The Other Mother

  I gave Theresa some food and shoved fifty pounds in her hand as I practically pushed her out of the door and sent her on her way. I told the taxi driver to drop her at the women’s hostel in the centre of Durham. It was only after she left that I realised my watch was missing, as well as an old bracelet and some spare cash I had lying around in the bedroom. A small price to pay for getting rid of her. Over the years I have tried and tried to help her, to coax her, cajole her, get her to counselling, get her to see a doctor. Nothing has worked. I now feel powerless to do anything. I have lost another sibling to the ravages of life. It’s just me, on my own against the rest of the world.

  Sighing, I slump down on to the sofa. Even my one-time ally has deserted me. So much for friends. She has pulled out and now expects me to just sit back and take it, be let down and accept it all with good grace. Well, she is in for a shock because that is most certainly not going to happen. I have had a long time to think about this, to plan it, to avenge Greg’s death; so if this woman this coward thinks I am going to let her get away with it, then she can think again. We had an agreement. Come hell or high water I am going to see this thing through. Otherwise Greg’s life will be forgotten. And what about her poor little Pamela? What about her memory? Where does she fit into all of this? Surely, she wants some sort of revenge? I know I certainly do.

  I take out my phone and send her another message, another one she will undoubtedly ignore, just like the many others I have sent that I’ve not received replies to. No matter. It won’t deter me. I am nothing if not tenacious. I wait and watch as my words disappear and float off into the ether, snatched up by an army of invisible demons as they carry it off to its recipient. Warren is only home for a few days this time then he is heading off to Switzerland to oversee a project there, so time will soon be on my side. I will have nobody around to keep tabs on me, to monitor my movements. Free as a bird.

  I smile and stare up at the ceiling, thinking how good it feels, how empowering it is to take the world by its shoulders and give it a damn good shake, to stare in its face and scream that this time I will not be walked on, trampled underfoot, and ground into the dirt. This time, everything will run to plan and people will congratulate me instead of pointing the finger and blaming me. I may not have been the perpetrator of the crime, but by God, over the years, I have served my time, done my penance and now I am ready to move on, to get my own back. So, if Erica Ridley thinks she is out of this thing, then she can bloody well think again. We are in it for the long run, both of us together, and we will see it through to its bitter end.

  Lissy

  ‘What the hell is going on with you?!’ I scream at her as we drive out of the sprawling car park and head home. Flecks of spittle land on the steering wheel and run down the side of my mouth. I feel as if my body is about to split apart, small pieces of me spreading far and wide. I am absolutely livid.

  Rosie’s sobs turn into a frenzied howl as we swing on to the main road, narrowly avoiding another car. The driver honks his horn and makes a rude sign at me, his face grimaced in anger. I am too furious at my daughter to respond. The rest of world can go to hell. I need to get her home and find out what is going on inside her head, work out what her motives are. I think of the disturbance back there in the head teacher’s office, her entrance into the room while I was sitting there, and feel my head begin to spin. The world blurs before my eyes and the steering wheel slips from my grasp. I grab it back, my palms clammy, my heart clawing its way up my neck. I try to take a deep and steadying breath without being sick, but acid and bile have begun their ascent up my throat. I need to do something, and quickly. Craning my head, I spot a side road to my left and swing the car in, grinding to a screeching halt in seconds. I need to calm down if I am to drive the six miles back home. I feel dizzy and shaky and perspiration runs down my back. Opening the door, I lean out to take a few deep gasps of air, but before I can stop myself I throw up in the gutter, a splash of warm vomit exiting my body. I gulp loudly and wait for the stomach cramps to stop.

  ‘Oi!’ I hear a voice close by, ‘I hope you’re going to clear that little mess up.’

  Bleary-eyed, I look up to see an elderly man leaning on his front gate. I am in a street of post-war terraced houses that I guess are probably occupied by retirees on a limited income. They have small, neat gardens and tiny, bay windows. Further along, an elderly lady with an ample backside is out washing her windows. She is wearing a large apron and curlers that peek out from under a hairnet.

  I heave some more on to the side of the road, then look up, panting and shivering, and give him a small wave to indicate that I have heard him.

  ‘We get so fed up of this, don’t we, Maureen? People using this street like it’s a bloody toilet.’

  The woman stares over at me and nods before going back to her window cleaning, her upper arms wobbling as she sweeps her hand across the top panes of glass, dragging a yellow cloth back and forth until the window gleams.

  I feel his eyes bore into me as he shouts over again, ‘Just ’cos we’re close to the centre of town doesn’t mean any Tom, Dick, or Harry can cut through here and mess the place up. Make sure you clean that lot up!’ He nods vigorously and I see his bushy eyebrows flicker up and down, then watch as he disappears into the house, slamming the door behind him.

  Reaching into the centre console, I grab a half-full bottle of water and weakly pour it on to the trail of thick, yellow liquid that is snaking its way down the road and dripping into the drain, then close the car door.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum, for putting you through all of this, I really, really am but I swear to you I didn’t do it!’ Her howls fill the car, bouncing around the vinyl seats and dashboard and ricocheting off the windscreen.

  ‘Rosie, just shut up, will you? Just stay silent. Say nothing, OK? Not another word until we get home.’

  She stares at me and I watch as tears stream down her face. My hands shake and my legs are liquid as I manoeuvre the car back out on to the main road. If I can just concentrate, get us home safely, then I can sort this thing out. Whatever this thing actually is. Right now, I am having difficulty thinking straight.

  I try to stem the rising fear I feel as I put all my efforts into getting us back in one piece. Have I not been paying her enough attention lately? Is that what this is all about? Or is it the constant moving about that has brought this on? A deep and unwelcome thought stirs somewhere deep down inside me. I try to blank it out. It’s not possible. It’s just a stupid, random flickering memory from the back of my brain that has snuck its way in and is trying to weaken me, to scare me into thinking that it will never be over. That this thing will be with me, with us, forever. I shake my head. She is not like me, nor is she anything like my parents. Haven’t scientists shown over the years that nurture can overcome nature? Rosie has had a loving background. OK, so her father left us in the lurch but the world is now stuffed full of single parent families. I think of my childhood rages, the blackouts, then bite my lip hard and put my foot down on the accelerator. I refuse to entertain such thoughts, thoughts that my daughter could in some way be disturbed or damaged. Rosie is an inherently good person. She is not me. Even I am no longer like the old me. There is a reason for all of this. There has to be.

  My mind wanders back to her. That woman, there in Rosie’s school. Her! Did she recognise me? Did she even see me or notice my presence in the room? Another wave of sickness hits me. I blink and swallow, my hands gripping the steering wheel for dear life. I’m not sure I can do this. I know I swore we would never move again but this is all getting to be too much to bear. But then, if we move once more and Rosie switches schools, am I just stoking the fires of her resentment and discontent? Giving her more things to be miserable about and another reason to misbehave in this way?

  By the time we pull up on the drive, I feel certain my skull is about crack open. My nose is streaming and my vision is so blurred I cannot believe we made it home safely. Stars burst behind my eyes and shadows cr
eep in on my peripheral vision. Rosie has done as I asked and remained silent all the way back, which is just as well as I don’t think I was in any fit state to answer her. Surely if she were the damaged pupil the school thinks she is then she wouldn’t have complied, would she? She would have kicked up a huge stink and fought me all the way back, screaming and yelling at me that she is innocent, that this is all my doing for moving her about so much. I cling on to that thought as we step out of the car, our feet crunching on the gravel. Then I see it and remember. The dead fox. Another wave of nausea hits me and a film of horror and dread coats the roof of my mouth. I stare at Rosie who is, in turn, staring at the mangled, furry heap on the front lawn. Her eyes are wide and her mouth is gaping open. A smear of blood covers the lawn where I dropped it earlier, and as we watch, a flock of magpies land on its back and begin to peck at its innards, one of them clawing greedily at the fox’s eyeball ; a pack of hungry creatures pulling and tugging at its sinewy, bloodied flesh. I need to get her in the house away from it all; from this hideous sight before us, but before I can do anything she lets out an almighty shriek that could shatter glass. I watch as she doubles over and sobs, her breath coming out in rattling, laboured gasps. She stops and stares at me before letting out another ear-piercing scream. We have to get inside. I need to get her away from all of this and calm her down before anybody hears us. I rush over and wrap my arms around her body, half limping and half dragging her to the doorway, where we stand jumbled together while I grope with my keys, a mass of wet, jangling metal that slides about in my sweaty hands. I somehow manage to find the right one and keep it still long enough to slide it into the door. We stumble inside, Rosie falling on to the bottom step while I throw my bag into the corner with a thump, not caring if anything breaks. I am just about to shut the door when I see him. He is running up the driveway, his face full of concern. He stops and lets out a gasp when he sees it there, the heap of red fur, deeply incongruous against the sprawl of lush, green grass. I quickly turn around and bark at Rosie to go up to her room. She does it without question, scrambling up to her feet in seconds, a terrified look in her eyes as she darts upstairs, taking them two at a time. I feel a sudden stab of guilt and pity as I watch her go. As soon as I get rid of Rupert I will go and see her and we will talk about all of this. Time for some honesty, time for us both to start opening up.

  ‘Everything OK?’ he asks and I want to laugh out loud at his words.

  My daughter has just been excluded from school for the second time in under a month, we have received a hate-filled note, I have just found out that somebody I hoped I would never see again for the rest of my life is the secretary at Rosie’s school, and to top it all off, I have a dead fox on my front garden. No, I want to scream at him, things are definitely not OK. But I don’t. Instead I do what I always do, what I have done for all of my adult life, I smile at him and tell him we are absolutely fine. I can see by the bewildered look on his face that he doesn’t believe me. Of course, he doesn’t. Why would he? My hair is wild and tangled into knots, my face is a sticky smear of tears and snot, my daughter, only minutes ago, was shrieking and howling at the top of her voice, and I very probably reek of vomit. I am a mess, both physically and emotionally, but do my best to assure him that we are both OK and that yes, we will give him a knock if we need any help. It’s only as I shut the door that it crosses my mind. I try to shake the thought away but it refuses to budge. Him, Rupert. Could he be the one who put the fox there? And is he the person who posted the note a few weeks back? And what about that blasted pigeon? I swallow and tell myself this is no more than mild hysteria talking, that I need to get a grip and start thinking rationally. Why would a neighbour target me? Unless … I banish the thought away. And then what about her at the school. Just a coincidence? Is that what this all is? Simply an awful twist of fate? Maybe. Or maybe not …. I don’t believe so but I have to tell myself I’m imagining it. If only for Rosie’s sake.

  I place my hand against my forehead. My face is hot, my skin like parchment. I am dehydrated and need a drink in order to think straight. I stagger through to the kitchen and stick my head under the tap, gulping water down in great, sloppy mouthfuls. It runs over my face, down my chin, cooling my burning flesh and soothing my aching throat.

  Standing up, I wipe my mouth and wait for a few minutes. I need to compose myself. I am a complete mess, my head tight with anxiety, my limbs like liquid. I sweep my gaze over the garden then remember that I have forgotten to lock the front door. I also need to dispose of the carcass on my lawn. So much to do. Such a terrible day this has turned out to be, and one I don’t want to repeat.

  As I make my way through, I have the most awful sensation in the pit of my stomach. I can see it as I slowly edge my way round into the hallway. There is another letter on the mat. I am frozen for a few seconds, my limbs locked with terror. My brain is screaming at me to move, to do something. Somehow, I am able to free myself of the paralysis and, wrenching the door open, I lunge forward and run down the driveway, my eyes scanning every possible hiding place, every way out of here. There are a handful of cars in the distance but nothing or nobody else. I stop and try to control my breathing, the buzzing in my head like an attack of killer bees. Am I going mad? Is this what it feels like to lose all control? Is it all coming back after all these years? I think back to the rages I suffered as a child, to the blackouts I had, and slump to the ground, suddenly exhausted by it all. Is this ever going to end? Or is my life forever going to be spent running away, bolting in?

  I try to stand up but my legs buckle. I stay on the ground; my entire body weary. I just need a few seconds to think, to gather my strength. I look around the garden once more and then stare over the hedge at the terracotta roof that is Rupert’s house. It has to be him. There isn’t anybody else it can be. I haven’t even seen any of the other neighbours and he was the one who initiated contact. I am too tired to do anything about it at the minute but tomorrow I will go around there and confront him, tell him to leave us alone or I will call the police. I stare around again, my pulse slowly returning to normal. I let my eyes travel around the perimeter of the front lawn and garden, taking in the sprays of wild flowers and small splashes of colour. Usually I would admire it, take time to appreciate such a lovely sight, but today I am too tired, too harassed and overwrought to value the beauty of it all.

  I twist around, straining my neck, suddenly thinking that something is different, something has changed. Then I realise what it is. The fox has gone. I should care but don’t. It’s one less thing for me to do. I am all out of energy and not in the least bit bothered. I have bigger problems to sort out when I go back inside; a whole host of issues waiting for me. I climb to my feet. I am not worried about where it has disappeared to or who has taken it. As long as it’s not on my lawn any more, I honestly don’t give a shit.

  When I turn around and see Rosie there, I feel the ground begin to pull me down again. She has opened the letter and is holding it out to me, her hands trembling, her eyes glassy with more tears.

  ‘I’m coming in now, Rosie,’ I say in a voice that doesn’t feel like mine. The sound of it echoes around my head, thick and rasping as I manage to stagger to the doorway, wondering how I am going to get through this. It’s only at times like this I begin to understand just how much Aunt Alice protected me, kept me away from the rough and tumble of living. She gave me a sense of direction and purpose and taught me how to deal with the day to day worries of life whilst keeping me from harm. And now I am alone with nobody to care for me or show me what to do. It’s all down to me. Nobody to tell me what to do or to help me. I am completely on my own.

  ‘Mum, what is this?’ Rosie cries as I fall through the door and almost land in her arms.

  She thrusts the letter out at me, her hands quaking, her fingers white with the strain of gripping it. The sound of crisp paper being straightened out booms in my ears as I snatch it from her and let my eyes wander over what is written there. My heart gushes
and pounds as I stare at the letter. More sickness, a terrible headache. I fight it, my breathing erratic, my eyes sore and heavy. The words scream at me, loud and brutal, tearing into my soul like a bullet from a gun.

  Thought you could leave it all behind you? Think again. I know your every move you murderous, old monster. I am watching you. I am watching your every fucking move, you old bitch …

  Fuelled by anger and outrage, I snatch the note out of Rosie’s hand and storm back out, crunching my way down the drive, leaving her behind me, yelling at me that she has no idea what is going on, crying out that she is frightened and scared and wants to go back to our old house.

  I am at his door in a matter of seconds, my temper at boiling point. There is nobody else around here. It’s him. It has to be. I ball my hand into a fist and batter it against the wooden door, hammering with all my strength, a relentless pounding that fills the air around me, drowning out the birdsong. I don’t stop until the door swings open and he is standing there, his face frozen with confusion and alarm. He doesn’t fool me. I know what his game is. I’ve been stupid lately, too soft. I’ve let my guard slip, been friendly with him and this is the net result. My first thought is to show him the letter but I think better of it. I need to keep it for evidence of his continued harassment. And if he thinks he is going to get away with this, he can think again. I am done with the bullies, with all the threats and aggravation and stalking. I have had enough. I have spent my life on the run, moving from place to place to avoid people like him. But not for much longer. This is where it all ends.