The Good Mother (17 page)

So she crosses the road, takes a deep breath, and rings the doorbell.

And waits.

Let him answer the door, let her say who she is, let her shame him into confessing. Stay outside at all times.

Or just run. Now.

But she forces herself to wait a little longer.

With an unwilling finger, rings the bell again.

Nothing.

Such a disappointing relief.

Although, yes, there is something. From inside.

It’s the sound of screaming.

And Alice runs.

As she runs, she thinks she sees a man. Through the back gate.

But she keeps running.

She runs until she’s all the way home, up the stairs, and on her bed. Knees tight to her chest, she waits for the hammering of her heart to die down.

Cara, I love you, she thinks. But there are some things you can’t expect me to do. This must be left to Mr Belvoir.

Chapter 44

‘Get down from that window!’

His voice. Loud. I flinch. I didn’t even know he was in the room. If I had, I wouldn’t be up here. Wouldn’t be shouting out. Shouting and waving. But I couldn’t help myself. She was just there, looking up. A little girl. Not the skipping one. A different one.

Slowly, I turn.

And then I flinch again.

Because he’s waving a gun.

I press my back firmly against the wall. And stay where I am.

He waves the gun again.

‘Get down from that window!’

He’s shouting. His face is red. He’s still wearing his outside coat. Hurried in from somewhere, eager to kill me.

I’m stuck to the spot.

‘Move!’ he says.

I can’t. All I can see is death pointing at me. Death from a man I know but don’t know.

He can move though. He is coming towards me. Gun still in his hand. He seizes my wrist and pulls me down so that I’m sitting in my ladder chair.

‘What were you doing?’ he asks me.

I just sit and stare. The gun and the face. Foreign objects, yet one familiar.

He sighs loudly. Then he starts looking up at the window.

He’ll see my sign, the cupcake, maybe even skipping girl, if she’s there now!

I shoot up onto my legs.

‘Nothing. I was doing nothing. Just looking at the outside.’

But he can’t believe me. Because he’s pulled himself up with his gun-free hand to see the window ledge. Upper body strength that I just don’t have.

I try to pull him down.

‘There’s nothing to see,’ I say. Too wildly. Too desperately.

The gun waves at me.

I sink back down.

‘What’s this?’ He’s seen it. ‘Some kind of—Jesus, it’s a sign!’

He’s back down at my level now. Reading the sign on all those little bits of paper. Shaking his head. Gun casually cocked in one hand. Perhaps I could …

No. He’s looking up at me again. Fully alert.

‘Suze, this is crazy. Why can’t you see how ridiculous this is? Christ, if you would just grasp—’

He stops himself. Was he going to say more? But no. He’s at the windowsill again. He has the cupcake. It’s covered in mould.

Again with the head-shaking.

‘Suze, I need you to stay away from the window.’

‘No one’s there,’ I say. Has he seen the skipping girl? Please let him not have seen the girl. What will he do to her? My one other chance of escape. Should the kill, somehow, not come off.

‘Don’t lie to me, Suze.’

I slump down in the chair. Unless Paul comes charging in with a ransom or a police sniper, Cara and I are on our own. And I don’t hold out much hope for the cavalry. They say the first twenty-four hours is the most important for a find. After that, you tend to be looking for a body. Two bodies. Our time is more than up.

He kneels down in front of me. I see him try to iron out his frown. It’s replaced with what I suppose is a kind of smile. Grim, like the gun.

‘You’re going to stay away from that window now, aren’t you, Suze? For everyone’s benefit, hey?’

Everyone. Cara.

Mustn’t antagonise him.

‘I know you, Suze.’

Do you? How, how, how?

‘I know you don’t want me to use this gun.’

True. Hardly a personal insight though. Hardly substance for a claim to know my innermost thoughts.

He leans in towards me. The gun against my breast. His mouth against my ear. He speaks, low and soft. I feel the hot breath before I hear the words. My skin creeps and thrills at the same time.

‘For Cara. Don’t make me use the gun.’

Of course. The Cara card.

He leans back from me. His face close to mine. The gun between us. It could go off now. The end of me. The end of Cara. Would she still exist if I weren’t here? The tree falling in the wood with no one to hear it. Soundless, lifeless? Of course not. You’re sliding again. Stay focused. Your daughter is on the other side of this wall. Preserve her.

Preserve her, preserve her. We must preserve her. Just as she is today.

Look into his eyes and concentrate.

Not on his eyes. Not on the reflection of myself in them. Nor in the feeling that I’ve gazed there before.

He looks deeply into my eyes, his moving left to right, searching mine.

‘Good,’ he says. Silence to him means consent. He stands up and walks away, back towards the door, taking his gun with him. Here, I will be again, with my thoughts and my letters and my hope/despair.

‘Wait!’ I call.

He turns. Looks at me expectantly.

Wait what?

I clear my throat.

‘We knew each other before, didn’t we?’ I ask.

He leans his head towards me. His lips curve up. ‘Yes. Yes, Suze, we did.’

Triumph! Progress! Vindication! Now, don’t antagonise him. Take it gently.

‘I’m, um, I’m just trying to place exactly …’

He moves towards me again.

We stand facing each other.

He lifts his hand. His gun hand. Very slowly, he traces the barrel of the gun and his index finger along my collarbone. The suggestion is clear. The knowledge was carnal. I want to hate his touch. And I do. There is anger, anger, anger, deep within. But my skin remembers something of this touch. There’s nothing alien here. Except the gun. The gun is new.

‘You’re making me so happy, Suze. Just being here.’

I nod. I understand, maybe.

‘You and Cara, you …’ He trails off.

The words are replaced by a light kiss on my forehead.

Then on my lips.

So soft.

So soft that I could almost ignore the gun that’s still pressed against me.

A man who wants me. Who says he’s been with me. But who would also kill me.

Who?

Who?

‘Who?’

He smiles and shakes his head. Ruefully?

‘It will come, Suze. I know it will. I’m not going to force it. Just take your time.’

And, with that, he leaves the room.

Chapter 45

The other side of the door

A good investment, that gun.

Because it’s the first time she’s shown signs of remembering. Of some recollection, of who I am.

I hadn’t meant to threaten her with it. But then, she wasn’t meant to be standing at the window shouting for help. And that sign! God, I should have spotted it long ago. Botched. The whole thing could have been botched because of that.

But yes, the gun. I owe it so much.

Seeing, feeling, Suze’s look, when I touched her with the gun. Recollection. Empowered by the power of threatened bullets. And, of course, the other stuff. The stuff that she’s been eating and drinking, knowingly or not, since I started this whole thing. A heady combination.

Soon, now then, we’ll be reunited. Properly. Cara, too, can come out of the woodwork. We’ll sit down, talk it all through. I knew it could happen. I knew it could. Just a little patience. And the rest. But I mustn’t be too meek. The gun has shown me that. Exhibit a bit of the old power. The old force. The old magnetism. That she loved. Loves. Deep inside. And—

Doorbell.

Why now?

What now?

Him?

Well, with the gun, I know what to do about that, don’t I? If it is.

Creep up to the spyhole.

Oh shit.

Not him.

Worse.

Her.

Shit, shit, shit.

Not today. Not when I’m so close to the goal.

What to do? Open up?

Hide?

But what then? A return? With more of them? These bloody nosy people? I thought they’d bought my story. I thought they’d leave me alone. But no. They can’t keep away. Think they’ve got an interest. Well, they bloody haven’t. It’s nothing to do with them. I’ll do it all. I’ll do it all alone, my way, and I know best. With my gun I am omniscient. Omnipotent.

Oh shit. Look at her, wandering round the outside of the house. Have to go out, invite her in, put a stop to it. She’s driven far to get here. From her Home Counties middle-age comfortableness. Hair put up specially. She won’t go away without an audience. Have to put the gun away for a moment.

Open the door. Stick my head out.

‘Marge, hello there.’ Look at her.
‘Oh, hello, love!’ She sounds surprised. Why surprised? It’s my house; why wouldn’t I be here? She’s the one who turned up.

‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ I say. Pointedly, I hope.

‘No, well, you weren’t answering the phone, so …’

Yes, you may well trail off. Admission of your nosiness, your temerity, your inappropriateness. Why should I answer the phone? When I know it will be him. Or the PPI robots. Both annoying, one dangerous.

‘I just wanted to see. That everything’s OK.’

‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

I know why, of course. We both do.

I stand at the threshold of the front door. Arms crossed. Gun, my dear gun, in my pocket.

She’ll want to come in though.

Invite her in, to allay suspicion? Or keep her out, to evade the truth?

Not mutually exclusive. Get her in. Hedge.

‘Won’t you come in, Marge? You’ll have driven a long way.’

‘Thanks, love.’

Stop calling me your love. There is no love here. Love means trust. It means what I have with Suze. If you trusted me you wouldn’t have come.

‘So …’ she says, once she’s in. Does she think that her one syllable will distract me from those roving eyes, scrutinising everything? I look round, seeing it as she sees it. The plain walls, thank God, after I took the photos down. And yes, she can see the mess. The half-empty mugs. The packaging from deliveries cast aside. The crusts of toast, abandoned. Her lips purse in disapproval. And, if we turn to the kitchen – the trays. Oh dear. The trays.

‘Sit down there.’ I point at the sofa. ‘Let me get you some tea.’ Whirl into the kitchen. Distract her with activity. Stick the trays into the sink.

‘Oh, right, thanks.’ She takes off her coat. No, don’t do that. I don’t mean I want you to stay long enough to get warm, for God’s sake. Just to have a mouthful of tea then be off. Look at you, sitting so neatly and prissily. That same blush-pink anorak folded on your lap. Why don’t you share its shame on your cheeks? Instead of the unnatural rouge you’ve applied for your big trip out?

Talking now. Words from your lips. The kettle is boiling, though, so you’re obliterated.

‘Sorry?’ I say, hands cupped behind ears.

‘I said, how’s everything? How’s …’

‘Oh, you know. As good as can be expected.’

She nods. Like she knows. Something, everything. Nothing.

‘Of course,’ she says.

Yes, of course. Everything is obvious, isn’t it? To you, in your simple little world, where 2 + 2 = 4. No complex equations. No codes. Just straightforward cause/effect. Just sorrow, grief, cure. A natural flow. ‘Piss off. Just piss off’, I want to yell.

‘I’ll get back to that tea,’ I say.

She nods.

Into the kitchen, turn my back. Lean momentarily against the wall. Give me strength oh gun.

Stand straight again. Tea bag in the mug. No pot for you. You’re not a special enough guest. And it denotes leisure. Time.

Leave the bags in. Take the mugs over. Milk, still in its plastic bottle, alongside.

‘There,’ I say.

A frown of distaste. Looking at the tea bag.

‘Is there something I can use to … ?’ She indicates pulling out the tea bag.

I wonder what would happen if I offered her the gun for the purpose. Suggest that she fish it out with the muzzle?

Up again, I get her a spoon. Can’t fob off this lady.

‘So have you heard … Well, you must have done. But have you had much contact? Everything OK?’

I nod, slowly, seriously. ‘From time to time,’ I say. ‘I think—Well. It’s going to be slow, of course. But I think, you know. Getting there.’ I duck my head. Give me sympathy. Suspect me not.

She copies my nod. ‘Of course.’

What would it take to get her to stop saying that? My hands slide to the gun. There, just separated by the cloth of my trousers. So easy to pull it out. See what powers it will give me this time. But then, another body maybe. The last thing I want. Or next to last. Something bad, anyway.

‘I just find it a bit odd,’ she’s saying. ‘Just to go away so soon after it all.’

I shrug. ‘Who can predict how people will react?’ I say. ‘Do you know what you’d do?’

Do you, do you, you bitch? Can you possibly imagine, in your small little world, the width and breadth of human suffering and emotion? Over the years? Have you ever been able to understand any of it?

She shakes her head. ‘I can’t imagine,’ she says. No. Thought not.

Looks into her tea. I slurp mine. It’s too hot. I bite my tongue. Against the pain and the shouting.

‘Can I use the bathroom?’ she asks, abruptly.

So. She wants to look around, does she? On a mission, yes? That stupid non-emotionally intelligent newt of a husband sent her to gather facts? I’m surprised she managed to keep him away. Maybe they agreed she would be better at this. More sensitive. More likely to cajole information out of me. Hah.

Can I escort her? Check she doesn’t ‘forget’ where it is, try to go into rooms that she shouldn’t. Locked rooms that don’t concern her.

Let’s try.

‘Of course,’ I say. She’s got me doing it now. ‘Just along here.’ I stand with her, and begin to walk with her.