll end up lashing out and what I learned in prison is that it’s best to keep any strong feelings inside, where you can control them. If I see his face for too long I just might do something I’ll regret and lose everything. I have to get out of the flat.
It’s a swift walk from my bedroom, into the lounge, out to the door. “I’ll go get some milk,” I say, grabbing my hoodie and some change from the table. The words are like bullets from a machine gun, no pausing space for him to say he’ll come with me.
He just yawns again, rubs his eyes, and says, “And some beer. For later.”
Later. How long is he planning to stay? But I don’t feel up to asking him right now, or hearing his answer, I grab my key and leave. It’s only as the door closes shut behind me that I think how wrong it is, that he’s in my flat and I’m on the outside.
I take the stairs in long strides, so my chest hurts by the time I’m out of the building and into the glare of the sun. Blink, stagger, and think about which direction to walk. Slow, Ben, go slow. The quicker you go the sooner you’ll have to see Adam again. But he’s in my flat, somehow soiling it and I hurry just the same.
Shirl is on the till and she smiles when she sees me, but I’m so nervy I can hardly look at her. “You alright, love?” she says and I feel she can see inside me, that everyone knows what the problem is. It’s all going to collapse, the whole charade, leaving me exposed as the kid who killed a kid, as Humber Boy B. And then I’ll be dead anyway.
I walk back to the flat, holding the milk in one hand, a four pack of Spar lager in the other, and a thought jangling in my head. If Cate finds out Adam’s in the flat I’ll be in breach of my parole, I’ll get returned to prison. But at least there I’ll be safe.
When I return I see that Adam has made himself at home. On the arm of the sofa is a pile of clothes, jeans and T-shirts, and on the floor is his unzipped orange rucksack, underwear spilling out. He has enough for a long stay. There’s a wash bag too, and he sees me gaping at it all.
“I just nipped to the car while you were gone. Got the rest of us stuff.”
Then Adam looks back to his lap and I see he has
an iPad there, black and sleek, colourful pictures and words on the screen. I can’t swallow my jealousy fast enough so the words come out like stones.
“Where did you get that?”
He moves his finger over the rim, shifting it so I can’t see the screen. “Got it when it was on sale. Argos.”
“Pricey, though, aren’t they?”
He looks up at that, at my bitter tone, and I see something cross his eyes that seems like naked honesty but becomes replaced with a more calculated expression. I know what he says next will be a lie.
“Like I said, it was on sale. And I’d some brass put by.”
I wonder if Mum bought it for him. Or Stuart. Am I going crazy, thinking like this, driving myself mad? Even though life and all my experience has already taught me how unfair the world is?
“So what’s that page you’re looking at?”
Because I’m curious, I edge closer, and before he has time to remove it I see a blue and white screen, words and pictures. The header says:
FACEBOOK: FIND HUMBER BOY B
“Us,” he says, looking embarrassed. “Well, to be fair, you. Looks like someone knows where you are, our kid.”
We read it together, the messages from Noah’s mum, the photos.
“Who the fuck is Silent Friend?” Adam asks, casting me a sideways look as if I would know. “Who knows where you are, other than me?”
As I think about his question I feel chilly, a shiver that starts inside and ends up on the surface of my skin. Silent Friend could be anyone, but whoever it is he knows my flat is by the marina. It could be the boiler man from yesterday who seemed familiar, it could be Shirl from the Spar, hell, it could be Leon. It could even be Adam himself who was in Ipswich a whole day before he appeared at my door.
I hand him his beer and he says, “Cheers, bro. Oh, meant to say. Cheryl just sent us a text. She’s on the train.”
“To Ipswich?”
“Well, duh. She wants to see you, our kid. I told you that.”
I don’t even know how to respond to this. Cheryl, whom I last saw at the trial. Whose dad tried to save Noah but failed.
“No way. I can’t see her.”
Adam sighs, exasperated with me that I can’t see what is blindingly obvious to him. “What happened on the Humber Bridge, it changed Cheryl’s life. And my feelings for her, they’re strong because she understands. Christ, someone died. You can’t get closer than that.”
I’m totally confused now. Cheryl was a prosecution witness, part of the Crown’s case against us, yet he’s talking about Noah’s death like it was some act of union between them, something binding. But it tore my world apart, ripped me from all I knew and was. Isn’t he sorry, for what we did? He seems too wrapped up in his love life.
“Because I can tell Cheryl everything, anything. But there’s a piece missing and it’s you. She needs to see you again.”
“Fuck that.”
It’s as if he can’t even hear me, he’s already gathering his keys and phone from the table. “Her train arrives in twenty minutes. So I’m going to fetch her, sharpish. Can’t leave our lass standing waiting, she’d swing for us.”
I watch him head for the door. He’s gone, I can hear the lift making its mechanical descent down to his car. In a panicked split-second decision I run from the flat and take the stairs, two at a time, trying to beat him to the bottom. If I have to meet Cheryl, it’s better that it happens on neutral ground.
I’m sweating when I slide into the passenger seat of Adam’s Mazda. It feels wrong getting into a car driven by Adam, the last thing I saw him steer was Noah’s scooter and he was none too clever at that. He surprises me, though, he’s gentle with the gearbox, easy on the brakes and I feel safe. He’s careful and composed as he drives us out of the marina and onto the inner ring road, navigating double roundabouts easily. I think that this was an Adam I knew too, one I saw every now and then when things were going well and Stuart was back with Mum and there was food in the house. He used to be calm then, in control. ‘Little Man’, Mum used to say, and he liked that.
The car smells of mint and it’s immaculate. I can see where he’s polished the plastic, the carefully chosen rosary beads hanging from the mirror. Lads in prison had rosary beads, a few years back they were the fad. But then that got old and in came the WWJD bracelets and then it was fluorescent loom bands. But Adam didn’t see those later phases, he was released four years earlier than me.
“Fuck. I’m in the wrong lane for the station.”
Adam tenses as we get closer to Cheryl, his breathing becomes jerky, but he still drives with confidence, cutting up the slower cars to change into the right lane and following the sign. He seems to know his way around better than me.
“Have you been to Ipswich before?” I ask, seeing if he’ll tell me the truth now we have broken the ice.
“Nah.”
“You look like you know where you’re going.”
Then he taps his chest pocket where he keeps his mobile. “Sat nav. Fucking brilliant.”
Another sting of jealousy, that he has a second gadget I know nothing about. Adam has re-entered the world and embraced it, I’ve just spent my time in an aquarium and my only friends are an old man and his wife.
“Was it hard for you when you got released? At first, I mean?” I don’t want to sound pathetic, like I’m saying I’m struggling or anything, but my curiosity is too much.
We take the roundabout by the cinema, then get into the one way system where a red light stops us. He starts tapping the steering wheel and I don’t think he’s going to answer me, but then he says, “Some lads on the estate jumped us one night, down Hessle Road. Broke us arm. After that, nowt much. Some shouting, dog shit through front door. But no more broken arms. People just got used to us being back.”
“You returned to Hull and people just got used to it?” I can hardly believe what I’m hearing and I wonder if it could be like that for me too. No-one died of a broken arm, and if things calm down after…
He gives me a sideways glance then turns his attention to the lights that are now amber, then green. “Don’t go thinking you can go back, our kid. Summat bad would happen,” he says, putting his foot on the accelerator. “You’re a convicted killer.”
Ipswich train station is buzzing with taxis, people with briefcases, it’s busy and confusing and no less disconcerting because I’ve been here before. A delicate blonde teenager stands in front of the building, hands clasped in front of her like a schoolgirl, holding a small white sports bag. She stands out, her golden hair, her poise. She seems to know exactly what she is waiting for and when it will arrive. It’s only when Adam pulls the car directly in front of her that I recognise her as the girl from the bridge. In a line-up of ten girls I wouldn’t have known her for the polite gymnast who spoke so nervously at the trial, though she still looks like a dancer. She opens the car door in one graceful arc and slides in behind me, into the back seat.
“God, it was mafting on the train.” She doesn’t look hot at all. Her thin summer dress is perfect, considering she’s travelled five hours by train. “Turn that AC up before I faint.”
Adam obeys, and she leans between us and kisses his cheek, making him blush and smile, like a lovesick puppy. The air conditioning belts out icy blasts.
“This should cool you down, babe.”
She doesn’t even acknowledge me and soon the car is moving again, overtaking and smoothly swooping around the docklands and back to my flat. No-one speaks, there’s just the sound of cool air pumping through the vents but I can smell her, fruit like tangerine or orange scenting her skin. Adam is still red-faced and I can feel that with every concentrated move he is thinking about the girl in the back seat, who I can’t see and daren’t turn to speak to.
The journey feels longer than it was coming and finally we’re parked at the marina and heading towards my flat. I take the stairs, but they beat me to the top by taking the lift, waiting as I get the key from my pocket and lead t
hem into the flat. Only then, in the lounge with the big window, the three of us so close together, breathing heavily from the exertion, does the tension break.
“You’re still skinny,” she tells me, even though I’m wearing baggy jeans, and I see again the girl who bossed Adam around that day. The girl who was the first to say that Noah should suffer, though not the last.
She takes her shoes off and stands barefoot, her dress skimming her knees.
“You still look like a dancer, Cheryl.”
She smiles at this and stretches down to touch her palms to the floor. I catch Adam scowling at me and even though I have very limited experience of love I can see that he’s really into her. She stretches up, notices Adam and moves to press against him. “I haven’t said hello properly.”
And then they kiss. I have to look away because I can see the pink tip of her tongue flicking Adam’s teeth. I look away, down to the marina glinting below.
Cheryl wanders around the lounge, touching the sofa, lifting a pizza delivery leaflet that got posted in my box. There’s not much to see. “Voila, chez moi,” I say, without thinking.
She looks at me with an expression that could be contempt, could be naked curiosity.
“You know French?”
“A bit.” I don’t tell her that I have a GCSE A* in the subject. “I’ve just been to an eight-year boarding school is all.”
“With bars,” she adds, unnecessarily.
“Yeah. Not much to do except study.”
Which isn’t true. There was weight lifting, drugs, sex, which I tried, but didn’t like. Looks like I might be heterosexual, though I haven’t had a chance to test the theory. So, for me it ended up being study. It wasn’t exactly a rounded education, but it had some advantages.
I’ve read all of Shakespeare’s plays, Marlowe, Webster. I’ve read Dante and Goethe. I’m also fairly up to speed on American crime novels of the twentieth century. And I could order a meal in a French restaurant, not that I’ll ever need to as convicted killers can’t travel, not while they’re on life licence anyway.
