‘Aren’t you working today?’ I say. ‘You’re dressed for the office.’
‘No boring office for me. Don’t want to be tied down by anything like that. I work for myself… choose my own hours.’
Craig comes down the stairs and jumps from the third-to-last step.
‘You’re going to the pub?’ I say to him. ‘It’s not even eleven.’
‘It will be when we get there, Ma,’ he says. ‘I’ve got a lot of drinking to catch up on.’
‘But what if someone sees you? I really don’t think this is a good idea. I could go and buy you some drink, if that’s what you want.’
He walks slowly towards me, his eyes dark. I have to look up as he gets closer.
‘I do wish you’d stop trying to control me.’
When he bends down, I almost flinch. He plants a kiss on my cheek.
‘Bye, Mother,’ he whispers into my ear.
‘Bye, Erica,’ says Jason.
‘Don’t forget,’ I shout after them, ‘you can’t stay out late.’
By the time I finish speaking, they’re gone. The mirror on the wall wobbles from the draught.
This isn’t how I imagined it would be. I thought Craig would be shell-shocked. I thought he’d spend days recovering from his ordeal.
But I suppose he might not think of it in that way – perhaps he made friends, misses the routine, like Anne Marie’s daughter. He doesn’t miss whoever it is that gave him nightmares, though. He always was a sensitive soul. Was. His and Jason’s conversation earlier has unnerved me. Why would he be anxious about Jenna Threlfall if he’s got nothing to hide? He always told me he barely knew her.
I’m still standing in the hall. I’ll give it a few minutes to make sure they’ve really gone. I sit down on the bottom step. Hardly anyone goes past the front door, but it’s mid-morning now – most people’ll be at work.
Last night, Craig asked me what I’d been doing since I stopped working at the supermarket.
‘Charity work,’ I told him.
But that was a lie, wasn’t it? What have I been doing all these years? The days seem to have merged into each other. Obsessing about finding Pete Lawton, reading, watching television, going to the library once a week, chatting to my friends online, and trying not to think about those who wronged me.
I go into the living room and switch on my computer. Today might be the day that one of the Lawtons I contacted has got back to me. I bring up my Facebook page and click on one of three remaining unopened messages. One of them has been read. It says he was only online several minutes ago – he mustn’t have set his privacy settings that tight.
I wait, staring at the screen, willing him to reply. I click on to his profile, but there aren’t any pictures of him. Just cars, motorbikes, photos of what appear to be his grandchildren. This could be him.
After five minutes pass, I realise looking at the screen won’t make him message any faster. I switch my notifications on and increase the volume.
I walk back into the hallway.
Craig and Jason would’ve been back by now if they’d forgotten something. I stand and go up two stairs at a time, happy that I can manage that with my temperamental knees and my health the way it is.
Craig’s bed is made, perfectly so. It’s the tidiest I’ve seen this room, but he doesn’t have many things.
I know I shouldn’t be snooping. Especially after how much I regretted it the first time.
It was five days after Jenna Threlfall had gone missing: 6 January 2000. Craig hadn’t been himself since New Year; he wanted me to stay at home with him more, flinching when there was a knock at the door. I thought he was having a crisis of confidence – people sometimes feel low at that time of the year when their life isn’t how they imagined it would be. Craig always wanted to be a chef, but every kitchen job he had only lasted a few months. I suspected he was unhappy living at home with me, watching as his friends got their own places.
He was obsessed with the news after Lucy went missing; he could barely sleep from worrying. I tried to comfort him, but he withdrew into himself, barely eating. I had to stand over him to make sure he’d get something down him.
As a photograph of Jenna appeared on the television, I asked him if he knew her. He said he didn’t, but they went to the same school, in different years. He’d never talked about her.
‘I need to pop to the shop,’ I said. ‘I’ve run out of cigarettes.’
He sat up straight in the chair.
‘Really? Do you have to go out?’
‘Unless you want me clawing at the wallpaper in ten minutes, yes.’
He stood, hands deep in his pockets rooting for money.
‘I’ll go for you, Mum. Actually, I feel like a jog – I’ll not be long.’
He was only out of the door a few seconds before I dashed to his bedroom. I didn’t know what I thought I’d find. I looked under his bed, pillows, inside his wardrobe. Nothing.
I went to his chest of drawers. Among the old coins and dead batteries was a necklace – a choker with a large daisy pendant. It could’ve been there for years, could’ve come from anyone. So I left it. Closed the drawer. Nothing of importance. How could I have suspected my own son? I felt awful. I’ll do his washing to make up for it , I thought to myself. From the age of seventeen he’d been doing his own laundry; he was usually pretty good at it, but that week he’d done nothing except sleep, eat, and watch telly with me.
A mistake. I wish I’d never emptied the damn basket.
At the bottom of it, under piles of socks and pants, was his light blue T-shirt. Blood covered the collar, there were blobs of it down the front. I dropped it on the floor in a panic.
‘Got your cigs, Mum!’ he shouted from downstairs.
I piled everything back into the laundry basket, everything except for that T-shirt. I darted into my bedroom and stuffed it under my bed.
‘Thanks, love,’ I shouted back, hoping he didn’t hear the quiver in my voice. ‘I’ve got one of my hot flushes. I’m just having a lie-down.’
He never asked questions if I mentioned anything to do with women’s problems.
Then, his bedroom was cluttered, covered in old Lego creations he hadn’t wanted to part with, rows of VHS films, an X-Files poster above his bed. Now, it’s a shell of a room, like one in a hotel. Anyone could be sleeping here.
The box Jason brought round is on the desk. Inside is a silver-coloured laptop, a few magazines (which I hope were a joke) and a bottle of vodka. A little inappropriate, but nothing out of the ordinary. He always said Craig was like a brother to him, always protective of him. They haven’t seen each other properly for so long – only the short visits in prison. I suppose they have a lot of catching up to do.
Most of Craig’s clothes are piled next to the box. It’s like he’s not stopping, that he doesn’t want to stay with me.
No, I shouldn’t think like that – he’s adjusting to being here, that’s all. He’s not had a chance to buy new things yet.
His black holdall is on the floor near the radiator under the window. I pick it up and place it on his bed. Unzipping it releases a strange smelclass="underline" chemicals and stale sweat, mixed with other odours I can’t put my finger on. There are socks paired in balls; underpants piled together and rolled. So neat. Underneath these is the last book I gave him: Pharaoh by Wilbur Smith. It makes me smile a little that he brought it home.
I feel along the bottom of the bag; there’s a lump in the middle. I prise the plastic base up and lift it out. There, gathered in a tan-coloured elastic band, is a bundle of letters.
I flick through them. Teenage scrawl, words punctuated with hearts.