Elisabeth Carpenter - Only a Mother

‘Well, so long as that’s all it is. I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble.’

While we were being so open about things, I chanced a question I’d always wanted to know the answer to.

‘Do you know where my dad is now?’ I said.

There was silence behind me. Were those few words all I was going to get from her?

‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘The last I heard, he got divorced and moved to Scotland.’

‘Divorced? He married again?’

She started drumming her fingers on the carpet – she always fidgeted when she was thinking.

‘No, Erica,’ was all she said before I heard her get up from the floor.

When I heard her go down the stairs, I realised that the conversation was finished. It was the last serious discussion we would have. She didn’t question my lack of periods again, so I made sure to take the supplies she bought me and hide them.

I had misunderstood what she said, back then, about my father. I didn’t think about it much afterwards; I had too many other, more important things to worry about. I hear her words now, as clear as I did then: ‘He got divorced.’ Why would she say that if she’d meant he ended their own marriage? She’d have said we divorced.

She lied. She hadn’t married my father at all.

I pick up the remote control from the floor and turn the television off.

I put my hand underneath the settee and bring out my folder. All the pictures I’ve collected. There’s a cottage that has views of Lake Windermere. The photo I cut from the holiday brochure shows it covered in snow. It’s truly beautiful. I could spend the day reading, making hot chocolate. Maybe I could even write my own stories – I’ve often dreamed of doing that.

My brother, Philip, assured me that the money would be in my account today. An advance that he’d deduct from the house sale, of course – he never was the generous type. He sounded surprised to hear from me last night; it wasn’t that late.

‘What do you want this time, Erica?’ he said, sounding as weary as he always does with me.

‘Good to speak to you, too, Philip,’ I said. ‘I wanted to take you up on your offer of arranging everything, but I might need some money to get away for a while. Just until everything’s finalised.’

He sighed in the way he always did, like he was being strangled.

‘Right you are. Is that everything?’

‘Yes, thank you, Philip.’

I hated the way I had to talk to him, to appease him. As though I owed him something for letting me stay in the house we jointly owned. I suppose I should be grateful that he hadn’t forced me out in the first place. That surprised me, but I suppose he did owe it to me.

I hear a noise coming from upstairs.

I sit up and put my folder back underneath the settee. The pain’s not as bad this morning – all those pills must be doing their job. I swivel my legs to the floor and stand. When I reach the hall, the noise stops for a few seconds before starting again.

I climb the stairs – my ears tingling, listening to try and track the source of the sound.

Craig’s bedroom. It’s the mobile phone I bought him.

It stops again, just before I pick it up.

Fifteen missed calls.

I press select and see that the person who’s been ringing my son is Leanne. I almost collapse on to his bed with the relief of it. She’s alive; she’s fine. And Craig’s not with her.

I’m looking to the ceiling, almost smiling when the phone beeps again.

Three New Messages , it says on the screen.

I press select again. They’re all from Leanne.

I open the oldest one.

Where are u?

I press the exit button and click on the second.

Too dark in here. I’m freezing. The toilet doesn’t work.

My hands are shaking by the time I open the third.

She keeps crying. You have to get me out of here.

I stand, clutching the phone in my hand, and rush to the bathroom. I lean over and retch into the toilet bowl; yellow bile is all that comes up. I flush it, close the lid and sit down.

Oh, Craig. What have you done?

I’m shivering worse than ever now. What am I supposed to do? I can’t phone the police on my own son.

When I try calling Leanne’s number, there’s no answer. It only rang a few minutes ago; she must be all right.

Denise.

I’ll try Denise’s mobile again. Her card is in my cardigan pocket.

Dee’s EZ Cleaning Services.

I dial the number. It rings seven times before it’s answered.

‘Craig?’ A woman’s voice.

‘Denise? Is that you? It’s me, Erica. Thank God you’re all right.’

‘Erica?’

‘Denise? Where are you – why’s your voice echoing?’

‘It’s nothing… I’m fine, I’m fine.’

‘Are you sure? You don’t sound fine. Jim said you didn’t come back the other night. I’ve been worried about you.’

I’m trying to make out the background noise. Chatting, as though people are in a café.

‘I had to get away – needed time to think about everything.’

‘Have you seen Craig?’

Silence.

‘Not for a while. Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ll phone you tonight, yeah?’

‘Wait, Denise. Do you think Craig might have gone to the house on Inkerman Street? Only I’ve seen some texts from Leanne Livesey. She says it’s dark and the loo doesn’t work. Do you think we should go round there?’

‘No. No. Don’t go anywhere near that house.’ She coughs down the line. ‘Sorry. I’ve not been feeling too well. Everything will be fine. It’ll all be fine. Bye.’

‘OK. Bye then, Denise,’ I say, but she won’t have heard because the line has already gone dead.

A door downstairs bangs closed.

‘Craig!’ I shout. ‘Is that you?’

There’s no reply. I walk to the top of the stairs, listening for any movement from below.

Footsteps from the kitchen, along the hall.

Then he appears at the bottom.

He’s coming slowly up the stairs. There’s a strange look in his eyes, wild and dazed. Instinctively, I take a step backwards until I’m against the landing wall. There’s a smell to him: something sickly sweet mixed with stale whisky – the same scent of Jim yesterday. Hadn’t he washed in days either? Craig walks towards me; an odd smile on his face.

‘Son? What’s got into you? Why are you looking at me like that?’ I press my back further into the wall, but he’s getting closer. My breathing’s rapid; I can’t stop shaking.

‘Hello, Mother,’ he says, looming towards me. ‘I hope you’ve not been snooping around again.’

Luke wakes three minutes before the alarm, but already senses that there’s something wrong. Helen’s not in bed next to him. He’d managed to stay awake until eleven last night, after his wife had texted him to say she was going to a colleague’s house for more drinks. He grabs his phone – whose house did she say?

He reads the message again; it’s filled with typos, which is unusual for Helen.

Perhaps she fell asleep on the sofa downstairs and he didn’t hear her come in.

He gets up, rushing to check his daughters are safe. He usually can’t sleep until his wife gets in from a night out. How did he sleep so deeply last night? He gently pushes open the door. Thank God. They’re both sound asleep.

He goes quietly down the stairs, opens the lounge door, but she’s not there.

He feels the panic rising in his chest. No, it’ll be fine – she’ll be OK. She said she was going to Amelia’s house. She probably fell asleep there, though she’s never stayed overnight somewhere and not contacted him first – not because he’s possessive; it’s simply a courtesy.