M. Arlidge - Pop Goes the Weasel

‘So what did you do?’

‘I fought back. I wasn’t going to be pushed around.’

‘What with?’

There was a long pause, then:

‘Knife.’

‘Sorry?’

‘A knife. I keep one on me -’

‘For God’s sake, Robert. That’s how you get killed.’

‘Saved my life tonight though, didn’t it?’ he spat back, unrepentant.

‘Maybe.’

He lapsed into silence.

‘So let me get this straight. They attacked you first.’

‘For sure.’

‘And you fought back?’

He nodded again.

‘Did you injure them?’

‘Got Davey a bit on the arm. Nothing bad.’

‘Ok. Well, we can probably make that one play, but you’re going to have to cough to carrying the knife. Nothing to be done about that. I can probably get you out of here and back home, if I promise to stand for you.’

Robert looked up, surprised.

‘But I’m going to need you to promise me that you won’t carry again. You get caught with a knife a second time and I won’t be able to help you.’

‘Course.’

‘Do we have a deal?’

He nodded.

‘Right, let me talk to them. We’ll leave Davey to stew for a bit, shall we?’ Helen replied, a smile creeping through. To her surprise, Robert smiled back, the first time she’d ever seen him do so.

She was nearly at the door when he spoke.

‘Why are you doing this?’

Helen paused. She considered her answer.

‘Because I want to help you.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you deserve better than this.’

‘Why? You’re a copper. I’m a thief. You should bang me up.’

Helen hesitated. Her hand was on the door handle. Would it be safer to turn it and go? Say nothing?

‘Are you my mother?’

The question hit her like a sledgehammer. It was unexpected, painful and rendered her speechless.

‘My real mother, I mean?’

Helen took a breath.

‘No, no, I’m not. But I knew her.’

He was looking at her intently.

‘I’ve never met anyone who knew her before.’

Helen was glad she wasn’t looking at him. Tears had suddenly sprung to her eyes. How much of his life had he spent wondering about his birth mother?

‘How did you know her? Were you a friend or…?’

Helen hesitated. Then:

‘I’m her sister.’

Robert said nothing for a second, stunned by Helen’s confession.

‘You’re… you’re my aunt?’

‘Yes, I am.’

Another long silence as Robert took this in.

‘Why didn’t you come and see me sooner?’

His question cut like a knife.

‘I couldn’t. And I wouldn’t have been welcome. Your parents had carved out a good life for you – they wouldn’t have wanted me butting in, raking up old ground.’

‘I don’t have anything of my mother. I know she died when I was just a baby, but…’

He shrugged. He knew virtually nothing of Marianne and what he did know was a lie. Maybe it was better to keep it that way.

‘Well, maybe if we meet again, I can tell you more about her. I’d like to. Her life wasn’t always happy but you were the best thing in it.’

Suddenly the boy was crying. Years of questions, years of feeling incomplete, catching up with him. Helen was fighting tears too, but fortunately Robert had dropped his head, so her distress went unnoticed.

‘I’d like that,’ he said through tears.

‘Good,’ Helen replied, recovering her composure. ‘Let’s keep it between us for now. Until we know each other a little better, eh?’

Robert nodded, rubbing his eyes with his hands.

‘This isn’t the end, Robert. It’s the beginning.’

Thirty minutes later, Robert was in a cab heading home. Helen watched the cab go, then climbed on her bike. Despite the many problems that lay ahead, despite the many dark forces swirling around her, Helen felt exhilarated. Finally, she was beginning to atone.

In the aftermath of Marianne’s death, Helen had devoured every aspect of her sister’s life. Many would have buried the experience away, but Helen had wanted to climb inside Marianne’s mind, heart and soul. She wanted to fill in the gaps, find out exactly what had happened to her sister in prison and beyond. Find out if there was any truth in Marianne’s accusation that she was to blame for all those deaths.

So she had dredged up every document that had ever been written for or about her sister and on page three of Marianne’s custody file she stumbled upon the bombshell that had shaken Helen’s world – a sign that her sister still had the power to hurt her from beyond the grave. Helen was only thirteen at the time of Marianne’s arrest and she had been spirited away to a care home straight after her parents’ murder. She hadn’t attended her sister’s trial in person – her testimony had been pre-recorded – and she was only told the verdict, nothing more. She hadn’t seen her sister’s swollen belly and Hampshire Social Services had kept mum about it, so it was only when skimming the medical assessment on her arrest sheet, expecting nothing more than the familiar bruises and scars, that Helen had discovered her sister was pregnant when arrested. Five months pregnant. Later DNA tests would prove that Marianne’s dad – the man she had murdered in cold blood – was the child’s father.

The baby had been taken away from Marianne minutes after delivery. Even now, after everything that had happened, that image still brought tears to Helen’s eyes. Her sister cuffed to a hospital bed, her baby forcibly taken from her after eighteen hours of labour. Did she fight them? Did she have the strength to resist? Helen knew instinctively that she would have. Despite the brutality of its conception, Marianne would have cared for that baby. She would have loved it fiercely, feeding off its innocence, but, of course, she was never given the chance. She was a killer, who received no sympathy from her captors. There was no humanity in the process, just judgement and retribution.

The baby had vanished into the care system and then to fostering, but Helen had diligently pursued Baby K through the reams of paper and bureaucracy until she’d traced him. He’d been adopted by a childless Jewish couple in Aldershot – who’d named him Robert Stonehill – and he was doing fine. He was rebellious, lippy, frustrating – with scant qualifications to show for his years of schooling – but he was ok. He had a job, a solid home and two loving parents. In spite of the loveless nature of his birth, he had grown up nurtured and loved.

Robert had dodged his inheritance. And Helen knew that because of that she should have left him well alone. But her curiosity wouldn’t let her. She had attended Marianne’s funeral by herself, her killer and sole mourner, only to discover that she was not alone after all. Someone else had escaped the wreckage. So for Marianne’s sake, as much as her own, she would keep an eye on Robert. If she could help him in any way, she would.

Helen turned the ignition of her bike, revved the engine and roared off down the street. She was so caught up in the moment, so relieved, that for once she didn’t check her mirrors. Had she done so she would have realized that the same car that had followed her all the way from Southampton was now following her back.

Since his daddy’s return, life had got better for Alfie Booker. They had been living in a flat whilst his dad was in the army. But when he came back they moved to a caretaker’s house that bordered school playing fields. His dad cut the grass and swept up the leaves. Painted the lines on the football pitches. It was a good job, Alfie thought, and he liked to go with him as he did his work.