‘She’s not changed, Joshua.’ A warning he’d have done well to heed. More rejection is heading his way; the knowledge he’s volunteered for it only makes it worse. His awkwardness renders him mute; something his mother clearly interprets as proof of the weakness of which she’s always accused him.
‘What do you want, Joshua? Why are you here?’ She folds her arms in tighter, shielding herself against this unwelcome intrusion. ‘It’s you all right. I didn’t recognise you at first, but now I do. You look just like your father.’
Her tone makes it plain the resemblance isn’t a desirable quality. Resentment at his invasion of her sanctuary proclaims itself from every line of her body.
‘No need to ask how you found me. That loose-lipped mother of mine, of course. I told her not to say anything if you ever got in contact with her, but she’s never listened to me. She’s always thought me hard, uncaring, for not wanting anything more to do with you.’ A snort of derision escapes her. ‘Easy enough for her to say. She didn’t have reporters, the television people, hounding her night and day like I did.’
‘I’m sorry.’ The words aren’t adequate, not even slightly, but Mark has to try.
‘Hordes of them, camped outside the house. All hours, day and night. Went on for weeks.’
Joanna Stone warms to her theme. ‘Not just reporters, either. Other people harassed me too. I got abusive phone calls. Hate mail as well. Telling me it was all my fault, how I must have brought you up wrong. Turned you into a killer.’
‘I never - ’
‘You haven’t a clue. I had dog faeces pushed through my door.’
Mark’s stunned into silence.
What?
‘You heard me. All the neighbours treated me like shit. Several times, they delivered a physical version of their opinion through the letterbox.’
‘I’m sorry. That’s awful.’
She shrugs off his apology. ‘I’ll ask you again. Why are you here?’
It’s pointless, Mark realises, but he’ll try anyway. ‘I came to see if we could re-establish some sort of contact. You’re my mother, after all.’
No response, simply the same cold stare.
‘I didn’t have any part in killing Abby Morgan, I swear I didn’t. You have to believe me.’
Joanna Stone snorts in derision again. ‘Of course you did. You were found guilty, weren’t you? Along with that other boy.’
‘It didn’t happen that way.’
‘Liar. I thought I’d already made it obvious I want nothing to do with you anymore. The shame of having my son arrested for murder. At eleven years of age, too. People posted shit through my door, Joshua. Do you have any idea what that’s like? Of course you don’t.’
Joanna Stone shakes her head. ‘No wonder I moved, reverted to my maiden name.’
Her, her, her.
As usual, Mark thinks, it’s all about his mother. This woman has never once expressed regret over a child losing her life or entertained any notion of her son being innocent. Another thought strikes him. He notices she only mentions the reaction of her neighbours, not her friends. She didn’t have any fourteen years ago and he doubts she does now. Some things don’t change.
‘You take after your father, that’s your problem. Losers, both of you.’
Her words pierce him with their cruelty. He remembers his father, their visits to the park together, kicking footballs around. Andrew Barker may have been weak where his wife was concerned, but he was essentially a good man. Kind, caring.
‘I’ve denied ever having a son since moving. Nobody’s aware you exist.’
‘You’ve remarried. Doesn’t your husband know about me?’
Her horrified expression confirms his earlier supposition.
‘God, no. The shame…he must never find out.’ The thought is clearly repugnant to her. ‘You need to leave, Joshua. Don’t ever come back. If I have to, I’ll move away again.’
‘Please.’ He hates to grovel, but she has to see how important this is. They don’t have much time. Rachel Morgan may be sitting in front of a police officer right now, or perhaps Tony Jackson is searching his flat. ‘You don’t understand. Something’s happened. I might be rearrested at any moment, be put back in prison. For years, perhaps. If you send me away now, we may never get another chance. Please, Mum.’ The last word is deliberate, an attempt to remind her of her maternal role; appeal to any shred of motherly feeling dormant within her.
Joanna Stone’s expression grows ever flintier.
‘You’ve obviously done something bad if the police are looking for you. Don’t tell me; I don’t want to know what crime you’ve committed now. Everything you say simply confirms to me what a loser you are. Always have been, always will be.’ She peels herself away from the fridge freezer, standing in front of him, arms crossed, legs planted apart. ‘Get this into your head, once and for all. I want nothing whatsoever to do with you.’
The slap, when it cracks across her face, shocks both of them. Mark’s hand smacks across Joanna Stone’s left cheek before any conscious awareness of what he’s doing hits him. The blow is hard, the force knocking her backwards against the fridge freezer again. A tiny puff of beige powder erupts from her skin as a red stain blooms on her cheek. Her mouth hangs open with disbelief as she brings her palm up to nurse her face.
A pivotal moment for Mark. For the third time in as many weeks, he’s been rejected by a woman for what happened fourteen years ago, and it’ll be the last time. He’s finally shut his mother up, gained the upper hand, and it feels good. Very good.
Joanna Stone flinches as Mark steps forward. Time for him to deliver a home truth or two.
‘You’ve got things arse-backwards. I’m the one who wants nothing more to do with you. I’ve been a fool to hope you’d be any different. You’re the same hard bitch you always were.’ No response, but he detects fear lurking in Joanna Stone’s eyes. ‘My father was always way too good for you. Too bad he died before he found himself a decent woman to love, not a cold fish like you. You were a crap wife. Not to mention being shit in every way as a mother, as well as an all-round failure as a human being.’ He spits the words in her face, each one an additional slap, piling on the punishment. ‘Those people were right to post shit through your door. Wish I’d shoved a big steaming pile onto your fucking doormat myself.’ He strides past her, out of the kitchen, into the hallway. The thick front door makes one hell of a bang as he slams it behind him.
Sweet liberation. At last.
No lingering in his car this time. Mark starts the engine and heads back towards the M4, his palm still stinging from the slap that’s freed him. The burden he’s been carrying, the weight of her rejection, has been lifted. He’ll always be his father’s son to Joanna Stone, a loser, someone who’s messed up her life. Mark finds he simply doesn’t care. If he’s no son of hers, then she’s dead to him as well. Time to move on. No time to waste. He doesn’t know how much time he still has as a free man, and he has other matters to which to attend.
The miles seem few once he turns onto the M4. He’s soon back in Bristol. No police at his flat when he gets there, thank God. Rachel can’t have told them yet. So far, his luck’s holding.
After Natalie tomorrow, only one thing remains to sort.
Mark pulls out his mobile. He’s reached a decision on the journey back; now he intends to act on it. The contact he’s after is at the top of the list. A single letter. A.
Time to call Adam Campbell and set up a meeting.
22
FINAL STRAW
Tuesday evening. Natalie’s in her bedroom, getting ready for Mark to arrive. He’s texted her to ask if they can meet earlier than originally planned. A good sign, she decides; he’s keen to see her again, explain things to her, get their relationship sorted. Their communication so far has been solely through texts, but she’s happy with that. What they need to say to each other is face to face stuff, however hard it might be. She hopes the result will be worth it.
So far, Natalie’s tried on most of her small wardrobe of clothes in order to strike the right balance with her appearance. The numerous packets of biscuits, bars of chocolate and takeaways she’s downed in the past three weeks have made their home on her hips and stomach, with a couple of extra stretch marks joining them. Sheesh. Mark will think she’s fat, ugly, in need of salad and exercise. All too much effort, though. Besides, she reminds herself, Mark’s always said how he likes her curves, her breasts, her belly. Not all men prefer skinny women, ones shaped like a floor mop. Her new jeans, the ones she bought at the weekend, fit her well anyway, plus she has the purple silk top to go with it, the one that clings like a wet tissue to her boobs. Not in a tarty way, but simply highlighting the soft breasts nestling underneath. Earrings, a necklace. Her make-up is minimal; Natalie dislikes the stuff, limiting herself to a lick of mascara and some lip-gloss. A squirt of perfume, and she’s done.
Ten minutes early. She walks into the living room, sitting on the sofa, waiting for the bell to ring. Mark’s due to arrive at seven. He’ll be punctual, for the same reasons he’s a neat freak. That’s why he must be telling the truth about Abby Morgan’s death. Something has to be very much out of control in a person, Natalie decides, if they can batter and stab a tiny child to death. Mark’s simply too self-restrained to harm anyone. Blood, knives and murder don’t go with this man, whose flat is always perfectly tidy and clean. So he can’t be the brutal killer everyone portrays him as; it’s simply not possible.
Skewed logic
, a small voice inside her warns.
Remember Martin Burney.
Natalie tramples it down. She’ll believe what she wants, thank you very much. The fantasy of their passionate reunion is too compelling. They’ll talk; he’ll explain, she’ll listen and be so understanding, so forgiving. Once all this crap is out of the way, they’ll be able to move forward. No wonder everything before has seemed stilted between them, stifled as it’s been beneath the cloak of Mark’s hidden identity. They can take things slow if it suits him, but eventually they’ll move in together. They’ll discuss marriage, starting a family, the way other couples do. Natalie will finally have the stability she’s always wanted. OK, so she’ll be living with a convicted killer, but to the outside world, they’ll be Mark and Natalie, Mr and Mrs Ordinary. She reckons she’s a misfit too, what with her dysfunctional family, her comfort eating and lack of friends, so they’ll dovetail perfectly. Like meets like, two loners. It’ll work, she’s sure of it. Mark’s a good person at heart, someone led astray when still a child by the evil in Adam Campbell. He deserves a second chance, the opportunity to be happy. They both do. Life is turning out sweet at last, and she’s pretty stoked up about it.
The doorbell rings.
She can’t answer it quickly enough. She wrenches open the door and he’s there, standing before her, but something’s wrong. The smile drops from her face. Why doesn’t he kiss her, why is his greeting only a muttered
hi
? A sense of her hopes withering inside her washes over Natalie; unexpected tears prick her eyeballs. The need to pull away, tack her defences back into place, seems imperative, although it shouldn’t be. He’s probably simply nervous, she reassures herself.
Eventually, Mark moves forward. His body is stiff, reeking of tension, more so than she’s able to attribute to nerves about their meeting. His arms come out as if to hug her, so she steps into them, robot-like. Their embrace is like two magnets of the same polarity being forced together. An awkward moment passes between them as elbows bump and hips clash. She breaks away, disappointment pooling in her gut.
‘Come in.’ She waves him into the lounge. ‘Tea? Coffee?’
He shakes his head. ‘I’m fine.’ Natalie badly needs a caffeine hit but is reluctant to waste time on coffee just for herself. She sits down in one of the armchairs, Mark doing the same, so he’s opposite her. His gaze is directed at the carpet, not at her.
Natalie clears the nerves from her throat.
‘So.’ How to begin, she wonders. ‘What happened with the little girl…you said it’s not what it seems? I need to know, Mark. How things were that day. You have to tell me,’ as he begins to speak. ‘We need to get this sorted, if we’re to…’
‘Natalie.’ She’s struck by the exhaustion in his voice. ‘I’ve not come here today to talk about Abby Morgan or my conviction. I can’t do a damn thing to change the past, however much I want to. I realise the texts I sent you…’
Why won’t he look at her? She wills him to raise his head, return her gaze, but he doesn’t.
Please,
she begs him in her head.
Don’t do this to me
.
‘How they might have made you think -’ He pauses. ‘At the time, I meant what I said. I still do. About missing you, wondering how you’ve been doing. I hoped…’ A shake of the head. ‘But that’s impossible now.’
‘What do you mean?’
No response. He’s making no sense. She tries again. ‘You coming here today – isn’t it to tell me how it was with the little girl? So we can get it all out in the open, so there are no secrets between us. Isn’t that why you’re here?’
‘No. It was, but not anymore.’
‘I understand.’ It’s obvious, really. He’s met another woman, someone slimmer, prettier, more stylish. She’s surprised how calm her voice is, given the jealousy that’s tormenting her.
Mark raises his head to look at her. His face is pale, tortured. ‘No. You don’t.’
‘Then why have you come?’ The words burst forth, her impatience overwhelming her. ‘Why agree to see me, if not to discuss your past? Fill me in on what really happened? Straighten things out between us?’
‘I did, originally. That was exactly what I had in mind.’ Another shake of the head. ‘But not now. I can’t bear to talk about all that anymore. As for you and me - I’m sorry, Nat, I really am. You’ve no idea how much I wanted things to work between us. But they can’t.’
‘Why not?’ Her voice is high, desperate. ‘Why not, if that’s what we both want, Mark?’
‘Things have changed.’ He leans towards her. ‘I have stuff I need to tell you. Before I do, though, you should know I wish things were different. That we could put all this behind us, build something together, something meaningful. You getting hurt - it’s not what I intended or wanted, Nat. You have to believe me.’