Elisabeth Carpenter - Only a Mother

‘Wait, wait,’ I say. ‘I’m here. Just give me a minute.’

She’s looking through the letterbox now, and I’m sitting against the wall of the hallway.

‘Are you all right, Erica?’ she says. ‘Has Craig hurt you?’

‘What? No, of course he hasn’t.’

Why aren’t I moving? It’s like my bottom’s been glued to the wooden floor.

‘We don’t want to break your door, Erica,’ she says. ‘Can you get up? Or is your back door open? Have you had a fall?’

Those last five words seem to be louder than the others. I’m not at the foot of the stairs and I’m not bloody deaf.

‘I’m getting up,’ I say. ‘It’s just that my knees…’ I try to get purchase on the telephone table, but it’s too high up and the legs are too unstable. Instead, I rest my left hand on the bottom step of the stairs and the other on the floor. Jesus. When had getting up from the ground become so difficult?

I’m dizzy when I stand, but shuffle to the front door to unlock it.

As soon as I open it, about six or seven police officers dressed in black storm into my house – half go upstairs, the rest check the rooms downstairs.

‘He’s not here,’ I say to the woman in a black suit and white shirt. Her hair is short, blonde. Her skin olive and covered in freckles. ‘I heard about it. I was talking to Luke…’

‘Luke?’

‘A reporter at the local paper. He said it was on the news about Craig. It can’t be him, though. He hasn’t got a car… he’d have had to tell his supervising officer if he bought a car… I found the leaflet ten minutes ago—’

‘Well,’ says the detective – I presume she’s the detective as she’s not in uniform. There’s a man behind her that I’ve only now noticed. Young, in a smart suit that must have cost a few bob. It doesn’t have that sheen that cheap suits have… that’s what he used to tell me. ‘He won’t necessarily have told them if he’d borrowed one, will he? When did you last see your son?’

‘On Saturday… he’s been spending time with his friends.’

‘He’s meant to be staying here, though, isn’t he? Has he been in contact with you since?’

I think about the phone call I made to him, the strange banging and the swearing. But it could be nothing – he won’t be stupid enough to take a young girl away – not straight after getting out of prison.

‘No. I didn’t want him to think I was checking up on him.’

She raises one eyebrow.

‘That’s not a bad thing… considering. Is it?’

Smart alec.

‘I’ve been trying to find Pete Lawton,’ I say. ‘I’ve asked the police countless times, but you’ve only got back to me once. He’s out there somewhere – he can prove my son’s innocence. No one can just disappear like that.’

‘Ah,’ she says, briefly glancing upwards. ‘The elusive Mr Lawton. No, Mrs Wright, there is still no trace of the Peter Lawton who worked in a garage. No one recalls him ever working there. You do know that, don’t you?’

She thinks I’m making him up, doesn’t she? I hear the others upstairs, opening and closing wardrobes and then I remember the letters from Leanne. The blood rushes from my head; I grab hold of the end of the banister.

‘Which friends has he been hanging around with?’

I take a deep breath – does she register my hesitation?

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I don’t know their names.’

‘Male? Female?’

‘Male probably… he’s been going to the local pub, I think.’

Am I saying too much, or not enough? I feel I’m being pulled apart, my conscience examined.

‘Boss.’ It’s the young man in the sharp suit. ‘The car’s been found… near the docks.’

‘And?’

He shrugs. ‘That’s all they said.’

The detective tuts, briefly looks to the ceiling and mumbles, ‘Give me strength.’

‘Craig’s not there, is he?’ I ask, but she ignores me.

The five officers from upstairs come down empty-handed, but my heart is thumping.

‘To the docks,’ the detective says, and they leave as fast as they barged in.

I close the door and slowly walk to the living room, holding the walls then the settee for support. I look through the gap in the curtains. They quickly get into the three police cars and speed off. I look to the houses around and see a silhouette of someone in the house opposite. I don’t know the name of the person who lives there, but it’s a man – early thirties. He’s looking at me, I can sense it.

I pull the curtains fully closed, take a few breaths to help stop my shaking, and go upstairs to Craig’s bedroom. The wardrobe doors are open, but his drawers are shut. Was it a manhunt then? His bag’s still there. I grab it and fling it on to the bed, lifting up the flimsy plastic base to retrieve the letters. They’re innocent enough, but what would the police read into them? That he was grooming her, probably; a phrase that’s used a lot these days.

Seventeen! What the hell does he think he’s doing? Doesn’t he realise how young she is? I hope she lied about her age to him – otherwise I don’t know what to think.

I take the letters downstairs into the kitchen, laying them next to the cooker. The back door is standing open where they checked the shed in the backyard – its flimsy lock is pulled to pieces. They’d have found nothing quickly in there as it’s empty. I go out to pull the shed door to, to try to fix the lock, and see that there is something inside.

I step on the flimsy wooden floor; it gives way slightly under my feet. Who would put tins of paint in my shed? The police ignored them – they’re items usually found in outdoor buildings. They probably thought nothing of them. I lift them and they’re not heavy. I shake them and something lightweight hits the metal inside. I try to prise the lid off, but my nails are too weak. I grab the other and step out, kicking the shed door closed with my foot.

I glance up at next door. Mrs Eckersall is standing at the bedroom window. Her gaze is unwavering. I don’t nod, smile or wave; she doesn’t either. I feel a shiver down my spine. She obviously saw the commotion outside and now I’m creeping around with cans of paint.

Inside the kitchen, I place them on the counter and lean against it, steadying myself from the dizziness. My chest feels tight; I can barely breathe.

I shouldn’t have lied to the police today. I should’ve learnt from my mistakes all those years ago. I should’ve told them that Craig only has one friend: Jason. And they would both do anything for each other. Where will that loyalty take them both? I recall the conversation I overheard before Craig went missing: Jason said, ‘Don’t worry… We’ve all got our little secrets.’ Did he mean himself or Craig – or was it both of them?

I grab a butter knife from the kitchen drawer. The tins of paint are rusted around the rim, so I easily prise open the first one. The smell hits me first: pungent, earthy. The leaves are dried and in lots of little bags.

I hold one up: cannabis.

I open the rest. There are three tins crammed with the drug.

If the police were to come through the door, I’d be guilty as charged. Always the quiet ones , people would say. Did you know Erica was a drug dealer? they’d say. I’m not surprised in the least , Pamela Valentine would reply.

What am I meant to do with it? I can’t burn it like I did the T-shirt – the whole street would smell of the stuff – a red arrow pointing to my chimney. I could put it back where I found it, pretend to be oblivious to it.

I grab the three handles and take them upstairs to the bathroom, placing the tins in the sink. One by one, I open the little bags and shake the contents into the toilet.