by Gayle Curtis
‘We thought you were dead,’ Cecelia whispered, pulling her knees up to her chest, hugging her legs.
‘You’ve been gone all this time? Not been back at all?’ said Sebastian.
‘No son . . . as I said, I have gone away before . . .’ He could see Yvonne’s guilt was finally rising to the surface as it dawned on her what day it was. She’d never missed their birthdays, however many times she’d left them.
‘I know, but not for this long.’
‘You’re supposed to be dead.’
‘Yes, Cecelia, we thought she was dead,’ Sebastian said sarcastically, not really registering her choice of words.
‘I bet you did. I suppose your father told you that? He obviously didn’t give you my letters. Where is he? I came here earlier and couldn’t find him anywhere.’
‘He’s dead.’ Sebastian spat the words across the table keeping his eyes on his sister.
‘And we told the police you did it . . .’ Cecelia blurted, laughter erupting from her as though she was being sick.
Sebastian watched her stifling the noise into her knees as she gently rocked backwards and forwards on the chair.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The shock of her mother returning triggered another nightmare which caused Cecelia’s voice to disappear once again, rather in the same way Yvonne had vanished. She had thought she’d never see her again, the memories of that day scorched on her brain. She’d grieved for this woman, felt the pain of her absence and, somehow, she now didn’t want her back. Not this version of her mother anyway. Wherever she’d been the past year, whoever she’d been with, had chiselled her into someone quite selfish.
Devoid of any words that made sense to her, Cecelia slipped back into her own private world, somewhere so deep that even Sebastian couldn’t enter. She preferred it like that, silent conversations she played in her mind; words no one else could hear unless they were uttered, made her feel safe. Sometimes she made entire conversations up with people in her mind, occasionally allowing herself to replay real ones, as though she had stored them on file in a library set up in her head. Lola, for all her nervous chatter, was a pleasant distraction, and had relaxed more in her company, although she occasionally treated her as though she was deaf rather than mute and raised her voice higher than necessary. It was a mistake lots of people made when they saw Cecelia and Sebastian signing to one another.
The days running up to their arrest had passed slowly, even though they were busy with exams and studying. They realised that once the police had spoken to Yvonne and discovered that she had an alibi for the time of Roger’s murder, they would start looking to Cecelia and Sebastian for answers.
It was a Saturday morning – they’d both been agitated, pacing up and down the loft room, looking out of the window, then at the clock on the bedside table. Sebastian had tried to draw Cecelia but he couldn’t concentrate and screwed-up sketch paper littered the floor.
Cecelia had pointed at the linen etchings that he’d hung up from string in the loft room and signed to him that they should take them down.
‘No, Cece! It doesn’t mean anything, it’s just art.’
For me, she’d signed to him, placing her hand on her chest. She was worried about what it would look like to the police. They would think it was weird. Cecelia was convinced that if they played everything down, no one would suspect anything. It was naive and showed the child that was still present within her. Turning sixteen didn’t automatically make you an adult, she realised that now.
They were both taken in for questioning that day, a sign language expert brought in on Cecelia’s behalf. Her voice was safely away somewhere, unable to harm her. She hadn’t protested at all when Eleanor had picked her up later that night and taken her home, leaving Sebastian at the police station. That’s what he’d have wanted, she was sure of it. He’d answer the police questions and would sort everything out. Then Eleanor told her the next day that Sebastian was being charged with murder. And still she did nothing, said nothing, didn’t tell anyone that Sebastian was innocent and that she was the guilty one.
Not even when Eleanor told her Samuel was preparing Roger’s funeral, his body having been released. Before she knew it, Cecelia found herself standing opposite her mother, Roger’s coffin separating them. A wave of Sebastian’s absence hit her and she began to sob quietly, the mourners thinking her tears were for Roger.
Cecelia’s insides turned whenever Yvonne caught her looking at her and she turned her glance away, but her mother hooked her eyesight a little longer each time. She’d been dreading the day of the funeral, particularly without Sebastian by her side. He had been granted permission to attend but had refused. Cecelia now regretted her feelings of the past few weeks when she’d wanted to distance herself from Sebastian and feel more independent.
‘Can I have a word, Cece?’ Yvonne caught up with her before she could scamper into the car with her foster mother.
‘Two minutes,’ Eleanor said to Yvonne.
‘Don’t tell me how much time I can have with my daughter.’
Eleanor ignored her and made her way to the car park with Samuel.
‘Do you want to come back to the farm with me? I can make that happen, if you’d like?’
Cecelia shook her head, uncomfortable at her mother’s close proximity to her, her face so near she could smell the mix of nicotine and cheap mints on her breath. She moved to walk away but Yvonne grabbed her arm.
‘Think about it and let me know. It would be like we always planned, remember? Just think about it. For me, Cece.’
Cecelia shrugged, looking up to see Eleanor pulling the car up the road to meet her, check she was OK.
‘Think about it,’ her mother said again, more forcefully.
Cecelia nodded, turning to walk away, agreeing just so she could leave.
‘I haven’t forgotten what you did.’
Stopping in her tracks Cecelia turned back slowly and looked at Yvonne.
‘I wouldn’t ever forget something like that, Mouse, not ever.’
That was the answer to the question Cecelia had been desperate to ask ever since her mother had come back. But she hadn’t been able to work out how to ask someone if they remembered you’d tried to kill them.
PART TWO
18 YEARS LATER
CHAPTER ONE
After Sebastian’s release from prison, he spent a few weeks in accommodation arranged by his probation officer. It wasn’t ideal. It was a flat in the middle of his home town – the usual concrete block soaked in piss – a dumping ground for rubbish with an acrid odour on the stairs and in the corridors that permeated his flat. Even the flat wasn’t much better, with soiled carpets and a constant ghost of a smell he couldn’t erase, reminding him of the bottom of a rancid waste bin.
Today he was standing outside a terraced house with the same bin liner of items he’d left prison with. He looked down at a small scrap of paper in his hand, checking the address that was written in pencil, making sure he’d knocked on the correct door. The house belonged to his mother. She’d come to see him at the flat and had been so shocked by its state that she’d promptly asked him to move in with her. Sebastian wasn’t sure how it was all going to work out but he was grateful for the offer, which came complete with her company and support.
Yvonne had continued to visit Sebastian throughout his time in prison. They’d never been entirely comfortable with one another, mainly passing small talk back and forth across the table. In prison, he’d followed a strict routine and the only topics of conversation he could offer were his studies and the interesting courses he was covering, which he gulped down to alleviate the boredom. In return, she told him of trivial matters that were of no interest to him, as though she was trying to avoid discussing anything meaningful.
An example of her avoiding such discussion was the house Sebastian stood in front of now. An inheritance from Yvonne’s mother, who had died when Sebastian and Cecelia were small. Yvonne had rented it o
ut for many years, giving her an income that she’d saved and hidden from Roger. Sebastian had wanted to ask why they hadn’t left the farm before. Eighteen years of his life might have been saved had they not stayed with Roger for all those years. But it didn’t need to be said; it hung in the air between them, along with lots of other questions that were all strung along the invisible washing line.
‘Come in, son,’ said Yvonne when she had eventually opened the door. He was beginning to wonder if she’d changed her mind.
Sebastian stepped into a fairly cluttered room. An uncomfortable looking two-seater sofa with wooden arms sat in front of an old gas fire. The rest of the space was taken up with glass cabinets full of ornaments which rattled when he walked past. A small dark hallway beyond revealed a steep staircase that his mother had already begun to ascend.
‘I’ll show you up here first, then we’ll have a cup of tea. Did you get the bus?’
‘No, I walked. Needed the fresh air. It’s still a novelty.’
Yvonne laughed harder than the joke warranted.
‘Are you sure this is OK, Mum?’
‘Yes, son. You’ll have to pay me some rent once you get yourself a job though.’
‘Sure.’ Sebastian recalled the conversation he’d had with his probation officer about helping him with job applications. When Sebastian had mentioned taking up his market stall again, making some money that way, as well as pursuing his art, a faint knowing smile had appeared on the man’s lips and he’d continued his lecture about jobs and what would be achievable for Sebastian at that time. These people knew how to crush the life out of you and he had made a mental note to be less forthcoming in future.
‘No funny business though . . . know what I mean?’
They’d reached the landing where they were surrounded by three entrances. The one directly in front of them led to the largest room which contained a bathroom, and there were smaller rooms to the left and right.
‘Funny business, Mother? I’ve just spent more than half my life locked up.’
‘I know, son.’ Yvonne reached behind her and squeezed his arm, but he noticed she couldn’t look him in the eyes.
They were stood in the largest room; a double bed seemed lost against the back wall. It was basic – empty and old fashioned – but Sebastian found it light relief from the clutter of downstairs.
‘You can have this floor to yourself. I sleep in the basement. I had it converted into two bedrooms and a bathroom a few years ago so I could have a lodger up here. We’ll share the kitchen and living room of course, although one of these rooms does have armchairs in it as well.’
‘It’s nice . . .’ Sebastian hadn’t expected an entire floor to himself – something else Yvonne hadn’t mentioned before.
‘The tenant has only just left, that’s why I haven’t . . .’ She tailed off, reading his mind, wanting him to fill in the blank spaces, smother her guilt, tell her it was OK, but he didn’t.
Downstairs there was another sitting room, larger than the first and just by the door to the kitchen stood a fold-down dining table and chairs. Instead of glass cabinets full of ornaments, there were small occasional tables piled with cut outs from magazines – recipes, knitting patterns, various articles – and the dusty television was weighted with folded sections of newspapers. A familiar feeling rose in Sebastian’s stomach as, unused to clutter, he was beginning to feel closed in. He pulled a pouch of tobacco from his back pocket and began rolling a cigarette to distract himself. Pushing past his mother in the galley kitchen he found his way into the small back garden.
‘You all right?’ Yvonne called.
‘Yes, fine. Don’t like being shut in for too long.’
She laughed inappropriately again. ‘I should think they all say that.’
‘I’m sure “they” do,’ Sebastian said, frowning.
He looked up at the tall buildings – a long row of almost identical terraces apart from the various coloured window frames and items of clothing draped from washing lines hanging high in the air. He turned to see a woman’s face peering out from behind an old net curtain in an upstairs window. She glared at him disapprovingly.
‘Don’t take any notice of her. That’s Mrs Dalton; nosy old bag she is.’ Yvonne handed him a mug of strong tea.
‘What have you done to your hair, Mum?’
‘Do you like it? I thought I’d have a change.’ She touched the back of her French pleat with her red varnished nails.
‘Nice. You look good.’ Sebastian observed her, saw the prettiness of her flecked green eyes, the gentle dip of the sockets which led to the soft ascension of her cheeks. She was more vibrant than when she’d been with Roger all those years ago. Now he was viewing her in colour and he’d only just noticed it.
‘Have you thought about what you’re going to do for work?’ Yvonne balanced her cup on an old plant pot and lit her own cigarette.
‘Do you know many people who want to employ someone with a criminal record?’
‘Some people must do, love. You’re not the only one out there.’
‘I’ve been helping out on the market stalls, putting a bit of cash away so I can set up on my own. I used to sell gloves and socks, waterproof gear – did quite well at it. I can keep my head down that way.’ He didn’t tell her he planned to exhibit some of his artwork. After the reaction he got from his probation officer, he thought it was best to keep it to himself.
‘That’s a good idea. I could help you get set up, lend you some cash?’
‘No thanks, Mum; I want to do this on my own. I’m selling quite a lot for the stall holders and they’re giving me a good cut. It won’t take me long. They don’t remember what happened . . . and no questions are asked, which is fine by me.’
‘Got your father’s gob, I suppose. He’d have made a good salesman, if he hadn’t been so uptight . . .’
The mention of Roger turned the atmosphere sour and Sebastian went back indoors and poured himself a fresh cup of tea, which he drank quickly.
‘Anything you want me to get? I’m going into town,’ asked Sebastian, as he ran back upstairs to get his coat and survey his new surroundings, calculating what he might need to buy in the coming weeks. Although there was plenty of furniture, it was a bit stark. It really needed some paint and pictures. There was a strange collage covering one of the walls in the smallest bedroom made up of little pieces of carefully cut sentences and words that had been glued on in straight lines, so that one word followed the next, stringing together sentences that didn’t make sense. Sebastian moved closer and began to read the hundreds of words that covered the wall. It all looked so familiar to him. And then he remembered Cecelia snipping sections out of old books, sentences she particularly liked – such was her obsession with words.
‘Has Cecelia stayed here?’ he asked Yvonne once he was back downstairs.
‘I’ve got some letters I’d like you to post. Oh, and could you pick up something for supper, I’ll give you the money.’
‘Mum?’
‘Yes, son. She stayed here for a few months when Caroline was about ten. She needed time apart from Samuel. They’d been through a bad patch. . .’
‘Caroline?’
‘Yes, Caroline. Your niece.’
‘A few months? And you never told me?’
‘Yes. And no, I didn’t.’ Yvonne was becoming agitated at his questioning.
‘Caroline . . .’ Sebastian tried the name quietly.
‘I haven’t seen her for years, not to speak to anyway, just the odd glimpse outside the school when she was younger. I’ve seen her working in Cecelia’s bookshop recently. She must be seventeen or eighteen by now.’
‘I didn’t know Cecelia owned a bookshop.’
‘Why would you?’ Yvonne said, a little too abruptly. ‘On King’s Street, it is. I sit in the café opposite sometimes, just people watching.’ Yvonne distracted herself with a search through her address book.
‘How come you don’t se
e them anymore?’
‘It didn’t work out, that’s all,’ she finally said.
‘What’s going on, Mum?’
The sudden bang of Yvonne’s fist on the precarious dining table made Sebastian flinch. Without looking at him, she got up from where she was sitting and went downstairs to her basement.
When Sebastian arrived back from town she was asleep on the sofa, make-up smudged across her face and her hair in a knotted mess on the cushion.
CHAPTER TWO
Through the kitchen window, across the long back garden and amidst all the people, Cecelia could see a man standing at the small side gate. He was framed by the honeysuckle-covered arch; the orange sky in the distance was burning a warm glow across all the shapes it touched. Just within reach of her vision she could see the tip of a silver blade poking out from behind the jug and the coffee pot where she’d tried to conceal it. The scene before her was much more sinister and foreboding than it should have been. It was not something she’d expected to see during her daughter’s seventeenth birthday party. And she knew that through the haze of people and the noise, that he could see her just as much as she could see him. Despite the differences in his matured face, she could see the unmistakable ghost of Sebastian as a boy.
It had been seventeen years since she’d seen him last. She’d supported him during the run-up to his trial, feeling it was the least she could do since she’d been somewhat to blame for his incarceration. But then their relationship had begun to corrode – he was bitter and angry, but said he didn’t blame her for what had happened. After a few months she realised she couldn’t face him anymore. They had both thought their mother would shoulder the blame, state the part she had played which had led to the shooting of Roger. But neither of them had told Yvonne which one of them had killed Roger and so she’d just assumed it was Sebastian who had done it. Sebastian wanted to take the blame, he was protecting Cecelia and she had allowed him to, naively thinking that would be the last of it.
