There are no envelopes and they are all from the same person, signed:
L xxx
The blood rushes from my head; I feel dizzy. I perch on the end of his bed. These letters can’t be from Lucy, can they? Written years ago, that he kept? She’s never going to go away, is she? Haunting me as though it’s my fault. I’ve read about strange goings-on in Take a Break’s Fate and Fortune. I always thought people made it up, but what if there’s something in it? Finding these letters and seeing the girl yesterday could be a sign. Maybe she’s angry that the real killer hasn’t been found. Yes, that must be it.
I’d been restless since I found the letters in Craig’s bag – only sitting down for five minutes at a time – looking out of the window to see if I could see him, or the young girl I saw the other day, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. They finally rolled in at half past eight, drunk. Over ten hours of drinking after Craig not touching a drop of alcohol for years (although he has said in the past, ‘Nothing is impossible in here’ – I pretended not to hear that).
They brought back some tinnies. Now, Jason’s sprawled along my settee and Craig’s sitting cross-legged on the floor. They’re watching a film on BBC One about swimming, but it has Kevin Costner in it, so it’s not all that bad.
‘Mind if I smoke?’ asks Jason.
I might be an ex-smoker, but I’m not pious with it.
‘I’ll get an ashtray,’ I say, wearily, but Craig jumps to his feet, swaying slightly as he gets his bearings.
‘I’ll get it, Mother,’ he says.
‘What’ve you been up to today?’ Jason asks me.
‘Learning Cantonese on YouTube.’
‘Oh.’ He nods slowly. ‘Right. Fair play.’
I roll my eyes. He takes me ever so seriously, it’s too hard not to wind him up – plus he’s as drunk as a newt. I’ve only ever watched music videos on YouTube – it’s amazing how far back they go. They even have the ABBA collection on there.
I’ve wanted to go to bed since they came back, but I didn’t want to feel pushed out of my own living room. Once I start that, it’ll become a habit. Just like when I let Craig have everything he wanted in his bedroom as a teenager: a television, a video player, his meals. I hardly saw him. That might have been where the trouble started.
Craig leans over to Jason and whispers something. He laughs in return.
It must be a remnant of my childhood that I always think someone’s talking about me if they whisper in my company.
‘What about that one with the fringe?’ says Jason. ‘She was well after you.’
‘Nah she wasn’t. She was probably curious.’
‘Oh, curious. When did you start talking all posh?’
I’ve had enough. I stand, clearing my throat.
‘Night, boys,’ I say.
I linger at the doorway.
‘I was thinking, Craig. I could sort the dining room out… it could be an extra living room.’
I know it’s as bad as him being cooped up in his bedroom, but I don’t think I can face the anxiety of today… wondering when they’ll be back – worried about how long Jason’ll stay.
‘Really?’ says Craig.
He’s frowning and swaying as he sits.
We’ve never used the dining room. It’s only tiny and it has my mother’s furniture in there. I still can’t look at her things. All those pieces she inherited from her own parents that meant so much to her. But they’re a heavy presence – taking over a whole room of the house that I never use. When she died, I gave all her clothes to the church. I didn’t even look at them individually; I couldn’t, without picturing her wearing them. It was too upsetting. Especially as I could have saved her.
Four-thirty in the morning and I can hear the television blaring from downstairs. I must have drifted off for an hour or so, but I keep thinking about those letters in Craig’s bag. I had only read snippets from one of the letters: I think about you all the time and I feel like we know each other inside and out. I didn’t want to think about the last sentence too much – not after what happened to Lucy. He must have written back for her to keep sending so many letters. Will his replies still be in her bedroom? Or perhaps her parents have put away her things – the pain of seeing them a constant reminder that she’s not coming home.
I jump as the front door slams shut. Jason must’ve left.
I go downstairs, but there’s no one in the living room. I grab the remote, flick off the television and my ears ring with the silence. Once in the hall, I notice that the light in the dining room is on, the door ajar. I push it fully open; it stops against a mahogany dresser, and I find Craig sitting near the back window in my mother’s old chair. It’s a tall wing-backed one; the fabric patchy, threadbare in places. He looks incongruous in it. His feet are on top of her occasional table. I’m surprised it takes the weight – it’s such a flimsy piece of furniture.
I shimmy my way past the white wicker laundry basket, two chests of drawers, and some cardboard boxes. It smells musty in here, like a garage: damp. Even though I leave the radiator running during the day so mould doesn’t breed.
Craig’s eyes are focused on the five pictures – ordinary nondescript landscapes, framed in various woods – that are leaning in a bundle against a small chaise longue. It’s surprising how much furniture can fit in such a tiny room.
‘Are you all right, love?’ I say. ‘Craig?’
Silence. Does he realise I’m standing in front of him? He’s wiggling a bottle of beer that he’s holding by its neck. They must’ve gone out for more drink after I went to bed.
‘I might as well be inside.’ His eyes quickly meet mine. ‘What’s the point of me being out, if I have to be home at a certain time like a bloody teenager?’
‘But it won’t be forever.’
‘I thought it would be different being free. That people – even if they thought I was guilty – could see that I’ve been punished. My life has been destroyed. I can’t be the person I want to be – there are too many rules I have to follow. How am I supposed to live a normal life when I’ve all that hanging over me? I was so naive to think I could be a personal trainer. God, what an idiot.’
He speaks so eloquently for someone who’s been drinking for almost twenty-four hours. He must’ve drunk himself sober, if there’s such a thing.
‘We could move, if you want.’ I say it quietly, slowly. I don’t want to let on that I’ve been dreaming of moving for so long.
He raises his eyebrows.
‘I’m nearly thirty-eight. I should be thinking about branching out, shouldn’t I? But the only job they’ll give me will pay a pittance. Is it really worth it? And I’ve got that ridiculous counselling session I have to go to. I must’ve had my blinkers on inside. They said it’d be hard, but I didn’t listen. My best mates are still in there… they’re the ones who know the real me. Not even Jason…’ He sits up straighter. ‘Did I tell you that one of them’ll be out in a couple of days?’
‘No. What’s he inside for?’
He shrugs. ‘The usual.’
‘What’s the usual?’
‘We didn’t really talk about the past. We talked about the future.’
‘OK.’ I fold my arms. It’s so cold in here. ‘What’s the counselling for, love?’
‘To help me settle,’ he says, almost shouting. He doesn’t even look at me.
‘Are you sure?’
I can’t tell him I was listening in, but why would his supervising officer say he needed to go if there was nothing wrong?
‘I wouldn’t lie to you, would I?’ he barks. ‘What would be the point in that?’ He leans back, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes. I give him a moment to calm down. I wanted to ask him about the letters I found, but he’s in no mood for that. And he wouldn’t take too kindly to me snooping among his things.