Elisabeth Carpenter - Only a Mother

My whole body is shaking.

‘I wasn’t trying to change the subject, I was only—’

‘A lot of people have wronged me,’ he says, leaning back again. ‘I used to believe in karma, but now I know it’s a load of bollocks. Bad people get away with murder, and good people… they’re the ones who suffer.’

He’s staring at the wall behind me, with a look on his face that’s chilling – like he’s wearing the mask of someone I don’t know.

Slowly, his eyes meet mine again.

‘Yes, Denise. Good old Denise, eh?’ he says. ‘I wonder what happened there. Did you say anything to her? About what you did for me?’

‘No, of course I didn’t. And I wouldn’t have done that if I thought you were guilty. She betrayed me, too, Craig. We were friends for over thirty years before she did that – she was like a sister to me. What she did hurt me – and you – so much. She’d known you since you were a baby. I’ll never forgive her.’

‘Jason said she was asking about you.’

‘I don’t want anyone talking about me.’

He takes a deep breath that lasts for nearly ten seconds.

‘Mum, Mum, Mum.’ He’s shaking his head. ‘I asked you about my dad and you’ve turned it around.’ He brings up the bottle and toasts it in the air before taking a sip. ‘You’re clever. I’ll give you that. But I’m not a kid any more!’ He barks the last sentence through gritted teeth.

‘I don’t know his name, Craig!’ I shout. ‘What would it solve now?’

The tears are building behind my eyes, but I don’t want to cry in front of him.

‘Just because it happened to you – that you never knew your father – doesn’t mean everyone is like that. I want a name, that’s all.’

‘It’s something I can’t give you! How many times do I have to repeat myself? What do you want me to do, make up a name? That would be pointless!’

I wipe my face. The tears stream from my eyes despite my efforts.

He sits forward suddenly, making me jump, but he’s only reaching for my hand.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry. I know you’ve been the one who’s been there for me. We’ll save this conversation for another day.’ He drops my hand and looks around at his grandmother’s belongings. ‘Why do you keep all this crap? You don’t have people round much, do you?’

‘It’s not crap. And I don’t mind not having visitors,’ I say. ‘It’s better for me that way.’

‘Why?’ he says. ‘Why is that? What have you got to hide?’

I wipe my face.

‘Nothing. But if you don’t get close to someone, then they can’t hurt you.’

The sentence hangs in the air. I’m always saying stupid things.

He tilts his head to the side.

‘What if I already know who he is?’

‘What?’ I say, feeling a panic that almost strangles me. ‘How can you know that?’

He wavers from my gaze and shrugs.

‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t know his name. You get yourself to bed. I’m all right here. I need to think about what I’m going to do next. I don’t think this is the life that I wanted.’

‘What do you mean? You have to give yourself a chance – make something of yourself.’

‘But what if I’m broken? I’ve been treated like shit. Where’s the justice in that?’ He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. ‘Nothing’s fair in this world.’

‘You need to get some sleep,’ I say. ‘You’re not thinking straight.’

‘I’m thinking just fine. Goodnight.’

I start to back out of the room. The conversation has finished because he’s shut down; the barrier has built up between us. As I reach the door, in the quiet I notice that the ticking of the clock has stopped. I close the door tightly and walk to the foot of the stairs. I grab the banister post for support.

Why is Craig suddenly asking about his father again? How easily the lies came out of my mouth. I should be ashamed of myself.

But he can never know who his father is. The truth would break him even more.

I knew it wouldn’t be hard to find another. It was almost too easy. I had to do the groundwork first, of course. Lay down the trap, so to speak. And I’ve learned a few more things since then. There’s a whole internet’s worth of chemicals, instruments, weapons, if you look hard enough, though I’ve been researching them for a few years anyway. And preferably, you should have a different address to send things to.

I should write a book on it. Wouldn’t that be a first? A person like me getting a book out there to help others. It’d have to be a work of fiction, though. And who’s to say life isn’t just one long storyline? A mate of mine inside – let’s call him Mark – said to me one night, years ago when neither of us could sleep:

‘What if this is all a simulation and we’re not really here? I read an article that said our whole life experience might be computer-generated and there are glitches visible to the naked eye. We might not even be lying down here at all. This might all be a test. We could be different people, playing this as a game.’

‘Where the fuck did you read that shit?’ I said.

‘Hey, it’s not shit,’ said Mark. ‘It could be real. How the fuck would you know? And I read it in the Guardian , probably.’

‘Keep your nose out of papers like that,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t suit you. You don’t want to be believing any of those conspiracy ideas.’

We had to put on an act, you see, in front of everyone else inside. If we were as soft in public, talking about newspaper articles and life’s glitches, then we’d get the shit kicked out of us.

I’ve spotted a couple of old cars for sale at Barry’s Motors. I know someone there who’ll write false registration details for me.

The police won’t find me until it’s too late.

Fucking genius, me.

It’s pouring down, so there’s hardly anyone on the streets. Craig wasn’t there when I woke up. Downstairs was a handful of flowers he must’ve picked from someone’s garden in a pint glass of water. He didn’t used to be one for flowers. He must’ve been drunk or hungover when he woke up. He’d also left a folded piece of paper with the word Sorry written on the front, alongside a five-pound note.

Craig and Jason had eaten almost everything in the fridge, and most of the decent stuff from the cupboards – as well as the asparagus soup and tinned peaches. I hadn’t noticed the mess when I came downstairs at four in the morning. He’s left all the dirty plates and bowls in the sink. I know I shouldn’t be angry – it’ll take him a while to adjust – but I didn’t want to leave the house today. I’ve got a pain in my right side and it’s niggling me – I don’t think I can walk far today.

I walk past the end of Denise’s road. I put my head down but glance along her street. Jason’s car is parked a few doors down. If we were still speaking, I’d ask her if she’d seen my son. Why did Craig even mention her? He was acting so strangely last night; it must’ve been the drink. I should’ve messaged Anne Marie about it all, but I didn’t want to put it in words. There was never any doubt in my mind about his innocence – and I can’t go back on that now, but something’s cast a shadow over it. The letters in Craig’s bag, and his behaviour towards me only a few hours earlier. No, last night was just a one-off. Letting off steam.

Craig said Denise asked about me. How dare she? She told lies to that newspaper – made up things about my son – and she should’ve known what the fallout would be after it was printed. I bet they paid her for her lies. I wonder how much she got. Was it worth a few hundred, maybe a thousand pounds, for all those years of friendship? She always said that Craig was like a son to her. She used to watch him when I had a later shift at Morrisons. Once, I came back to find him under a blanket on her sofa, sleepy, watching Coronation Street . Her husband Jim came through the back door.