I have both longed for and dreaded this Wednesday. The plastic chair slides from my hand, hitting the wooden floor with a crash. I wipe my palms on my skirt and pick it up. The trembling isn’t only from the cold. What if it’s a trap? The online group page had been going on as normal: people starting new threads, supporting each other, the same as ever. They had all said they were attending the meet-up today. If they knew about Alice Mann, they were keeping it to themselves. Waiting for the moment to confront me in person?
It’s a chance I’m taking. I have to, so I can see Bill, offer him all the support I can give him. I swallow the rising bile. I couldn’t eat this morning, butterflies playing havoc with my stomach; last night’s vodka consumption probably didn’t help either. I check the wall clock for the millionth time.
Ten minutes to wait.
Part of me feels exactly as I did when I stood here weeks ago, waiting, wondering, hoping. I felt an element of dread then, but nowhere near the same as now. I lean on the back of the chair, trying to take some slow, deep breaths. If worst comes to worst, I’ll have to make a run for it. I almost laugh at the thought. Coward.
I imagine the chairs in the circle all filled with my group members, and I look out across their trusting faces and say:
‘Hi. I’m Angela Killion, and I’m a liar and a coward.’
My voice is louder than I expect. I turn quickly to make sure I’m alone. What if Wendy had turned up early, like she’s done on the other occasions? But the action of saying those words out loud has lifted a dark cloud. There is something to be said about the catharsis of honesty. Shame I was speaking to an empty room.
Protecting your children is the hardest job of all; everyone about to enter this church hall would agree. Protecting them from harm, protecting them when they harm – is equally challenging. Me, I’m attempting to do both.
I hear the creak of the external door and screw my eyes up. My breaths are shallow, the noise of the air expelling from my nose seems too loud.
Please, God, let today go well.
It’s Wendy. Of course it is. She’s always first to come in, last to leave. I’m reassured by the routine of this moment. I smile, and with my arms outstretched, move forwards to greet her. As I close in, I check for signs of mistrust; awkwardness. If she stiffens at my touch, if she pulls back from my friendly embrace, I’ll know she knows. I am almost crushed by her arms. She pulls me in too tight and holds me there. I hear her tears.
‘It’s … so … awful,’ she says between sobs, her words spoken into my neck. I can feel the wetness collect in my clavicle. I gently pull her arms from me. She’s talking about Isabella, I realise. My relief is momentarily displayed as I find myself smiling. I amend my expression quickly, so concern is all I show.
‘I know, I know.’ I take Wendy’s hand, patting it as I walk her to a seat. ‘Terrible times are ahead for Bill, but he has us. We are his network of support and we’ll help guide him through his grief.’ I sound like a preacher, some do-gooder, and I think the words sound staged, insincere. But they’re not, not really. I do want to help Bill. I have to.
‘But what if he doesn’t come today?’ Wendy asks.
‘He will. I’m sure of it.’ Although I’m not, and I hadn’t really thought about what I’d do if he didn’t. The whole point of taking this risk, being here today, is for Bill. If he doesn’t turn up, it’ll have been for nothing.
It’s time.
The chairs are all taken bar one. Bill isn’t here yet.
I glance at the clock. It’s bang on 3 p.m. When I look back to the circle, the faces are all on mine. Do any of them seem angry? Are any of them waiting to confront me? I daren’t dwell on these thoughts right now – I need to get started.
‘As you are all aware, this last week has brought dreadful, sad news,’ my voice shakes, but the group will assume it’s emotion. ‘I’m sure we’re all shocked at the death of Bill’s daughter—’
‘The MURDER!’
A heat flushes up my neck. I turn to the source of the shout. Bill is standing in the doorway, dishevelled, ashen. I jump up, moving towards him as quickly as I can without appearing to run.
‘Bill, dear Bill. Come in,’ I say quietly as I squeeze his arm. I want to embrace him, as Wendy had me minutes before, but refrain. It might be too much. We haven’t become that close yet.
He holds his head in his hands, and he wobbles. I’m afraid he’ll tumble to the ground, so I ask the group to help me take him to the empty chair in the circle.
One by one, my group members offer Bill their support. They share their shock and anger at what’s happened, and he begins to make eye contact. He starts to open up about how he’s feeling. I’m the only one who hasn’t spoken – and now, as he looks to me, I freeze. The knowledge my son has caused this numbs me. How can I help him?
The group are doing a great job – I suddenly realise he doesn’t need me. I can’t offer anything more than these people. I’m nothing special. Now his life has been touched by a murderer, does he also look at me differently? I’ve gained the group’s support, they all know my son is a killer – and although they think he’s in prison, paying for his crime, the fact remains Bill’s perspective will have been changed. Others may follow. Even if they don’t find out I’ve lied to them, they may well withdraw their support now this has happened. How much sympathy can a murderer’s mother warrant?
The rest of the session passes in a blur. The voices surrounding me seem like they’re a distance away, coming at me through a long, narrow tunnel. I try to focus on the good I’ve created. I started this group. Whether they change their opinion of me, given Bill’s circumstances or not, they can’t take away what I’ve already accomplished.
I watch the others as they talk, but it’s like watching a TV programme. Then I sense the room has fallen silent. All eyes are on me.
I open my mouth, but no words come out. What did I miss?
‘Alice?’ Bill says. ‘Are you feeling okay?’
Before I can stop them, tears are rolling down my face. Chair legs squeak on the floor and I feel half a dozen hands on my shoulders.
‘I’m sorry,’ I hear myself say. ‘You all must hate me.’ I drop my head, keeping my gaze on my lap, not able to look any of my group in the eye.
‘We’re here for you, Alice. We came together because we’ve all been affected by our children’s behaviour in one way or another.’ Bill’s voice sounds thick with emotion. ‘You’ve always been so brave in your honesty about what your son did. We aren’t going to turn on you now.’ This statement comes as a relief, but my guilt rages inside me like a hot rod being dragged through my intestines. Somehow having their support suddenly seems worse than having their disapproval.
Once everyone leaves, I stand in the silence and gather my thoughts. I must take the positives from today’s meeting: no one has found out the truth, Bill has gained a wealth of support, and they still want me as their leader. The fact I am now left with a guilt almost as overwhelming as it was before I began trying to make things right in the first place is something I have to manage myself. How, I don’t know.
My fingers fumble with the key for the internal door in the church hall, they clatter as they hit the ground. I stand back up after retrieving them, and I’m about to lock it when I’m aware of a presence behind me. A foreboding stops me from turning around.
‘Hello, Alice.’
My pulse quickens. I know the voice.
I have no place to run. There’s no option but to turn; confront whatever is about to happen.
I force my body to move – it shuffles around, slowly.
‘Hello, Connie.’