Cut To The Bone Page 17

  … as your real mother…

  Louis felt more than sick as he repeated that last sentence. There it was in black and white. So he was an April Fool's bastard. The Fawn with her fake wedding ring, had lied about being his birth mother all along. This knowledge delivered a wave of utter desolation that engulfed him as he struggled to finish the rest of the letter, while keeping a hand over his navel, letting a finger slip inside and feel its deepest, tenderest part.

  Incidentally, I kept these Police Recruitment details you must have sent off for, because knowing you as I do, I had grave doubts about that particular career choice. As you can see, I still have your best interests at heart, despite your having made life pretty hellish for both of us.

  Don't try and contact me at the Institute or through any other agencies. I’ve done my duty for long enough and now need to reassess my life. I hope you will have the maturity to understand. Also why I cannot end this letter "with love from..." etcetera.

  Dave.

  ps. Btw - your real father, Graham Lodge still works for MTEC Global, but now based in London. Your birth mother, Tina Royle, now Crabtreee, is, to the best of my knowledge, at ‘The Larches,’ Little Bidding, near Swindon with her family. You may legally make contact with them when you reach the age of eighteen. Also, receive your adoption record from the General Register Office in Southport. This is purely for your information and I hope you'll treat it in the spirit with which it’s been given.

  pps. Jacquie has your original Birth Certificate which you will doubtless need later on for any new passport and driving licence applications etc.

  Louis turned to the three Maternity Home sheets, each dated from 1st April 1997 to the 10th. In particular, the second, which, through his blurred vision showed a rapid fall in his birth weight of 8lbs 3 ozs. Lots of official jargon too, ending with scrawled signatures all making only too real what had bugged him for as long as he could remember.

  He blew his nose into a discarded sock and wiped his face with his pillow before continuing.

  Sheet 1 recorded how, in the last moments of the Caesarean, the umbilicus had coiled around his throat. Although his airway had been cleared, the known risk of temporary oxygen starvation and possible brain damage, was there in black and white. He prayed it was all a mistake.

  Sheet 2 was no more reassuring. Apart from the plummeting birth weight data, contradictory results from an American Advanced Stimuli Input, were listed. One ante-natal specialist claimed their subject’s unusually heavy brain possessed 100% mental capacity, while another argued a possible trauma to the hippocampus where memories are made, had occurred. The consequences likely to surface in the seventh year, might not be fully quantifiable.

  Louis snorted. His memory was fucking perfect, and that was the problem.

  Sheet 3 was a straightforward account of his circumcision on the 10th April, plus two signatures from Jacqueline Louise Harper and David Claus Perelman, confirming where his name originated. He read on…

  …You may legally make contact with them when you reach the age of eighteen…

  Sod that.

  He took the pages into The Fawn’s bedroom, where a gap in the curtains gave enough light to show her sleeping on her side, all four limbs spread half in half out of the duvet. Rain splashed against the window, while bursts of distant lightning lit up her half-open mouth. More remarkably, the whites of her eyes resembled two slivers of hard-boiled egg.

  Having pulled the cord from her dressing gown behind the door, he stood over her, watching the regular rise and fall of her ample body. That false wedding ring still in place. He dropped the A4 sheets of paper on to the bed and pulled the cord taut between his hands...

  Suddenly, she rolled over on to her back. Eyes barely open.

  "Louis? Is that you?"

  He lowered his weapon out of sight and slipped it back in the dressing gown’s loops.

  "Yep. Just the two of us now," he whispered, his voice almost lost to the storm outside. "So, you lying cow, you'd better do as I tell you."

  She nodded and gave a little grunt as if still engrossed in a dream.

  "You’re to hand over my Birth Certificate. It's mine. OK?"

  He then bent down to kiss her cheek, but she turned away, causing those same papers to slide to the floor and cover his feet. “So where the fuck is it?”

  BOOK FOUR

  Sunday 13th October 2013

  28

  Four years, six months and thirteen days had passed since Wort Passage had become home, and three years, three months and six days since Jez had gone missing. Each morning, Rita checked her five-year calendar near the kitchen sink, fearful of forgetting. But now at last, things were changing. Why? Because they'd had to.

  Yes, Scrub End was still dodgy, and even more so after dark, but at least both Kayleigh and Freddie were enjoying school and had made decent friends. Some consolation after losing Jez whom the undertakers had dressed in his best grey trousers and a navy pullover she’d knitted before he'd shot up in height. Her boy, whose body they'd not let her see, for most of his face had been eaten while he'd lain near Willow Brook’s bank in Meadow Hill. That detail was almost worse than the Inquest's Narrative verdict, which she’d immediately doubted. If only his killer could be found and sentenced, there’d be one less Devil on the streets, maybe biding their time for her other two children?

  *

  Almost midnight, with the alarm clock ticking away the seconds towards a crucial day. Her job interview with Best Press Dry Cleaners in the morning and driving test in the afternoon, for which she must look her best.

  Rita shivered. Her bedroom had become even colder, thanks to the Coalition government’s Benefits’ cap. Why this interview was so important. She'd always promised herself to be earning a proper wage once Freddie started at the Nursery, but reality had made it impossible. After two days at a bookie's in the Mall, she'd fretted so much about the kids, that she’d mixed up race times and paid winnings to the wrong punters.

  Now was different. Freddie was nearly seven and Kayleigh, twelve, yet already under pressure to keep up with their classmates. He, begging for Coventry City’s football strip, and she for an iPad and horsey gear. Rita had held out, explaining that since That Frank had abandoned them, money was tight, even though she’d managed to save one of the Family Allowances until her Post Office savings account showed £150. However, her Computing course at Kayleigh's school on Tuesday afternoons, the driving Theory and Hazard Perception test (which she’d passed,) plus four top-up lessons and today’s practical test, had meant serious cutting back. No new clothes, and a daily Cup-a-Soup or Pot Noodle to keep her going. For supper, the kids fared better, thanks to the food banks at Tesco’s and St Matthew’s Church.

  Rita opened the chipped wardrobe she’d once shared with Frank, and arranged her chosen clothes on the back of her chair. Then, having wiped over a pair of black court shoes, she stood by the children’s partly open door, listening to the synchronised breathing coming from their bunk beds which Eric Molloy had knocked up last summer.

  In the kitchen, in her too-thin pyjamas, she re-read Best Press’s advertisement and listed possible questions and her answers. This helped calm her nerves. She'd often passed the shop in Farnham Street near the city centre, but had never been a customer. Besides, set amongst empty premises, it had seemed rather run-down, Still, if she got the job, she’d soon spruce the place up, and with this and her driving test in mind, realised her patchwork bag wasn’t smart enough.

  She racked her sleepy brain for a possible replacement, and re-opened those wardrobe doors. At the very top, lay a pair of Frank's slippers and the sandals he'd worn at Walton- on-Sea. She sniffed them, hoping for what? The smell of that beach? Something of that holiday?<
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  She then unearthed a clutch bag. Third prize in the Infants’ School Tombola where she suspected most of the other prizes had also been second-hand. It was still a classy accessory, storing various cards drawn by Kayleigh and Freddie. Then others, held by a crinkly elastic band which snapped when she touched it.

  Jez’s Mothers’ Day cards. Four of them, shop-bought, carefully chosen and when she opened the last one - a pretty gate leading to an even prettier cottage - a tear welled up and fell on to its path.

  HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY

  Mum yor the gratest

  kisses from

  JEZ xx

  But where on earth was Kayleigh's original drawing of Pete Brown? Had she put it somewhere else during all the upheavals? Answers would have to wait as, having finally switched off the light, she groped her way to her cold bed and willed a peaceful sleep to come.

  It didn’t. Instead, she dreamt one horrible dream after another, ending with that same cute cottage whose once-pretty side garden had filled with bare, black trees swaying in the wind. Where a tall, dark figure loped towards its front door, blade in hand...

  *

  5 a.m. Rita woke to the noise of heavy rain, the drip-drip of water in the downpipe outside, and the Ishmaels beginning to stir. Her bedroom felt as if Black Dog Brook itself had breached the foundations of number 11, eked through its newly decorated walls into her bedclothes, her skin. She knew there'd be no more rest. Not while that drawing of Pete Brown was missing.

  “Mum?” Freddie's freckled face showed round her door two long hours later. "What was goin’ on last night?"

  "I was sorting stuff out, that’s all. Now go and get washed. At the double."

  "We movin' again?"

  Rita looked at him; hair still rough from the pillow, his too-large pyjama bottoms slipping down his legs. She noticed him shiver and gave him a cuddle. In a couple of months the heating would be on whenever they needed it, giving warm rooms and cosy towels in the bathroom.

  "I'm going for a good job this morning," she explained. “So wish me luck.”

  He smiled, then watched as she fiddled with her hair. Each time she set the two clips in place, they slipped down behind each ear. She looked like a freak show.

  She then called for Kayleigh, normally an early bird who always set the kitchen table for breakfast, but her top bunk bed was still occupied. "Kayleigh?” She stepped up the little ladder so her face was level with the lightly freckled nose showing above the duvet.

  “What's the matter?"

  "Leave me alone!"

  Her daughter turned over without opening her eyes. Jez all over again, because that's what he'd started doing at her age.

  "Look," Rita began. “We're in a big rush."

  "She's goin' for a job," Freddie said, drying himself.

  "What job's Dad got? Anyhow," Kayleigh stifled a sob. "It's not just that. 'Es forty today. That's special."

  "How could I forget?" Rita stroked Kayleigh's head. "We'll take a card round to the pub after school."

  "I want him wiv us. Now."

  "Me too," Freddie chipped in.

  Rita stepped off the ladder, went along to the kitchen and turned up the heating for its usual hour. Then, on automatic pilot, poured Cheerios into two bowls and toasted two slices of bread. She knew where these unrealistic demands could lead. But what if there was stalemate?

  *

  She needn’t have worried. The kids were finally up and dressed, but one question remained.

  "Have either of you have seen that crayon drawing of Pete Brown that Kayleigh did?"

  Her daughter stopped chewing. "Why?"

  "Because it’s gone." Then Rita noticed Freddie kicking his sister under the table.

  "So what's up?" She sighed, glancing at the wall clock. "We're cutting it fine as it is."

  "Tell her." Freddie picked out the last of his cereal.

  Kayleigh got up. "Didn’t the plods give you a copy?"

  Stay calm…

  "That was ages ago."

  "So?" Kayleigh challenged, her blue eyes darkening. “They must still have my actual drawing.”

  “PC Truelove gave it back to me.”

  Silence, and for the second time that morning, Rita wanted to shake her. To tell her how crucial today was for them all. But in the end, having flung the crockery into the washing up bowl and picked up her clutch bag, she resorted to bribery.

  "If I get the job and pass my driving test today, I'll be saving for a car, and I'll be very picky who goes in it."

  That did the trick.

  "I gave it to Dad, so there." Kayleigh slipped both arms into her anorak. "Great.” Rita held the door open on to the grim wet morning.

  "'’Cos ‘e’s bound to be doin' more to find Pete Brown than you or the plods."

  She grabbed her satchel and leapt down the front steps into the alley.

  Rita felt as if she'd been lashed. Then habitual worry took over. Kayleigh hadn't taken her packed lunch or her umbrella. It was already 8.15. What could she do? Absolutely nothing.

  29

  Apart from smeared mascara and hair resembling a bad nest, Rita’s tights were speckled with grime and her left shoe had let in water. She’d never felt so ill-prepared, and if Best Press hadn't been so near, would have caught the next bus back to Scrub End. With her rare optimism sapped by the morning’s ructions, she dreaded what the next six hours would bring.

  8.54 a.m. with just minutes to go.

  A grey VW Passat was parked in front of the shop. Obviously freshly valeted and, despite the foul weather, still immaculate. Mr Waring's she assumed, also noticing several pony magazines scattered on its back seat.

  She thought again of Kayleigh. Would her outbursts gradually become one big strop like with Jez, or was it passion to be encouraged?

  How could she know? Instead, she stepped into the shop doorway and, without thinking, picked up the solitary pint of milk left there. Once inside, she placed it on the counter.

  At first Rita wondered if she was alone, as the main area was still only half-lit and the only sound was the hum of machinery coming from behind an army of polythene-shrouded clothes. So, Mr Waring had been right. Despite outward appearances, business was doing well.

  All at once, a solidly built, suited man in his late forties appeared through a far doorway and came towards her, before glancing at his watch. "Mrs Martin?"

  "That's me."

  "And very punctual too, I might add. I’m Geoffrey Waring. Owner, accountant, secretary, customer services, human resources, you name it, I do it. Hence the window display, or rather, the lack of..."

  He held out a large, square hand whose third finger bore the biggest signet ring she'd ever seen. He indicated two vinyl chairs set out for the tired and elderly. Just then, she felt both, but took a deep breath.

  "I'm fine standing, thank you. But," Rita blushed, “may I ask you for some kind of identification?"

  He duly produced his driving licence showing his name, Geoffrey Duncan Waring plus an address in the poshest part of town. She felt utterly foolish.

  "To me, that shows common sense," he said, pointing again to the adjoining chair. "I’m impressed…"

  Rita sat down, trying to hide her spoilt tights and frayed jacket cuffs which stuck out beyond the sleeves of her mac.

  "So, Mrs Martin, what experience can you bring to this job?" he asked. "And please, take your time."

  She didn't need time. The list was ready.

  Afterwards, Mr Waring cleared his throat and fiddled with his signet ring.


  He's finding it hard to tell me I'm no good, she thought, but I don't have to make it too easy...

  "I've got my driving test this afternoon and my instructor thinks I'll pass,” she added. “Then I'm getting a car so I don't have to depend on buses."

  She then leaned towards him. "Look, Mr Waring. I'll be straight. I really need this job. You see, it's only me looking after the two kids. My husband walked out on us four years ago."

  He got up to turn the sign in the front door to CLOSED, and paused before renewing eye contact.

  "I think you'd be ideal. You showed initiative by picking up the milk - lots of people wouldn't have even noticed it - you had the foresight to request my identification, and above all, you seem refreshingly honest."

  "Thank you sir."

  "There is one thing..."

  Rita's heart seemed to drop out of place.

  "Your clothes. Now don't get me wrong. You've undoubtedly made the effort, but in this business, we must be spot on."

  She looked down in dismay at her mucky shoes, her ruined tights, willing the floor to open and swallow her up.

  "What I propose is giving you a hundred pounds for a dark suit, and if you fancy any of our unclaimed items before they go to charity, please feel free."

  "So I've got the job?"

  “Indeed you have.”

  Rita felt dizzy. There must be a catch somewhere. She waited as he spoke again.

  "You mentioned family commitments, so I could offer you a Wednesday and Thursday, nine to three thirty to start with. Then who knows. The pay is twelve fifty an hour to begin with, plus bonuses. Weekly, in cash."