by B P Walter
The yoga never really takes off, so I abandon it after less than ten minutes, shower quietly so as not to wake Alec and start to get dressed. I’m just doing up the zip of my jeans when I hear him stir. He thuds out of his bedroom on the way to the bathroom. Sometimes I wonder if the stomping to the loo each morning is him making a point about no longer having an en suite, now he’s in the guest bedroom and I’m in the main one. I think about making a run for it down the stairs while he’s peeing, but before I can move he’s there, standing on the landing. His hair’s ruffled, the T-shirt he’s slept in all creased. I used to like the sight of him in the morning; he had a sense of dishevelled attractiveness about him that I could never quite resist. But this has gone. It’s not so much that he’s changed, it’s just the way I see him. It’s like getting a glimpse of a car on the road that you used to drive – identical to your old one, but now a thing of the past, still existing somewhere but no longer part of your life. I find it strange to think the sight of him used to inspire excitement and lust. Now the most I feel is a sad sense of detachment.
‘What are you looking at?’ he asks, noticing me staring. Then, when I don’t answer straight away, he adds: ‘Do you want to have sex?’
This makes me look into his eyes properly and shake my head in disbelief.
‘What?’ he says, as if surprised I haven’t said yes. ‘I thought you did, by the way you were checking me out.’
‘Checking you out?’ I say in consternation. ‘Christ.’
‘Well, if you’re going to be like that…’
‘I’m going to the group meeting today. I missed the last one.’
‘You’re… what? Why?’
I start gathering some things from the drawer in the bedside table – a new packet of tissues, pre-empting my likely tears, and a box of antihistamines. I put them into my bag and walk past Alec and go downstairs.
‘Caroline, please don’t ignore me.’
I sigh as I get my shoes on near the front door. ‘I’m going because I missed it last time. And it helps. It really does. You…’ I pause, about to say You should come too. But I stop myself. Because I don’t want him to come. And if he does and doesn’t like it – which is more than likely – he’ll probably refuse to go to Denise’s party later.
‘Don’t you think you’re doing enough today without adding this to your stresses?’ he says, almost gently.
I shake my head, ‘It will do me good. Really, it will.’ I walk through into the kitchen and take my keys off the end of the island countertop.
‘Where is it?’ Alec calls from the hallway.
‘Whitechapel. In a community town hall or something.’
‘Why the hell is it there?’
I open the front door. ‘Because it’s close to Stratford without it being actually in Stratford. The organisers thought that might be a bit…’ I pause, swallow, then carry on, ‘A bit much. For the parents.’ I see a flicker of something in his eyes. His grief stirring. And then he nods.
‘I’ll be back in the afternoon,’ I say, then close the door, leaving him standing there, sad and alone.
I arrive at the community centre early.
The previous meeting was held in a conference room in Canary Wharf, which felt strangely corporate; another was just a few streets away in Limehouse, and another near Barking, which I missed. Alec accompanied me to the first one, but walked out after ten minutes. We had been speaking to a couple whose two daughters had been killed in the bomb attack in the Westfield shopping centre. One had been thirteen. The other ten. They had been there with the mum of a family friend. She had survived the explosion, and so had her own daughter. But the two girls in her care never came home. The mother of the two girls who had died was almost unable to talk when we met them over coffee and biscuits before the group session properly began, but the dad seemed able to talk. He told us the facts almost as if he were narrating a documentary about another family, a cool sort of detachment neither Alec nor I had been able to experience since the atrocity. But then, of course, everyone copes in different ways. We all just try to carry on existing. It was this conversation that finished off Alec, though. I could see him trying to control his expression while the man in front of us was describing his terrible ordeal, then, when we were starting to gravitate towards the chairs in the centre of the room, he went all rigid and refused to move. ‘Alec,’ I said, trying to get him to shift, but he just stood there, staring into the distance. Then the tears started to fall. He shook his head and said, ‘I can’t do this,’ then just walked out of the room. I went to go after him, but felt a touch on my arm. A short woman, about the same age as me, with a kind face and a sad, sweet smile, had laid her hand on me. ‘Let him go,’ she said. ‘Honestly, it will be better if you don’t try and force him. Come and sit down next to me.’ And so I did. And that’s how I met Fareeda.
Today, the meeting follows a similar pattern to the first, although this time the theme is about ‘how our grief has progressed’ since the events earlier in the year, and whether our feelings of anger have ‘increased or tempered’. I don’t speak; I’m not sure I’d have been up to it today, but Fareeda does. She stands as she talks, and something about her calm, soft voice and quiet confidence makes her presence almost mesmeric.
‘I still have feelings of anger. Sometimes I feel angry at God for giving me a life with such loss. Such sorrow. As a few of you know, my boy died outside the cinema in Westfield. He was stabbed to death. And he was sixteen years old. But he was not the first child I’ve had die. My daughter died when she was five of bone cancer. So I thought I had experienced enough suffering in my life. But it seems that wasn’t a limit. There isn’t a quota of suffering that gets assigned to everyone. And for that, I feel angry. Fiercely, fiercely angry. So the biggest hurdle of all for me, right now, is managing that anger and attempting to turn it into a love and celebration of the time I had with my beautiful babies. Because it was the sweetest, warmest, most wonderful time. And I’m grateful I had it, even if it was brief. I am…’ He voice quivers a little, and after a little choke, she finishes: ‘I am grateful for the time I had with them.’ Then she sits back down. I can’t help it. Like many of the other people sitting, listening to these saddest of stories, I start to cry too.
After the meeting, some people linger to chat, but I find myself gravitating towards Fareeda. Although I haven’t seen her for over a month, I feel we have a connection after she took me under her wing at the first meeting. ‘It was very moving, what you said,’ I tell her, and she nods.
‘It was hard, but things are often hard before they get easy.’
Some of the things she says would sound rather limp and fortunate-cookie-like in some people’s mouths, but she manages to sound both sad and profoundly wise at the same time. I nod. ‘I was wondering if you fancied getting a coffee? Not here,’ I say, worried she’ll think I mean the watery rubbish that’s been laid out for us on the tables at the side. ‘Somewhere in the high street, maybe? We must be close to a Costa or something.’
She smiles at me, ‘That would be really lovely. Thank you.’
The heat wraps itself around me as I walk out of the air-conditioned building. ‘God, it’s hot,’ I remark as we walk towards what looks like a pedestrianised area near the start of a shopping centre I saw from my car on my way in. ‘I can’t believe it’s practically summer already.’
‘We’ll be saying that about autumn in a few months,’ she says.
‘Very true.’
I feel embarrassed that we’re talking about the weather, but I don’t really want to tackle anything too emotive until we’re settled somewhere. We soon find a Costa inside a Waterstones bookshop and a smiley young woman brings us two black coffees. The first ten minutes of our chat see us tiptoe around the main thing that connects us – the fact we’ve both lost our children – but eventually I can’t hold off any longer. I have to come right out and say it.
‘I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let go. Like they sa
id in the meeting, about letting go of anger. Because I think to let go… I think you need a sense of closure. And I don’t have that.’
I see Fareeda examining me silently over the top of her mug. She takes a slow sip, then lowers it and speaks in her gentlest, quietest voice. ‘Is that because you don’t feel the young men who committed the terrible crime have received a fair punishment?’
I shake my head, frowning slightly, ‘No, no. That’s not what I mean at all. I mean, they died, didn’t they? That hasn’t really crossed my mind.’
More slow nodding and sipping, then she replies, ‘Yes, but for many it hasn’t been enough. It all went exactly as they planned. They knew what would happen if they brought guns and knives and explosives into such a public place. They knew what would happen if they used them on innocent people. They knew they would very likely be killed during their attack. So I think many feel like they escaped punishment. And the grieving can’t achieve true closure because of it.’
It takes me a few moments to digest this. ‘Do you feel that way?’
She gives a little shrug, ‘I try not to dwell on it.’
This talk of retribution and punishment has stalled me a little, and I try to steer the conversation back onto the course I originally intended. ‘I meant that, well, for me, closure seems impossible because the whole thing is still a mystery to me. A mystery as to why… why Jessica… was there in the first place.’
I see the realisation dawn on Fareeda’s face. ‘You mean, you didn’t know she was in Stratford?’
I shake my head, ‘No. We thought she was in Somerset visiting a friend. But I knew there was something wrong when she didn’t respond to my calls and messages, on the day the attack happened. For a bit, I worried that she’d had an accident or something. But then the police arrived and…’
I have to stop myself before I get upset, and Fareeda lays a hand on my arm to show she understands.
‘Have you checked her Facebook and Instagram and things like that?’ she asks.
I reach in my bag for a tissue and nod, ‘Yes, it’s one of the first things we did. The police advised it too, but you could tell they weren’t really that interested. I mean, they were really supportive with everything in the aftermath of the attack, but they didn’t really see Jessica’s presence there as anything to worry about. Probably just thought she was a typical teenager, lying to her parents, going a bit rogue. But this wasn’t like Jessica. She wasn’t deceptive. She didn’t ever wilfully try to mislead us or anything.’
Fareeda looks concerned, ‘If it was so out of character, surely the police would understand your worries?’
‘They did, I think,’ I say, dabbing at my nose, ‘But I suspect they saw it as… well… too late to do anything about it. After all… she’d already been murdered. What could be more sinister than that?’
A dark shadow seems to pass over Fareeda’s eyes. ‘Some things are,’ she says quietly. After a second or two, she jerks a little and waves her hand, ‘Ignore me, please. That wasn’t a helpful thing to say. I think it’s just that there is so much cruelty in the world… it’s hard to know what the very worst thing is.’
I know what she means, but it isn’t a subject I especially want to get into. ‘I just mean, I don’t think they saw my worries as that credible or important just after the attack. And… I think I may have come on too strong. I was told to stop bothering one of the detectives.’
Fareeda doesn’t say anything, but raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to continue.
‘The young police officer who came to tell us what had happened – he was very nice to us. So I sort of… clung onto him a bit. I found out where he lived. And I started going there, trying to speak to him. Asking him to let me see CCTV and stuff like that. It all got… a bit awkward.’
Again, Fareeda stays silent, letting me take the time to choose my words.
‘I ran into him, in a supermarket near where he lived. It’s true that I had driven into East London to try to talk to him, but he was out and the house was dark, so I decided to drive home. On the way, I decided to get some food in the big Sainsbury’s nearby. Well, just out of sheer coincidence, he was in there – shopping with his family. I think they thought I’d followed them, and I’d clearly been a topic of conversation in their household, because I heard the guy with him say ‘Is this her?’ when I tried to speak to them and got upset. Then I made the mistake of trying to push him away, and I must have underestimated my strength, as I knocked him down. It all got a bit out of control after that. Alec had to come and get me and I was given some “friendly advice” by the police. I think they just see me as this grief-addled mother who has taken leave of her senses.’
A small, understanding smile lingers of Fareeda’s lips. ‘We all have our little episodes – moments where the world seems to be working against us. Rubbing salt in our wounds. I wish I had an easy piece of wisdom to pass on, but I really don’t. I know it doesn’t seem helpful to say to someone, “Just keep going”, but when it all comes down to it, I think that’s the only true piece of advice anyone can offer. Just keep going.’
I nod slowly, dabbing at my eyes with the back of my hand.
‘I know… I know that’s all I can do. I just wish Alec was easier to talk to about all of this. He’s either desperate to talk but doesn’t like what I have to say, or he’s just spiteful and surly and impossible to get any sense out of. I did… I have…’ I take a breath, trying to stop myself descending into full, proper tears, ‘I have been able to talk to Alec’s brother, Rob, a little, especially after it all happened. We’ve always got on- he’s more laid-back than Alec. And it helped, being able to talk to someone who was grieving but not in the same way as Alec and me. But lately he’s become… more distant. I wonder if I’m just… I don’t know… boring him now.’
Fareeda shook her head. ‘You shouldn’t think like that. It can be hard for people to know what to say to those who have gone through what we have. Do you have your parents still?’
I shake my head, ‘No… that’s a whole other saga.’ I try to laugh a little, as if it’s funny how my family life is just one big drama, but it comes out like a strange, strangled cough. ‘My mother’s alive – she lives in Australia, where I grew up. We don’t really speak. And my dad’s… no longer with us.’ I feel a familiar prickle of something down my spine, a weird sensation that often occurs if I get too close to the subject of my father. ‘The problem is…’ I pause and swallow, trying to gather together my thoughts. ‘The problem is less about not having people to talk to, and more about just not really moving forward… not moving on. And I can’t really start to move on until I know the truth. So much of the whole situation feels wrong. I know something like this could never feel… right. That’s not what I mean. It’s just that… Jessica lied. She lied to me. About something so important – saying she was going to stay with a friend when she was intending to go somewhere else.’
Fareeda shakes her head, ‘Teenagers – they don’t think of it as lying. They live in their own little worlds.’
I know what she means, but that’s not it. This is something else. It must be.
‘Jessica… in her teen years… she started to become different. More – I don’t know how to describe it really – more reactionary. She’d get upset about little things. I thought it was just changes – natural teenager changes, the strains of puberty. That sort of thing. But it wasn’t that. It was like she was trying to distance herself from us. She even started to make comments towards me – the kind of things her father’s said. That I’m too wrapped up in my work. Care more about fictional worlds than I do the one in front of me.’
I can feel myself falling into the dark heart of the past, its strange magnetic pull dragging me in, and I can’t stop it. ‘When I was a teenager, I ran away from home. My home life was… difficult. To put it mildly. My mother wasn’t like other mothers, and her relationship with my father was… odd. Sinister, some may say.’
Fareeda raises an eye
brow, but doesn’t interrupt me. ‘I know most people probably look back and see things in their parents that they didn’t see before. But I’ve tried to spend my life not looking back. Especially at why I left. It’s too much. And I think Jessica knew that. I never properly told her about the whole ordeal, but she picked up on things Alec said to me. Fragments of conversations. And one day, out of the blue, when I was pestering her about homework or something, she said, Maybe one day I’ll run away from home, like you did – and see how you like it.’
I have to stop for a bit. The tears are flowing too freely now.
‘She probably didn’t mean it,’ Fareeda says softly.
‘I know, I know. But it felt… I don’t know… personal. Like she was attacking me, pouring salt on my wounds. She wasn’t to know how painful those memories were, but I could tell she meant it to unsettle me. To use it as a weapon of some kind. And then… before she died, there was a big row with her dad. I only caught the tail end of it, but… she said some things. Things that have stayed with me… and I can’t get them out of my mind. They’re always there. Never letting me go.’
Fareeda focuses her kind, deep eyes on me. ‘What did she say?’
My tears are properly running now. I take another sip of the now lukewarm liquid, then start to tell her.
Chapter Eight
The Mother
February. One day to go.
I was just getting out of the shower when I heard the shouts. A strong, unbridled shriek that ripped through the house. It was Jessica. It must be. I stepped into the bedroom, the carpet soft and warm under my bare feet, and ditched my towel in favour of a dressing gown.
‘Just fuck off!’
This shocked me. Although Jessica wasn’t exactly a stranger to four-letter expletives, it was unheard of for her to hurl one at either me or her father. For a second, I wondered if she was having boyfriend trouble – maybe she was on the phone, dumping someone, telling some two-timing Year 11 boy to clear off. But then I heard a distinctly male-sounding ‘What?!’, making it clear she was arguing with her father.
