What Have I Done

One month ago



Kate sat at the breakfast table filling out more dreaded forms. Tanya had been back at Prospect House for three weeks now, and Kate had only just got round to doing the requisite paperwork. The girl had walked in as though she had never been away, turning up one Wednesday morning with her holdall and asking Tom what was for lunch. It was a relief to have her back.

‘Who’s Lydia?’

Kate turned round in surprise. She hadn’t heard Tanya come into the kitchen.

‘Sorry?’ The question had caught her off-guard.

‘Who is Lydia? You were shouting her name out last night. I thought about waking you and packing you off to bed, but you looked so snug on the sofa.’

‘Oh, well, thank you for not waking me, Tanya, that was very sweet. I must have dozed off while watching some rubbish on the telly.’

‘So?’

‘So what?’

‘Who is Lydia? You never said.’

Kate inhaled sharply.

‘Lydia is my daughter.’

‘Your daughter? I never knew you had one. Where is she?’

Kate swallowed the hard ball of tears that sat at the base of her throat. Imagine that. Tanya did not know that she was a mother to the most beautiful girl and boy on the planet, did not know that every time her hand touched the stretch marks on her lower abdomen, she was reminded of the joy of having carried another human. They were her greatest achievement and Tanya, who lived under her roof, did not know that she was someone’s mum.

‘I… well… she lives in Hallton in North Yorkshire, near her aunt, my sister.’

‘Do you ever see her?’

Tanya’s questioning was typically frank. Nothing was taboo in her world, no feelings too precious to trample on. ‘Are you using? Pregnant? Infected? Where is the bitch?’ For her this type of talk was just routine.

‘Not really. In fact, no, not at all, not for a while.’

‘It’s weird isn’t it.’

‘Yes. Yes, it is weird.’

Kate could only concur. But Tanya was not finished.

‘I mean, here’s you, being a mum to me and anyone else that needs one and yet you don’t see your own daughter!’

‘Oh my goodness, Tanya – if words were daggers…’

Kate put her hands over her eyes; she wanted to hide from the world.

‘Oh God, Kate! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. God, I keep doing that, don’t I? It’s just that I sometimes say what I think without checking with myself first.’

‘Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault. It’s just how it is – a horrible situation that haunts me every minute of every day. I miss her, Tanya, and my son, Dominic. I miss them both dreadfully.

‘I can’t understand it. My mum is totally rubbish and I can see her whenever I want, which I don’t. But you’re completely brilliant. If you were my mum, I’d want to see you all the time!’

‘Maybe your mum feels like me, did you ever think of that? Perhaps your mum would love to see you. You can call her any time you want, Tanya, you know that. Or you could write to her? She’s more than welcome to visit; we’ve got plenty of room.’

Tanya’s gaze was steady and the seconds ticked by in silence.

‘The last time I saw my mum was the night I got arrested. The police knocked on the door and she screamed at me cos she’d been woken up. I went into her bedroom; it stank and this filthy, hairy pig was starkers and out for the count in the middle of her bed. They’d both been using and he was out of it. I noticed the ashtray on the floor had a long sausage of ash that was still attached to the fag; you know, where it’s just been left to burn and gone out because you forget about it. This bothered me because I could see her burning the bloody place down; she’s not careful with stuff like that. I don’t know what I expected from her, but I knew I was in serious shit. I’d got away with stuff before, but I knew this time I was going down and to be honest, Kate, I was scared. I said to her “Help me, Mum” and do you know what she said? She lit a new fag and she said, “Shut the f*cking door on your way out!” I haven’t spoken to her or seen her since. She has never been there for me or helped me and I’m really pissed off with myself for asking for her help on that night. So I don’t think that she sits waiting for me to call or hoping for a visit. She couldn’t give a shit, Kate. She never did.’

There were a few seconds of silence while both of them took stock. Kate had never wanted for maternal love, but she did understand cruelty and could not blame Tanya in the least for wanting no more of it.

‘Well, even though I am not your mum, I can tell you that I am truly proud of what you have achieved. Only months ago your life was falling apart, Tanya, and now the whole world is out there for the taking. Whatever you decide to do, I know you will achieve great things.’

‘I don’t want to achieve great things, Kate. I just want normal. I’d settle for a bit of peace, a little flat, a job. And I’d really like one of those posh coffee machines they’ve got in the pub; I could drink that stuff all day!’

‘And you shall have that, Tanya, all of it.’

‘Gooooood morning!’

Tom came through the back door with a basket chock full of fresh vegetables.

‘Today I make-a my leeegenderrry vegetable lasagne!’

His Italian accent was appalling. They all laughed.

‘Just bumped into Rodney on the harbour. He’s tarting up his boat as usual. I managed to snaffle all this veg off him at cost! A good day’s work, if I do say so myself. Fancy giving me a hand, Tanya? This lot won’t chop itself, you know.’

‘Sure.’

Tanya slunk off her chair and took the little paring knife gingerly into her hand.

‘I’m not very good. Nearest I’ve ever come to cooking is watching Ready Steady Cook.’

Stacey came down the stairs, heading out for her morning constitutional. She caught the tail end of the conversation.

‘Ready Steady Cook? God, that reminds me of one of Nathan’s old ladies who was obsessed with it, and she couldn’t cook either! He used to tell me about her and have me rollin’.’

She smiled at the happy memories.

‘Well, I’m going to teach Tanya, so at the very least she’ll be able to conjure up a decent lasagne. There is really nothing to it. By the time we’ve finished with her, she’ll be creating masterpieces that she can rustle up in her own kitchen.’

The trio looked at Kate. Tom winked at his boss. Tanya beamed. This only reinforced the idea that one day she would have her very own kitchen and she would prepare the dishes that Tom had taught her. She couldn’t wait.



Kate had gone for an afternoon nap. Her head was filled with thoughts of Lydia, imagining what tomorrow might bring. Even though the trip to Bristol was all arranged, she was still in two minds about whether she should go to the exhibition. There were so many things that could go horribly wrong.

A nightmare wrenched her from her rest. The song that she thought she had banished forever swirled in her head.

Hey, little girl,

Comb your hair, fix your make-up.

Soon he will open the door.

Don’t think because

There’s a ring on your finger,

You needn’t try any more

The relief upon waking had been instant and sweet. It was just a horrid dream and she was safe. Mark was gone and could not hurt her any more. She sat up in the bed and wrapped her arms around her bunched-up knees. The fingers of her right hand snaked to the back of her thighs, where they ran over the bumps and dents of her scars, never more than a fingertip away. She shivered.

Whenever Kate dreamed like this, she always spent the next few hours with a slight tremor to her hand and a quiver in her voice. The memories of her old life sat like a tiny echo at the base of her thoughts. They unnerved her.

After gulping down a wake-up coffee, she welcomed the sun against her skin as she wandered the garden. The meandering paths that led nowhere in particular and the cottagey feel of the disorganised, mismatched planting suited her much more than… she suppressed the image of the school grounds, its manicured lawns and the regimental roses. A shudder ran through her. At the washing line she brushed her hand over the soft pale lilac sheet that pulled against its anchorage like a spinnaker in the Cornish breeze. Kate had not washed a sheet for many years. It had been one of two unshakeable resolutions, the other being to wear jeans every day.

She negotiated the steep path down to the sea and spread her blanket on the sand. The Life and Loves of a She Devil fell open against her palms, revealing her bookmark. Every time she looked at the saccharine pink, glitter-coated rabbit, her breath stuttered in her throat.

Kate ran the pad of her index finger over the scrawled text inside the card: ‘happpy birday mummy’. Her heart swelled with pride and sadness in equal measure. How she had loved being called Mummy. How she missed it. Lydia’s signature was surrounded by an oval of kisses, an unbroken chain, created when everything in her daughter’s world had been perfect. A time when her little girl lived unaware of the wolf baying at the door, before Kate had broken everything.

The words of their telephone call floated to the front of her mind, always there for perfect recall. ‘Sometimes, Mum, I pretend that you are both dead, and that makes it easier somehow. I pretend that you were both killed in an accident and then I don’t have to think about you doing something so horrible to Dad or about the horrible things that Dad did to you. I don’t like to think about it, Mummy.’

She looked towards the horizon and studied the sun diamonds glinting on the water, framed by the rocky cliffs on either side of the bay. It was as good as any beach anywhere. Maybe not as stunning as her St Lucian horseshoe paradise, but better in some ways because it was her beach, her special place. Somewhere for her to think. And no one was going to sell it from under her feet.

* * *

Bristol was buzzing and busy – or maybe Kate was simply transferring her own excitement and energy onto the city in which she found herself. Life in Penmarin was calm and quiet, just as she liked it. Bristol was entirely different. She enjoyed observing the university students clustered together in the entrances to buildings, in the way that only the young and carefree are happy to do. She laughed at how they had left school and abandoned their uniforms only to all dress the same now. And soon they would evolve again, perhaps joining the tribe of glamorous women who paraded the pavements clutching stiff paper bags stuffed with the day’s booty.

The three friends had agreed to meet at Browns restaurant, a prominent landmark on the Bristol skyline. They sat outside at a table at the top of the steps. Apron-clad waiters bought them a cold jug of Pimm’s and salmon fishcakes with stick-thin golden chips. Nothing, however, could distract Kate from what lay ahead. On at least two occasions her heart skipped a beat at the sight of a dark-haired young woman on the opposite side of the street – for a split second they looked like Lydia and she had to quell the temptation to cry out. She was impatient to finish lunch and get to the gallery, wanting both to linger over her daughter’s work and to get the whole thing over with.

‘How are you feeling, mate?’ As usual, Janeece was more than in tune with her friend’s anxiety.

Kate hesitated. How was she feeling?

‘I’m nervous, excited, scared and then nervous again.’

Natasha placed a hand on her friend’s arm. ‘You’ll be fine, we’re right here with you.’

Kate nodded, but Natasha’s reassurance did little to ease her angst.

‘She could be close by right now. I might be a few steps away from her…’ This Kate whispered, more to herself than anyone else.



Janeece strode on ahead to check that the coast was clear, leaving Kate and Natasha to hover further down the street, waiting for the sign that they could proceed. It felt like an eternity, but it was in fact only minutes before she reappeared.

‘Right, had a word with a Mrs Ladi-dadi-da-pants in reception, who informs me that the artiste will be attending on Wednesday evening for the formal opening and then on Thursday only. So as today is Tuesday, I reckon we’re good to go!’

Kate beamed. ‘Right. Let’s do this.’

‘You sure you are okay, honey?’

Natasha knew only too well how revealing art could be and was worried that it might not be the positive experience her friend was hoping for.

‘Yep, I’m more than okay.’ Kate walked ahead alone.

The building was beautiful: grand and full of marble, with Corinthian columns and a wide, sweeping staircase. Kate marvelled at the vast, ornate oils that lined the walls. Her little girl was in fine company. Imagine her daughter holding an exhibition in a place like this. Pride swelled in her chest and made swallowing difficult. Lydia…

She lingered at the poster in the upper foyer – a blown-up version of the flyer that currently nestled in the bottom of her handbag. Lydia’s flawless complexion and liquid eyes were stunning. Kate breathed in sharply, realising how much she had missed. Although Francesca had emailed her the odd blurry snapshot over the years, this PR shot was of a different order altogether. The Lydia in her memory no longer existed: gone was the teenage skin and the wobbly application of heavy eye make-up. Now twenty-five, Lydia had found her style and become a woman.

Kate studied each one of Lydia’s pictures intensely and read the titles carefully. Titles like Come Undone and Life Interrupted. Lydia was clearly talented; she had honed her skills considerably since Kate had last seen any of her work. Kate approached each piece with a mixture of pleasure and intrigue, even if she didn’t fully understand them.

It was a strange and unique experience. Kate was certain that she would have known her children’s handwriting from the tiniest scrap, would be able to identify their voices from just one word spoken within a group, would know of their presence by nothing more than a cough. What she hadn’t considered was Lydia’s personality being so easily identifiable with every stroke of the brush. The bold colours and contemporary themes were as much elements of her character as her voice and humour. Kate could see that this work was the progression of all the sketches and paintings that had come before, going back to her childhood.

When Janeece and Natasha caught up with her, Kate was transfixed by a large canvas, about fifteen feet square. She studied every square inch with a wide grin. Her hands fluttered at her chest. She wanted to whoop with joy!

Natasha read the title. ‘My Background Noise – it’s an interesting title, what do you think it means?’

Kate turned to her friend, the art expert, and with eyes brimming was able to interpret the meaning of the piece with confidence.

‘It means me, Tash. I am her background noise. Not cool, but like jam or a favourite pillow!’

Kate ran her fingers over the daubs of paint that depicted a set of speakers with flowers, strawberries and dolly pegs coming from them in every shade of the rainbow. It was beautiful and it was a message that Kate read loud and clear. Happiness swelled in her chest.

‘Oh, Lydia, my clever, beautiful girl! I will be waiting for you.’



As Natasha and Kate pulled into the driveway of Prospect House, they were still discussing the minute aspects of Lydia’s work. Kate knew that she would analyse and reinterpret what she had seen, time and time again. She felt close to her little girl; her hand had touched the paint that her daughter’s hand had applied. It was wonderful. But the state of excitement was not to last long, once the front door had been opened.

‘Ah, Kate, I’m so glad you’re back. We’ve got a bit of a situation on our hands.’

‘What kind of situation, Tom? Is the house burning down and you have forgotten the number for the fire brigade? Or have we run out of biscuits and cake will have to suffice? I’m really hoping that it’s closer to the latter; I don’t want anything to spoil my lovely day!’

Tom shook his head and held open his palm, in the centre of which sat a plastic bag. Her time in jail and her work in the field of rehabilitation meant that she could instantly identify the irregularly shaped, off-white rocks as crack cocaine.

‘Oh please God no, not that! Is it Tanya’s?’

‘Well I think we can assume so, Kate, unless you have taken up the habit?’

‘Oh, don’t tempt me, Tom! Right, leave it with me. Where is she?’

‘In her room. I haven’t mentioned it to her.’

‘No, you did right. It would be today, wouldn’t it; the one day I am away.’

‘How was it, boss?’

‘Oh, Tom, it was magnificent!’

‘I’m glad. If that’s all, Kate, I think I’ll call it a night. Been quite a day. Stacey got off okay; phoned to say that she’d arrived at her mum’s and was doing fine. Said she’d be back in a few days.’

‘That’s good. Night, Tom, and thanks for today.’

Kate saw the lamplight shining from beneath Tanya’s bedroom door. She knocked and waited.

‘Yeah?’

‘Can I come in, Tanya?’

It was unusual for Kate to visit at this time of night, so Tanya instantly knew that something was up.

‘Sure.’

Tanya was in bed, propped up on several pillows and cushions, reading a magazine and doodling in the margin with a biro. Kate noticed that she had drawn rolling waves over and over, making a frame around the article that she was reading.

‘Hey, Kate, how was it?’

‘Good, thanks, Tanya. Amazing, in fact.’

Kate let out a long sigh.

‘Everything okay?’

‘Not really, Tanya, no. I’m sorry to have to ask you, but do you know anything about this?’

Kate opened her hand to reveal the plastic bag with the drugs nestled inside.

Do I know anything about it? I would say you have found someone’s candy. Judging by the colour, a good grade, not too cut. An eight ball probably enough for fifteen hours of bliss with a comedown so bad that whoever is using it would give anything, even sell their grandma for another high. That’s all I know about it.’

‘This isn’t funny and that wasn’t what I meant, Tanya, and you know it. Is it yours?’

‘Well it wouldn’t be Stacey Goody-Bloody-Two-Shoes, would it?’

Kate sat on the end of Tanya’s bed. She rubbed her temples and ran her fingers through her hair.

‘I give you a lot of freedom, Tanya, because I think that’s the right way for you to explore where you are going and where you have come from. The one rule I have is no drugs and only moderate alcohol, you know that. This is a serious breach of trust. I’m really disappointed.’

‘Well welcome to my world. Now you know what it feels like to live my life. I am permanently bloody disappointed! Although let me tell you, Kate, that if the worst disappointment you have to face is the fact that I have a small amount of rocks in my pocket, then your life ain’t too bad!’

‘I’m not the one being reprimanded here, Tanya. You broke the rules. It’s not as though we have that many. And it’s not like you’ve snuck in some booze or are smoking out of the window, its crack cocaine! This is on another scale. People have been asked to leave Prospect House for much less.’

‘As I said, yet another disappointment for me. Go on, ask me to leave. I couldn’t give a shit. At least if I go, I’ll be able to eat what I want instead of all that organic shit Tom makes, and I’ll be able to smoke what I bloody like!’

‘Well, that is up to you, Tanya. I’m not asking you to leave; I’m just asking you to think about what you are doing.’ Kate held up the bag. ‘This is not what I want for you Tanya; you can do so much more than look for answers in this muck. You have to observe our rules. It’s how we keep you safe.’ She paused, not knowing quite how to wrap up this horrid end to an otherwise perfect day, ‘Quite frankly, it’s too late for me to deal with this right now. We can talk about it tomorrow when we are both less tired.’

Kate walked to the door.

‘Good night, dear.’

Tanya mumbled her response. Most of it was inaudible, but Kate could just make out the words ‘cow’ and ‘off’.

* * *

‘Pancakes, Tanya?’

Tom stood by the stove and waved the spatula in the air, indicating that he at least was in a jovial mood. A debate raged from the tinny radio in the corner: the voices were barely audible, yet it was enough of a noise to make the place feel like home.

Tanya shrugged her pointy shoulders inside her oversized sweatshirt and let her fringe hang over her face as she addressed the floor.

‘Don’t know if I’m allowed pancakes. I might be on gruel rations if ma’am has anything to do with it. Or, worse still, no breakfast at all before I’m turfed out.’

She was only half joking.

‘I’m sure it’s not that bad, Tanya. Kate’s got a lot on her mind, that’s all. She wouldn’t turf you out, love, I’m sure. She ain’t a pushover, but she won’t give up on you. I know that.’

‘Don’t know if I really give a shit actually, Tom. I was thinking that maybe I’d be better off heading back to London. It’s so bloody quiet here, it could drive you mad. Plus I’ve got things I should be getting on with, people that I should be seeing. I was thinking I might go and get a job, sort a few things out, stay with a mate for a while. Y’know…’

Tom smiled. No, he didn’t know, and he had seen enough of Tanya and her slumped posture, nervous hair flicking and nail biting to see that she didn’t really know either.

‘You need to talk to her, Tanya. It’ll all come out in the wash, you’ll see. That’s one thing I can tell you about Kate and Tash: they only have your best interests at heart, love. I see how they worry and how they discuss the best way to help everyone that stays here. They’re good people.’

Tanya shrugged with indifference and simultaneously curled her top lip to show aggression and dislike in two simple moves. This was in fact the exact opposite of how she was feeling. She wanted to sob, to apologise, to lie wrapped in the soft pink lambswool blanket with her head on a cushion in front of the fire. She wanted to be told that she could stay for ever and ever.

‘Whatever.’

She wasn’t even sure who the bravado was intended for any more; it was a habit that she didn’t know how to break.

‘So is that a yes for pancakes or a no?’

Tanya cracked a smile in spite of her best efforts. Her tummy groaned as she inhaled the buttery, vanilla scent of the batter that wafted from the hot pan.

‘Well, as you’re making…’



It was a beautiful, clear Cornish day in the early flush of summer; one of those days when weather and mankind conspire to make a golden day of perfect memories. The sun was hot against bare skin, the sky bright blue with the merest wisp of cloud, as if painted by an artist’s brush stroke. The air was warm with a gentle breeze that lifted the flower heads just enough to show off their true beauty. Toddlers dozed in pushchairs, couples held hands and strangers smiled, each playing their part.

Kate mooched around the harbour, taking time with her chores and enjoying the moment. Every time she closed her eyes, one of Lydia’s paintings came into focus. She felt closer to her somehow. Seeing her daughter’s work had been like peeking into her diary, offering wonderful insights into her darling girl’s mind. She was so glad that she had gone to Bristol, despite her initial worries. Kate also had to acknowledge the tiniest hint of disappointment. Deep down she had secretly hoped to catch a glimpse of her daughter; it had been difficult not to envisage a full-blown running-with-arms-wide reunion.

She wondered how Stacey was getting on at home and hoped that she would simply come back to Penmarin, collect the rest of her things and return to her mum and brother. As much as she would miss her, Kate knew that was where she belonged; it was the best thing for her long term.

The previous night’s showdown with Tanya weighed on her mind. She would call Janeece and get some advice. Drug use and addiction were Janeece’s specialisation, although where Tanya was concerned, Kate suspected it was more a recreational habit born out of boredom than an addiction. She needed to occupy her more: maybe a job in the village, the pub? No, not the pub, silly thought. Bloody Rodney Morris; even the thought of him brought a fresh wave of anger.

She would give it some thought and they would find a way through, whatever happened. Kate loved Tanya’s spirit, even if her energy was a little misdirected at times. In the cold, bright light of day Kate laughed to herself at the detailed description Tanya had given her of the small bag of drugs. Cheeky girl. She’d go back and talk to her now, so that they could all return to calm waters and move forward. Kate inhaled the fresh sea air. Life felt good.



Tanya locked her bedroom door, turning the heavy key until the satisfying clunk told her it was safe to proceed. In her bathroom she removed her purchase from the white plastic bag. She unwound the thin strip of coloured cellophane, then peeled the wrapper off the rectangular box. With her jeans and pants bundled around her ankles like a nest, Tanya gave little thought to the task in hand. By mentally transporting herself somewhere else entirely, she could pretend for a little while longer.

Job done, Tanya washed her hands meticulously, taking care to scrape under her nails and lather between her fingers. She patted her palms dry on the thick white towel and then, as she always did, inhaled the fresh scent that the liquid soap left on her skin. She breathed deeply, intoxicated by the floral tones that filled her head. She cherished this small ritual; there had been so many times that she had been without soap and the means to get clean.

The spatula-like stick sat on the glass shelf above the sink. Tanya felt slightly faint when she considered what was at stake. There was the slightest tremor to her grip as her fingers rolled around the plastic. The truth was she had known the result before looking. She knew because her instinct had been screaming at her for the best part of six weeks. The slight sway of nausea, the fatigue, the heightened emotion – it had been very easy to explain away each of these elements. It could be the change of environment or Tom’s unfamiliar food; even the sea air had shouldered some of the blame. It had all sounded plausible, reasonable. Yet deep down Tanya knew that the symptoms would have been exactly the same had she stayed in London or ended up in Timbuktu.

She could recall the hour, if not the very minute of conception. It hadn’t been beautiful, romantic or considered. It never was. She had gone to say goodbye, explain that she wanted a fresh start away from him, away from that life, away from temptation. He had been quiet and surprisingly understanding, leading her to believe that he never had really given a shit, or that her replacement had already been lined up. Whichever, it mattered little now.

One drink, two, maybe three later and they had done what was natural and familiar to them both, for old times’ sake, one last time. His deep blue eyes with their penetrating stare still fascinated her and drew her in. She had relished the comfort she found in his arms, loved the feel of his skin against hers. This dark, brooding man who had shown her both the height of ecstasy, sending her spirit skywards, where it would dance among the stars, and also the depths of despair, where she would beg to be shown the merest crumb of affection, for which she would be deeply grateful. This man, whom she would jump through hoops for, follow to the ends of the earth, even take the rap for. They were cut from the same cloth: two individuals whose life experiences and surroundings were so similar that their connection went way beyond physical attraction; theirs was a deep yet destructive union. It was almost impossible for her to distinguish between the need for the man who wrought so much influence over her life and the drug that he supplied, the two were inextricably linked. One thing she knew for certain was that he would always be the love of her life.

After wiping around the sink and flushing the loo, Tanya returned to the bedroom. She looked out of the window and not for the first time marvelled at the fact that if you could swim far enough you could get all the way to Canada. She would like to go to Canada. What did she know about it? They ate a lot of maple syrup; they had big bears and even bigger mountains. Something in the back of her mind told her that they spoke French, was that right? This made her laugh. Imagine that, swimming all the way to Canada and not being able to speak French.

Tanya made her bed. She pulled the sheet taut and smoothed the creases from the duvet cover. She plumped the pillows and piled them just so, before folding the soft blanket over the base, just as she liked it. There was something quite wonderful about climbing into a bed that had been so beautifully made.

‘Bonjour!’

She laughed as she tested out the foreign word, then walked over to the mirror above the fireplace.

‘Bonjour, I am Tanya, Mr Mountie. Can I have some maple syrup s’il vous plaît?’

This made her laugh even more. She giggled until tears gathered in her eyes. Who would have thought it? Thick old Tanya Wilson, if she swam all the way to Canada, could actually speak a bit of French to the Mountie who would hand her a towel on the beach. Now that was amazing.

She switched off the bedside lamp and opened the sash window, just enough to air the room. She cleaned her teeth and patted her face dry with the soft white towel before replacing it carefully on its hook. Tanya placed her forehead on the cool glass of the window and could hardly draw her eyes from the sea that stretched out before her, a vast never ending blanket of black. Her fingers lingered on the sprig-patterned curtains, feeling the tiny bunches of lavender embroidered beneath her touch.

‘Off for a walk?’ Tom enquired as she trotted past the kitchen. Tanya nodded.

‘Well it’s a beautiful day out there. And at least you won’t have to rush back for lunch. How many pancakes have you put away, girl? You must have hollow legs!’

He shook his head in genuine astonishment.

‘Thank you for teaching me how to make lasagne, Tom. It didn’t taste too bad, did it?’

He laughed, wondering how they had got on to that topic.

‘You’re welcome, love. Between you and me, I was a little bit worried for me job – it tasted superb. You’re a natural!’

The cliffside path leading down to the beach from Prospect House was sheer and precarious. It meandered down the steep slope like a giant snake, with no apparent logic to its route. Rotting, half-buried steps punctuated its course and tufts of coarse grass grew at the edges in thick, ankle-turning clumps. Tanya’s smooth-soled sneakers skidded and slipped on the loose stones, making her stumble then wobble until she regained her balance. She removed her shoes and held them aloft in her right hand, as though protecting them from further scuffing. An image of herself tumbling off the cliff, limbs flailing, filled her head. That would be just typical of her life – nothing ever going according to plan. Though the note in her pocket would apply just the same.

When the path finally flattened out and the stones gave way to sand, Tanya’s faltering steps turned into strides. The beach was empty. She ran the last few metres with a smile on her face as the salt-tinged breeze lifted her fringe and buffeted her chest.

Tanya shrugged her arms through her cardigan and folded it neatly with arm holes and hems together, before placing it on the sand. Next she slipped out of her jeans, which she placed with precision on top of her cardigan. She unhooked her bra and let the straps fall along her thin arms, and finally she stepped out of her pants. Her clothes sat in a neat little pile, like laundry waiting to be collected and put away on wash day. On top of her discarded apparel she placed her room and front door keys; just beneath them she positioned the pale cream envelope, twisting it to make sure it was clearly visible. She was done. She turned her face skywards and savoured the rays of sunshine that pierced the Mediterranean blue of the day. It was quite exquisite to feel the warmth on her naked skin.

Tanya stopped as she approached the water and winced in sudden pain. A small shard of glass, not yet smoothed into opaque sea glass, had sunk into the white flesh of her sole. She lifted the foot onto her opposite knee, gripped the tiny splinter and prised it free. A trickle of blood ran thick and red down her bare leg but she didn’t try to stem its flow; it mattered little compared to the journey she was about to undertake. She wasn’t sure why she had even bothered to remove it; what did it matter? A second or two of foot pain meant nothing in the grander scheme of things.

She walked forward to the dark shadow on the sand where the water lapped, staining it the colour of dark tea and pitting it with fizzing holes in which small worms and crabs bathed.

Tanya trod gingerly, feeling the shock of the icy current on her exposed flesh. It was her first time in the sea and wasn’t quite the warm bath that she had anticipated. She took tiny, cautious steps at first, until she was knee deep. Then she found her courage and strode further out.

She allowed the tiny waves to lap her with their salty tongues. She turned and faced the shore, stepping slowly backwards until the sea covered her shoulders. Her teeth chattered in her gums and her limbs jerked involuntarily, trying to counter the effects of the cold.

She gazed up to the top of the cliff for one last look at Prospect House. This was the one place that she had been happy, the one place she had been comfortable and felt wanted. She pictured the shiny bathroom, remembered the comfort of her clean, white bed and its blanket tucked around her shoulders on chilly nights. Her heart had ached at the thought of being asked to leave. She had messed up and she knew it. It was to be expected; she always did mess things up. It was as if she was programmed for self-destruction.

She remembered a Christmas from her childhood when she had been given a Furby toy. Presents were thin on the ground in their house and she had loved the furry creature that opened its eyes and mouth when it sang, loved it more than anything she had ever owned. She couldn’t believe that something that brilliant had been given to someone like her. She sang with it, stroked it, slept with it and held it close. Then, one night, her mum, in an even fouler mood than usual after a drunken spat with her latest bloke, had threatened to stamp on her Furby to ‘Shut it the f*ck up!’ The thought of having to witness her beloved toy being destroyed was so unbearable that a little while after her mum’s rant, Tanya had taken her Furby out into the cold, damp night and stamped on him herself. With tears in her eyes, she threw his battered, broken body into the communal skip. It was far easier to cope with his loss than to live with the threat of his destruction hanging over her.

Tanya knew that life at Prospect House was as good as it got. There would never be a flat or a little job for someone like her; she would never go to Canada and never have a coffee machine like the one in the pub. But at least this way, she would never be separated from her baby, never know the pain of having to choose between her drug of choice and keeping her child, never wonder through heavy lids on a comedown who was feeding and bathing her little one, while she reached for the arms of the man that would feed her poison. The clifftop house was a wonderful sight. Her last vista could easily have been something quite different – a stained ceiling, the peeling wallpaper on a damp toilet wall or the slimy bricks of a deserted alleyway. This was better, much better. She liked the fact that she had decided. She was in control.

She placed her shrivelled, prune-like palm against the flat of her belly and rubbed in small circles. She was not alone; she would never be alone again, but would forever be at peace with her little secret safe and snug inside her.

‘You’ll never be afraid of the water.’

She spoke the words in her mind, to be heard by the small kernel of a human that had been conceived with love and was beginning inside her. The idea gave her a huge amount of comfort.

Her body had gone numb with extreme cold and her skin was peppered with a million goosebumps. Her fine hair floated like orange seaweed around her head. Still with her eyes on Prospect House, Tanya took two deliberate steps backwards. The soft sand beneath her feet gave way to nothing and she went down and down, under the sea, like the mermaid she had imagined so many times.

The cold water filtered into her airways, slowly at first, as her natural reaction was to close her mouth and hold her nose, but once she relaxed it gushed in, filling every space with thick salt water. When her brain registered that her gag reflex was futile, she was overcome with a beautiful calmness. A pinprick of light shone above her. She smiled. Then she slowly closed her eyes and embraced the peace and escape that lay ahead.



As Kate pulled into the driveway she was aware of Tom hovering by the back door. He was passing the checked dish cloth from hand to hand and was clearly agitated.

‘Oh great, what now? What drama awaits me – please not more drugs.’

She spoke to the mirror of her sun visor, hoping for a ‘run out of carrots’ catastrophe, but fearing something much worse. Maybe Janeece was right and she was getting old, possibly too old.

Kate scrambled down from the jeep with her shopping basket in one hand and the local paper in the other.

‘Everything all right, Tom?’

‘Everything’s just fine, Kate.’

Despite his answer, he continued to twist the cloth in his hand, indicating quite the opposite.

‘Oh good. No minor catastrophe awaiting my attention?’

‘No, nothing like that. It’s just that you’ve got a visitor.’

‘Oh, well, I’ll be right in.’

Judging from Tom’s twitchy stance, it could be an unexpected house guest, as had happened once before when poor communication and slow post had meant a girl had turned up for a short-term stay without warning. It didn’t really matter – they would cope, they always did. There was plenty of room and as soon as a nice cuppa and words of kindness had been issued, all would be well. Or it might be a surprise visit from social services, a much less palatable scenario. Kate hung her head at the very thought. Her spirits sank; why today on this most perfect of days? Not that she had anything to hide, far from it. They had an open-door policy, but it would be tedious and time-consuming and she would have liked to have had her paperwork in slightly better order.

Kate entered the kitchen with a cheery ‘Hello!’

And came abruptly to a halt.

The paper fell to the floor as her hand flew to her mouth. Her heart beat so quickly that she felt quite light-headed. Sitting at the table was her son.

Tom deposited a mug of tea on the table to match the one he had already served Dominic and quietly disappeared.

‘Hello.’

‘Oh, my! Oh, Dom!’

Kate walked forward and ran a hand across his back; with the other she cradled his head into her form. Her touch was gentle, tentative, not only because she was unsure of how she would be received, but also because of the very real fear that he might vanish. She had pictured this scenario so many times that she thought it might be a dream. It wasn’t. He was solid to the touch, he was real and he was in her kitchen.

She inhaled his scent, familiar and intoxicating.

‘Oh, Dom, look at you! Look at you! This is wonderful, this is the best moment… I have missed you!’

It felt like the grossest of understatements. Words could not describe what the absence of her kids had meant to her – they were all far too meek, thin and inadequate.

‘You’re squashing me.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, darling.’

Kate took the seat opposite her child.

She surveyed the man sitting in front of her. He was wearing jeans and a thick, white cotton shirt and he really did look wonderful. His muscly forearms were covered in a mat of dark hair. She squinted and superimposed from memory the gangly arms of her boy, covered in paper-thin Spiderman tattoos that had come courtesy of a packet of bubble-gum. She could picture his skinny, freckled limbs poking from beneath a striped T-shirt sleeve that gaped in the absence of biceps or triceps. How long ago was that? Ten years? No, twenty years. My goodness, where had that time gone? She noted that the contours of his teens had now bulged into muscles, the hair had sprouted thicker and darker than she had seen it last and all his sharp angles had been replaced by rounded solidity.

The physical changes were huge, but Kate could also see that he had some time ago vaulted the line between lackadaisical teenager and careworn man of the world. His eyes no longer held a subject in languid fascination; instead his glances were hesitant, furtive. His leg jumped, his heel beat time and his fingers drummed. He was edgy, nervous. He spoke a little too quickly and his humour was biting. He made Kate think of an animal backed into a corner, ready to pounce.

‘I can’t believe you are here, I really can’t. There is so much I want to say, Dominic, but I almost don’t know where to start – which is crackers because I’ve practised every day since I saw you last. I am so happy. How long can you stay?’

Already the fear of him leaving was eating up their precious moments together.

‘I’ve got rooms made up already; we can have a proper catch-up. Are you hungry? How did you get here? Did you drive? Francesca said you had a little runaround. I feel like a kid! I am so excited! How’s Lydi?’

The words burbled from her like water.

‘No, I can’t stay, but thanks. Lydia is great, thank you. Quite the little artist, getting rave reviews for her work and she thoroughly deserves it; she’s very talented.’

Kate hated the way he had thanked her – politely, as if she were a stranger. There was no warmth in his response. The tone in which he talked about his sister was protective, with an underlying sneer that seemed to ask, What has it got to do with you? Kate decided not to tell him that she had seen some of Lydia’s work and that yes, she definitely did deserve all the rave reviews.

‘And what about you, Dom, what are you doing? Still working with Luke and Gerry?’

‘Yes, we have a property business actually – buying and selling, renovation, interior design, that kind of thing. It’s going pretty well.’

‘Oh my goodness, that sounds great! And it sounds so clichéd, but you have grown, you look wonderful. You are so beautiful, Dom, such a good-looking man. I always knew you would be. Do you have a girlfriend?’

His response was vague. An image of a recent conquest came into focus, but it was futile. What girl would stick around once they knew his story? He had no intention of confiding in his mother. Instead, his eyes assessed the room in which they were sitting.

Kate had known that their first meeting might be this way, but it didn’t make it any easier. She wanted so badly to hold him tight.

‘I can’t tell you how very happy I am to see you.’

He ignored her words.

‘This is a nice set-up you have here. The house is interesting…’

Kate nodded. She didn’t want to talk about the house.

‘Dom, I have missed you dreadfully.’

‘Well, you knew where I was. If you missed me that much…’

She held his eye.

‘Darling, that’s not fair. You made it quite clear that you didn’t want to see me and I respected your wish. I figured you would come to me when you were ready.’

Dominic laughed, but it was an insincere chuckle that for a brief moment put her in mind of Mark.

‘Well, clever old you. All that amateur psychology is obviously paying off, here I am! You once told me that I could always talk to you, that you would listen. You said it was your job.’

Kate smiled. Yes, she had said that.

‘Well, you’ve been doing it really badly and I am majorly pissed off with you, Mum!’

He sounded like a little boy; it made her heart constrict. She pictured him using the same tone to protest about bedtimes or having to eat Brussels sprouts. But he had called her Mum! How she had missed that.

‘Dom, it’s been too long that we have been apart. I don’t want to spoil it by fighting.’

‘Maybe it’s not all about what you want. Maybe there are things that I want, that I need.’

‘What things, Dom? Tell me what they are and I will do my best to help you. I love you so much. I don’t want to see you hurting.’

‘Hurting?’ He put his splayed hand over his mouth and gripped his chin and cheek, again stifling that incongruous laugh. ‘Christ, you have no idea about hurt.’

‘Oh, Dom, I think I have more than an idea.’

She swallowed the words that bubbled on her tongue. ‘Your father was a monster. You have no idea how I lived; I was tortured for eighteen years, but I put up with it for you and Lydia.’ But she kept them to herself, not wanting to burden her son still more.

‘I don’t expect you to understand, Dom, and I do know what my actions have put you through—’

‘Do you, Mum?’ He interrupted again. ‘Do you really know what your actions have put me through? Have put Lydia through?’

Kate cast her eyes downwards and awaited the onslaught that she knew was coming; the one she had been waiting the last ten years to receive.

‘Mountbriers was all I’d ever known. Those people weren’t only my friends, they were my family. I loved being part of it. I used to feel so proud putting on that uniform and walking through the stone archway every day. It made me feel so special; it was everything to me. I was working hard, doing great, planning for the golden future that you kept telling me I would have. But you were lying, weren’t you? You had other plans for my future, for all of our futures. And it wasn’t as if I left in the way that other kids did. I didn’t win a scholarship and flit off to another school; my parents didn’t run out of fees and send me to the local comp. Plenty of kids did that and it was okay for them; they could still be part of it, if they wanted to. But not me. I couldn’t keep in touch or pop over for weekends, or even finish off the bloody term!’

‘Dom, I—’

‘No. Let me finish. The police questioned Lyd and me for hours, did you know that? We were in separate rooms full of bloody strangers in a police station while they asked if Dad had ever touched me, hurt me? Can you imagine? My head was totally f*cked. One minute I was at a barbecue with my mates and the next my whole world had turned to rat shit and there’s this bloke asking me if Dad had ever…’

Dominic breathed deeply, to slow his heart and stop the tears of frustration that threatened to fall. He wasn’t done.

‘Dad never laid a finger on me or Lydi; he would never have. He was a brilliant dad, whether you like it or not. He was brilliant and I loved him. He was smart, funny, clever and I used to hope that one day I’d get married and have kids and be just like him! How funny is that? Imagine wanting to be just like him…’

‘Dominic, I can only imagine—’

He didn’t allow her a response, wouldn’t stop until he had exorcised it all.

‘We weren’t allowed anything from the house, nothing. Did you know that? They took my computer, my photos, my phone, clothes, everything. Everything I had ever owned or known was wiped out. My home became a crime scene and the crime that had been committed wasn’t burglary or assault, it was murder. My father was stabbed – not by some nameless attacker, but by my mum. By you! I lost my school, my friends, my possessions, my home, my parents, everything! I lost my whole f*cking life. Can you imagine that? And worse still, it wasn’t some stranger that did that to me, it was my own f*cking mother! You took it all from me, from us!’

His tears fell freely now and Kate felt a strange sense of relief, his tears cathartic.

She reached across the table top – a matter of inches, but to mother and son it represented miles and years. Kate took her son’s large hand and encased it inside both of her own. She felt the flex of his fingertips as they curled to sit against hers; a small act of enormous significance.

They sat in silence until his tears abated and his breathing had steadied. They had all the time in the world.

When he next spoke his voice was calmer, quieter.

‘You did that to us, Mum. I’m not only blaming you; it was you and Dad. You were both liars and you made our whole existence, our whole childhood, into one big lie.’

Kate remembered Lydia’s painful words, across the miles via a telephone wire. ‘My whole life and the people I trusted, it was all pretend.’

Dominic wasn’t done.

‘I think of all the times we sat at the breakfast table, Dad making jokes and chatting and you smiling while you cooked bloody bacon; and yet only an hour before… Who was the best liar, Mum? I’m not sure. I know Dad started it, he was a shit to you. But you finished it and I can’t decide which is worse. It’s okay for you, you have become Kate Gavier. I can’t do that, I can’t become Kate Gavier. I am stuck being Dominic Brooker. I give people my name and I watch them mulling it over, trying to work out why it’s familiar… and then their eyes widen as they place me. Ah yes, Brooker. Spawn of bastard Mark and psycho Kathryn. And you ask if I have a girlfriend? What do you think? How would the “meet the parents” conversation go? It’s a f*cking non-starter.’

‘I’m sorry, Dom.’ It was an inadequate, automatic response.

‘And then you disappeared. Firstly prison and then here, to immerse yourself in other people’s problems so that you wouldn’t have to deal with ours. Like we didn’t count any more, like we didn’t count enough.’

‘Dom, you have always counted; you have been the one thing that does count. You are the reason I keep going. I love you and Lydia more than you can imagine, more than you will ever know. I haven’t been hiding from you! I’ve been waiting for you. Every minute of every day and with every breath in my body, I think of all the possible ways I might be able to see you or be near you or contact you without causing you more distress—’

He cut her short again.

‘I think about that night, Mum. I think about it a lot. I wish I didn’t. We were in the room next door; we were only in the f*cking room next door! Just metres away from what was happening. And you were cheerful. I remember, you sounded very cheerful. That’s what I told the police and yet all the time Dad was on the bed… I bet he wanted me to help him, I bet he felt frightened and alone. I wonder if he called out to me, Mum. Did he want me to help him? I can’t believe I slept soundly next door, Mum, with my head full of the barbecue and Emily Grant, while you…’

‘Oh, darling. Oh, Dom. You mustn’t do that. There’s no point; it will just destroy you.’

‘Ya think?’

His sarcasm warbled through his contorted mouth.

‘I never sleep deeply now, not once since it happened. I lie with one ear cocked in case someone needs my help, in case Dad might need my help…’

Kate rubbed at her closed eyes.

‘I am sorry, Dom. I am truly, truly sorry for all the hurt that I have caused you both and one day we will talk about fear and being alone and the reasons why, but not today. Not today, Dom. It’s important that you know that I always, always put you first. I—’

Kate never finished her sentence.

The kitchen door slammed against the wall, causing them both to jump and jerk their heads in the direction of the bang.

Rodney Morris stood with one arm outstretched, flat-palmed against the open door. His body was not used to the speed with which his adrenalin had propelled him up from the beach. He panted and sweated, his face scarlet. His other hand was crooked against his chest and in the space between he held what appeared to be clothing. Keys dangled from his finger.

Kate let her son’s hand fall onto the table top as she rose from her chair.

‘Rodney! What’s the matter? What’s going on?’

Slowly he raised his head until his tear-filled eyes were level with hers.

‘Tanya…’ he stammered.

He passed Kate the opened cream envelope that had been tightly scrunched inside his palm.

Kate put her arm around him and steered him into a chair, the bad blood between them evaporating in the face of his obvious distress.

She pulled the sheet of paper from the envelope and hurriedly scanned Tanya’s words.

‘Where is she now, Rodney?’ she screamed. ‘Is it too late?’

Rodney rocked slowly in his chair and rambled incoherently.

‘Oh no! Oh please God, no!’ Kate howled, bordering on hysterical.

‘Beautiful… so young…’ mumbled Rodney through his tears.

Kate read and reread Tanya’s note, transfixed by the ten lines, trying to absorb their meaning. Her breath came in gulps. The pain in her chest was hard and instant. She looked up and sought the face of her son, seeking comfort and reassurance, but he was gone.