‘Tell me what you did!’ he shouts.
‘I burned that top… seventeen, eighteen years ago… the one in your laundry basket with blood on it. I panicked… Lucy was missing… I’d never known you to have nosebleeds before… so I took it out… washed it… hid it, then burned it after the police didn’t find it.’
He lets go of my arms.
‘What are you talking about? What top? Why are you talking about nosebleeds?’
‘It was a blue top… a plain T-shirt… one you bought with your own money. You were acting so strange that week. When Lucy and Jenna went missing I didn’t see you for days… then you—’
‘But that could’ve helped me.’
‘What do you mean?’
Slowly he brings his face closer to mine. I can’t stop shivering; the tears are pouring down my face, dripping on to the floor.
‘You don’t know what you’ve done,’ he hisses.
He walks backwards into the hallway, through the kitchen and out of the back door.
I grab the door handle for support in case my knees give way under me.
I don’t know what just happened, and I’m shocked to realise that I’m relieved he’s gone. I don’t know what he’s capable of any more. It’s not normal to be afraid of your own son.
There’s a bang on the front door.
The letterbox flaps open. Whoever it is can’t have seen Craig leave. I’m going to get rid of that blasted letterbox.
‘Erica,’ says a man’s voice. ‘It’s Luke Simmons from the Chronicle. Just wanted to check you’re OK.’
22
Luke remembers the first time he stood outside this door. He had sat in his car, sometimes Claire sitting next to him, sometimes Amy, the work experience lass at the time. When he’d knocked on the door, there had been no answer, even though he knew she was in. She never went out, not since the trial, not that he’d seen. ‘I thought you might want to give your side of the story,’ he’d said. She hadn’t replied, hadn’t opened the door. He knew he had some cheek after printing that interview with her ‘best friend’, but that was his job. Denise Bamber – that was her name. Shit. Why hadn’t he realised? She must be Jason’s mother.
He doubts that the two women are still friends. Erica probably never spoke to Denise after that – and she’d not even been paid for it. He often wondered what drove people to take stories to the papers. OK, the nationals sometimes paid for kiss-and-tells, ratting on someone famous, but the local news? That’s different: more personal.
He knocks again.
‘She’s probably gone out,’ says Amanda.
Luke turns to her and raises his eyebrows, putting a finger to his lips.
‘She hardly ever goes out,’ he whispers. ‘She can hear us.’
Amanda rolls her eyes.
Luke opens the letterbox.
‘It’s Luke, Erica,’ he shouts. ‘Are you all right in there?’ He straightens back up. ‘I think I saw something,’ he says quietly.
‘Let’s have a look,’ says Amanda, bending down.
He elbows her shoulder gently, trying to signal her to be quiet. She stands straight.
‘She’s there,’ she says, softly this time. ‘She’s closed the back door and she’s walking towards us.’
The front door opens.
Erica stands behind it; one arm on the door, the other behind her back. She looks at Luke, then Amanda.
‘I’m a bit busy at the moment,’ she says.
‘You phoned me,’ says Luke. ‘Did you want to talk?’ He tries to look over her shoulder. ‘Is Craig in there with you?’
Luke feels a little braver with Amanda next to him, though his heart pounds at the thought of seeing Craig. But if he has Leanne Livesey, he’s hardly going to pop home, is he?
‘No, he’s not here. The police have already been.’ She looks to the ground. ‘Didn’t tear the place apart like last time, though.’
‘Can we come in?’ says Amanda. ‘We only want to see that you’re all right.’
Erica narrows her eyes at his colleague.
‘This is Amanda,’ says Luke. ‘She works with me at the paper.’
She holds her hand out to Erica, but the older woman just looks at it. Her face looks the same as Luke remembers, perhaps a little fuller in the cheeks, but there aren’t the many wrinkles he’d expect from a smoker. Her skin is pale, though – almost grey. Her thick hair – once light brown – is peppered with grey, still in the same old-fashioned hairstyle with the thick fringe that might be considered trendy again.
She’s wearing a black jumper and dark blue jeans that look as though they might be elasticated around the waist. Helen has some of them, but they’re tighter and she calls them jeggings; they’re probably different things. Helen’s make her arse look fantastic.
Luke looks up at Erica’s blue eyes, blushing at the incongruous thoughts running through his mind.
‘Are you OK, Erica?’ says Luke. ‘You don’t look well.’
‘I have to go and lie down,’ she says. ‘I’ve had a strange day, that’s all.’
‘Have you any idea where Craig might be?’ he says.
She shakes her head.
‘His picture’s all over the news… it’s an old picture, though. Can we come in and talk about it?’
He sees her hesitating – it’s not a no.
Come on, Erica, he thinks. Let us in. He’s wanted to see inside this house for years, often imagining what’s it’s like.
‘OK,’ she says. ‘But only for a few minutes. I’m not feeling too well.’
Luke steps over the threshold. To the right is a curtain-less window, frosted glass like a bathroom window. On the sill is a large vase, full of water, but no flowers. Next to that is a black-and-white photograph of a woman sitting at a table with a cigarette in her hand. She’s wearing a paper hat – one you get in a Christmas cracker. She has a light smile on her face, but a sadness in her eyes.
‘Is that your mother?’ asks Luke.
Erica seems surprised when she looks at it.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I forget that’s there.’
Luke looks at the wooden floor and is reminded of Pamela Valentine’s words. He imagines the woman in the photograph lying at the bottom of the stairs, and makes a mental note to get a copy of her death certificate.
‘Come on through,’ she says. ‘It’s warm today, isn’t it?’
Amanda raises her eyebrows at Luke as Erica walks them through to the living room. It’s nearly minus one outside – and it’s freezing in this house. Luke smells something burning, but the fire in the living room is electric. It’s one of those that has bars, but on top there are faux coals that glow when switched on. It must be from the sixties.
‘I can smell burning,’ says Amanda.
‘Oh,’ says Erica. ‘We’ve a fireplace in the dining room. Sometimes you can smell other houses’ smoke come down our chimney. Can I get you a cup of tea?’
‘Yes,’ says Luke. ‘That’d be great, thanks.’
She gestures for them to sit down before walking slowly out of the room. Amanda chooses the armchair next to the fire. It’s part of a three-piece suite that must’ve been all the rage over forty years ago: brown fabric. Luke can’t tell if it’s bobbly through age or design.
Luke leans towards Amanda.
‘Erica looks terrible,’ he whispers.
‘I expect she’s anxious about her son,’ says Amanda, looking around the room.
The old-style television in the corner is huge. Luke’s surprised it can still receive a signal – he’d thought big TVs were obsolete these days. Or is that something manufacturers tell us? On top of it is a silver set-top box and two framed photographs. One is of a baby, so tiny it looks premature, fragile – the hat on its head seems far too big. The other is of a schoolboy, around nine or ten, with his fringe cut straight across, but the hair is shiny golden brown. There’s a gap where the tooth next to his canine should be – it must’ve been late coming, poor kid. Luke wonders when it all went wrong for Craig, for Erica.