The Other Mother Read online

  The Other Mother

  J.A Baker

  Copyright © 2017 J.A. Baker

  The right of J.A. Baker to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2017 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Contents

  Also By J.A. Baker

  Afterwards

  CHILD A

  Lissy

  BEVERLEY

  Lissy

  CHILD A

  Lissy

  CHILD B

  Beverley

  Lissy

  Erica

  Beverley

  Lissy

  Beverley

  Erica

  Lissy

  Child A

  Erica

  Beverley

  Lissy

  Beverley

  Erica

  Lissy

  Beverley

  Erica

  Lissy

  Beverley

  Lissy

  Lissy

  Erica

  Beverley

  Lissy

  Erica

  Beverley

  Erica

  Lissy

  Beverley

  Lissy

  Beverley

  Erica

  Lissy

  Rosie

  A Note from Bloodhound Books:

  Acknowledgments

  Undercurrent

  Her Dark Retreat

  Also By J.A. Baker

  Undercurrent

  Her Dark Retreat

  Praise For Undercurrent

  'I struggle to believe that this is actually a debut novelist, the story is written with such assurity and fluidity that it has the feel of a more seasoned writer.' Sarah Kenny - The Great Bristish Book Off

  'An extremely gripping read that was bound in mystery and atmosphere.' Alexina Golding - Bookstormer

  'From the haunting throwbacks to the past, to the tense and suffocating atmosphere in the present, this harrowing tale sweeps easily and effortlessly from start to finish...' Linda Green - Books Of All Kinds

  'This is a super book with only a small cast of characters that gets smaller the more you read. Fantastic!' Susan Hampson - Books From Dusk Till Dawn

  'In terms of the writing, Baker has a gift, a wonderful gift and I am so pleased that she has put pen to paper and delivered such a bloody impressive debut.' Emma Mitchell - Emma The Little Book Worm

  'This is an enjoyable debut with a fabulous prologue that really creates a desire to invest yourself fully in the plot as it unfolds.' Joanne Robertson - My Chestnut Reading Tree

  Praise For Her Dark Retreat

  Praise for Her Dark Retreat:"I found this book so addictive, it grabbed me from the first page and didn’t let me go!" Lorna Cassidy - On The Shelf Reviews

  "I just can't wait to have another taste of this author's crisp, clear, evocative writing." Joseph Calleja - Relax And Read Reviews

  "An addictive story that will play on your darkest fears!" Rachel Broughton - Rae Reads

  "Her Dark Retreat is another excellent edge-of-your-seat psychological thriller from J.A. Baker." Michelle Ryles - The Book Magnet

  "I highly recommend this dark chilling thriller, it is perfect for these dark cold autumn nights." Juliet Butler - Bookliterati

  To my muse and inspiration.

  You know who you are...

  Weak people revenge

  Strong people forgive

  Intelligent people ignore

  Anon.

  Afterwards

  I hold the knife aloft, fury splitting my veins, pulsing through me, burning my flesh as it traverses round my body. A furnace of anger driving me on making me do it. I take a shuddering breath and stop, poised, thinking about everything that has happened. I stare at the face beneath me; see how the features are contorted with terror. The knife trembles in my hands. I grip it tighter as it slips about in my palm. It feels alien against my hot skin, the metal smooth and cool, the blade glinting as it sways about. I gasp. This isn’t me, not the real me.

  ‘Don’t do this. Put it down. Please, just put the knife down.’

  I shake my head. The room seems to move. Images rush past me, a blur of colours merging and fusing, seeping into my brain, making me dizzy. I grip the handle tighter.

  ‘Let me go and I won’t tell anybody about this, I promise.’

  I try to speak but the words won’t come. They stick in my throat, hot and clunky, no way to escape. Trapped. I widen my eyes and a trickle of saliva escapes from my mouth and runs down the side of my face.

  A small whimper, ‘Come on, you know this is wrong. Just let me go. Please … LET ME GO!’

  The knife wobbles in my hand. It’s heavy, a deadweight. I hold on to it. I must go ahead with this. All I need to do is push; place all my weight on it and drive it home. That’s all I have to do.

  The air is thick with fear, the smell of it filling my nostrils; an acrid, pungent stench ripping through me, over me. Great waves of terror gliding across wet skin.

  Outside, birds sing, cars drive past, life rolls on. The mundane continues. Just as it did all those years ago and as it always will. People everywhere; eating, sleeping, going about their lives while others kill and die and grieve. Life offers no compassion. It is a cold, hard mistress and we are all its victims. I stand here ready to do it, to finally bring an end to it all.

  A noise close by alerts me. My heart thumps even faster. I keep my back to it. No time to reconsider. My mind is made up; it has been for a long time now.

  ‘Put it down,’ the voice calls from behind me, a gentle beckoning for me to stop.

  I bring the blade up, hold it high above my head and stand with my legs apart, ready. It wasn’t meant to be like this. Everything is different, wrong, spoiled. Nothing is as it should be.

  ‘Please,’ the voice in front of me begs, ‘please put it down. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘We’re all sorry,’ I murmur before everything goes black …

  CHILD A

  The moon cast an eerie glow, silvering the room, bathing everything in a soft metallic haze. Her skin was clammy as she sat immobile, jaw clenched tight. It was insistent, urgent—the relentless howling that filtered down from the room overhead. She drew her hands into tight fists, knuckles taut and white as she waited for it to stop, silently pleading for it to come to an end. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could bear to listen to it “that noise” the endless screaming that tugged at her nerve endings and clawed at her senses. She was at her wits’ end. Unfurling her hands and placing her bony fingers over her ears, she began to rock backwards and forwards. Humming loudly, her voice was a continuous, guttural drone; a feeble attempt to block it all out. The noise was unrelenting, knocking against her skull; a hammer bashing at her brain. It was useless. The screaming was still there, worming its way into her head. With a half shriek, she released her hands, her fingers springing free, flapping through the still evening air.

  She looked around, her eyes desperately scanning the room, hoping for inspiration, hoping to find something, anything that would take her mind off the incessant caterwauling from above. A book, a magazine, the daily newspaper. Her gaze swept over the grey shadows stretched across the furniture, their fam
iliarity providing no answers, no easy way out. She bit at her nails, already ragged and filthy, gnawed down to the bone, and didn’t know which was the most difficult to contend with - the screaming toddler above her, or keeping her thoughts in check, doing what she could to stop them from escaping, to stop them from creeping out into the open where she couldn’t possibly control them, where they would do what they always do. She shook her head and moaned as she thought about the incident at school.

  Five minutes, that’s all she would give him. Just five more minutes to stop his awful, dreadful whining and then she would go up there and sort him out.

  It couldn’t go on much longer, could it? Surely, he would cry himself out, fall asleep a sodden mess of snot and tears.

  Pulling a chunk of coarse wool off one of the cushions and rubbing at it fitfully, holding it between her pale, thin fingers, she stared ahead, her gaze listless. She had been tricked into coming here. It wasn’t meant to be like this. She had only agreed to do it because it was better than being at home. She shivered. Anything was better than being at home.

  He had been so excitable all evening, this toddler who now seemed intent on disturbing the entire neighbourhood. And at first it was cute, seeing him run around, listening to his giggles every time she pulled a silly face, but then it had all gotten too much for her. He kept wanting more. Shouting at her to do it again and again until her eyes were gritty and her head ached. That was why she had put him to bed, she couldn’t stand it any longer, having to put up with his constant demands for attention and big, fat snotty tears if she didn’t play with him all the time. He had climbed all over her, tugging at her hair and shoving his sticky fingers in her face, even pulling her eyelids open when she had pretended to be asleep. Even his chunky little legs and the way they wobbled when he ran; his bright blue eyes, pink rimmed and glassy from crying all the time; his lisp and the way his tongue poked through his lips every time he spoke; they had all begun to get under her skin. By the time she had put him to bed, everything about him had started to put her on edge, made her want to gnash her teeth and tear at her skin with her ragged fingernails until the blood came. And she didn’t like feeling that way, she really didn’t but she had no idea how to stop it. It just took over her entire being, like a possession, as if an entity had crawled under her skin and was ripping her sanity to shreds, tearing it apart bit by bit by bit. That happened sometimes, uncontrollable rages that howled at her brain, told her to do things terrible things. Occurrences where she wanted to just bash things up, break whatever she could get her hands on; ornaments, clothing, people …

  She squinted and stared longingly at the clock, wishing her friend would hurry back. She was only supposed to have gone out for a few minutes; a quick dash to the corner shop for two cans of coke she had said. She would be back shortly she had said. That was ages ago. More than an hour, probably nearer two. She was supposed to be here with her looking after him and instead she was out there somewhere, doing God knows what with God knows who. She always was quite the liar. And now here she was, all alone in this house, with that child. That child and his incessant crying and sobbing that just went on and on and on. A screeching, clingy toddler whose neediness was becoming just too much for her.

  The howling from upstairs grew louder, making her head buzz, augmenting her fury and resentment. It crept over her, within her - the anger; hot, bubbling bitumen slithering around her body, coating her pale flesh and blackening her soul. Her skin burned and her eyes began to water. That sound. That high-pitched, endless shriek. It made her stomach clench involuntarily; turned her insides to water. Why wouldn’t he stop? Sometimes, when she was at home, alone in her bedroom, she cried like that , but not for long and only when she was sure she wouldn’t be heard. Never around other people. Never. It was strictly forbidden. Crying is for soft people, for babies, her father would say. And she wasn’t a baby. Even when the sharp, metal buckle on his leather belt made an imprint on her back so deep she could fit her fingers in there, she didn’t cry. She refused to let the tears fall, keeping them carefully tucked away out of sight. Easier that way. Safer. And he was right. Crying was definitely for babies. Crying just brought on more of his anger.

  She narrowed her eyes and stared at the pattern on the multi-coloured rug, then squinted hard and counted the red stripes that were woven in with the cream dots, looking closely at the brown and beige curves wondering who would design such a ghastly pattern. If she focused her eyes for long enough she could see shapes of things, people’s faces, animals, aeroplanes. Anything to keep her mind occupied, to stop the images galloping and rampaging through her head.

  Biting her lip, she flung herself back on the sofa and thought about the incident a few months back. For some reason, it made her go hot and filled her with a mixture of emotions that she didn’t quite understand. Feelings that caught her by surprise. Sometimes they made her feel queasy and then other times a shiver of excitement bolted through her. It was wrong to feel that way, she knew it. Very, very wrong but it didn’t stop the electricity from coursing through her veins every time that small face came into her head. Sometimes she was filled with horror at what had gone on and other times … well, other times it set her entire body alight.

  It was an accident. Of course, it was. She wasn’t a monster. It just kind of happened. But then afterwards, she clung onto it, enjoyed the residual, lingering sensation of power and secrecy that it gave her. Like scratching an itch after waiting for so long and savouring the wonderful, tingling feeling it left on your skin. It had filled her with a warm glow, all the attention that terrible event had brought her. She had never known such interest, or been spoken to with such consideration before. People everywhere, initially cross with her but then sympathetic. Even her parents were attentive. For a short while, anyway. Then it was soon forgotten, that day , buried amidst the chaos that was their everyday life. Hidden amongst the heartache and horror that was her existence for as long as she could remember.

  Lissy

  ‘C’mon, c’mon! Up you get.’ The room smells like an old sock. I let out an exaggerated sigh as I stand at the bedroom door and wait for Rosie to rouse herself. An array of tangled tights and discarded clothes are strewn all over the floor. Pointless nagging her about it, the poor kid has enough on her plate at the minute. I stride in and lean over her. My hair hangs over my eyes as I shake her awake. She stretches and yawns, her mouth a wide cavern of exhaustion. Her breath hits mine; small, sweet pockets of warm air meeting and merging, curling together in a concentrated, invisible cloud of moisture.

  ‘Rosie, time to get up or you’ll be late,’ I whisper softly, my voice thin and reedy after too many glasses of wine last night. I don’t always drink midweek but every so often I feel the need to partake in a few. Just enough to blot it all out. Just enough to help me through the crushing darkness.

  She blinks and pushes me away.

  ‘Stop it, Mum. Told you yesterday, I’m not going.’ Her face is creased from where she has lain on the crumpled sheets all night. A red welt runs the length of her cheek, out of place and brutal against her soft, pale skin.

  ‘Sorry, sweetheart, but you have to go.’ I step away and flick the light on. She squawks and covers her eyes with her arm before slinking back down under the covers.

  ‘You’ve got half an hour before it’s time to leave,’ I say lightly, ‘and your breakfast is already on the table. Scrambled eggs, with a light dusting of pepper just how you like them.’

  No response. I stand and watch her for a while, noticing how quickly she falls back into a deep sleep, how perfect her dark hair is, how softly she breathes as she exhales through slightly parted lips. I stare and wonder, as I often do, how I managed to create such a vision of perfection. I realise I am biased but I think she is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.

  I clap my hands lightly, just loud enough to stir her once again. She jumps up startled and stares at me, a flash of deep annoyance in her expression.

  ‘
For God’s sake!’ she barks. ‘You’re giving me a headache.’

  ‘Up!’ I shout again. ‘You now have only twenty-five minutes.’

  An exaggerated eye roll as she enunciates every syllable, her voice crystal, ringing throughout the room, ‘Told you already. I am not going.’

  ‘Told you last night, you are,’ I reply in my best sing-song voice.

  I try to keep my face composed as I observe her trembling chin. Got to stay determined. She has to do this. Opting out of everyday life isn’t possible. It is not going to happen. Not if I have a say in it.

  ‘I hate it there, Mum. They all loathe me,’ she says, her voice thick with tears.

  ‘Nobody loathes you, sweetheart,’ I murmur, hoping to God what I am saying is true. ‘You’re just a new face that’s all. You’ll have a stack of friends in no time at all.’