Elisabeth Carpenter - Only a Mother

I walk back into the hallway.

Craig and Jason would’ve been back by now if they’d forgotten something. I stand and go up two stairs at a time, happy that I can manage that with my temperamental knees and my health the way it is.

Craig’s bed is made, perfectly so. It’s the tidiest I’ve seen this room, but he doesn’t have many things.

I know I shouldn’t be snooping. Especially after how much I regretted it the first time.

It was five days after Jenna Threlfall had gone missing: 6 January 2000. Craig hadn’t been himself since New Year; he wanted me to stay at home with him more, flinching when there was a knock at the door. I thought he was having a crisis of confidence – people sometimes feel low at that time of the year when their life isn’t how they imagined it would be. Craig always wanted to be a chef, but every kitchen job he had only lasted a few months. I suspected he was unhappy living at home with me, watching as his friends got their own places.

He was obsessed with the news after Lucy went missing; he could barely sleep from worrying. I tried to comfort him, but he withdrew into himself, barely eating. I had to stand over him to make sure he’d get something down him.

As a photograph of Jenna appeared on the television, I asked him if he knew her. He said he didn’t, but they went to the same school, in different years. He’d never talked about her.

‘I need to pop to the shop,’ I said. ‘I’ve run out of cigarettes.’

He sat up straight in the chair.

‘Really? Do you have to go out?’

‘Unless you want me clawing at the wallpaper in ten minutes, yes.’

He stood, hands deep in his pockets rooting for money.

‘I’ll go for you, Mum. Actually, I feel like a jog – I’ll not be long.’

He was only out of the door a few seconds before I dashed to his bedroom. I didn’t know what I thought I’d find. I looked under his bed, pillows, inside his wardrobe. Nothing.

I went to his chest of drawers. Among the old coins and dead batteries was a necklace – a choker with a large daisy pendant. It could’ve been there for years, could’ve come from anyone. So I left it. Closed the drawer. Nothing of importance. How could I have suspected my own son? I felt awful. I’ll do his washing to make up for it , I thought to myself. From the age of seventeen he’d been doing his own laundry; he was usually pretty good at it, but that week he’d done nothing except sleep, eat, and watch telly with me.

A mistake. I wish I’d never emptied the damn basket.

At the bottom of it, under piles of socks and pants, was his light blue T-shirt. Blood covered the collar, there were blobs of it down the front. I dropped it on the floor in a panic.

‘Got your cigs, Mum!’ he shouted from downstairs.

I piled everything back into the laundry basket, everything except for that T-shirt. I darted into my bedroom and stuffed it under my bed.

‘Thanks, love,’ I shouted back, hoping he didn’t hear the quiver in my voice. ‘I’ve got one of my hot flushes. I’m just having a lie-down.’

He never asked questions if I mentioned anything to do with women’s problems .

Then, his bedroom was cluttered, covered in old Lego creations he hadn’t wanted to part with, rows of VHS films, an X-Files poster above his bed. Now, it’s a shell of a room, like one in a hotel. Anyone could be sleeping here.

The box Jason brought round is on the desk. Inside is a silver-coloured laptop, a few magazines (which I hope were a joke) and a bottle of vodka. A little inappropriate, but nothing out of the ordinary. He always said Craig was like a brother to him, always protective of him. They haven’t seen each other properly for so long – only the short visits in prison. I suppose they have a lot of catching up to do.

Most of Craig’s clothes are piled next to the box. It’s like he’s not stopping, that he doesn’t want to stay with me.

No, I shouldn’t think like that – he’s adjusting to being here, that’s all. He’s not had a chance to buy new things yet.

His black holdall is on the floor near the radiator under the window. I pick it up and place it on his bed. Unzipping it releases a strange smell: chemicals and stale sweat, mixed with other odours I can’t put my finger on. There are socks paired in balls; underpants piled together and rolled. So neat. Underneath these is the last book I gave him: Pharaoh by Wilbur Smith. It makes me smile a little that he brought it home.

I feel along the bottom of the bag; there’s a lump in the middle. I prise the plastic base up and lift it out. There, gathered in a tan-coloured elastic band, is a bundle of letters.

I flick through them. Teenage scrawl, words punctuated with hearts.

There are no envelopes and they are all from the same person, signed:

L xxx

The blood rushes from my head; I feel dizzy. I perch on the end of his bed. These letters can’t be from Lucy, can they? Written years ago, that he kept? She’s never going to go away, is she? Haunting me as though it’s my fault. I’ve read about strange goings-on in Take a Break’s Fate and Fortune . I always thought people made it up, but what if there’s something in it? Finding these letters and seeing the girl yesterday could be a sign. Maybe she’s angry that the real killer hasn’t been found. Yes, that must be it.

I’d been restless since I found the letters in Craig’s bag – only sitting down for five minutes at a time – looking out of the window to see if I could see him, or the young girl I saw the other day, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. They finally rolled in at half past eight, drunk. Over ten hours of drinking after Craig not touching a drop of alcohol for years (although he has said in the past, ‘Nothing is impossible in here’ – I pretended not to hear that).

They brought back some tinnies. Now, Jason’s sprawled along my settee and Craig’s sitting cross-legged on the floor. They’re watching a film on BBC One about swimming, but it has Kevin Costner in it, so it’s not all that bad.

‘Mind if I smoke?’ asks Jason.

I might be an ex-smoker, but I’m not pious with it.

‘I’ll get an ashtray,’ I say, wearily, but Craig jumps to his feet, swaying slightly as he gets his bearings.

‘ I’ll get it, Mother,’ he says.

‘What’ve you been up to today?’ Jason asks me.

‘Learning Cantonese on YouTube.’

‘Oh.’ He nods slowly. ‘Right. Fair play.’

I roll my eyes. He takes me ever so seriously, it’s too hard not to wind him up – plus he’s as drunk as a newt. I’ve only ever watched music videos on YouTube – it’s amazing how far back they go. They even have the ABBA collection on there.

I’ve wanted to go to bed since they came back, but I didn’t want to feel pushed out of my own living room. Once I start that, it’ll become a habit. Just like when I let Craig have everything he wanted in his bedroom as a teenager: a television, a video player, his meals. I hardly saw him. That might have been where the trouble started.

Craig leans over to Jason and whispers something. He laughs in return.

It must be a remnant of my childhood that I always think someone’s talking about me if they whisper in my company.

‘What about that one with the fringe?’ says Jason. ‘She was well after you.’

‘Nah she wasn’t. She was probably curious.’

‘Oh, curious . When did you start talking all posh?’

I’ve had enough. I stand, clearing my throat.

‘Night, boys,’ I say.

I linger at the doorway.

‘I was thinking, Craig. I could sort the dining room out… it could be an extra living room.’