‘So what’s wrong with her?’
Caron shuffled awkwardly, doing everything she could to avoid answering her son’s question. She straightened the tablecloth, then rotated the whiskey decanter on the sideboard until the engraving faced dead-centre. ‘I didn’t say there was anything wrong with her, Matthew, it’s just that…’
‘Just what?’
‘Well she’s older than you for a start.’
‘So? You’re older than dad.’
‘By less than a year.’
‘And Ronnie’s only just over a year older than me.’
‘Yes, but the gap’s larger when you’re younger.’
‘Now you’re just talking rubbish. Dad put you up to this, didn’t he?’
She took a deep breath. ‘Veronica’s just not the kind of girl we expected you to bring home, that’s all.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Well, she’s got…’
‘She’s got what?’ Matthew demanded, tired of waiting for his mother to get to the point. ‘Tattoos? Piercings? Stretchings?’
‘Stretchings? What in heaven’s name are stretchings?’
‘Her ear lobes.’
‘Oh, they were just horrible. Does she not realise those holes won’t close up?’
‘I think that’s the point. Anyway, she likes them. I like them. You should stop being such a prude and try to get to know her. She’s really smart, Mom. She’s going to Oxford to study English next year. She has grade seven cello.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘—but she doesn’t look like the kind of girl you want your little boy to be seen with, is that it? More to the point, Dad doesn’t think she’s appropriate, so he’s got you doing his dirty work again. Or is it more about what you think people will say? Are you worried about the ladies in your art group?’
‘That’s nonsense.’
‘Is it? Face it, Mom, you’re a snob. Hey, look on the bright side, at least you know I’m not gay now. I know that’s been playing on your mind.’
‘Utter rubbish.’
‘Really? I used to think about pretending to come out just to see your reaction. How would that have gone down with the neighbours? Be honest, Mom, as long as Pat Palmer’s net curtains aren’t twitching, you couldn’t give a damn about me.’
‘That’s not true. And mind your language.’
‘Bloody hell, Mom, will you wake up and smell the roses? You’re living in a fantasy world. You rattle around this bloody house all day, knocking back the sherry, pretending everything’s all right when we both know it’s not.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Matthew hadn’t intended having this conversation with his mother now, but it was as good a time as any. ‘You know exactly what I mean. Christ, everybody else can see what’s going on, so I’m sure as hell you must.’
‘If you’re talking about your father then—’
‘Of course I’m talking about Dad. He’s been cheating on you for as long as I can remember, and you do nothing about it. You sit there, all prim and proper, and you pretend like it’s not happening. Do you think that’s going to make it go away?’
Caron started to sob. Matthew hated it when he made his mom cry, but it was happening with increasing regularity and he was beginning to see it as a necessity. How else was he going to get through to her? He hated even more how she changed the subject whenever the conversation strayed too close to the truth for her liking.
‘Ever since you’ve been seeing her you’ve been different,’ she said, taking a tissue from inside her sleeve and dabbing the corner of her eyes. She walked across to the mirror and checked her make-up hadn’t run.
‘What do you mean by different? You mean happy?’
‘You know exactly what I mean. We’ve hardly seen you these last few weeks. I never know where you are or what you’re doing…’
‘So? I’m seventeen.’
‘You’re still my responsibility. Our responsibility. It’s me the police will come looking for when things go wrong.’
‘That’s a bit over the top, isn’t it? Nothing’s going to go wrong.’
‘It might. Your father said you—’
‘Mom, please, just stop. I don’t want to hear it. I definitely don’t need to take any relationship advice from Dad. Or you, for that matter.’
‘Have some respect.’
‘What, like he has for you? Give me a break. Fuck’s sake.’
‘Matthew!’ Caron leant against the corner of the table for support. ‘Please stop swearing. It’s come to something when you and I can’t have a proper conversation without resorting to gutter language like that.’
‘You’ve heard worse. I’ve heard Dad call you all kind of things before now.’
‘You never used to swear, son…’
‘Oh, so that’s it, is it? Something else for you to blame on Ronnie? She’s the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time, Mom. None of this is her fault. It’s not her fault you’re miserable. It’s not her fault Dad’s been sleeping around again, is it?’
‘Matthew, shut up!’
Caron slumped heavily into the nearest chair, bursting into floods of tears, her make-up now beyond repair. Her son looked down at her, feeling awkward. He couldn’t stand seeing her like this, but the alternative was far worse. They’d both spent too long covering for Dad’s loutish behaviour, prolonging the illusion of the perfect happy family for the sake of the neighbours. Truth was, the three people who lived behind the door of number thirty-two Wilmington Road hadn’t been happy together for a long time.
‘You need to stop this, Mom. You need to accept Dad for what he is and do something about it.’
‘I can’t change him.’
‘No, but you can change you.’ He took a deep breath. Time to lay it on the line. ‘I’m sorry, Mom, but things can’t go on like this. Spending time with Ronnie and her family has really opened my eyes.’
‘I’m sure it has.’
‘Mom, stop. I’m serious. I was round her house yesterday and her parents were there and it felt normal. They talked to me, made me feel welcome… Her dad showed me his music collection and we had a laugh and we watched TV and… and being there made me realise how screwed up things have got here recently.’
‘Things aren’t screwed up. Your dad and I just—’
‘Mom, please. The only person you’re fooling is yourself. Dad’s been using and abusing you for years. You’re scared of him, that’s all. Scared you’re going to lose face.’
‘That’s not true.’
Matthew knelt down in front of his mom. ‘It is true. I was talking to Ronnie’s mom and—’
‘Not about me. Please tell me you weren’t talking about me to a complete stranger…’
‘Marie isn’t a stranger. I’ve been talking to her a lot, actually. She told me she was married before. Her first husband was a total shit. He did all the kind of things Dad does. You should talk to her, Mom, you’d like her.’
‘I’m sure she’s very pleasant, but—’
‘She said you need to do something about the situation now before it’s too late, before it gets any worse.’
Caron floundered, winded by the honesty and accuracy of her son’s words. ‘But you don’t know what it’s like,’ she said. ‘No one does.’
Matthew put his hand on his mother’s. ‘I know more than you think.’ He stood up and watched his mother as she finally opened up and began to cry properly, at long last beginning to acknowledge the reality she’d worked so hard to ignore. Matthew felt awkward and helpless in equal measure, not knowing what, if anything, he could do to help. His stomach churned with nerves, but he wouldn’t let her see. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Make you a cup of tea.’
Caron remained exactly where she was, not even looking up as he walked out to the kitchen. He was absolutely right, of course, but her problems weren’t that easy to fix. It sounded simple – confront Bob when – if – he got home from the office tonight, then kick the bastard out. But could she really do it? Without him, she was nothing. Christ, he’d told her that enough times. And all those years of marriage couldn’t be undone in one day. Neither did she want them to be. There had been some good times in the very early days, back before he’d grown bored of her company and started sleeping around. She’d put up with it for a long time – what happened at the office, stayed at the office – but things had changed when he’d started working his way through her friends. That fling he’d had with the woman from the doctor’s surgery had been the last straw. Everyone had known about it but her. Except it hadn’t been the last straw, because she hadn’t done anything about it. She’d just pretended it hadn’t been happening and looked the other way. And no one said a damn thing. Yet again, everyone was talking about her, no one talking to her.
But Matthew was right. Veronica’s mother was right too. Caron had run out of options. Bob had threatened her recently, and she knew it wouldn’t be long before those threats were realised. She feared for her safety. She feared for Matthew’s safety. But she couldn’t see a way out.
Go upstairs right now. Pack his stuff in a suitcase and leave it outside. Dead-bolt the door tonight and don’t let him back in. To hell with what the neighbours think.
#
Caron didn’t confront her husband. She didn’t bolt the door or change the locks or scatter his smalls around the front garden as she’d planned. Her sudden elation ended as quickly as it had begun because, when she went back downstairs to tell Matthew he was right and that she was finally going to do something about it, she found her son dead on the kitchen floor. His skin was white, his lips blue-tinged. Blood dribbled down his chin. She called for an ambulance, but no one answered. No one answered… how could that be? She went outside and screamed for help but no one came. She did everything she could to try and resuscitate her son, but he didn’t respond. She banged on next door’s window, even lowered herself to hammer on the door of Jeremy Phelps, the peeping tom from across the way, but no one helped. She found the lady from five doors down – the one with all the kids by different dads – dead behind the wheel of her car. Her kids were in the seat behind her, their lives abruptly ended before the school run had begun, all tangled-up with each other like they’d died trying to escape.
For the longest time she just sat there on the floor next to Matthew, holding his cold hand, her brain unable to process what had happened. None of it made any sense. Foolishly she began to try and convince herself that this was somehow her fault, that this was the price she’d had to pay for thinking those thoughts, for even daring to consider confronting Bob. It sounded ridiculous, but she couldn’t think of any alternative, and no matter how bizarre her thoughts, they couldn’t match the nightmare of this terrible reality. She switched on the TV for the news, but every channel was silent.
Eventually, Caron forced herself to leave the house again and look for help. She changed her clothes, fixed her make-up and hair, found a pair of sensible shoes, and walked into town. Everywhere was the same as Wilmington Avenue: everything silent, everything still.
She’d been walking for the best part of two hours when she finally heard something which gave her the faintest glimmer of hope. It wasn’t much – just the muffled thump – thump – thump of music playing in a confined space, somewhere nearby. She kept walking, getting closer. And then she saw movement in a car up ahead: the only car with lights on and windows steamed up with condensation. The car rattled with the deafening volume of the music playing inside.
Caron yanked the door open and recoiled at the strong smell of sweat and stale fast food. There was a scrawny-looking kid in a tracksuit and baseball cap behind the wheel and he sat up fast, a guilty expression on his face like she’d caught him doing something he shouldn’t. He wafted away smoke from a spliff.
‘Fuck me, lady, you scared the shit out of me.’
Caron didn’t wait to be invited. She sat down next to him and closed the door behind her. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Do you know what happened, missus?’
‘My son’s dead.’
‘I’m thinkin’ they’re all dead.’
She just stared at him, a thousand questions on the tip of her tongue. There was no point asking anything. He obviously knew as little as she did. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘Dunno. I’m scared.’
‘Me too. Can I stay with you?’
‘If you want.’
‘I’m Caron.’
‘They just call me Webb.’