Of course. Our discussion suspended for the time being only, Jacob put the telly on. We both flopped onto our squishy brown corduroy sofa and I grabbed a cushion to hug. Instead of putting his feet up on the chunky wooden coffee table, like he generally did, Jacob sat forward, eager, elbows resting on knees. Hopefully loads of people would see the news report, and information would come pouring in.
But no. The news was all about a murder that had happened over in Nottingham. It was a terrible thing, but I couldn’t help feeling angry. That attack had happened months ago – 27 September, according to reports – and the family had had their share of publicity.
‘Police now believe that Tiffany was lured out by her killer in the middle of the night. Her phone was found this week, discarded under bushes near where her body was discovered. Messages described as being of a suspicious nature were on it. If anyone saw anything, they should call the number at the bottom of the screen.’
I knew exactly what I was doing that night, 27 September 2015. Like many people, the three of us had spent much of it gazing up at the super blood moon, two stunning lunar events coinciding so that the moon looked massive and shone red. Remember? You inherited my, and your dad’s, amateur interest in stargazing, and we’d all been fascinated by the event.
Even on the night of your attack, remember, Beth, you and I had been looking at the full moon as we walked. My throat caught thinking about how, only four nights ago, you had been so bursting with life as you laughed, then skipped away from me.
We hadn’t even hugged, I realised, tears prickling.
You had to get better, Beth. And your attacker had to be caught. Why weren’t you important enough to appear on the news? I could imagine all too well this other mother’s pain, but this report needed to stop and the one about my own daughter’s attack to start.
It was eventually replaced with a story about the Duchess of Cambridge visiting a drugs charity in the area. Then another on immigration and Brexit. Finally, it was time for the weather. I turned the telly off, stunned.
We were now in competition for publicity, and we were losing. Our daughter’s attack was less headline-grabbing than a murder, and there were no salacious details to give out. On a slow press day you would have got some coverage: a pretty white teenage girl found seemingly lifeless on a marsh. But not that day. Of course, I knew, in theory, that was how things worked in journalism; after all, I was employed as receptionist at the local weekly newspaper office, the Wapentake Investigator. But to be on the receiving end of it was awful. It made me glad that being a receptionist was as far as I’d got to becoming a journalist.
University had been put on hold only temporarily when I’d fallen pregnant with you, Beth, at eighteen. But somehow, despite Jacob insisting he’d support me, and with my parents and his parents vowing to help out, it had never felt the right time to leave my little family – to leave you – to study. I was happy with my life.
The receptionist job had been a handy halfway house, though, making me feel I was still half-living my dream. The editor, Finn, was certain to give your attack good coverage; a thought that lifted my spirits. He was a good bloke, and let me type up the minutes from local council meetings, or the obituary and wedding forms. It was a fun challenge finding a unique angle and turning them into something interesting. Even Finn admitted that I had a good eye for a story.
A good story… If the truth got out about Jacob, we’d definitely be in the news…
Seventeen
With blurry eyes I glanced at the clock: 5.03 a.m. Damn. My brain was working overtime, my body keyed up. No more sleep for me.
Holding back a sigh, because it might disturb Jacob, I did a sort of horizontal limbo dance, sliding inch by careful inch from under the duvet and onto the floor.
Still not daring to straighten fully, I crept across the lightless room, cautious of the bedroom equivalent of landmines: discarded shoes, jeans tossed aside in a tangle, the sharp point of a belt buckle.
Free of the bedroom at last, and able to breathe normally, I stood in the darkness of the landing trying to decide what to do with myself. Go to your bedroom, maybe? Five seconds later my fingers rested lightly on the doorknob, the cold brass warming under my touch. I couldn’t move.
I couldn’t face it, Beth. The house was bad enough without you. Too quiet, too empty. A husk of itself. It was ten times worse in your bedroom. Each time I entered it seemed to get harder. The night before, while the police had searched it, the bedroom had felt as if it was in suspended animation, waiting for your return. The glass with its film of milk. The clothes discarded as if you’d be back any second.
The thought of going back in there made me shiver. I longed to be somewhere I could feel close to you, but your bedroom wasn’t it. Besides, it reminded me of your lies. The wardrobe door gaped open to reveal the empty shoebox your boots should have been in.
Instead of your bedroom, I decided to go downstairs, stepping to the right to avoid the creaking bit of stair three down from the top. Your poor dad was shattered, so the last thing he needed was me waking him. Let him escape his pain in dreams for a while; I wished I could.
But what should I do? After two hours, sitting alone in the darkness held no appeal. My brain whirled with everything that had happened; my body longed to be on the move, to be doing something. I wanted to jump in the car and be at the hospital with you again. I couldn’t even pour my heart out to Wiggins, because he was still with your grandparents.
According to the grandfather clock striking noisily, it was 7 a.m. There was about an hour until dawn. That suited the plan forming in my mind perfectly.
Still not daring to put the light on for fear of waking your dad, I crept through the darkness to the hall. The slippery, cool feel of waterproof material helped identify my coat among the others hanging up, along with the familiar density of its padded thermal filling and the faux fur trim around the hood. I blindly pulled it on over my pyjamas, the pale blue brushed cotton ones you had bought me for Christmas, Beth.
The wellies were harder to differentiate in the darkness, but I shoved my feet into them all until I’d found both parts of the pair that fitted. A woolly hat and scarf were put on, along with the thick gloves that had been sitting in my pocket, waiting patiently for their next expedition. The last time I’d worn them had been to walk you to Chloe’s on Friday night, just three days and one lifetime ago.
*