Elisabeth Carpenter - Only a Mother

There’s a knock at the door. It’s 10.35 a.m. and I’m still in bed. As usual, I didn’t sleep well. I close my eyes and hope that whoever it is goes away.

Why, now that Craig is back home, does it feel as though these walls are closing in on me? Maybe he brought some of the prison back with him – the feeling of hopelessness, perhaps. I don’t even want to get up.

Jason didn’t come round yesterday. I thought Craig would explode by eight in the evening. It had gotten dark outside, so he’d stopped going to the window. He was upstairs and silent in his bedroom by half past. I hadn’t wanted to bother him; I couldn’t tell if he was asleep or not. I know he couldn’t have been reading. I’m trying to forgive him for that, for not telling me about those books. It’s never good to dwell on such slights. It’s likely he meant nothing by it – he probably hadn’t wanted to upset me when he was in there after I told him I’d chosen each book so carefully. It doesn’t matter in the bigger scheme of things. He’s out and I should be happy enough about that.

I wish I’d appreciated him more when he was younger – treasured him, loved the little moments instead of counting the minutes until bedtime when I could finally get some peace. It’s both a blessing and a curse that I have such a good memory.

Someone’s whistling outside. Knocking again. Louder this time. It sounds like they’re using their foot instead of their hand.

Craig pounds down the stairs and opens the front door.

‘Are you coming out to play?’ says a man’s voice.

‘Jason!’ says Craig. ‘About fucking time!’

I doubt he realises I’m listening.

‘What kind of a welcome do you call that? After everything I’ve done for you.’

‘Come in before anyone sees you,’ says Craig, laughing.

‘You ashamed of me?’

‘Yeah, very funny.’

They go into the living room.

I sit up in bed and swivel my feet to the floor. I quickly dress and walk quietly across the landing.

‘Will you look after this for me?’ says Jason in the living room.

‘What is it?’ says Craig.

‘Just some stuff… Becks has it in her head I’m seeing someone else. If she finds this, she’ll probably kick me out.’

‘ Are you seeing someone else?’

Jason laughs. ‘Maybe,’ he says. ‘Anyway, I had a visit from some reporter yesterday… he was asking questions about Jenna.’

‘What did you tell him?’

Craig sounds worried.

‘Don’t worry,’ says Jason, ‘I didn’t say a word. They won’t be able to find anything, will they?’

‘I had nothing to do with Jenna.’

‘But you were seeing her.’

‘I was going out with Lucy.’

‘Don’t worry, mate,’ says Jason. ‘We’ve all got our little secrets.’

I tread loudly down the stairs. Their voices quieten, and Jason comes to the living room door.

‘Morning, Erica,’ he says.

‘You’re up and about early, Jason,’ I say, even though it’s nearly quarter to eleven.

‘You could say that.’

He winks at me. Does he think I’m someone else?

‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

‘None for us thanks, Mum,’ says Craig.

I go into the living room where Craig’s sitting on the settee, a cardboard box on his lap.

‘What’ve you got there?’

‘A few bits Jason got for me.’

‘Is that a computer? A phone?’

‘A laptop, and yeah. No offence, Mum, but neither of the phones you got me sends pictures. I’ll give you the money back for them.’

‘What do you want to be sending pictures for? I thought you weren’t supposed to have anything like that. Your supervising officer said—’

‘Everyone has them these days. It’s not like I’m some criminal mastermind organising human trafficking on the internet.’

‘What a strange thing to say.’

‘I was joking.’

He pockets the mobile telephone and brushes past me as he takes the box upstairs. Jason and I look at each other. He’s dressed smartly again – his suit looks expensive.

‘No more trouble then?’ he asks. ‘Since the dog muck.’

‘Just a firebomb through the door.’

His eyes widen. ‘Really.’

‘Oh, I’m used to them, Jason. I’ve got myself a fire extinguisher.’

‘But what if you were in bed? And they poured petrol in first?’

His face is expressionless. Is he joking with me? It’s not very funny. And it’s a terrible thing to suggest if he’s being serious. I fold my arms.

‘Well then, I’ll be done for, won’t I?’

‘We’ll take care of you,’ he says, lightly touching my shoulder – he’s a good seven inches taller than I am. ‘Though I think we’re off to the pub now.’

‘Aren’t you working today?’ I say. ‘You’re dressed for the office.’

‘No boring office for me. Don’t want to be tied down by anything like that. I work for myself… choose my own hours.’

Craig comes down the stairs and jumps from the third-to-last step.

‘You’re going to the pub?’ I say to him. ‘It’s not even eleven.’

‘It will be when we get there, Ma,’ he says. ‘I’ve got a lot of drinking to catch up on.’

‘But what if someone sees you? I really don’t think this is a good idea. I could go and buy you some drink, if that’s what you want.’

He walks slowly towards me, his eyes dark. I have to look up as he gets closer.

‘I do wish you’d stop trying to control me.’

When he bends down, I almost flinch. He plants a kiss on my cheek.

‘Bye, Mother,’ he whispers into my ear.

‘Bye, Erica,’ says Jason.

‘Don’t forget,’ I shout after them, ‘you can’t stay out late.’

By the time I finish speaking, they’re gone. The mirror on the wall wobbles from the draught.

This isn’t how I imagined it would be. I thought Craig would be shell-shocked. I thought he’d spend days recovering from his ordeal.

But I suppose he might not think of it in that way – perhaps he made friends, misses the routine, like Anne Marie’s daughter. He doesn’t miss whoever it is that gave him nightmares, though. He always was a sensitive soul. Was. His and Jason’s conversation earlier has unnerved me. Why would he be anxious about Jenna Threlfall if he’s got nothing to hide? He always told me he barely knew her.

I’m still standing in the hall. I’ll give it a few minutes to make sure they’ve really gone. I sit down on the bottom step. Hardly anyone goes past the front door, but it’s mid-morning now – most people’ll be at work.

Last night, Craig asked me what I’d been doing since I stopped working at the supermarket.

‘Charity work,’ I told him.

But that was a lie, wasn’t it? What have I been doing all these years? The days seem to have merged into each other. Obsessing about finding Pete Lawton, reading, watching television, going to the library once a week, chatting to my friends online, and trying not to think about those who wronged me.

I go into the living room and switch on my computer. Today might be the day that one of the Lawtons I contacted has got back to me. I bring up my Facebook page and click on one of three remaining unopened messages. One of them has been read. It says he was only online several minutes ago – he mustn’t have set his privacy settings that tight.

I wait, staring at the screen, willing him to reply. I click on to his profile, but there aren’t any pictures of him. Just cars, motorbikes, photos of what appear to be his grandchildren. This could be him.

After five minutes pass, I realise looking at the screen won’t make him message any faster. I switch my notifications on and increase the volume.