Mother's Story (37 page)

Paz held the phone at arm's length and struggled to find the words. ‘It's…' He swallowed and pushed the phone into her hands before leaving her alone.

‘Hello?' Jessica whispered as she cradled the phone.

There was a pause on the end of the line. ‘Errmm… Mummy?' Lilly used the word with familiarity, warmth. ‘I'm doing a project about when I was a baby…' Lilly spoke as if it had been weeks not years since she had last had contact with her mother.

Jessica pulled the mouthpiece towards her face as the strength left her legs and she sank down onto the cool, tiled floor. Lilly's voice was sweet and older, with a lisp. No longer a baby, she was a little person! It was beautiful, the most beautiful sound she had ever heard.

‘…and I wanted to ask you something.'

Jessica nodded through her haze of tears, leaning back against the breakfast bar, struggling for composure, trying to catch her breath. ‘Okay.' It was the first word she had spoken to her daughter in nearly four years and not what she had envisioned. In her dreams she gushed
I have missed you more than I can say. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
She concentrated on breathing and tried to keep her sobs at bay.

‘My teacher Mrs Liddiment said we had to ask our mummy what was the first thing you thought when you saw me for the very first time. That's it,' Lilly added, calm and assertive.

Jessica exhaled, struggling to stay calm, the whole encounter felt surreal. ‘Now, let me see.' She swallowed, gathering her thoughts. Her hands shook. ‘The first time I saw you…' Jess closed her eyes, picturing the moment. ‘Well, Daddy had you in his arms; you were wrapped up like a bundle in a white blanket. Your little face was squashed.' Jessica smiled at the memory. ‘And I remember thinking,' she struggled to form the words as tears clogged her nose and throat, ‘that's my baby! My beautiful, beautiful girl!'

Matthew leant on the banister as he listened to his daughter, watching as she smiled and twirled on the spot with happiness, chatting to her mum. His thoughts flew to a rain-soaked car-park some years ago – what was it he had said?
I can't stand the idea of not spending every night with you or not seeing your face on the pillow next to mine when I wake up. I want you to have my babies. And I can't imagine any other future than one with you. I love you
. He twisted the gold band that sat on the third finger of his left hand. And he smiled.

~

We hope you enjoyed this book.

And if you haven't already read the other stories in Amanda Prowse's gripping
No Greater Love
sequence, read on or click the links below for previews of…

What Have I Done?

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Amanda Prowse

About the
No Greater Love
sequence

An invitation from the publisher

Read on for the first chapter of

The heart-wrenching story of one woman's life after she kills the husband who abused her.

I will gather up all the little pieces that you have chipped away, hidden in drawers, swept under the carpet and shoved behind cushions and I will rebuild myself. I will become all of the things that I thought I might. All the dreams I considered before you broke me, I will chase them all.

Kathryn Brooker watched the life slip from him, convinced she saw the black spirit snake out of his body and disappear immediately through the floor, spiralling down and down. She sat back in her chair and breathed deeply. She had expected euphoria or at the very least relief. What she couldn't have predicted was the numbness that now enveloped her. Picturing her children sleeping next door, she closed her eyes and wished for them a deep and peaceful rest, knowing it would be the last they would enjoy for some time. As ever, consideration of what was best for her son and daughter was only a thought away.

The room felt quite empty despite the blood-soaked body lying centrally on the bed. The atmosphere was peaceful, the temperature just right.

Kathryn registered the smallest flicker of disappointment; she had expected to feel more.

Having changed into jeans and a jersey, she calmly stood by the side of the bed on which her husband's pale corpse lay. With great deliberation and for the first time in her life, she dialled 999. It felt surreal to put into practice the one act that she had mentally rehearsed for as long as she could remember, although in her imagination the emergency had always been a child with a broken leg or a fire in a neighbouring empty building, nothing too dramatic.

‘Emergency, which service do you require?'

‘Oh, hello, yes, I'm not too sure which service I require.'

‘You are not sure?'

‘I think probably the police or ambulance, maybe both. Sorry. As I said, I'm not too sure…'

‘Can I ask you what it is in connection with, madam?'

‘Oh, right, yes, of course. I have just murdered my husband.'

‘I'm sorry, you have what? This is a terrible line.'

‘Oh, I know. I'm sorry, I'll try and speak up a bit. It's always a terrible connection from here, even if I'm phoning someone locally. It's because I am up in the main bedroom and the reception is very bad. My son thinks it may be because of all the big trees around us; we did cut them right back one year, but I can't remember if it made any difference. Plus we get interference from the computers in the next building; we've been meaning to get it looked at, but that's by the by. Right, yes. I said, I have murdered my husband.'

* * *

Kathryn blinked at the humming strip light that winked overhead; the bulb needed to be replaced. It was a distraction that could easily become annoying.

‘Did you do it?'

Roland Gearing rested his weight on splayed fingers, his hands forming little pyramids that, incredibly, supported his muscular frame as he leant over the table. He lowered his voice an octave; this was the one question he knew he had to ask and yet he was fearful of her response.

‘Did I do it?'

‘Yes, Kathryn, did you?'

He held her gaze, hoping to instil trust, trying to tease out the honest answer. He knew a lot about lying and relied on his gut instinct. Years on the job had taught him to monitor the interviewee's pupils carefully.

‘It's a question that I wouldn't normally ask quite so early in proceedings, but as your friend – as Mark's friend too – I feel I have to. Is that okay?'

‘Yes, yes of course. I understand.'

She gave a fleeting smile as her index finger and thumb looped her hair behind her left ear and then her right.

Her calm composure rattled him; there was none of the hysteria or fear that usually characterised these encounters. Women in similar situations were often almost insane with terror, rage or the dread of injustice. Kathryn, however, appeared placid.

She remembered her husband's glassy eyes. The way his fingers slipped and missed as they struggled with an invisible tourniquet that stopped the breath in his throat. Her nose wrinkled; her nostrils still carried the faintest trace of the iron stench of Mark's seeping blood. It had repulsed and comforted her in equal measure. It was as if she could taste it at the back of her throat. She hadn't sought to ease his discomfort in his dying moments, nor had she offered any words of solace. She had in fact smiled, as though he would manage, was still the strong, capable man who could cut wood, paint walls and raise a hand.

She may have even hummed, as though she wasn't hovering, desperate to witness the demise that would mean the end of the whole sordid chapter. When she had spoken, her tone had been nonchalant.

‘Take your time. I've got hours, nowhere to go and a whole lifetime ahead of me. A promise is a promise.'

Her flippant pragmatism hid a heart that groaned with relief.

‘I haven't got long.'

His voice had been a waning whisper. His final words coasted on fragmented last breaths.

‘Too slow, painful. You'll pay.'

She mentally erased the words before he had finished. She would not share, recount or remember them.

‘Oh, Mark, I have already paid.'

Bending low, with her face inches from his, she breathed the fetid air that he exhaled, sharing the small space where life lingered until the very end. Kathryn marvelled at the capacity for human animals to cling to the ‘now'. It was quite impressive, fascinating even, despite the obvious futility.

‘Yes. Yes, I did it, Roland. It was me. Me alone.'

There was a hint of pride in her admission, as if she were commenting on an achievement. Roland found it most disconcerting. He shook his head. Disbelief clouded everything, even after having seen and heard her confession. He looked at the neat, middle-aged woman with the pretty face sitting opposite him. The same woman who had handed him canapés on doily-decorated platters, served him percolated coffee and proffered homemade cake. The facts would simply not compute. She had been married to Mark Brooker, a man that he liked and admired. A man he had trusted with the education of his only daughter.

Roland exhaled slowly and scratched his chin where his stubble was at its most irritating. The hot, stress-filled environment of the interview room did nothing to help his sensitive skin. He wanted to go home and shower. Better still, he wanted to rewind the day and not pick up the 3 a.m. call that would disturb his family's rest and destroy the community as he knew it.

Kathryn sensed his irritation, knowing he was the sort of man who cherished his sleep. She pictured him at home earlier that evening, enjoying sea bream with steamed vegetables and a chilled white, after having spent an hour in the gym, maintaining that flat stomach. Neither could have guessed that his Sabbath would have ended like this, with him facing her across the table inside Finchbury police station at this ungodly hour, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

‘Are you sure you want to talk to me?' he prompted.

His jacket fell open, revealing the hot-pink silk lining of his handmade suit. She imagined his fellow police officers taking the mick, but knew enough about Roland and the care he took with his appearance to realise that he wouldn't pay them any heed. He would never be seen in the cheap, crumpled brands that some of his contemporaries wore. Kathryn recalled a conversation she had overheard between him and Mark in which he'd lamented the loss of his uniform, an inevitable consequence of climbing the ranks and becoming chief inspector. He had taken such pleasure in polishing buttons, shining boots and removing specks of lint from the wool of his tunic. She watched as he ran his palm over his abs, clearly enjoying the feel of himself against the inside of a crisp, white shirt.

‘Yes.'

‘You are absolutely certain that this wouldn't be easier with a stranger?'

She noted the flash of wide-eyed hope.

‘I am positive, Roland. Thank you for asking, but there is no one else that I would rather talk to and I appreciate you coming and giving up your sleep, I really do.'

It was as if she didn't get it, as if she had invited him over, rather than the fact he had been hauled from his bed in the early hours in response to the first suspected murder on his patch in eighteen years. There was no quaver to her voice, no hesitation or apparent nervousness. Her hands sat neatly folded together in her lap. She looked as calm as someone waiting for a doctor's appointment.

Roland had been a police officer for twenty years. He had seen things – gruesome, unjust and amusing things. But this? It made no sense; it was shocking. It had stunned him, shaken him.

‘You seem very calm, considering your current situation.'

He wondered if she was in shock.

‘Do you know, it's funny that you should say that, because I do feel calm. I feel very calm.'

‘That worries me greatly.'

‘Oh, Roland, there's no need to worry, no need at all. It makes a pleasant change for me, this feeling of serenity. I had almost forgotten what it was like! In fact I don't think I have felt like this since I was a child. That was a lovely time in my life, when I had absolutely nothing to worry about and I was very much loved. I had a wonderful childhood, a wonderful life. I wasn't always this way, you know.'

‘What way?'

‘Oh, you know… afraid, edgy, contained. I was quite determined. Never racy or wild, but I had a quiet belief that I could set the world alight, blaze trails. I thought I would achieve so many things. My parents always told me that the only limit to my achievements was my imagination and I believed them. They are both gone now, and I don't think about them too much.'

‘Why not?'

She exhaled deeply.

‘To tell you the truth, Roland, I have always thought that the dead might watch over us in some way, even have the capacity to protect us. If my parents have been watching over me, then I am ashamed for all that they have had to witness, mortified by what I have become. On the other hand, if they were able to protect me from their viewing gallery on high, why didn't they? I've lost count of the number of times I've asked for help, prayed for help, all to no avail. So I tend not to bother. It's far too confusing and that's one thing that I haven't needed any more of – confusion.'