part0023

W PC Roper has made me a cup of tea. It’s all wrong, much too strong with milk and lots of sugar and it’s in the wrong cup; one of Mother’s flowery china cups with a saucer. I want to tell her that I always have a mug and that I don’t take milk or sugar and that in fact I’d really rather have coffee but the words won’t come out, my mouth seems to have stopped working.

She’s standing over me and staring down at me in her square way and because it’s expected of me I take a sip from the cup. The cloying sweetness hits my tongue and for a second I think I’m going to be sick but I somehow manage to force myself to swallow it down. The action of swallowing is painful and it feels as if I have a hard lump of rock wedged in my throat. I place the cup back on the saucer on the coffee table with a shaking hand and lean back against the sofa. In that instant I decide that I will probably never drink tea again.

I notice that the lounge door is closed and DI Peters isn’t here. WPC Roper moves away from me and stands in front of the door with her feet apart and her hands behind her back. She’s trying to look impassive but not succeeding; she cannot disguise a look of disgust and horror on her plain, cuboid features. It’s a look that I’ve seen many times on people’s faces and it doesn’t bother me because I’m used to it. But I am puzzled by it because it’s been a while since anyone’s looked at me like that. Why is she looking at me like that because I’m not supersize now, I’m normal, and I don’t get those looks any more.

How did I get to be sitting here drinking tea made by someone else in my own home? I remember WPC Roper stomping upstairs and DI Peters standing in the doorway, stopping me from going to see Mother but after that there’s a blankness, a void that I cannot recall. Did I faint? I can’t remember.

I stare at the coffee table, tracing every detail of the rose pattern on the teacup and trying to remember what’s happened. Something major has happened, I can sense it, and I’m sure if I sit here quietly for a while it’ll all come back to me.

I remember answering questions and feeling frightened for some reason. I think I did faint, I remember now. There was a buzzing in my ears that got louder and louder and it got so loud that it turned into a banging noise as if someone were playing the drums in my head. And the louder the drums got the darker the room became.

Yes, that’s it, I definitely fainted.

I have a memory of the coolness of someone’s hand pressed to my forehead, gentle fingers holding my wrist, feeling for my pulse. She’ll be fine, it’s the shock, words spoken in a calm measured voice and then the voice of DI Peters thanking someone, a doctor. Doctor Beamish. It explains the vile sweet tea, the blankness of what’s happened. I know that soon I will remember and that I don’t want to.

I feel dazed and shaky and when I tear my gaze from the teacup and look down at my hands in my lap, they lay there like strange appendages, sausages with fingernails. They don’t look or feel like my hands, it’s almost as if they’re not attached to my body. I interlock my fingers and stretch them this way and that and then bring my hands to my face and press my fingers over my eyes and breathe deeply. I’m starting to feel better, I feel less bewildered, more together as if my mind and body have drifted apart but are now melding back together.

I look up as the sound of movement upstairs draws my attention, the low murmur of voices is followed by brisk footsteps on the stairs. WPC Roper is watching me from under her eyelashes, she sees me looking up at the ceiling as if it will provide me with answers. There are strangers in the house; Mother won’t like it, we never have visitors. Who are they, these people – are there more police officers upstairs? For some reason I think there are, so something must have happened. I wonder if they’ve been into Mother’s room and spoken to her, what did they think when they had to remove the dining chair from underneath the door handle?

I remember that soon I’ll be taken to the police station. Something to do with Rita.

Attempted murder! I remember now, the questioning about visiting Bella’s house, the lie that I told repeatedly that I thought so unimportant. How can they think I wanted to murder Rita? They’ve got it all wrong; it’s all a terrible mistake. I’m sure they’ll put the questioning off for another day because of what’s happened.

What has happened? I know something has happened but I can’t remember what. Not the Rita thing, I remember that. There’s something else, something important that I should remember.

I close my eyes and think; it’s something to do with Mother. Has she been telling lies about me? Well, not lies, the truth; that I’ve kept her prisoner, a well looked after prisoner but a prisoner none the less.

No. It’s not that. But it is something to do with Mother. And it must be something shocking for me to faint; I don’t think I’ve ever fainted before. After the darkness closed in I remember falling but I don’t think I hit the floor, I don’t hurt anywhere and I can’t feel any tender spots so somebody must have caught me. Thank God I’m not supersize anymore otherwise I could have killed whoever it was who caught me if I’d fallen on them.

I remember. DI Peters told me that Mother is dead. I can’t remember his exact words but he imparted the news to me in a sombre, sad voice; the sort of voice reserved for telling people bad news.

I think about it and decide that yes, that means they’ll definitely put the questioning off for another day, a day when Mother hasn’t died. The police aren’t completely heartless, they won’t want to interrogate someone who’s just lost a close relative.

It was weird when DI Peters told me Mother had died and maybe it was the shock, but do you know what I thought when he told me? I thought; I won’t have to worry about getting someone in to cook her dinner now; there’s no need to bother Dolph and that’s good because he won’t be able to spread lots of gossip about me.

I don’t think I said it out loud, at least I hope I didn’t. DI Peters looked at me in that sad way and I remember thinking, why do you look so sad? You didn’t even know her and if you did know her you certainly wouldn’t be sad. I shouldn’t have thought that, should I? She may be dead but she’s still my mother, I’m the one who should be sad but I’m not, I’m relieved.

But I won’t be free for long if I’m charged with attempted murder.

I can hear cars pulling up out in the street and I think the front door must be open. WPC Roper is planted firmly in front of the closed lounge door so I know there’s no hope of me having a look to see what’s going on. The sound of heavy boots clomping around in the hallway carries through the house and low voices of what I guess are more police officers coming into the house. The neighbours will be agog by now, there’ll be no hiding the fact that something has happened at number six Duck Pond Lane, the rumour mills will be spinning like Topsy. And that includes Bella’s grandparents.

I know that we have to wait for the police pathologist to arrive before they can move Mother so someone must have told me that but I can’t remember who. There seems to be an awful lot of police here, perhaps that’s usual for a sudden death. Not so sudden when I think about it; Mother had been complaining of a headache for the past few days so I’m guessing she’s had another stroke. I wonder how long she’s been dead? She was okay when I left her this morning. Would it have been a swift death? If I’d been here instead of at Bella’s when it happened and had called an ambulance would she have survived? Before I can stop it that nasty little voice chips in: aren’t you glad you weren’t here?

I look over at WPC Roper. ‘Can I see her?’ I surprise myself by asking, my voice croaky and quiet as if it hasn’t been used for a long time.

She flushes and answers me without meeting my gaze because for some reason she doesn’t want to look at me.

‘I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment.’

‘Why not? She’s my mother. I’ve a right to see her.’

WPC Roper clears her throat. She looks uncomfortable but she doesn’t answer me.

‘I’m her daughter,’ I go on, ‘I should be allowed to see my own mother.’

WPC Roper looks down at her large feet and says nothing. I wonder briefly if I’m in the middle of some horrible nightmare; the sort where you try to run but you can’t move or your legs move but you stay in the same place, like jogging on the spot. Or you scream but no sound comes out of your mouth, just a horrible choking sensation.

But I’m only trying to fool myself. I know really that it’s not a dream from which I can wake up, it’s all too horribly real.

I ask myself if I really want to see Mother. The answer is that I don’t know but I do know that I don’t want to sit here while the police are stomping around our house, my house, and I don’t want to wait to be told what to do. I feel a spike of anger and indignation; shouldn’t the police be suggesting that I contact a relative, or a friend, to offer me some support and sympathy instead of leaving me sitting alone on the sofa with only an uncommunicative policewoman for company? Is it really fair to expect me to sit here with a sour faced WPC watching me when I’ve just lost my mother? Yes, I decide, my indignation growing. I will demand that they let me contact Doris. She’s my friend, she’ll come even though she hates the police and calls them the filth.

I listen as multiple heavy footsteps descend the stairs. There’s a brief moment of quiet which is followed by a burst of activity from the hallway, the sound of the front door being closed and then opened and the shuffle and thump of footsteps as if something is being manoeuvred through the doorway. Muffled voices and shouts and then the thud of car doors being slammed in the street. I know what this is; they’re taking Mother away. Where will they take her? Not to the hospital. It’s too late for the hospital.

WPC Roper has heard the commotion too and she visibly straightens up, pushes her shoulders back and glances back at the closed lounge door. She’s waiting for it to open, willing someone to come in and relieve her from the burden of me and my questions.

She moves aside just as the door opens and DI Peters steps into the room.

‘We’re ready to leave now.’ He looks at WPC Roper when he says it but I think he’s talking to me as well.

WPC Roper comes over and stands in front of me and I think I should get up and show them out, even in the midst of grief I still have good manners. Okay, I’m not in the throes of grief but they don’t know that. I’m glad they’re going at last, I need time to get my thoughts in order. I pull myself up from the sofa, wondering if my shaky legs will hold me and, surprisingly, they do. I must be recovering now, getting over the shock of it all. I stand still for a moment to make sure the buzzing noise doesn’t return and send me back into black forgetfulness. When I’m quite sure I’m stable I turn to DI Peters.

‘When should I come in to the station?’

‘You need to come now, Miss Travis.’ DI Peters answers from the doorway as WPC Roper turns away, avoiding me and my questions.

‘Now? But my mother’s just passed away.’

‘Yes, and I’m very sorry for your loss but I’m afraid you need to accompany us to the station now.’

I remember then, with horror, the talk of arrest and handcuffs. But surely, they’ll allow me to take someone with me.

‘Can I call someone?’ I speak directly to DI Peters hoping he won’t ignore me like WPC Roper has. I want to call Doris, to see concern on the face of my only friend. She’ll come, I know she will; I want her reassuring gruffness, her assurance that she’ll look after me, her arms thrown around me while she pulls me toward her and thumps my back and tells me everything is going to be alright.