she started to shake violently.
‘Have you had an accident? Are you badly hurt?’
‘He was attacked, Mum,’ I said, ‘but his wounds are not serious.’
She turned to me, and a frown quickly turned to a scowl.
‘What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in prison? How come you’re with your brother?’
‘Let’s go inside and I’ll explain everything,’ I said.
She pondered this for a second, then put her arm around Mark and led him into the small, cluttered kitchen that was dominated by an ugly pine table with more craters than the moon.
My mother told Mark to sit down while she put the kettle on. He caught my eye and smiled. I smiled back and winked at him.
‘Lizzie stayed with me at the hospital, Mum,’ he said. ‘She took care of me.’
My mother turned away from the sink, kettle in one hand. She looked from Mark to me and pressed her lips together. That was usually a sign that she didn’t know what to say.
‘I tried to call,’ I said. ‘But Mark told me you take the phone off at night.’
She stared at me, pink, watery eyes full of doubt and confusion. I wanted to cross the room to embrace her, tell her not to worry, that everything was going to be fine. But I didn’t because I knew she’d only pull away. So I just stood there, knowing that what had happened to Mark was going to be another nail in the coffin of our relationship.
The last time I saw her was at Leo’s funeral. She’d lost weight since then from her short, stocky frame. Her face had hollowed out and the harsh lines and bloodless lips made her look older than her fifty-four years. The hair didn’t help. She’d stopped putting colour on it and it was now grey and lifeless.
Ours had always been a strained relationship. I was convinced that to begin with it was because my father doted on me, and she resented not being the centre of his world, even for that brief period. After he died she retreated into herself and what little affection she demonstrated towards me dried up completely. Then came Mark’s head injury, which she blamed on me. She said I’d attracted the attention of the boys by wearing a disgracefully short skirt and heavy make-up. I was fourteen at the time and wanted nothing more than to be like the other girls. But my mother didn’t see it that way.
Having found God everything to her was black and white. She became boorish and intolerant. She never took into account my raging hormones and teenage insecurities. And as I got older nothing changed. Whatever I did she disapproved of. And that had a good deal to do with why I went off the rails.
I stopped caring about what she thought of me. I ignored her advice and became more and more argumentative. Sometimes when she lectured me from her invisible pulpit I’d laugh in her face. If I was high on drugs I’d scream and swear at her. A couple of times she reacted by crying, but mostly she’d just shake her head and tell me I should be ashamed of myself.
Whenever I did try to be nice she would become suspicious because she’d assume I was only doing it because I wanted something. And most times she was right.
Her motherly instincts did kick in for a while, though, when my sorry excuse for a boyfriend walked out on me three months before Leo was born. She even invited me to move back in, but I couldn’t see that working so I stayed put in the flat, gave birth to Leo and tried to hold down a succession of dead-end jobs from barmaid to cleaner. It was hard and depressing and the money, even with tax credits, was barely enough to live on. That’s when the debts piled up and I tried to blank out my woes with drink and drugs.
I knew my life had spiralled out of control when I arrived at my mum’s one night to pick up Leo. I was rat-arsed. There was a scene, and she slapped my face. I deserved it too and it made me realise that I had to do something. The next day I saw Ruby Gillespie’s newspaper ad for escorts. I thought it would be a way out. Do it for a time to get on my feet, like a lot of women do. Some hope!
My mother came to see me in the police cell after I was arrested. Until then she didn’t know I’d become a prostitute. She was appalled, told me I was the devil’s child, whatever that meant. And she made it clear that she thought I was guilty of murder, which really hurt.
She took care of Leo when I went inside but refused to bring him to see me. She just couldn’t let go of the grief and the shame. When I demanded to see him she threatened to have him put into care. But I couldn’t allow that because I knew she loved him and would care for him even though I was dead to her. I did ask the authorities if I could have him with me in the prison’s Mother and Baby Unit, but my application was rejected on the grounds that my crime was so serious and I was a known drug user.
I vowed to emerge from the pit of despair a changed woman. I set myself objectives. Hold down a proper job. Make things right with Mum. Ensure my boy had a good life.
But then he got a headache and all my plans and aspirations died with him.
‘So are you gonna tell me what happened or are you just gonna stand there and stare at me all frigging evening?’
My mother’s voice wrenched me back to the present. The trip down memory lane had shaken me. I took a deep breath and told her everything.
I was standing in Leo’s bedroom, which used to be mine. The last time I was here was that evening when I dropped him off before going to the hotel and my session with Rufus Benedict. I told my mother I was going to work in the club, and I told Leo I’d see him in the morning.
I remembered how I tickled him and he got the giggles. And then how he waved at me as I walked out the door. My head was full of such memories and I cherished them even though they upset me from time to time.
His room looked no different. My mother had decided to leave everything as it was. Bright pink walls and matching carpet. Paddington Bear curtains. A shrine to her dead grandson, something tangible to sustain the hatred she felt for me.
The bed was made and I choked up at the sight of the Donald Duck duvet cover. My mother bought it in the Disney store in Southampton along with the bedside lamp and some of the cuddly toys lined up on the shelves.
On one wall was a large framed photo of my son on that first Christmas. He was sitting in his high chair stuffing peas into his mouth. His round blue eyes stared out at me, full of love and trust and it was all I could do not to collapse in a heap on the floor.
There were things in here I wanted to take with me to my new home when I eventually found somewhere permanent to live. But that would have to wait.
I backed out of the room, too emotional to stay any longer. I could hear my mother in the kitchen, still crying. That was why I’d come upstairs. She’d lost her temper and had shouted at me. But I felt she had good reason to lay into me. This time I was to blame for what had happened to Mark. They – whoever they were – had used my brother to get at me. A crude and cowardly threat, but one that was nonetheless prompted by my determination to find out who had stitched me up.
‘I think you should move out for a while, Mum,’ I’d said. ‘You and Mark might not be safe here. Can you go to Aunt Glenda’s?’
That was when she exploded. Said I was a worthless, troublesome daughter and God would punish me. She broke down in tears and I walked out, knowing she’d dig her heels in and expect me to change my mind. And that created a dilemma for me because I didn’t want to. Seeing that Christmas picture of Leo had only strengthened my resolve. I couldn’t stop thinking that if I hadn’t gone to prison he’d still be alive.
I stood on the landing listening to my mother and wondering what was unfolding here. I must have put the fear of God into someone by coming back to Southampton and making my intentions known. Hence the note on the windscreen, and the attack on Mark. But why did they fear me? Was it because they thought I might actually find out who really killed Rufus Benedict?
My mother was still crying when I left the house. She refused to talk to me except to say that she was staying put and that