Only a Mother Read online

  He found her down one of the side streets, taking a drag from a cigarette. Luke remembers she wore black and was shivering. He’d wanted to put his arms around her, like he would’ve done had it been his mother at a funeral. He wasn’t sure if Erica dressed like that for her son, or the girl Craig murdered.

  Luke doesn’t need to read his article again to recall her every word; there weren’t many. ‘Do you think he did it?’ Luke had asked, pretending not to know who she was.

  ‘Of course not,’ she said, looking at the floor, then to the crowd in the near distance.

  Her voice was barely a whisper. She appeared so small, like she wanted to disappear, blend into the concrete.

  The detective leading the case had read out a statement saying how justice had been done – that a dangerous, calculating and manipulative young man had rightfully been put away. The victim’s relatives huddled behind him, clinging to each other to stay upright, while cameras captured their grief, pain and tears.

  Erica Wright had sat alone during the trial. There were no friends or relatives there to support her. Luke recalls glancing at her as the photographs of Lucy were shown to the court. Unlike others in the courtroom, there were no gasps from Erica’s mouth. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, her mouth remained pressed into a straight line. Why had she done that to herself? But then, Luke thought, why had the victim’s parents sat there, too? Who would want to see their child’s lifeless body, or listen to what happened in their last moments?

  Craig had looked at the photographs, too. Of course, he’d already seen the body in person, hadn’t he. He showed no emotion as he gazed at them. Perhaps he got some sick gratification, as though reliving the memory. Craig remained detached when Lucy’s mother ran out of the courtroom in tears. Only a person so cold, sociopathic, could ignore suffering like that.

  Down that side street, Erica threw her spent cigarette on to the ground. She fumbled with a crumpled packet for a new one. Luke always carried a lighter, alongside a pen, notepad, and a packet of fags, even though he didn’t smoke. As he held the flame up to her and cupped his other hand to shield the wind, he said, ‘Will you visit him in prison?’

  She narrowed her eyes at him.

  ‘Of course. He’s my son. I love him.’

  Tears rolled down each side of her face. Then she turned her back on Luke and walked away.

  He wondered if she had visited him. What had they talked about for all these years? Did they talk about the most serious of subjects, his guilt? Luke would’ve loved to have been a fly on the wall during their visits.

  There was another girl: Jenna Threlfall. She went missing a week after Lucy did. Everyone feared the worst for her after Lucy’s body was found in woodland outside Preston. Their fears were realised when Jenna Threlfall was found in the playing field. She was right in the centre, star-shaped as though she were in the middle of making snow angels. Dog walkers found her. It’s always dog walkers, isn’t it? They’re out so early, in random places and the dogs can smell it: death, bodies.

  The police interviewed Craig about the second girl, but he had an alibi – the MO was different. There was no evidence to connect the two. Only circumstantial, and that wasn’t enough. But people thought it was him. Otherwise, why hadn’t the police pursued anyone else?

  ‘I’ll get on it,’ Luke says to Sarah.

  He retrieves Erica’s number from the database, lifts the receiver and dials.

  She picks up after ten rings.

  ‘Hello?’ Her voice is quiet.

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

  ‘I … No. I’ve people here.’

  She hangs up.

  People? So it must be true. After seventeen years in prison, Craig Wright is coming back home. He’s bound to slip up – he can’t be that bright to have been caught in the first place. He’s going to make a mistake and Luke is going to make sure he’s there when it happens.

  3

  Erica

  I haven’t slept for more than two hours at a time these past two weeks. I drank three strong coffees this morning in preparation for their visit and now I could do with a fourth.

  They waltzed into my house like they owned the place and now they’re sitting in my living room with gadgets instead of notebooks. I carry the tea tray through, grasping it tightly. I spaced the china far enough apart so it wouldn’t clatter if my hands tremble. I place it on the table in the middle of the room.

  Patrick Nelson from probation was here four weeks ago with a young man, but he’s brought a young lady, Hannah McIntyre, with him today. Perhaps he prefers being with females. I know his type.

  Hannah’s looking at my photographs on top of the telly. Craig was a normal little boy, I want to tell her – a mummy’s boy. He probably still is. She gazes at the landscape prints on the walls, the bare bars of the electric fire. At least my house is clean, tidy.

  I wonder what she thinks of me. Does she pity me? Or does she hate me? Perhaps she thinks I created a monster.

  If I talk normally to them this time – I’ve practised since the last – then it could be the final time I have to deal with the authorities. I know as I think this that it won’t be the case, but it’s a step closer. It might all be over soon – we could have a chance at a normal life. Once Craig realises what it’s like living back here, he’ll want to move away – like I’ve always wanted to.

  ‘Thanks so much for seeing us again, Erica,’ says Patrick. ‘I hope you don’t mind but I thought we’d go through things again. I want to get Hannah familiar with everything as she’ll be organising Craig’s voluntary work. As I mentioned last time, Craig will already know his supervising officer.’ He glances at the paper on his lap. ‘Adam Bardsley.’

  It’s a fake smile he gives me. I don’t return it.

  ‘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.
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  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.

  4

  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.

  5

  Luke

  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.

  Back then, Luke could tell Gillian cared about her appearance. Her smooth shoulder-length bob was almost black, and she always wore make-up; her mascara never streaked with her tears. Perhaps that was a distraction for her – a mask she wore in public. But now her hair is lighter, pulled into a scruffy bun at the base of her neck, and her face is free of make-up. She’s thinner now – almost too thin.

  He follows Gillian into the kitchen. The floor is white, the cabinet doors are white, and the massive island in the middle is topped with white marble. Everything is spotless, gleaming.

  ‘Can I get you anything to drink?’

  Luke’s tempted to ask for a shot of that vodka he spots in the drinks cabinet.

  ‘Black coffee, no sugar, please,’ he says.

  She raises her eyebrows.

  ‘I had you down as a builder’s tea, three sugars kind of man.’

  ‘I was last week.’

  She flicks on the kettle and gestures for Luke to sit at one of the bar stools. He tries to mount it as gracefully as he can, but his hands are full with his leather satchel and mobile phone. Gillian has the courtesy to turn away as he places everything on to the marble top before sitting.

  His questions are listed on a notepad and a recording app is ready to go on his phone. Gillian places the steaming coffee in front of him. He’ll have to wait at least five minutes before he can attempt a sip – she hasn’t topped it up with cold water. But he’s not in a café; that’s another of Helen’s phrases.

  Gillian sits at a ninety-degree angle from Luke, a herbal tea in a glass cup in front of her. There are bags under her eyes that seem to threaten tears at any moment.

  He’s about to ask the first question when his stomach growls. The room is so quiet that she must’ve heard it.

  ‘Did you miss breakfast?’ she says. ‘You reporters must be so busy. Would you like a biscuit?’

  She’s talking as though she’s his mum. It must be terrible for her, being a mother when her only child is dead. Luke banishes the notion from his head.

  ‘I had breakfast, thanks. It was a smoothie.’

  Shit, why is he being so unprofessional today? Luke’s usually so together, but he feels edgy around her. He can’t imagine losing one of his daughters, especially in that way. It’s like he’s too close to the tragedy and that just being part of it will harm his own family.

  God. Stop it. He can’t think like that. How bloody disrespectful.

 
; Luke picks up a pen and taps the pin code into his phone.

  ‘Are you OK to start?’

  She nods, slowly, wiping a strand of hair from her face. Her shoulders are straight; she’s so composed, given the circumstances.

  ‘How do you feel about the imminent release of Craig Wright and his intention to come back to the area?’

  ‘Straight to the point as usual, Luke.’ She picks up her glass cup and sips the tea, a slight shake to her hands. ‘As you know, my husband has never done interviews … didn’t want to read Lucy’s name alongside that man’s. He says he’d kill Craig if he ever saw him in the street. Brian agrees with me … that Craig coming back shouldn’t be allowed. Life should mean life – that’s what people say all the time, isn’t it?

  ‘Why drag everything back up again?’ She rests her elbows on the counter and leans towards Luke. ‘What he did in the first place was evil enough.’ She reaches a hand out and places it near Luke’s mug. ‘Please don’t refer to my husband in the article.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Good,’ she says, sitting up straight again. ‘Most of them don’t care about our feelings when they’ve written about Lucy. You’re the only one who’s kept to your word. It’s why I agreed to this interview. I’m not going to speak to any other newspaper.’

  ‘I appreciate that.’

  ‘I bet you do.’ A brief smile crosses her face before she frowns. ‘Anyone who’s committed crimes like that shouldn’t be allowed back into any community. What he did to my daughter and Jenna Threlfall was … inhuman – not that he was ever convicted for Jenna. What must her family be going through?’

  ‘We can’t write about Jenna in connection with Craig, unfortunately.’

  She doesn’t register Luke’s words.

  ‘And he confessed near the end … The trial had nearly finished! What sort of person does that? He was thinking about himself, to get a reduced sentence. Did he want the world to hear about what he’d done? Have my child’s image shown to a room full of strangers?’

  Luke sees them in his mind as clear as the first time – he wishes he couldn’t. Lucy’s burgundy T-shirt pushed up around her neck, her face white, lips blue, eyes wide open. A single straight open wound on her abdomen – her intestines tumbling out after small animals had begun to eat her, inside out.