The Mother's Mistake: A totally gripping psychological thriller

by Ruth Heald

  It doesn’t work and I can’t stop the tears running steadily down my face. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. A long steak of mascara comes off onto my hand. Around it there’s a pale patch of skin, where the tears have rubbed off the dirt. My tongue feels like sandpaper. My nose is clogged. I sniff loudly. I don’t have a tissue. Commuters tut around me, shuffling and rearranging newspapers.

  I hear movement in the carriage around me as people reposition themselves nearer the doors. Then I feel a rush of air as the carriage doors open. I don’t move or open my eyes. I let people push past me to get off the train, then let others push past me to get on. The doors beep and then whoosh closed. One stop down. Many, many more to go.

  Thirty-One

  I can hear Olivia screaming on the other side of the door as I fumble around in my bag for my key. I know I had it at the church, but I can’t seem to find it. I tip my handbag upside down and the contents spill onto the doorstep and into the flowerbed. Oyster card, coins, wallet. House keys. There they are.

  I put the key in the lock as Matt opens the door.

  ‘Claire.’

  I expect him to be furious, but he wraps his arms around me, holding me close. ‘Where have you been?’ he asks, his voice concerned.

  I collapse into his embrace, leaning against him for support.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, tears running down my cheeks.

  ‘You don’t know? Are you OK?’

  His hands run through my hair. It’s dusty, tangled, dirty.

  ‘I need to see Olivia. She’s crying.’

  ‘She’s OK, don’t worry.’

  I hear a strangled sob, and it takes a moment before I realise it’s from me. I drop my shoes onto the floor and push past Matt into the living room.

  Olivia is on her playmat and I lean over and sweep her into my arms. I feel dizzy, but I hold her close and smother her with kisses. Slowly her screams quieten before stopping altogether.

  ‘Be careful, Claire,’ Matt says. He prises Olivia gently from my arms. ‘Why don’t you sit down and hold her?’

  I want to protest, but I’m exhausted. I sink down into the sofa.

  Matt sits beside me and holds Olivia up to me.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  I take Olivia and she starts rooting for my breast. My instinct to feed her takes over. I pull up my dress and hold my nipple to her and she sucks eagerly. I am grubby even under my clothes. My stomach has a grey, sooty line across it. What’s happened to me?

  Matt comes in with the tea.

  ‘Are you sure you should do that?’ he asks.

  ‘Why?’ My brain is foggy.

  ‘I can smell the drink on you, Claire.’

  I look at Olivia and feel a sudden, unfamiliar surge of affection. I never want to let go.

  ‘Let me take her for a bit,’ Matt says. ‘Drink your tea, then have a shower. It will make you feel better.’

  I reluctantly let him lift Olivia out of my arms and then I pick up my tea. The thought of a shower exhausts me. I just want to sleep. I feel my eyes start to close.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Matt asks from far away. ‘You’re spilling your drink.’ I feel his hand wrap around mine and take the tea away.

  * * *

  When I wake up, I’m still on the sofa, still in my dress, covered in a blanket. I can hear Matt on the phone in the kitchen. It takes a while to remember what happened. Emma. Drinking. Dancing. Church steps.

  Matt comes in. ‘You’re awake.’

  ‘Looks like it.’ I manage a half smile. I feel like death.

  ‘What happened?’ Matt asks, his voice steeped in concern.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘No. I woke up in London… I can’t explain it. I suppose I must have had too much to drink. I’m sorry.’

  I feel the flush of shame. There have been other nights like this. Big, black abysses of memory. I remember what my counsellor told me. You’re never a recovered alcoholic. The addiction will always be there. It’s always inside you, waiting to get out. Last night I stupidly gave into it.

  ‘Where in London? Were you… were you with someone?’

  ‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘It wasn’t that.’ I can’t bring myself to tell him I slept in a church doorway.

  Matt strokes my hair, and then pulls his hand away, holding a dried leaf between his fingers.

  ‘How did this get here?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I was so worried, Claire.’

  I swallow back tears. I can’t lean on Matt. We’re not together any more.

  ‘You can go, if you like,’ I say. But I don’t want him to go. I want to be here with him.

  ‘I think you need me. Besides, I’ve cancelled all my appointments for today.’

  ‘You had work. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK, Claire. You’re more important. You’re my wife.’

  Why is he being so nice to me? I don’t deserve this.

  ‘Was that who you were on the phone to just now? Clients?’

  ‘No, I was on the phone to the police, letting them know you were safe.’

  ‘The police? Why?’

  ‘You were missing. I was worried.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, ashamed.

  ‘I called the police five times. I’d spoken to Emma and she didn’t know where you were. We were both so worried.’

  ‘You didn’t need to call the police.’

  ‘I couldn’t get them to look for you anyway. You hadn’t been missing long enough.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘They said you were probably out drinking.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I was scared, Claire. It reminded me of the last time you went missing. You know what happened. I’d never been more scared in my life than when they found you.’

  I don’t want to think about who I was back then. I was found at the top of the multi-storey car park, staring over the edge, ready to jump.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that. Not any more.’ But I wonder if I would. What am I capable of?

  ‘I had to tell them about it.’

  ‘Did you?’ I don’t want the police to know that. I wonder if it will get back to social services. If they’ll add it to their growing file of evidence that I’m a bad mother.

  ‘It was the only way I could get them to listen. They didn’t take it seriously until I told them. Then they were concerned. And Claire… I was worried too. I thought you might have…’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ I say.

  ‘But you have been depressed. I just thought…’

  ‘I’m fine.’ The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.

  ‘But you’re not fine, Claire. You’re not at all fine.’

  He leans towards me.

  ‘Your cheek is scratched.’

  He reaches out to touch it and runs his fingers gently over the graze. He looks into my eyes.

  ‘I can help you.’

  I want his help. I want it so much. But I can’t admit it. ‘I don’t need help,’ I say, averting my eyes.

  ‘At least let me clean that graze. And help you get the dirt out of your hair.’

  ‘I’m so tired,’ I say, my vision blurring again.

  ‘Let’s clean you up and put you to bed.’

  I’m so exhausted that I give in.

  I’m leaving this morning. With my daughter.

  I couldn’t face leaving last night. I wanted one more night in my house, in my own bed, before I entered the chaos of a shelter.

  I have everything ready. My packed suitcase is by the door. I’ve tidied the house, mopped the kitchen floor. Even after everything he’s done, I don’t feel I can leave my husband alone in an untidy house. He can’t stand it when anything is out of place.

  Now is the time. He’s left for the office and won’t be back until the evening. I go to the cupboard and pull out my suitcase and put it by the door. I look round the house one
last time. I’ll miss it. The quiet street with the big houses that I’d always longed to live in. I’d thought this was the life I wanted. I’d thought that this was my happy ever after. When my husband whisked me off my feet and helped me escape my controlling family, I’d finally felt safe. The house was a new beginning. My own little family.

  But now it’s time to go.

  When I go into my daughter’s room, she’s sitting quietly on the floor, thumbing through a book. I sit down beside her and stroke her hair.

  This room is everything I didn’t have as a child. A bookshelf full to bursting with books. Bright yellow walls, with a flowered border. A toy box with every kind of toy. I wonder if she’ll miss it. I wonder if she’ll even remember.

  My daughter senses something before I do. She freezes, her fingers suddenly still on the page of the book.

  Footsteps.

  The light changes in the room. A shadow across the door.

  My husband. Holding my suitcase.

  He puts it down on the floor beside me and takes every item out one by one, holding each up in turn and examining it, before dropping it back to the floor.

  ‘About a week’s worth here,’ he says, conversationally, as if it doesn’t matter at all.

  My eyes meet my daughter’s and I don’t know whether to hug her close or tell her to run away. Run as fast as she can.

  She gets the message, jumping up and leaving the room.

  His face is in front of me. Right up close to mine. His breath is ragged and angry.

  ‘Where did you think you were going?’

  Thirty-Two

  I lie in the bath, staring at the blue-black bruises that litter my arms and legs. I run my hands over them and wince. I let my head sink under the water, my hair fanning out around me. I want to wash myself clean of everything I’ve done. I want to scrub away my addiction to alcohol, I want to scrub away my postnatal depression, I want to scrub away myself. But no matter how many times I wash, I can’t seem to get clean. The graze on my cheek seems to produce more dirt with each minute that passes, small bits of grit easing themselves out of the wound. My hair is no longer caked in dust from the church steps, but despite repeated washing it still feels thick and tacky. The dirt is coming from the inside, from my very core, seeping out of me into the world.

  Matt’s downstairs, going through the kitchen cupboards and removing all the alcohol. I listen to the bottles clink as he gathers them, hear him opening the door and throwing them into the recycling bin. This is the second time in our lives he’s had to do this for me. To protect me from myself.

  I pull myself out of the bath. My limbs feel heavy and I wrap the towel around me. I hear Matt shut the front door and start playing with Olivia, chatting to her. I dress and go downstairs to find him reading her a story. She stares up at him, adoringly. She never looks at me like that. When she looks at me I only see need in her eyes; for milk, for a cuddle, for a nappy change. I lean against the wall and let Matt’s voice wash over me. If only I could ignore everything else and just concentrate on the love Matt feels for Olivia, and the pleasure of my little family.

  Matt insists that he gets Olivia ready for bed. I listen to him run her bath, give her her milk and settle her in the cot, as I lie on the sofa.

  I put my phone on to charge beside me. When it loads up, it starts to beep incessantly, updating me on another voicemail or text from the early hours of this morning. Matt and Emma had tried to call me over and over. I can’t bear to listen to the messages now. I feel so ashamed of my behaviour. I put the phone on silent and rest my head back against the sofa cushions.

  Matt comes back down, sits beside me and starts stroking my hair. He puts on a film, but neither of us can concentrate.

  ‘Claire,’ Matt says gently. ‘Is now a good time to talk about what’s been going on?’

  I sigh, feeling too fragile for this conversation. I just want a few more moments with the comfort of his hand on my hair, pretending all of this never happened.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ I turn the volume up on the film I’m not watching.

  ‘I just want to understand what’s bothering you.’

  I can’t face this on my own any more. I lean into Matt’s warm torso and let everything out. I tell him how there are still noises in the night, that in the day my possessions move around. I tell him that I thought it was just me at first, just my anxiety, a symptom of my postnatal depression. But then I received the note saying I didn’t deserve our daughter.

  ‘Now I know it’s not all in my head. And that’s worse.’

  ‘The note you thought my mother sent?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, looking uncertainly into his eyes, unsure he’ll ever believe me. ‘She did send it.’

  Matt pales. ‘She wouldn’t do something like that. I know she wouldn’t. It’s probably someone just messing around, kids even.’

  ‘It’s more than that, Matt. The other day I found the smoke alarm from Olivia’s bedroom in the loft. Someone had taken it out of her room and put it there. Your mother has a key. Who else would do that?’

  Matt looks alarmed. ‘I don’t know… I really don’t know. Are you saying you think my mother’s trying to hurt you?’

  ‘Sometimes I think she’s trying to hurt me, sometimes I think she’s just trying to scare me.’

  ‘She can be difficult sometimes, but I really don’t think––’

  ‘And when you think about the other things that have happened lately… Olivia falling into the pond––’

  ‘That was an accident, Claire. You can’t possibly be accusing my mother of that.’

  My thoughts jumble. He’s right. That doesn’t make sense. Ruth might want to scare or even hurt me, but she would never deliberately harm Olivia.

  ‘What about the bruises on her legs?’ I ask.

  Matt frowns. ‘I—’ but he stops, unsure of himself. ‘Perhaps one of us handled her a bit too roughly? There haven’t been any more bruises, have there?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘But I don’t feel safe here.’

  I can see Matt thinking intently, deliberating over whether to finally believe me, or dismiss me as an exhausted woman with depression and an over-active imagination.

  ‘I can move back in. Protect you…’

  As much as I desperately want him to move back in, I can tell he’s still not convinced. He thinks I need protecting from myself, not someone else. And he lied to me about Sarah.

  ‘I don’t know, Matt.’

  ‘Why not?’

  I sigh. ‘I don’t know who to trust any more. And that includes you.’

  ‘I’m your husband.’

  I laugh bitterly. ‘That doesn’t make you innocent. What about you and Sarah?’

  ‘Claire, I’ve told you. There’s nothing going on.’

  ‘I can’t just take your word for that. You haven’t offered me any explanation. When it comes to Sarah all you do is lie.’ The weight of my words hits me as I realise the truth of them. I know I shouldn’t take him back.

  ‘I’m not having an affair with Sarah. I’ve told you so many times. Why won’t you believe me?’

  ‘Because of all the other lies.’

  ‘What lies?’

  ‘About your past. I know you and Sarah were in a relationship just before we got together. I found a photo of the two of you at your sister’s wedding. I know you were living together back then.’

  ‘Oh,’ he says. A flicker of emotion crosses his face. Guilt? ‘I can explain.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘About a year before we met, Sarah contacted me out of the blue. Her sister had died of a brain haemorrhage. They thought it was a result of her accident years before. Sarah wanted me to come back for the funeral.’

  I soften slightly. ‘And you came back?’

  ‘Of course I did. I had to. I felt so guilty about the way I’d treated her and it was such a long time since I’d seen her. I’d tried to put her out of my mind, I’d run away to university and
left her alone to care for her sister.’ Tears well up in Matt’s eyes.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She told me she wanted to get back together. I was overwhelmed by coming back. I knew I shouldn’t have left her the way I did. I thought I owed it to her to try again. It sounds awful, but without her sister to care for, I thought we might have a chance.’

  ‘But it didn’t work out?’

  ‘No. Too much time had passed. We were different people. Older. She seemed, I don’t know, more subdued. She wasn’t the ambitious, fun teenager I remembered. It didn’t last long. Then I left again, suddenly and without warning. I behaved badly, I know. She was upset, but I knew it wouldn’t last. I came back to London. And then I met you.’

  ‘When you were still with her?’

  ‘No, but she found it hard to let go.’

  ‘Did you sleep with her when you were with me?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I didn’t get in contact with her again. I ignored her calls and messages. And I moved on. To you. I’d never met anyone like you before. I forgot all about her.’

  ‘I see.’ I feel a flicker of pity for Sarah. Matt treated her appallingly. But the feeling of relief is stronger. All those years ago, he chose me, not her.

  ‘I didn’t speak to her again until Mum invited her to lunch. It stirred up a lot inside me. Guilt mainly.’

  ‘And now?’ I hardly dare ask the question. I’m not sure I want to hear the answer, but I need to know. ‘Be honest, Matt. Have you slept with her since we moved here?’

  ‘No. I promise.’ He squeezes my hand.

  ‘You hardly ever spent time with me. You were always with her.’

  ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. I did spend too much time with her. At work. And after work sometimes. I should have been at home with you. I see that now.’

  ‘It felt like you weren’t thinking of me at all.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you. I got so caught up in everything. It’s been so long since I’ve seen Sarah and there was so much in the past that we’d never talked about. I wanted to put things right. But that was all we did. Talk. We were trying to come to terms with how things had turned out. She’s a nice person, Claire. And I wanted to make things up to her. But I didn’t sleep with her. You’ve got to believe me.’