Elisabeth Carpenter - Only a Mother

‘So,’ says Hannah, running her finger up her electronic tablet, ‘you’ve no children who visit the premises?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘No one visits here.’

She shifts her bottom on my chair; people always feel uncomfortable around me. It’s like they think it’s catching or I’ll not be able to help myself.

‘How do you think Craig’ll cope with being in the outside world?’

‘You’re in a better position to answer that question, aren’t you?’

They exchange a glance.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I don’t mean to sound obtuse. It’s just that I only see him once a week. You lot – I mean, you being his advisors, have worked with him on a closer level, I imagine.’

Hannah tilts her head in a quizzical manner.

‘But you’re his—’

‘I suppose what Hannah is trying to gauge,’ interrupts Patrick, ‘is how you think Craig’ll cope with the animosity he might face on his return?’

‘I suppose,’ I repeat, ‘we won’t know until it happens.’

He frowns. ‘We don’t really want that kind of unpredictability.’ He shuffles in his chair too. ‘Saying that… we are pleased with Craig’s rehabilitation. He speaks openly about how sorry he is. Has he said much to you about that?’

‘I… He knows I’m here to listen if he ever wants to talk.’

I want them out of my house. They don’t belong here, with their smart suits and big job titles. It’s like they want to trick me.

After fifteen minutes, they run out of things on their list to say and take themselves for a tour around my house. I stay seated in the living room, listening to their footsteps upstairs. Why do they need to go into my bedroom? What are they expecting to find? They go from my room to Craig’s. I’ve spent weeks getting it ready. For years, I left it the way it was. I tidied it after the police ransacked it, of course, but the door remained closed until last year, when the matter of parole was first mentioned.

I’ve cleared the clothes from his wardrobe – they’re too small for him now, anyway. I’ve taken the television out. I don’t want him spending all his time in there – not like it was before.

The phone rings in the hallway.

I stand and pace the living room. If I talk to anyone in the hall, those two’ll be able to hear upstairs. I don’t like people listening to me on the telephone. This house has thin walls.

I walk out of the room; it’ll only be PPI – no one else rings me.

‘Hello?’

I expect a robot to speak, but it doesn’t.

‘Erica? It’s Luke from the Chronicle . Do you have time for a chat?’

‘I… No. I’ve people here.’

I don’t say goodbye. I place the receiver in its cradle, my hands shaking. I want to sink to the floor and curl up into a ball. I would if I were alone.

I didn’t think I’d hear from that reporter again – what’s he doing, still working there? He must be stuck here like the rest of us.

So, the people at the newspaper know. Soon everyone else will, too. And it’s all going to start again.

If I close my eyes and think of Lucy, I can smell the scent of her skin. It’s the most powerful of the senses; memories can be instantly evoked with just a whiff. White Musk, she said it was. I found it in one of those hippy-dippy shops afterwards… bought a few bottles of it.

Lovely Lucy.

I remember our first date. We went to the pictures to see Meet the Parents… I sneaked vodka into the cinema, funnelled it into SodaStream bottles. I didn’t concentrate on the film much. Ironic, given the film, that Lucy wouldn’t let me meet her parents.

Ironic. I know words like that now. Been doing a bit of reading.

She was quiet, that night. I’d wanted to take her out for a date for ages. She’d noticed him first, of course. Everyone always does, but not for the right reasons. He liked to think he had the pick of all the girls, but he was deluded. Thick shit.

Women. I have to call them women now. I’m not a boy any more, Mum.

I bet he was introduced to her mum and dad. The slimy fucker. Gets everywhere, like sand in my crack.

Lucy and I ended up in my car. I only had an old banger, then. We sat on the back seat. I said I had a tape that I’d made for her.

‘You shouldn’t be doing things like that for me,’ she said.

‘Why not?’ I said. ‘I love you.’

It was as simple as that. I did.

‘You don’t love me,’ she said.

‘Your skin’s so soft,’ I said, stroking her cheek with my index finger.

She tilted her head towards it like she’d never been touched before but craved it, like a kitten getting its ears tickled.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

Well, I thought that’s what she said.

She had a glint in her eye – she knew what she wanted.

I traced my finger down her mouth, her neck; lingered on her breasts, put my palm on her nipple. She sighed, leaned back slightly.

Oh, my lovely Lucy.

I thought she was shy, but she wasn’t. I kissed her neck and all the way down her.

After twenty minutes, she changed her mind.

‘Don’t you like me after all?’ I said.

‘What do you mean?’

’You can’t start me off like that, Lucy.’

‘I didn’t mean to… but I can’t do this. It’s not right.’

Oh, Lucy.

Lucy, Lucy, Lucy.

My most precious memory of you is when your breath had left your body; your skin was growing cooler with every minute. You wouldn’t have wanted to grow old anyway, not with a face like that. Beautiful, smooth. I did you a favour.

You left this world unspoiled. Well, almost.

It won’t be too long. Soon I can find another one like you.

Girls like Lucy are ten a penny.

Luke taps gently on the front door, a queasy churning in his stomach. Is it hunger or nerves? Why is he even in this job? He can’t remember the last time he left the house in the morning without a feeling of dread. Mondays are the worst. Then again, even on Fridays he presses the snooze button at least four times before getting out of bed.

He knocks again, a bit louder.

The last time he talked to her was seventeen years ago, a few days after Craig Wright was imprisoned. Luke had admired her strength, the way she held it together for the forty-five minutes he interviewed her, while he felt like an intruder. Her words, ‘He’s torn our lives apart,’ made the paper’s headline.

So many quotes in Luke’s head – most of which he’ll never use again. He wishes he could format his brain; clear the unnecessary, unpleasant words – and images – out of his memory.

Gillian Sharpe: mother of Lucy, the first girl, opens the door.

‘Hello, Luke,’ she says. ‘I’d say it’s nice to see you again, but we’ve never met in the most pleasant of circumstances, have we? No offence.’

‘None taken,’ he says, stepping inside the house.

People say that to him all the time: ‘No offence’. Most of them don’t mean it. At least he’s not as salacious as other reporters. He’d never sensationalise anything. Well, he hadn’t with Gillian’s story. Back then, he’d just learned how to interview the newly bereaved. Avoid doorstepping; offer breaks where necessary; prepare to be distressed yourself . He’s sure many of his fellow students hadn’t adhered to those rules, especially that bastard Damian who currently works for Look North . Given the chance again, though, Luke’s not sure he’d observe the guidelines either; he could’ve been working for one of the nationals by now if he hadn’t.