The Broken Ones (14 page)

My fingers are trembling as I flick through the rest of the letters. They are all filled with the same vitriol. Some are addressed to Grandma; others are addressed to my father. None of them goes into any detail about what it is Mum had to do, but they all mention an “unforgiveable” event. It’s the top letter that has been opened and read the most. The pages are thin and crumpled, with yellowing stains along the edges. This is the one Mum opens and reads the most. I close the tin and place it back in the box.

I’m surprised to find an old woollen jumper of mine in the box. With a jolt, I remember finding the same jumper in the attic a few weeks ago. When did Mum go up into the attic and retrieve it? The feel and the smell of the thing bring memories rushing back to me. Mum was obsessed with this being my favourite jumper, but I hated the thing. I remember being about six years old, when it was already too small for me. She insisted that it was my favourite, but it always made me itch and I hated the smell. The smell made me sad. I lift the jumper to my face and inhale.

The punch to my gut is instantaneous. There it is again: that dull ache, as though I’m grieving a life I never had. Maybe I’ll always feel this way when I lift a piece of children’s clothing. Maybe I’ll always get this tearing feeling running through my body, as though I’m going to be pulled in half by the pain. How is it possible? How is the strength of this emotion so intense for an experience that I’ve never even had?

When I hear the steps coming up the stairs, the child in me takes over. I hurriedly stuff everything back in the box and am hurrying out of the room when I see Mum at the top of the stairs.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Just some dusting.”

Her eyes narrow for a moment, and I think she’s about to comment on the fact that I don’t have a duster. “That cat is in the garden again.”

“Oh, ignore it,” I say.

“All right. But it’s dead.”

The clouds hang low in the sky, like dark, deflated balloons. Our car is surrounded by long stretches of fields that fall away into the distant sea. I’m wearing a waterproof jacket, waiting for the rain. Jamie checks the weather app on his phone for the third time in the last five minutes.

“We should never have chosen Pembrokeshire in June,” he says. “The only guaranteed weather for this time of year is abroad.”

“Mum won’t fly,” I reply. “Besides, I wanted to come here. I’ve never been before. The countryside is beautiful. Don’t you think?”

“It’s no different to Yorkshire, if you ask me.” His words are forced between his gritted teeth. He pushes his smartphone back into his jeans pocket and folds his arms. “They should be here by now. The adverts say that they always arrive within the hour. Lying bastards. This whole thing is just a fucking disaster. Why did we even bother? And why the hell did you let your mother put diesel into the car?”

I roll my eyes for the third or fourth time in the last ten minutes. My patience is wearing as Jamie’s temper rises. “Stop going on about it, for God’s sake. You were in the bathroom, and she agreed to do it while I nipped across the road to get a coffee. I thought she knew what she was doing. She’s had cars before.”

“She knew exactly what she was doing,” Jamie mutters.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Why would she want the car to break down? Who would want to be stuck waiting for the AA when it’s about to piss it down?” I gesture angrily towards the gathering clouds.

When Jamie moves closer, a tiny speck of spit flies from his mouth and lands on my cheek. “Why do you think? Because she didn’t want to come in the first place. Because she hates me and wants to undermine me. Because she’s a vindictive bitch. Take your pick.”

“Would you keep your voice down? She’s only a few feet away.” I brush away the spit and pull my jacket tighter, trying not to look at Mum, sat nice and warm inside the car. “You can’t say these things about my mother. It’s not right. I know she’s difficult, but I need you both to get along.”

Jamie lets out a hollow laugh devoid of all good humour. “Difficult? Impossible, more like.”

“You have to try.”

I can’t decide whether I’m cold from the cool breeze coming off the sea, or Jamie’s frosty glare. Mum and Jamie have been at war since the moment they met. Mum has a way of winding him up, and Jamie doesn’t have any patience with her at all. So far, there have been tense, almost painful meals that ended up with either or both storming off, silent evenings in front of the TV punctuated with bitter remarks, and moments when the constant complaining from each of them about the other person got too much for me.

“I don’t know what else I can do. I try to be nice to her, and she calls me weak. I stand up to her, and I’m aggressive. She find fault with everything I do. And, quite frankly, Sophie, I’m sick of standing by and letting her find fault with everything you do. She has no respect for either of us, and I’m starting to think she has no respect for anyone at all. You’re better off moving out.”

When I fail to respond, Jamie’s light blue eyes penetrate mine. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

Jamie’s shoulders slump. “You’d be happier with me. We can settle down and start a family. I thought that was what you wanted?”

“It is, but—”

“But what?”

“I can’t just leave her.”

“Sophie, that’s what children do. They grow up, and they live their own lives. You’re still a child. At least you act like one. It’s pathetic.”

The wind slaps me in the face along with his words. The rain finally starts to fall, but neither of us moves. Inside the car, Mum sits with her head against the glass. Napping.

“You know you’d have a better life with me,” Jamie continues. His skin shines from the rain. His blond hair is plastered to his forehead. He’s looking older. I never noticed that before. He’s a few years older than I am, but he has a baby face. This is the first time I’ve looked at him and seen him at his true age. “I can give you what you want, but I won’t do it with her in my life. I can’t raise children with her around.”

“What?”

“You heard me. She’s toxic. I won’t have that influence on my children.”

“But—”

“It’s time to make a decision, Sophie. You can’t live a happy life with that woman in your life. It’s either her or me.”

“I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you’re saying these things.”

The rain begins to run down my neck. It bounces off the hood of the car and splatters onto the road. I can’t believe that Jamie is putting me in this position, and I can’t believe that Mum would sabotage our holiday just to spite us. Am I stupid? Am I hiding with my head in the sand, hoping that everything will be okay? Am I the loneliest woman in the world right now?

The AA van pulls up.

The kitchen doors are wide open when I hurry downstairs. Mum has already been outside. Why didn’t I hear her? How did she find the keys that I hid?

She points the cat out to me, not that she needed to. I can hardly look at the twisted thing. My breath is frozen in my throat. I gesture for Mum to get inside, then I lock the doors.

“How long were you outside for?” I ask.

“A few minutes.”

“How did you unlock the doors?”

“With my key, how else?” She turns away and whispers, “Fucking moron.”

I start to ask her how she found them, then change my mind. I need to call PC Hollis.

I get his answering machine and leave a message. When I hang up, my fingers linger over the 9 key, but I can’t bring myself to call the emergency services about a dead cat. Without Hollis or Chowdhury—who know what has been happening to me—I don’t feel confident that anything will happen. I take a few photographs on my phone through the kitchen door. Another sinister entry for my log.

I dread the next phone call. The number is in my contacts after a disastrous week-long holiday with me, Mum and Jamie in Wales. I’d asked Mrs. Hamilton from next door to water the garden for us. In the end we’d hardly needed to bother. We abandoned the holiday after two days of constant rowing between Mum and Jamie.

I punch the number into my phone and hold my breath. When it comes to trying to explain what happened, I’m lost for words. Instead, I wimp out and tell her that her cat is lying in our back garden and appears unwell, and that I would have come to the house but Mum and I have a sickness bug and I don’t want to pass it on. She’s welcome to come and get the cat. Then I herd Mum into the living room and shut the kitchen door so I don’t have to see Mrs. Hamilton’s reaction to finding her cat.

My throat is choked and my hands are shaking. I wish I’d had the foresight to bring the bottle of wine with me. Luckily, I did bring my laptop, which I open and frantically check through the camera feeds.

They’re all blank.

How can that be?

“You’re always on that thing,” Mum notes. “Found yourself another fancy man, have you?”

“Shut up,” I snap.

Her teeth clamp together with an audible crack. “You’ll be glad when I’m dead, won’t you?”

“Just shut up,” I repeat. “I’ve had enough of you.”

“I’m not going to sit here and be spoken to like this.” She gets on her feet and heads towards the kitchen door.

“Fine. Go upstairs to your room, but do
not
go outside. Where are your keys?”

“What?” Perfectly on cue, her face slackens.

If it’s an act, it’s a bloody good one.

“Give me your keys.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

I put the laptop down and move towards her. There must be some new determination in the way I hold myself, because for the first time ever, Mum actually appears afraid of me. She backs up against the wall and holds her hands up.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I say. “I just want your keys.” I delve into her trouser pocket and retrieve the keys. They’re the spare set that I had hidden in the kitchen table drawer. Mum must have noticed and taken them. “Nothing gets past you, does it? How sick are you really, Mum? How much of this is all an act? Are you messing with me? Are you trying to make me as crazy as you are?”

The slap almost knocks me sideways. My face burns from the sting of her hand against my cheek. Tears spring into my eyes. Bent low and vulnerable, I glance up to see her hard, remorseless face glaring down at me.

“Have some respect for your mother,” she says. And then she leaves the room.

*

I stand in the living room clutching my hurt cheek, wondering how I’ll recollect the last few weeks. Will I think of my crazy mother? My crazy stalker? Or my crazy self? Because I’m beginning to wonder if my mind is conjuring half the things that are happening to me. What if I
did
sleep with Peter but can’t remember doing it?

What if I brought all this on myself? It was me who got fired at school, and it was me who installed those stupid cameras that have done little for my piece of mind, and a lot for turning me into a paranoid obsessive. I don’t even know how Mrs. Hamilton’s cat died. It could have had a tumour or a cat stroke or something.

It could have been Mum. It could have been Peter.

I snatch my mobile phone from the coffee table and decide to make one more phone call.

I almost stop dialling the numbers before I complete the call, but I steel myself and continue. I don’t know what it will achieve, but I need do
something
, and it might just make me feel a little bit better.

“Hello?”

“Your son is sick.”

“Sophie?”

“I found a dead cat in my garden.”

There’s an intake of breath, followed by a pause. “He wouldn’t do it. He’s not like that.”

“It’s time to take your head out of the sand and wake up,” I say.

Her voice hardens. “Did you see him kill the cat?”

“No, but—”

“Have you got any proof whatsoever?”

“No—”

“I’m sorry for what you’re going through, but quite frankly, you seem a little unhinged, and you did have sex with my son without calling him.” I attempt to interject, but she continues. “You’re a whore, and you got what you deserve. Now leave me alone. Oh, and Peter’s a vegetarian. He would never hurt an animal.”

When she disconnects the call, I realise I’m laughing. This has all become far too ridiculous.

The cat is gone, I see when I peer out the window. I pull a fresh bottle of wine from the fridge and take it through to the living room. I wonder if Mum is reading her spiteful letters while she’s upstairs. I pour a large glass of wine and take a couple of headache pills to numb the pain.

I can stop this. I know I can. But it means doing the one thing that I don’t have the strength to do. Thinking about it makes me nauseated.

I have to stand up to my mother. I have to demand that she tell me what the hell has been going on. Forget Peter. He’s a complication in my life, but he isn’t the root of the problem. I just keep hoping that he is. No, the real issue is whatever Mum did all those years ago that meant we had to leave London. How did she get the money to buy a house here?

I drain the glass of wine and pour another one. When I load the laptop up, the cameras are still blank. With everything that has been going on this afternoon, I forgot to call the helpline and tell them that their extremely expensive CCTV system has been a bag of shit. In my drunken haze, I wonder whether I can get a refund, and then laugh at the mundane thoughts swimming through my mind along with thoughts of “Who is my stalker?” and “Is my mother trying to drive me insane?”

My body comes loose from the alcohol and painkillers. After draining another glass of wine, I lie down on the sofa, just to rest my head for a moment, trying to quell the anxiety-ridden thoughts. They dissipate as I slip into unconsciousness.

One, two, now you…
It’s the last thing I hear as I drift away. That sickly-sweet, high-pitched voice. My mind is all jumbled up. It was
me
who spoke those words to my imaginary friend. Yet, in the midst of my shattered thoughts, it seems as though they are being spoken
to
me.

It’s all wrong.
I’m
wrong. Mum said so herself. My
shadow
is my imaginary friend.

Come on, Shadow.

In my dreams, I’m running along the same street as in my nightmare with the man chasing me. I pull my jacket closer to my body against a slight chill in the air. The tall trees dotted along the pavement are beginning to turn golden from the start of autumn. I’m alone. I get the vague feeling that I shouldn’t be alone, that I was with someone and now they’ve been taken away. I can still smell their strawberry lollipop, and my hand stings from where they were gripping me tight.

The sun sets slowly, drowning the sky in ink. Fat tears roll down my face, and my stomach is heavy with dread. There are thoughts swimming through my mind.

How am I going to tell her about the bad man?

She won’t understand. She’ll blame me.

It’s all my fault.

I slow down to a walk, suddenly not wanting to go home. For the first time, I examine the space around me, and then I realise that I’m not where I thought I was. My chest tightens when I understand that I’ve run past the street that takes me home. I’ve been running for so long that I’ve entered another neighbourhood.

There’s someone walking up ahead. A woman pushing a pram.

She bends down to me. “Are you lost?”

I nod.

She grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me.
Shake. Shake. Shake.

Her mouth contorts into an angry grimace. “You need to wake up. Wake up and remember everything.”

When I sit up on the sofa, I can’t breathe. I pull in three long breaths, surprised at how cold the air is. Surprised, too, by the loud wailing of a house alarm. My heart thumps away, knocking hard on my ribs.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
I run my fingers through my damp hair and catch my breath, groaning at the pain and terror left over from my dream.
Bang. Bang.

It isn’t just my heart. I spring up from the sofa, knocking a half-empty glass of wine onto the carpet. It doesn’t take me long to find the cause of the banging. The front door is wide open. The house alarm is from
our
house.

“Mum?” I shout up the stairs.

There’s no answer. I hurry up to her room to find the bed empty and my mother missing.