Elisabeth Carpenter - Only a Mother

‘Do you like it?’

‘I’m not sure yet. I’m not much of a reader.’

‘But…’ I stopped myself.

I must’ve given him at least three hundred books over the years. I wish he’d told me it’d been a waste of time. But, to be honest, The Da Vinci Code wasn’t the best book I’ve read either. Mother would’ve hated it; she was a staunch Catholic when it suited her.

‘Do we still have that portable TV?’ he said.

‘I don’t know. I’ll have to check,’ I said, a bit too quickly. ‘Night, Son.’

I walked out and closed the door. I didn’t want him to see my face. It was silly of me, getting upset over a few books.

I close my eyes, shutting out my old-fashioned bedroom curtains that always let in too much light.

I picture in my head a detached house with a crescent-shaped drive that has two gates: one for in, one for out. Inside, three children are sleeping (two girls and a boy) in their own bedrooms, with nightlights that create constellations on each of their ceilings. Downstairs, I’m sitting at a large pine table with three chairs on one side and a long wooden bench on the other. A man – I can’t see his face – passes me a cold white wine in a glass decorated with silver stars. He puts a bowl of pasta (creamy tagliatelle topped with pieces of roasted artichoke and parmesan) in front of me.

A car door slams outside and my dream disappears.

I wipe the tear that’s dribbled down my right temple. I’ve never liked white wine anyway.

For the first time since he doesn’t know when, Luke almost jumps out of bed – despite being a little hungover.

Two nights ago, the Chronicle published links of Luke’s article on to the Facebook page, as they always do. Since then, it’s gotten over three hundred sad and angry faces, which was pretty good for a local paper. Luke can’t help but picture people making those expressions as they clicked the button. People are acknowledging his work, seemingly for the first time in months – perhaps even years.

Craig’s mugshot was the image they used as clickbait. But that picture was nearly twenty years old. Luke doubted Craig looked the same now. When researching Craig’s case at the start of the millennium, he’d seen pictures on the internet of a child who killed several other children decades ago. He felt sure he’d recognise her in the street. But now, he remembers his daughters; Megan had blonde hair for the first two years of her life and then it turned into a mousey brown, now it’s darker. And his own wife has seen pictures of Luke as a nine-year-old and didn’t recognise him.

Last night, he’d been watching Megan do her homework. She had to write a story about the scariest monster she could imagine. She’d drawn a picture of her creation; it had a mouth that filled two-thirds the size of its purple face and contained at least fifty pointed teeth. ‘I wish all monsters were so obvious,’ Luke had said to Helen before he took the girls for their bath.

He read to them, as always, on his and Helen’s bed. Megan on his right and Alice near the wall as she feared she’d fall off the high bed, still used to sleeping in the toddler bed she won’t let her parents get rid of. They were half asleep when he finished reading Room on the Broom . He gazed at their little faces, their eyes trying to battle against sleep, and he vowed to always keep them safe. Then another thought washed over him: what if one of his daughters harmed someone? He conjured the scenario: Megan at twenty-one years old, a dark-haired taller version of Helen; she’s kneeling on top of someone – her hands around their neck. A shiver ran through Luke’s body. Why does he have to imagine every situation he thinks of so intensely? His imagination is so vivid, these tableaux almost become memories.

He ushered them into bed, handing Ted to Alice.

‘Thank you, Daddy,’ she said.

He thought then that he would do anything to protect his daughters.

Later, Helen, sitting crossed-legged on the dining chair in her pyjamas, had the laptop open on the kitchen table (it was always cluttered, like the rest of the house) reading the Facebook comments from readers. He had never had so many and couldn’t believe people were still reading it over twenty-four hours later. The paper must’ve sponsored the post.

Helen poured them both a glass of prosecco, not even mentioning the points value (though she’d heard it was less calorific than normal wine). He gazed at her as she leaned towards the laptop. He always loved the way strands of her blonde curly hair dropped on to her face and she seemed not to notice.

‘Can you believe,’ she said, ‘that a lot of slim people don’t even count the calories from alcohol?’

‘Have you been reading those celebrity diet magazines again?’ said Luke. ‘They lie, you know. Most of them don’t bloody eat anything. It’s probably the booze keeping them alive.’

‘You’re so cynical.’

‘Well… yeah, I am. It’s called being a realist.’

She tutted and rolled her eyes. He loved it when she did that – it meant they were getting along. Helen had been working the previous night, so they hadn’t had the chance to sit down and talk about his article. She was a charge nurse at Royal Preston Hospital and he’d always felt slightly jealous of her career choice: she actually helped people.

‘Oh, look,’ she said. ‘Someone’s just commented that they live on the same street as Craig’s mother. She’s a bloody loner. Weird. Nothing’s right with that family . I’ve been there for over ten years and I can tell with people like that . He didn’t put any apostrophes in. That must drive you mad. He got ten likes though.’

Luke gulped his minuscule glass of fizz down in one.

‘You know me too well,’ he said. ‘Shit, Helen. What if people target Erica again?’

She turned to look at him, her head wobbling slightly. Dieting made the drink go to both of their heads. This healthy-eating lark could have its benefits, he thought. They’d save a fortune and he’d be slim again, if a little bad-tempered during the day. He didn’t know why Helen wanted to lose weight, though – she was perfect as she was.

‘Did you kill anyone, Luke?’ she said, refilling his glass.

‘Eh?’

‘Well, it’s not your fault then, is it?’ She tilted her head to the side, looking at Craig’s picture again. ‘He doesn’t look like a murderer, does he?’

‘I don’t suppose many people do, until it’s too late.’

‘But look at him. He’s so slight. And those eyes are so sad.’

‘They’re sad because he got caught. Don’t fall for it, Helen.’

She nudged his elbow, almost spilling a drop of precious prosecco – though he didn’t usually drink it, he was grateful for it tonight.

‘I’m not falling for it,’ she said. ‘But I can see why his mother still loves him.’

‘What? You’re basing that on looks?’

She took another gulp from her glass.

‘Sorry. You forget sometimes… when you look at someone’s photo… what they’re capable of. They’re all human to me. I guess it’s because I have to care for people whoever they are, whatever they’ve done.’

‘You wouldn’t think that if you were in court during the trial. Didn’t you read my article? I mentioned that in the past, convicted killers have gone on to kill again… sometimes only weeks after their release.’

‘Sorry… sorry. No, I haven’t read it. I will, though. Tomorrow.’

Luke paused to look at her. When had she stopped reading his words? She used to read everything he wrote; she’d been so proud of him. But then, Luke doesn’t blame her. Until now, all he’d written about was petty criminals, village fetes, and takeaways.