The Good Mother

by Karen Osman

  As he handed over her coffee, she noticed Michael’s hand shook slightly. Catherine took the cup gratefully and they made small talk about the weather, her journey, and any other minutiae they could think of. Every so often, Catherine could sense him looking at her, slightly quizzically. As they each got more comfortable, Catherine asked how he was settling into his new life.

  ‘I’m getting there,’ he replied quietly. ‘As you can see, I’m not in the best living situation but at least I have a free roof over my head and I’m not sharing with anybody. I was very specific about that – I really didn’t want to live with anyone else. The rehabilitation team also advised me to take my time settling in, but I’m keen to find some kind of employment soon. I think it would help to have a bit of structure to my days.’

  ‘Do the rehabilitation team also help you find a job?’ Catherine asked, still trying to take in that a convicted murderer was able to get free housing.

  ‘Yes, they do, to a point,’ Michael responded. ‘They have connections with the local community. But, as you can imagine, it’s not easy trying to place an ex-prisoner.’

  ‘I’m sure there will be something available,’ reassured Catherine.

  ‘I hope so. Unfortunately, this is often the most difficult part in the rehabilitation process. As there are so few job opportunities, boredom opens up a whole host of alternative employment, if you know what I mean.’ Michael emphasised the words ‘alternative employment’ and Catherine, from her research, unfortunately knew what he meant. Despite huge amounts of efforts in the resettlement process, ex-prisoners often turned to other means of activity, such as drugs and alcohol.

  ‘Well, there’s time yet. It’s only your second week.’

  Changing the subject, Catherine asked, ‘And how have you found Durham? Has it changed much?’

  Michael laughed drily. ‘Well, I’m not too familiar with this part of Durham,’ waving his hand to indicate he was talking about the block of council flats. ‘But what did I expect? It’s not like they were going to put me in a penthouse in the city centre overlooking the river now, was it?’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ agreed Catherine, not sure if he was joking or not.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Michael. ‘I’m suppose I’m finding it all rather difficult at the moment.’

  Catherine let him speak.

  ‘Looking back, I think I focused so much on the actual release, I didn’t give too much thought to how life would be outside. Or rather I did think about it, but I thought more about the good stuff, you know, rather than the reality.’

  ‘Can you give me an example?’

  Michael looked at her in surprise. ‘You really want to know?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Well, when I was in prison I imagined going back to my favourite coffee shop and just sitting and reading.’

  ‘And why can’t you do that now?’

  ‘Well, I tried it, but as you know, Durham’s a small city and people have long memories...’

  ‘Did something happen?’ Catherine asked gently.

  ‘Nothing I couldn’t handle,’ replied Michael gruffly, ‘but needless to say I don’t think I’ll be going there again.’

  As if to avoid further questioning, he changed the topic.

  ‘I know I’ve said it before, but thank you very much for all your letters. They were incredibly cathartic for me and a big help in getting me through that last year. I don’t think I would have got my parole if it wasn’t for those letters and your encouragement – I’m pretty sure your letter of recommendation went a long way in helping the cause as well.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Catherine automatically responded. Still thinking about Michael’s plans after his release, she asked him if he had managed to get to the sea yet.

  ‘You mentioned in your letters, it would be one of the first things you did,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Well remembered,’ Michael laughed. ‘No, unfortunately not! The rehabilitation centre have kept me pretty busy but perhaps one day, we can go together?’

  ‘That’s a nice idea,’ replied Catherine, non-committally.

  ‘I have to say, Catherine, you do look very familiar,’ Michael said, taking off his glasses, cleaning them and putting them back on to look at her face more intently.

  ‘Really?’ said Catherine. ‘A lot of people say that to me. I think I must just have one of those faces.’

  As he put his glasses back on, Michael commented, ‘Many things have changed, including my eyesight – I must get new glasses.’

  ‘Tell me about your first night of freedom,’ asked Catherine, hoping the open question would distract him. ‘How did it feel when those gates finally opened and you walked free?’

  ‘Oh, well, let me tell you, it was incredible,’ remembered Michael. ‘One of the best days of my life.’

  It had been a good question to ask, Catherine thought as he was speaking.

  ‘The day I woke up, I thought to myself, this is the last day I’m going to be looking at this ceiling ever again. I really shouldn’t have been in there for so long you know. Eleven years is a long time.’

  Catherine tried not to choke on the sip of coffee she had just taken. In her opinion, eleven years was nothing for someone’s life.

  ‘It’s the small things, you know? Like putting my own clothes back on instead of wearing prison uniform. In prison, they strip away your identity so putting my own clothes on was the first step to freedom. When the guard took me through the gates – he even shook my hand and wished me luck – I just breathed in the fresh air and started walking. It was an incredible feeling and I felt so lucky to have survived prison. I had to go and meet my rehabilitation officer after that. I had a lot of questions for him, which he helped me with, so that’s good, but there’s still so much I want to do.’

  ‘Like what?’ asked Catherine, intrigued.

  ‘Well, I want to learn to drive again and I want to explore the Internet a little more. I also want to go and see my mum. She might not want to see me but I have to try at least. She’s my only hope, really. Unfortunately my dad died when I was inside.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ said Catherine automatically.

  ‘Don’t be. He was a hard man but I am sorry that he died while I was in prison. It probably finished my mum off, me in prison and my dad gone.’

  ‘And have you not seen her since…?’ Catherine left the question hanging.

  ‘Since going to jail? No, I haven’t. Neither of them came to visit me. The last time I saw them was in court,’ he said sadly. ‘Anyway, enough about me. How about you? How do you find living in the Lake District?’

  ‘Yes, I enjoy it’ replied Catherine. ‘It’s an incredibly pretty place and a little bit warmer than the North-East!’

  ‘I’m sure it is! Although I hear it rains a lot there.’

  ‘It does.’ Catherine wondered how they had managed to get onto such mundane topics as the weather again.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help you settle in?’ Catherine asked. ‘I’ve brought a few groceries for you. I don’t know if that helps …’ Feeling slightly ridiculous, she handed over the bag. He wasn’t ill, for goodness’ sake, she chided herself.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Michael. ‘The supermarket is quite far from here so that’s really good of you.’

  Continuing, Michael said, ‘I don’t mean to be sexist but I wonder if you could help me with the washing machine? For some reason, I can’t seem to work it out.’

  ‘Of course,’ laughed Catherine nervously, relieved to have something to do with her hands. ‘What seems to be the problem?’

  ‘Well, there’s no problem, but there are just so many settings, I have no idea which setting is best. I have a few shirts in at the moment. Can you take a look?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Thanks – I’ll just pop and see if I there’s anything else I can add to the load.’

  Absent-mindedly, Catherine took a look at the washer dials. Hea
ring Michael come back, she opened the washer door while he put a few more things in.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘For shirts, I would suggest forty degrees on a spin of 600. In fact, you can probably use that setting for most loads. If you’re washing towels or bedding, just increase the spin to 800 as they get quite heavy when wet. Put the tablet in the machine itself – yep, no need for powder these days – and you’re done.’

  ‘Thank you!’ said Michael. ‘Domestic responsibility was never my forte,’ he laughed.

  ‘No problem. Is there anything else I can do?’

  ‘I think I’ve done most of it. I’ve put a few pictures up and tried my best to make this place homely, but it needs a woman’s touch really.’

  Taking her by surprise, Michael touched Catherine’s arm. Without thinking, she jumped.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Michael, slightly flustered. ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve touched a woman.’

  ‘No, no, not at all. You just took me by surprise, that’s all.’ Steady, Catherine, she told herself. You don’t want to frighten him.

  Slowly placing her hand on his arm, Catherine squeezed it as she would an old friend. ‘Everything’s going to be fine, Michael, you’ll see.’

  Looking at her for just a second longer, Michael squeezed her hand back in gratitude. Catherine felt like she had been burnt.

  Breaking the moment, Michael stood up. ‘Are you ready for some lunch?’ he asked. ‘It’s nothing much, just a salad and some quiche.’

  ‘Sounds great. Let me help – I can set the table and chop the salad.’

  ‘There’s no need—’

  ‘I insist,’ interrupted Catherine.

  Walking through to the tiny galley kitchen, she got out some place mats and knives and forks and put them to one side. While Michael prepared the quiche – shop-bought Catherine noticed – she began searching for a knife in the drawer.

  ‘The knives are in the second drawer,’ said Michael. ‘I like to keep them separate.’

  As Catherine opened the second drawer, she chose the largest one, slipping it from its cover.

  Gripping it tightly, she began to slice the tomatoes, cucumber, celery and lettuce.

  ‘So, what plans do you have for the rest of the week?’ she asked, her mind focused on the salad in front of her.

  ‘Well, I have to check in with my rehabilitation officer each day so I usually do that in the morning,’ he replied. ‘Get it over with,’ he added with a grin. ‘And then I suppose this week I’ll start job hunting.’

  ‘What kind of job are you looking for?’

  ‘I’m not sure really,’ Michael replied. ‘Maybe in a restaurant? I’d quite like to apply for a job as a chef but I suspect I’ll be more suited to the role of dishwasher,’ he said, with a touch of irony.

  ‘Well, I’m sure once you’ve got that sorted it will give you something to focus on.’

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Michael move to the small dining table with the quiche.

  ‘Here, Michael, let me do it. You relax and I’ll bring everything to the table.’

  Surprisingly, he did as she asked, perhaps enjoying being looked after, and he sat down on one of the chairs.

  ‘You know, Catherine,’ he said, removing his glasses and cleaning them again, ‘I keep looking at you and, I said it before, but you just seem so familiar. I keep trying to think where I may have seen you. Are you sure we didn’t know each other from when you were in Durham?’

  ‘I don’t know, Michael, what do you think?’

  The knife still in her hand, Catherine turned to him but instead of sitting down, she remained standing, letting him look at her.

  Putting his glasses back on, his eyes widened in recognition. ‘Kate!’ he exclaimed.

  As the realisation dawned on his face, he didn’t see the knife coming towards him.

  ‘Do you know what date it is today, Michael?’ she asked him, unflinchingly.

  Unable to respond, Michael sat there, shock and disbelief reflecting in his face. Her first wound had gone deep, and she was so close to him she could see the naked fear in his eyes. She had aimed her first blow in the centre of his chest, and she had done this deliberately to disable his movements. She wanted him paralysed but conscious.

  She had imagined that first stab so many times. What would it feel like to inflict such damage on another human being? As the knife sliced into his chest, Catherine felt something release inside her – like an elastic band that had been slowly stretched to its limit and had now snapped. Pain and relief intermingled. But standing over Michael, she felt herself transformed. No longer was she powerless: a helpless mother who had been unable to protect her daughter. For twelve years, guilt had been her only companion, when all she wanted was to be alone, to heal, to grieve. But whichever way she turned, whatever she did, and no matter how busy she was, it was always there, consuming her every moment. But it would soon all be over and as she pulled the knife out, she felt herself rising to be the mother she knew she could always be.

  ‘Today is 15 August. Does that date mean anything to you, Michael?’

  As she said his name, she thrust the knife into his stomach as he helplessly clawed at her. Scrambling for something to defend himself, his hand found the edge of the table cloth, and he pulled helplessly, the plates crashing to the cheap Formica tiling.

  Power surging through her, Catherine aimed for his kidney and jabbed the knife hard into his side. Michael was now making a strange keening noise and she heard gurgling coming from the back of his throat.

  ‘Not yet, Michael. You can’t go just yet. I haven’t told you why today is so special. I haven’t driven all this way for nothing. Today is the anniversary of my daughter’s death. Her name was Alison. Do you remember her, Michael?’

  As Catherine removed the knife from his stomach, Michael keeled over, blood flowing rapidly. Catherine ignored it.

  ‘It was on this day, Michael, twelve years ago, that you – decided – to – take – her – away – from – me.’ Punctuating every word with a jab of the knife, Catherine felt an almost beautiful, satisfying ache in her arm.

  Standing back up and catching her breath, she asked, ‘Do you have any idea what you did to our family, Michael?’

  She looked at his face, thin and gaunt now, but still handsome. His eyes were still flickering. Good, she thought. He’s still alive. She wiped the blood splatter from her face, streaking her red lipstick as she did so, merging the scarlet tones as one.

  ‘And when I found out that you were Michael Barnes, the very same Mr Barnes who had taught me writing classes at the local college, I thought to myself, no, it just couldn’t be. Surely fate wouldn’t be so cruel. But it was. Do you remember me, Michael? Do you remember our afternoon of passion? Your Mrs Robinson?’

  Catherine paused, remembering her affair with a young Michael almost twenty years ago. The hotel, their lovemaking, the threat to tell Richard. But that was nothing compared to what he had done to her daughter, and as she imagined this very same scene before her twelve years ago – her daughter helpless and alone – Catherine let out howls of rage, finally losing control as she brought the knife down again and again, and again, her years of pent-up anger, guilt and sadness released in the violence of the movements, until her body and soul were cleansed.

  *

  Later, looking at the scene of destruction, Catherine sat back, her clothes soaking up the pools of blood like a sponge. She could see it disappearing under the fridge and idly wondered who would be responsible for cleaning up her mess.

  ‘Eleven years, Michael – that’s not justice,’ said Catherine quietly. ‘You’re a man of the law – you know that. So that’s why I decided I had to do something myself.’

  With the knife still in her hand, Catherine caressed the seal of the Victorinox logo with her thumb while she waited for the police to arrive.

  *

  Afterwards, Catherine recalled seeing the recognition in Michael’s eyes of the two sides of the w
oman he used to know: Kate, the vulnerable young mother he had once nearly broken, and Catherine, the name she had reverted to after he was tried and convicted for the murder of her elder daughter, Alison. According to the police report, Alison had been stabbed seventeen times in the chest, abdomen, neck and face by Dr Michael Barnes. Afterwards, apparently, he hadn’t even tried to escape – just sat there next to her with his head in his hands. A neighbour had called the police after hearing raised voices and shouting from next door. As the detective inspector quietly and respectfully explained these facts at 11 p.m. on 15 August 1999 to Kate and Richard, Kate knew their lives would never be the same again.

  She had been Catherine for over ten years now. After the media storm of such a high-profile murder case, she had changed her name to the more formal version. Her husband believed it was to avoid being recognised and wanting to have a fresh start in the Lake District, but really it was because Catherine couldn’t bear to be Kate any longer. She hated her. There had been no words to describe the loss of her daughter, but the fact that it was the same man with whom she had had an affair all those years ago, made her feel responsible and almost as guilty as Michael.

  Her husband, Richard, thankfully, had never found out. Jan had seen to that. It was just one of two secrets she had ever kept from her husband, the second being her correspondence with Michael. He wouldn’t have understood and she knew he would ask why she had done this. Hadn’t they been through enough with the loss of one daughter? Why would Catherine do this to him? Why would she do this to Helen?