‘Have you spoken to Phyllis? Have you been near her?’
‘Not spoken, no. But I know where she lives, her and David. I sit in the town hall gardens sometimes and watch the twins play football.’ She laughed. ‘That Darren’s a terror, cheeky little bugger. But it’s not like I’d ever say anything, Billy. I know how much you like it there. Not like I’d go bowling up to the front door to introduce myself.’
She stopped and fixed him with her black eyes. And then, as if drink had taken her only in that moment, she closed her eyes and let her mouth fall open.
He caught the glass before it fell. He watched her, counted to ten.
As he crept from the room, she snored into the silence. He found her bedroom at the back of the flat. More stale smells – body odour, talcum powder, shed skin on sheets. He shivered, lifted the pillow from the bed, tried not to notice or think about the diffuse brown patch made, he supposed, over time, by the grease from her head.
She was snoring regularly now, her mouth still open. She had slid against the sofa’s edge, the angle awkward. She was so thin. Patches of pink scalp showed through the oily strands of her dyed black hair, and he saw now that the roots were a greyish white. She would be what? Forty? Forty-one? He took her by the shoulders – small and square like Phyllis’s, but there the similarity ended. He laid his mother, this broken bird, flat on the cushions.
‘I am sorry, Mother,’ he said. ‘I will pray for you. And for Martin. You can find him in heaven as I have Phyllis here on earth.’
He pressed the pillow to her face.
‘Oh Lord, take the soul of Rebecca Hurst. May she find peace in heaven in your care, Amen.’
She kicked, and her arms rose like the arms of a zombie in a horror film. The same choked noise as Ben had made down at the canal came from under the pillow. He could not say how long this lasted, only that when it was over his arms ached, his back, his neck. He checked the pulse at her neck. Nothing. Her face was grey even in the bright overhead light.
He poured the rest of her cider onto the sofa and wiped the glass with his handkerchief before placing it beside her slack hand. He picked up his own glass and slid it into his pocket. He took the pillow back into the bedroom and replaced it where he had found it.
At the living-room door, he stood a moment. She was stone still but he watched her for another minute, to be sure.
‘Goodbye, Mother,’ he said, and left that place.
* * *
From the moment the door banged against the wall, I had known something was wrong. And now here we were, the world turned inside out like an old coat, our life’s possessions fallen out of the pockets and spread on the ground.
‘What are we going to do?’ he said.
‘It’ll be OK,’ I replied. But I knew it wouldn’t be. I was trying to trace a line through the mess of my own thoughts.
‘You need to go back to your room,’ I said.
‘I can’t leave you.’
‘You must, love. Until we work out what to do.’
‘But I can’t be alone.’
‘You’re not alone. I’ll be right here.’
I had to look away from the pleading in his eyes. Did I see a murderer? I don’t know. I saw him, my Christopher, the love of my life, but everything had changed. He had killed two people, and one of them was my son. I did not know what that made him. I still don’t.
‘Go to bed,’ I said.
He nodded finally and gathered up his dirty coat.
‘Give that to me.’ I took it from him. ‘Leave the rest outside your room, I’ll wash them for you.’
On the landing, I laid my hand on his cheek and told him to go, told him again that everything would be all right. If I close my eyes now, I can remember the way his cheek felt against my hand, the merest prickle of stubble. That moment, the memory of it, is something. But I must go on. I have come this far and now I must finish this. I will finish this.
So.
Once Christopher had gone into his room, I went downstairs. I was going to go back to bed but I couldn’t face the sight of it, the memory of all he had told me. Instead, I made tea and sat in the kitchen. It was cold, so I put on Christopher’s coat. Why, I don’t know. Comfort, possibly – the smell of him. Upstairs was silent. I thought he must be asleep. I stared out of the window at the garden. I thought of the barbecues we’d had there with David and the twins that summer. I’d been happy, yes, but I’d been lying to myself. I’d been lying to myself for years. How could I have been happy when I knew something was not right? Christopher had told a lie. I had lived one. At least that’s how I saw it in that moment. And now my son was dead.
I don’t know how long I was there before I remembered the clothes. Christopher’s sweater and trousers were on the floor outside his room. I listened for a moment at his door but heard nothing, so I gathered up his things and brought them into the kitchen, put them into the washing machine. I was about to switch the machine on when I thought perhaps I should wash his coat too. I started to empty the pockets, and it was then that I found the letters, crumpled up. I dropped the coat to the floor.
Your son, Benjamin Bradbury.
My son. My Martin. The boy who had been taken from me, who had come all the way from America to find me, and who had put his heart on this page. He wanted only to meet me and he was now lying dead at the bottom of the canal. He had died thinking I didn’t want him.
I imagined him then as I have imagined him in these pages: no photos, no cine film, nothing to go on but two short letters – his life caught in no more than a glancing light. My Martin, whom I would never see, never know, never love with a love that was natural between a mother and a son. There was nothing left but mess. A man whom I had loved as a son had killed my firstborn child. He was a murderer. Whose mind, tell me, whose, could stay intact in the face of that?
I went into the hall and dialled 999.
‘You need to come right away,’ I said. ‘It’s about my son. He’s murdered two people.’
I gave them the address. They must have asked more questions and I must have answered them. I put down the phone and stifled the choking sound that came out of me.
I was sitting on the hall carpet, back propped against the wall I must have slid down. I thought I heard Christopher’s bedroom door open and close. Then nothing for a moment. I thought I must have imagined it. Then the grinding squeak of his window opening. I thought he must be hot, that he might come down and run a glass of water, but he didn’t come and there were no more sounds from upstairs. But there was a draught, now I thought about it, and I began to shiver. I pulled on Christopher’s coat once again – better to wash nothing now that the police were coming. I went into the lounge, switched on the gas fire.