The Other Mother Page 4

  A tall cupboard in the corner of the room contained a pile of woollen sheets. She wanted to howl with relief as she stood there staring at them, a bundle of checked blankets folded into neat squares. The answer to her prayers. With trembling hands, she tugged hard, pulling them down one by one, watching as they fell in great waves and lay sprawled at her feet. Scooping them up, she grabbed an armful and covered him up, pushing each sheet tightly down the side of the mattress, his cries muffled and smothered under the layers of fabric.

  She shivered. The room was freezing. There wasn’t any heating on. She remembered her friend once telling her about how tight her parents were, how they limited the food she could eat and the amount of television she was allowed to watch. Well, they obviously had enough money go for a night out and leave this poor kid here to freeze half to death. Grabbing more sheets, she stuffed them into the tiny bed and tucked them down each side of the cot, watching as his little head disappeared amongst the yards of material. Suddenly there was nothing. No more crying, no more sobbing. An unexpected hush filled the room. He had stopped. The noise was gone. No sounds at all. That was a good thing, wasn’t it? He was warm now and the yelling had ceased. That was all she had wanted, for the screaming to stop. She hated the sound, the very idea of people sobbing. Nobody likes it when people cry. Her dad said it to her all the time. STOP CRYING! He would scream at her again and again and again if she ever dared to let her chin wobble in protest at something he had done or said to her. She stored her anguish, kept it safely tucked away until her eyes burned with unspent tears and the lump in her throat was the size of a plum stone. She clung on to it, that ever-growing lump that was lodged in her aching gullet and swallowed it down, never letting the tears flow. Tears were a sign of weakness. Tears meant another beating. From both of them. First from her dad for simply crying, then another from her mother for causing his anger. Because once his anger was unleashed, there was no telling what he would do.

  She stared down at the small bump under the sheets and bit at her stubby fingernails, chewing and spitting, chewing and spitting until there was nothing left to go at. She hoped he was OK now. He had gone really quiet. She stared at his back and softened. She didn’t really hate him. He was just a kid after all. It was just that she got so angry sometimes, like a thick, black cloak had dropped on her, smothering her, choking the very life out of her. She was only a child herself, barely thirteen. Anyway, she shouldn’t have to put up with this, should she? Here, babysitting on her own. It wasn’t even her house. This was her friend’s responsibility. He was her little brother after all. She shouldn’t have left her here on her own. It should be her friend, up here looking for blankets, trying to stop the crying, not her, somebody this kid barely knows. And her so-called friend still wasn’t back. She had been gone for an age. She tore at more of her fingernails, a strip of blood appearing as she bit at a loose flap of skin and ground it between her teeth. Where the fuck was her friend?

  A noise downstairs disturbed her, made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up in alarm. Had her friend returned? It sounded like her. Not before time either. This whole thing was beyond a joke.

  Closing her eyes tight, she pushed the blankets down a bit more. He was warm now. He had stopped crying. She had made it all better. She had kept her temper in check. Or at least she hoped she had. With all the worrying and fretting, it had been hard to remember everything, but she was pretty sure she had done the right thing.

  She stood for a while, watching for some movement. Nothing. He was as still as the grave. A tiny sliver of trepidation slithered up her backbone. The other child’s face crept into her thoughts as she began to tremble. She had stayed calm, hadn’t she? Kept her cool, warmed him up with blankets and sheets. She hadn’t meant to do anything wrong. She can’t recall doing anything bad. Her legs began to weaken. This wasn’t her fault.

  She reached down and prodded him with her outstretched finger. Still no movement. Her insides knotted together. The room swayed. She began to feel sick.

  The sound of the fridge door slamming downstairs punctured her thoughts. It was definitely her friend. She had come home. The absent friend had finally returned. She had been gone for far too long. Where the hell had she been anyway?

  Taking the stairs two at a time, she half flung herself into the kitchen where the other girl was standing, head tipped back as she drained the contents of her Coca-Cola tin.

  ‘Where the fuck have you been?’ Her voice was croaky, riddled with panic.

  ‘Told you,’ the other girl replied, ‘out to the corner shop for a drink.’

  ‘You’ve been gone for ages!’ Her voice was rising in pitch, her growing fury and resentment a palpable wall between them.

  The other girl shrugged, unperturbed by her friend’s anxiety. ‘So? Back now aren’t I? What’s your problem?’

  ‘What’s happened to your clothes?’ she asked her as she watched a line of muddy coloured Coca-Cola trail its way down her chin and drip on to her neck, resting in her clavicle a tiny pool of frothy liquid, bubbling and spurting against her skin. Her jeans were caked in mud and her T-Shirt had a rip down the back. She smiled and shrugged casually before speaking.

  ‘Met someone on the way, didn’t I?’ Her eyes danced mischievously, her lips parted with a knowing smile.

  ‘Daryl?’ she squealed, furious at the thought of it, the thought of her out there, cavorting and giggling while she had been stuck in here trying to calm her little brother down.

  ‘Might have been,’ she replied and stalked off into the living room.

  ‘Where did you go? Fucking Timbuktu?’ she cried, racing after her, her heart beating furiously, her neck taut with anger.

  ‘Ha!’ her friend laughed as she turned the TV on and watched the screen fizzle into life.

  Her blood boiled at the sound of her voice. It wasn’t meant to be a joke.

  ‘We went to the park,’ she continued, ‘rolled down hills and stuff. Had a few snogs … if you know what I mean.’ She tapped the side of her nose and smiled, making ridiculous faces as she flopped into the armchair, a smug expression on her face.

  ‘Well, you left me here on my own!’ Her voice was in full throttle now as she stared at her friend incredulously, her back rigid with anger.

  ‘Ah yeah. How’s he been? Asleep upstairs?’

  She felt her heart begin to thrash its way round her chest. This was her chance. She could lie, tell her everything’s been fine, say he’s been really quiet all night. Make out as if they’d had a great night together, singing nursery rhymes and telling stories. But they hadn’t. It hadn’t been like that at all. It had been absolute torture, putting up with the screaming, trying to work out what was wrong with him, trying to keep her temper in check …

  ‘Suppose I’d better go and have a look in on him, hadn’t I?’

  Fear suddenly gripped her. It was silent up there. Why wasn’t he crying any more? Had she done something to him and not realised? It had happened in the past. She had blackouts, occasions when everything became a blur and then memories gradually came back to her bit by bit. Like the time Justine White had called her a skinny freak, and so she had barged into Justine as they were leaving the classroom. She couldn’t remember doing it but did recall feeling furious, as if her entire body was going to combust. Afterwards, her father had done the same to her, pulling her around the room, asking her why she had done it, why she had punched a schoolmate and pushed her over causing her to bang her head on the corner of the desk. She paid dearly for that particular blackout, the imprint of her father’s hand on her back for days afterwards, a reminder of what she had done.

  She waited while her friend sauntered upstairs, hoping a peek around the bedroom door would suffice, hoping for a miracle. The silence was deafening. She tried to picture her friend’s face; unassuming, expectant, seeing him there, swamped under a pile of heavy blankets. There was nothing. No response. She listened and heard the flush of a toilet. Dread and horror crawled up her sp
ine. She hadn’t been in the room yet. She hadn’t seen him. There was still time to escape, to get out. She could leave right now, run away. She knew where her mum and dad kept their cash. Stashes of it all over the house. It would be so easy to grab it, sling some essentials in a bag and just get the fuck out of there. Leave all this shit behind her; all the fear and beatings and the worry. Just pack up and go.

  Time dragged on, an endless moment where everything was suspended; the world in a lull. The footsteps above her made her heart pound even harder. She looked up and traced their movement out of the bedroom, across the landing, and back down the stairs. Her skin felt as if it were on fire. Blood rushed through her ears, a gushing, rhythmic torrent making her dizzy as it tore its way around her body.

  ‘He’s asleep,’ came the voice from behind her as her friend sailed back into the living room, her slim frame a grey shadow in her peripheral vision. Like a ghost lodged in her memory.

  ‘Asleep,’ she found herself murmuring in reply.

  ‘Yeah. Quite cute, really. He had his head shoved under the covers. He does that sometimes when he says he’s hiding from the monsters. I gave him a kiss and left.’

  Gave him a kiss? Perhaps she had imagined it all. Or maybe her friend was lying. It wouldn’t be the first time. It was all too much, the worry of it. She felt herself begin to burn up. Beads of sweat ran down her back coating her skin in seconds. She had to get out. Her vision was blurred and her head pounded as she made a feeble excuse about not feeling well and having to leave, and being sorry and all that but she needed to go home and have a lie down.

  Her friend shrugged. ‘Well, if you’re in a huff and pissed off with me why don’t you just say so?’

  ‘I’m not though. I’m just tired and don’t feel well.’

  ‘Your choice,’ came the reply as she dashed out into the hallway and slammed the door hard behind her.

  ∞∞∞∞

  ‘Hey! You! Where you off to in such a hurry?’ A snigger and then a loud guffaw. She turned to see a gang of them, all huddled together in the alleyway behind her. A trail of smoke billowed out from the centre of the crowd, curling up above their heads, hanging over the canopy of lank, greasy hair.

  ‘Fuck off.’ Her voice rang around the cobbled floor as she tried to pick up her pace, her legs soft and watery with fear.

  ‘Ooh! Get you, Miss High and Mighty.’ Another snort of laughter as she broke into a run.

  ‘Just been giving your pal some of this.’

  She stopped and turned to see a young lad, slightly older than she was, step out from the rest of the crowd. He was slowly gyrating his hips and groaning, his head bent slightly backwards, his eyes half closed and his teeth bared with simulated pleasure. A boom of laughter erupted from the rest of the gang. Stomach lurching, she set off again, hot bile rising in her gullet, her head full of visions. Dead children. Lots of them, all beating a path to her door.

  ‘I asked you where you were going.’ He ran and jumped ahead of her, the stink of alcohol and tobacco wafting around the air as he grabbed her arm and pushed her against the wall. Her spine stung as it scraped across the rough surface of the bricks, his body too close to hers as he spoke, ‘Could have been you I had a go at earlier if you would let me.’ He thrust his groin up against her hips. She could feel him harden as he pushed his pelvis closer to hers. Fear swamped her. Her father’s temper was bad enough, but this? This was unthinkable. Shaking violently, she gave him one huge push and watched as he reeled backwards, his feet grappling for purchase on the slippery cobbles. There was a collective gasp as he fell backwards, his body landing with an awkward thump on the cold floor.

  ‘You fucking bitch!’ His voice followed her all the way down the street as she broke into a gallop, her chest tight with panic. ‘You’re nothing but a fucking frigid bitch!’

  The echoes followed her all the way home, their jeering and swearing trailing her until she hit the underpass and turned the corner on to her road.

  Her head throbbed, her limbs were floppy with fear and panic. She couldn’t allow herself to even think about Daryl and his gang of disgusting mates. All she could think about was him, the toddler. His tiny face filled her mind. What if he wasn’t actually asleep? What if it had happened again, just like it had with Justine White? And then there was the other one, the girl in the park. Her stomach went into a spasm. All she had done was throw a few extra covers over him. That was all it was. He just wouldn’t stop crying. That was what she remembered the most, the constant screaming, so loud it felt as if it would crack her skull open. So much pressure and anger; like a cannonball exploding inside her head.

  They were waiting for her when she got in, fists at the ready. No particular reason. She just happened to be there and they were drunk and angry. They were always angry. Her mother’s torn blouse told her all she needed to know. She stared at them, her eyes dead and unseeing, and let them do it, taking the slaps and punches without trying to defend herself, seeing it as fitting punishment for what she had just done. For everything she had ever done. Nothing could hurt her now.

  ∞∞∞∞

  The knock came early next morning as she was getting ready for school. She watched her father stagger his way through the living room, bleary-eyed, his face red and bloated, and heard him fling the front door open, hitting the wall with an almighty bang. She listened to the policeman on the step ask him about his daughter and realised that she was actually flooded with relief. This was it ; the thing she knew would happen. The thing that she deserved. It was here now. Her life was over. Everything she had ever known was about to be ripped away from her. And she couldn’t have cared less.

  Lissy

  She is sitting outside the school office when I arrive, streaks of mascara stained on her face; a lattice of black oil running down her cheeks. I stiffen. She knows how I feel about her wearing make-up, especially for school. Not that we need to focus on that right now. We have more pressing matters facing us. I take a deep breath as I approach her and sit down. I have no idea how I will deal with this, what I will say to her to make any of it any better.

  ‘It wasn’t me, Mum!’ she shrieks as I turn to look at her. ‘I swear to God, I didn’t do anything.’

  She is a pitiful sight, bent double and sobbing into her hands as I lean over, place my arm around her shoulders and pull her into my chest where she lays, her body a crumpled heap on my abdomen. I feel the heat pulsate from her body and let her cry herself out before I speak.

  ‘Sweetheart, what on earth has happened?’ I know exactly what has gone on. The person on the phone told me in great detail what it is my daughter is supposed to have done, her purported misdemeanour. They demanded I come straight down and meet with Rosie’s head of year to talk about it. So here I am, armed with all the details and absolutely no idea how I am going to work my way through it all. I will defend her. Of course I will. She is my daughter and this is completely out of character. She didn’t do it. She simply does not have it in her. However, it would appear that the school believes otherwise.

  ‘Mrs McLeod?’ I snap my head around to see a young teacher standing behind me. He is in his mid to late twenties and has black hair slicked into place by a ton of gel. He has the pre-requisite designer stubble that all young men now seem to favour and is smiling at me, revealing a row of perfectly white teeth any orthodontist would be proud of. I am tempted to correct him, to tell him that I am a Ms and not a Mrs but decide this is neither the time nor the place. Perhaps later, when we have sorted this thing out, but definitely not now. I don’t want to provoke him in any way and jeopardise Rosie’s chances of being exonerated from this whole sorry mess; this dreadful predicament that she is currently in.

  ‘If you’d like to come this way, please?’ With a sharp, sweeping gesture he swings his arm behind him and stands back in the doorway of the headteacher’s office. The headteacher? I feel my stomach tighten and grip Rosie’s hand as we pull ourselves up and walk inside.

  His tone is pe
rfunctory as he speaks, his manner clipped but courteous. ‘We felt the need to get you involved, Mrs McLeod, as the money was rather a large sum and this is a very serious issue we have going on here. I’m sure you’ll agree?’

  He waits for me to say something, to side with him against Rosie, to turn against my daughter, my only child. Two disapproving adults against one youngster. I squeeze her hand and glance at her horrified expression as another glassy tear escapes unchecked and rolls down her cheek. A mesh of urticaria is creeping up her neck ; a scarlet web of nervous tension stretched over her throat and across her chest. This is all a big mistake, of course, it is. There is no way Rosie would steal such a large sum of cash. No way at all. There has to be a rational explanation for all of this. My daughter is not a thief.

  I stay stock still and watch as he begins to drum his fingers on the old teak desk. It’s a sprawling, antiquated piece of furniture, much too big and far too dated for the average sized, modern room we are in. He is beginning to get agitated while he steels himself for my answer. He wants me to agree with him. I can see it in his face. He thinks I am going to turn against my only child. He will have a long wait.

  I clear my throat before speaking, ‘She didn’t do this, Mr …’

  ‘Cooper,’ he interjects, his face devoid of all emotion. I can see what he is doing here. He thinks he can break me. He doesn’t realise I was broken many years ago and nothing he could ever do will ever have any effect on me. I am beyond being hurt by the likes of him.