Motherlove

Title Page
Dedication
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
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About Honno
Copyright

Motherlove

Thorne Moore

HONNO MODERN FICTION

For Liz

With many thanks to my editor, Janet Thomas.

PROLOGUE

The naked trees dripped, the tarmac paths ran black. The park had soaked up rain like blotting paper and the lake was full, spilling over the litter-clogged weir into the dark sewer that ran beneath the town.

Even in the clammy chill, the park had its occupants, heads down, striding through, taking a shortcut from one side of town to the other. Not many came to enjoy the park for its own sake at this time of year. No one except her came to pace every path, note every hump and hollow, count every skeletal tree.

Because somewhere here was the answer. Hidden. But if she kept looking, one day she would find it. She must.

‘Good evening, Mrs Parish.' Lewis Damper, grey-haired, West Indian, warmed his hands on his mug as he emerged from his kiosk by the gate. He beamed, his friendliness simple and transparent. She valued him for that, she realised. Valued a guileless smile that conveyed nothing but a smile.

She smiled in return, welcoming the human contact. ‘Good evening, Lewis.'

‘Days drawing out. Still chilly though.' He put his mug on the sill of the kiosk and pulled the collar of his uniform around his ears. ‘You keep warm now.'

‘Yes.' She nodded, walked on, thinking of that bottle-green uniform, that pathetic display of civic concern for public order. Park wardens. Last year there had been a rape, in full daylight, a woman screaming and no one helped. Lyford council had been forced to make a show of doing something, bringing back wardens after thirty-five years, closing the park gates at night.

After all those years with no one caring how dangerous the park was. Because little evils didn't matter. Her little evil didn't matter.

She dug her nails into her palms. No point directing her anger and resentment at the uniform. Certainly not at the man wearing it. Lewis was one of the good guys, even if there was precious little he could do about anything. There were still broken bottles and used condoms littering the concrete round the swings. Still obscene graffiti sprayed on the toilet block and supermarket trolleys in the boating lake. Still the gaps in the clusters of cherry trees where a gang had taken a chainsaw to them.

Still the emptiness, the unanswered question.

If only—

She walked on, briskly, keeping fit, keeping ready.

Through the chestnuts – ignore the expectant squirrels – to the knoll with the drinking fountain, smashed and dry now. Then to the playground, with its decaying timber shelter. Always empty. No one seemed to play any more on the rusting swings and the battered roundabout kicked clean of its colours. Children were all too busy at their Play Stations probably. Or at the brand new play area with rubber mats and garish plastic on the far side of the shopping centre.

She paused by the shelter, seeing the sheet of paper pinned there. A photocopied blur with the glimmer of two eyes. ‘Lost. Trixy. Black and white kitten. Please contact Lucy Grayling.' And a number. The paper, ripped almost in two, dangled by one corner.

Anger and bitterness swelled up in her throat. She searched on the ground, found the missing pin and secured the sad little poster. Someone should care. It was only a kitten but even so. Lucy Grayling was suffering. Someone should care.

She turned away, continued on her route.

Two women passed her, one with a pushchair, one with a cigarette. Their eyes took her in, then averted. Strangers did not make contact in the park.

She took her usual turn, over the footbridge that crossed the narrow neck of the lake, past the long-abandoned boating shed, past the stump of the old bandstand, round the head of the lake and back. Counting the trees, the bushes.

At her usual spot she stopped, gripping the railing. She opened her bag. Just a piece of burnt toast today. Even before she had reached inside, the ducks began to gather, streaming across the lake, querulous quacks building up to a cacophony as the birds crammed together, fighting for a place within reach. Some swam in determined circles, others clambered out onto the grass, waddling closer to the fence. Quack quack quack.

Every crumb fought over and devoured. When she had nothing left, she hesitated. Maybe this was the day her mind would be tricked into spewing out its contents. She turned, with the ducks still gobbling and quacking, to face the darkening park.

Empty.

No buried memory. No revelation. No exoneration or incrimination. Today, as ever, just an empty park.

‘And I said to her, you do as you're fucking told.' The two women she had passed earlier. Again the hasty look, wary and dismissive.

Then a backward glance, a hesitation as memories slipped into place. The one with the cigarette came marching back, eyes squinting in accusation. ‘I know you.'

The mother with the buggy turned too, her infant lolling unaware. ‘What's up?'

‘I know her!' said the first, jabbing her cigarette in emphasis, near enough to be threatening. ‘I remember you, in the papers. They shouldn't let you in here. You should be fucking locked up.' She spat.

Her companion glared her support.

‘Keep our Kiera away from her. She's a murderer. Shouldn't be allowed in the park.'

Would they attack her? She could feel their hatred already battering her. Once she would have responded, shouted denial, faced them down, but now, after so many years, so many similar scenes, she knew better than to bother. Keep quiet. Keep dignified. Keep sane.

‘Mrs Parish?' Lewis Damper was strolling across the grass, alert to trouble and ready to calm any tension.

The cigarette woman grabbed her companion to lead her away. ‘You should keep her out of the park, you should. Keep her away from kids. Fucking child killer, that's what she is. Killed her own kid. Hanging's too good. They should have thrown away the key.'

Was she hearing all that, or simply filling in all the insults that had been hurled over the years?

‘You all right, Mrs Parish?' She could sense the sudden chill in Lewis's voice, the suspicion.

‘Child killer!' A last receding screech.

‘I am fine, thank you.' She raised her chin.

‘Park will be shutting soon. Best be on your way, yes?'

Out of his life, he meant. But she didn't care. She didn't care what foul-mouthed women said. She would keep coming back, until finally she was shocked into focus, found the hidden memory that must be there in the corner of her mind, and grasped what she had missed, what she had done or not done.

Until she understood what had happened to her daughter.

She turned back to the lake, to the ducks who were drifting into the gathering gloom, the water rippling white in their wake. Rippling out and out, going nowhere.

CHAPTER 1

i

Kelly

The house was dark. It jolted Kelly Sheldon the moment she pushed the door open. Darkness like a hand raised in her face, halting her in her tracks. The house should be alight by now, a warm glow after the gloom of the early spring evening.

And her mother should be in the kitchen, cooking or brewing or bottling. But the cluttered kitchen was silent. A saucepan stood cold on the cooker, empty jars waited forgotten on the table. Kelly pushed aside pots of herbs on the windowsill, to peer out into the field. Sheep and lambs were milling about, disgruntled, by the gate. They hadn't had their usual feed.

What had happened to her mother? It wasn't in Kelly's nature to worry but a chill clenched her stomach now.

‘Mum?' She tried to speak normally, keep her voice level.

No response. She tiptoed upstairs, wanting to shout, but afraid there would be no reply.

‘Mum?' For a moment she thought that Roz's bedroom was also empty. No light. Silence. A jumble of bedding. That wasn't right. Messy bedding was normal for Kelly's room, but Roz always kept calm order in hers. Tantric harmony.

Kelly laid a hand on the quilt and felt her mother's arm beneath. She turned back the covers.

Roz was half undressed, one shoe still on, huddled in the tangle of cloth, shivering. She mewed as Kelly pulled the quilt, her eyes clenched shut.

‘Mum? What's wrong? How long have you been like this? Christ, Mum.'

Roz's fingers closed round her wrist, as if Kelly could give her a transfusion of strength. She swallowed hard, opened her eyes with a wince. ‘I'm all right.'

‘How can you say that? Mum! I knew you weren't well. I shouldn't have gone out. Look, I'm going to get a doctor.'

‘No!'

‘But Mum, you're really ill. I've got to.'

‘No. I'll be all right. You can get me some water. Some tea. Dandelion root. There's some in the kitchen. Make a—'

‘No, Mum, this is serious. Look at you. You can't solve this with herb tea.'

‘I don't want a doctor. I'm not taking their poisons.' Roz was struggling up, ready to fight, and Kelly saw her with new eyes. Not just slim and supple, as Kelly had always thought, but gaunt. Still in her thirties, she was looking nearer sixty. The effort of rising was too much; the nausea was clearly taking hold. Roz was waving her arm for support, so Kelly helped her, half carried her through to the bathroom, where Roz dropped over the pan and heaved. ‘Just some water,' she said hoarsely.

Kelly hesitated for a second. ‘All right.'

She raced down to the kitchen for a glass, because doing something, anything, gave her time to confront her panic. Think. She groped in her pocket for her mobile, and checked for a signal. Why was she bothering? She knew there was never any signal here, in the shadow of the hill. She would have to climb…

Joe. Her boyfriend. Of course, he was still in the yard. He had brought her back from The Mill and Tuppence on the pillion of his spluttering bike, and he always took time to see if the potholes on their mountain track had done any damage.

She flung the door wide, calling him.

Joe ambled over.

‘Mum's ill.' She didn't like to shout, so she forced herself to wait until he was close enough. ‘I think she's really bad. She needs a doctor. Call one.'

Joe was flummoxed. ‘Doctor? I didn't think she had one. I thought she didn't believe—'

‘She doesn't. But tough. She's really ill, Joe. Here, take my phone. Find a signal. Please.'

‘Okay.' He took the mobile, confirming that, yes, there was no signal.

‘Please hurry. I've got to get back to her.'

‘Yeah, yeah, okay.' He wandered off and Kelly dashed upstairs with the water.

Roz was back in bed, shivering. ‘No doctor,' she said.

Kelly held the glass to her lips. ‘You've got to have a doctor. I don't care what you say. You're ill, and I'm scared and I don't want to lose you. Please, Mum.'

Roz's face, already creased with pain, frowned more. Then her resistance softened into tears. ‘Kelly.' She squeezed her hand, then lay back and allowed her daughter to straighten her bedding and wipe away the sweat.

‘I couldn't do without you, Mum,' said Kelly, unable to stop her voice quivering. ‘So please, be good when the doctor gets here. Because I am going to do whatever he tells me to do.'

Again, Roz opened her lips to argue. Then stopped, smiled and sank back. ‘You're the boss.'

‘That's right!' She was going to play the boss and take a machete to one of Roz's strongest convictions; no doctors. Herbs and acupuncture and the correct balancing of Yin and Yang were all very well for sniffles, aching feet or sore eyes. But this was different. This, Kelly knew in her twisting gut, was bad. For the first time she imagined a world without Roz.