Elisabeth Carpenter - Only a Mother

Loud footsteps sound from the staircase above.

‘That’ll be Brian.’ Gillian slips gracefully from the stool. ‘Do you have everything you need?’

Luke stops the recording app on his phone, places it in his pocket, and swipes his notepad off the counter. On it, he’s drawn thirty or forty triangles of different sizes, the imprint of the pen gouged into the paper.

‘Thanks for your time, Gillian.’

She stands at the kitchen door, almost beckoning him out. The heavy treads stop, and Gillian’s husband appears in the hallway. He’s a tall man: around six foot two.

Luke’s forehead feels cool with newly formed sweat.

‘Luke was just leaving,’ says Gillian.

Brian nods and stands aside to let Luke by. His right shoulder tingles as he passes Lucy’s father. Luke’s always had a vivid imagination – he pictures Brian grabbing him by his collar and flinging him out of the front door. He’s surprised when he steps out of the house unscathed. He wants to run to the safety of his car but turns to face Gillian.

‘Bye then.’

She closes the front door gently.

Luke wishes he could speak to people without sounding like a bumbling schoolboy. Perhaps he should get on with writing that novel instead of reporting real life and mixing with the public.

He gets into the car and pulls away from the Sharpes’ house, turning left at the end of the road.

There must be a connection between Lucy and Jenna. Gillian didn’t mention where her daughter volunteered, but Luke knew it was at an animal sanctuary. Perhaps Jenna visited there, too. He makes a note of it on his pad.

He passes the shops on the parade three miles from the Sharpes’. The houses are smaller here: rows of red-brick terraces with different coloured front doors. There are people on the street: some alone with shopping bags; others chatting on their doorstep or next to the postbox.

Another left, then a right and he’s driving on Erica’s road. He slows before he passes the house. The front door is still painted green, though he can tell from here that it’s seen better days.

Erica’s curtains are closed, but that’s not unusual. Every time he’s passed before, it’s been the same. He checks his watch: five to ten. Homes Under the Hammer ’s on soon. Luke watched it every day when Megan was off school with chicken pox.

Erica must have her own routine; he doubts she goes out very much. Why the hell does she stay here? For her son? It’s a question Luke asks himself whenever he thinks about her, which has been a lot these past few days.

He sees movement in the upstairs bedroom window and looks away quickly. Is that Erica’s room? He remembers how he and a colleague, Rebecca, spent all day out here, waiting for any activity inside the house or from the police officer guarding the front door.

Luke presses his foot on the accelerator. Within the week, Craig will be back here. As a young man he did such horrific things. God help the people living on this street. Someone like that can’t be rehabilitated, thinks Luke. He’s seen it before – there are plenty of cases like it. Sometimes within hours of release a person will reoffend. How has Craig convinced the authorities he’s changed? Luke can’t help but shudder. This man murdered two young women one week apart. There must be evidence linking them, and Luke feels a new determination to find the connection.

He always loved potato waffles. He used to make them into sandwiches; he made everything into sandwiches, even mushy peas. I add them to the shopping list of his favourite foods – things I never eat. I always have the same meals so I don’t have to think about it. Today is Tuesday, so I’ll have beans on toast for dinner and a cottage pie ready meal for tea. Sometimes, I get the notion of trying something different, perhaps an avocado or an artichoke – I’ve seen things like that on Come Dine with Me and MasterChef – but there’s no point making all that effort for only one.

I can’t believe Craig’s coming home tomorrow. I thought something might come up that would stop everything; it hasn’t. I’ve imagined over the years what it would be like to have him home, but I’d pictured him as he was before he went inside. He’s a different person now. I’m afraid he’ll either withdraw into himself or enjoy his freedom a bit too much.

I’ve had so many messages from my forum friends.

AnneMarie2348:He’ll be a bit shell-shocked at first. He might be quiet for a few days while he gets used to being free.

Anne Marie’s from Bristol, so we’re relatively close – she’s the one I talk to the most.

TexanDude:Why not throw him a party? We had a little get-together for our Shane and it went down a real treat.

Trevor’s from Texas, obviously. I just said I’d think about that. I don’t think a convicted murderer partying the night away on release would go down very well in this town.

I cross out the cans of lager I wrote on my shopping list.

Some of our members can be a bit strange, but I try not to judge. I have to lead by example, being a moderator. It can get out of hand sometimes. The worst fallout was when a victim’s relative found his way on to there. I don’t know how he found the site, or how he knew that Martha was on it. He said that he was going to hunt her down and kill her family after what Martha’s brother had done to his daughter. She left because of that, which is a shame because she was a really sweet person.

But that’s in the past. There are more stringent verifications for admission to our group now.

I look at the first-ever picture of Craig on the TV cabinet. My friend, Denise, took the photo and gave me the print. He was premature. So tiny, wrapped in a blue hospital blanket.

I was sitting in this very chair when I felt pains at thirty-three weeks. I thought it was those practice ones, Braxton Hicks, but then my waters went. I ran out into the street, my skirt sopping wet, still wearing my slippers. Denise lived on the next street. I’d known her since we were at primary school. She was the only blonde in a classroom of mousy heads. Bit gobby, too, which was OK if you were on the right side of her.

I waddled all the way to hers, my hands between my legs in case the baby fell out. I must’ve looked a sight, but you don’t think about that when it’s a case of life or death.

‘Whatever’s the matter?’ Denise said, opening the door to my banging and screaming. She was carrying her baby boy; his chubby legs gripped her waist, but her blond hair was perfectly styled, make-up always intact.

‘My waters have gone,’ I said.

‘OK, OK. Calm down, love. It’s going to be all right. How far apart are your contractions?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve only had a few, I think. I had a couple of twinges in the frozen section at the VG, but I thought it was only growing pains.’

She ushered me in.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘I’ll give the hospital a ring – ask them what to do.’

She was always helpful. I was twenty-three, but I knew nothing about life, even though I thought I was experienced in the ways of the world. When my mother died, I had no one. My brother didn’t visit much, but he didn’t even when Mum was alive.

Denise only asked about the baby’s father once. I was silent on the subject and she never asked again. She must’ve known I’d made a mistake. I’d known her since secondary school and we used to tell each other everything. It was shame holding me back.

An ambulance took me to the hospital and I was in agony for nearly twenty-four hours on gas and air before Craig made his appearance. He was silent; everyone said babies should scream when they come out. I saw the panic on the midwife’s face, though she pretended everything was fine. She whisked him out of the room and I was left on my own for an hour before anyone came to talk to me. It was one of the longest hours of my life. I imagined the worst – that he’d died, and they couldn’t bring themselves to tell me. I was in pain with my stitches, so I couldn’t even go and find him.