Elisabeth Carpenter - Only a Mother

‘Yeah,’ says Declan. ‘I saw him. He doesn’t look like that any more. Hey, Jaden.’ He shouts to the smaller boy sitting at the end of the line. ‘Didn’t you get a picture of that bloke the other day – the one that was talking to Leanne?’ Declan looks at Luke. ‘Jaden loves taking pictures… everyone who comes here.’

Jaden, who looks to be about eight or nine, walks over to the older lad with a digital camera covered in scratches.

‘My memory card only holds about a hundred,’ he says to Declan.

‘Give it ’ere.’

Jaden does as he’s told, and Declan scrolls through the pictures.

‘That’s him.’

He gives the camera to Luke. Amanda peers over his shoulder to get a look.

‘Bloody hell, Craig’s changed,’ she says.

The man in the photograph seems twice the size of the man Luke remembers in the courtroom – the same man he saw on the street corner. He’s wearing jeans, a plain black T-shirt and a bomber jacket.

Luke takes the iPad from Declan and brings up a photograph of Jason.

‘Have you seen this man, too?’ Luke asks.

Declan shrugs. ‘Nah. Not seen him before. But you do get a few dodgy blokes hanging about this street. If Franny McPhee over there caught them, they’d soon fuck off.’

‘Why would they hang around here?’

‘Why do most weird blokes want to hang around young girls?’

Luke looks up at Declan, surprised at the frankness and wisdom that just came out of his mouth.

‘Did Franny Mc— I mean Fran. Did she never report anything to the police?’

He shrugs. ‘Must’ve done. That’s why they’re searching for Leanne.’ He takes off his glasses. ‘She’s all right is Leanne. She helps Jaden a lot… he likes animals, you see. They make him feel safe at night. She helps him clean out the cages and stuff, doesn’t she, Jaden?’

The little kid sniffs and wipes his nose.

‘Can I have my camera back, please?’

‘Course. I’ll just try to take a picture of this on my phone.’

Luke hands the camera back to Jaden.

‘There’s been another bloke driving past… only the past week or so,’ says Declan. ‘Really slow, like a proper kerb-crawler. Must think we’re so stupid that we don’t notice. But this bloke was older… about forty… or sixty… It’s hard to tell when people are that old.’

‘I’m nearly forty,’ says Luke.

‘Oh right. I thought you were about fifty,’ the lad says, looking at Luke’s belly.

Amanda covers her mouth, but her shoulders shake.

‘Thanks, Declan, Jaden,’ says Luke.

‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have laughed,’ says Amanda as they head back to the car.

‘Just because I’m a bloke doesn’t mean things like that don’t hurt.’

‘Come on, he’s only a kid.’

‘Yeah, whatever,’ says Luke, opening the car door.

When Luke pulls out on to the road, Amanda’s still looking at the kids sitting in a row on the wall.

‘You weren’t lying when you said you weren’t good with kids, were you?’ says Luke. ‘You didn’t say a word to them. You weren’t scared, were you?’

‘A bit.’ She gives a little laugh. ‘But admit it. You were afraid, too.’

‘Yeah. Ant or Dec was a bit intimidating, wasn’t he? I wasn’t that confident at his age – I was slightly terrified of grown-ups I didn’t know.’

‘Luke, you’re not even that confident now.’

‘Can’t hear you.’

‘Can you believe what Craig looks like now?’ she says. ‘I wouldn’t have recognised him. He looks so different… so intimidating.’

‘I don’t think those kids know that Craig’s a convicted murderer. Can’t see them being that blasé about the bloke if they knew that.’

‘Maybe. Where to next?’

‘Erica’s. I want to check she’s all right.’

The dining room door is still open from when the police barged their way through it. I walk in, bending to resurrect the wicker laundry basket that’s on its side. They didn’t move the small chest of drawers in front of the fireplace; they wouldn’t think to look there – why would they? I doubt there are any remnants from the burnt clothing anyway.

When I found the blood-soaked blue T-shirt in Craig’s dirty laundry, I washed, dried, and hid it. It was only a little thing – it must’ve shrunk in the wash. I ironed it as flat as I could and zipped it flush under a cushion cover.

They searched the whole of the house after Craig was arrested for the murder of Lucy. I stayed with Denise while they did it. Afterwards I went back, and it was as though someone had taken a demolition ball to the place. The contents of every cupboard had been taken out and thrown back in, leaving the floors clear for them to pull up the boards. Jenna Threlfall was still missing, you see. They didn’t know where she was. I shuddered at the thought of her being hidden in my house – I’ve often had dreams about a body hidden somewhere. But those nightmares are nothing compared to what her parents will have gone through… are still going through.

Why is this happening again? Am I being punished for what I did?

I move a few bits at the side of the chest of drawers then push it out of the way so the fireplace is clear. I take the letters out of my pocket and kneel before it.

I run my fingers through the ash in the hearth (why on earth didn’t I get rid of it?). I shake it off, rub my hand on the rug I’m sitting on. Does blood turn to ash or does it evaporate? Whose DNA would be on my fingers if it lingered in the remains? The thought of it appals me. When had I turned into this person – a person who burned potential evidence? But then I realise that I’ve always been that person, a person who would do anything to protect her child. I didn’t think he would be capable of such dreadful deeds, but I can’t bury my head if it happens a second time. What’s that phrase… Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice … The shame. An emotion I’m familiar with – so familiar it’s there from the moment I wake.

There’s a pile of newspapers next to the hearth – they’ll have been there for years. I reach for the top one; it’s dated Monday, 21 December 1981 . Its headline reads: In 70 minutes, the lives of these brave men SHATTERED .

I’m working on autopilot as I grab a sheet from it and scrunch it into a ball. Soon, half the newspaper’s turned into a little pile of boulders. I pick out pieces of kindling from the basket at the side – surprisingly, it’s still dry after Lord knows how long in this damp room.

I grab the box of Cook’s Matches, take one out and strike it three times before it powers into a small flame. I throw it on to the newspaper and it gradually lights. I strike another, and another, spacing them out so soon all the paper has taken alight. The kindling begins to glow, then steadily starts to burn.

I unfold the first letter, but it’s one I’ve already read. Should I read them all before I cast them to their grave? Would it be disrespectful not to?

I should stop acting like this is some sort of sacrifice. No one has been found; no one is dead. Not yet.

I throw it onto the burning fire – but there are no logs, nothing substantial: this fire won’t last long. I watch as the letter glows around the edges before crumpling into black.

Some of the smoke is coming back to me – the chimney’s not been swept for years. The smoke hurts my eyes. I cover the hearth with a sheet of newspaper, but that makes the fire erupt fuller into life.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

I turn to see Craig in the doorway.

‘I didn’t hear you come in,’ I say. ‘Where have you been? I’ve not seen you for days!’ I get up from the floor, grabbing the mantelpiece to pull myself up. I must stink of smoke. ‘I’ve had the police round here looking for you… that young girl’s missing – the one who came round the other day.’