The Dead Ex(102)

I’m really scared now.

Mum sighs. ‘When they took me from you in the park that time, I was pregnant.’

What?

‘The dad was one of my friends.’

I think of the various ‘uncles’ who had flitted in and out of the house, giving me fruit-and-nut chocolate or rides on a motorbike.

‘Which one?’

‘It doesn’t matter. The thing is, he didn’t want anything to do with it.’ She sniffed. ‘Apart from you, the baby was the only thing that kept me going when I was inside. We lived in the prison mother-and-baby unit, but I was only allowed to keep her until she was eighteen months old.’

I hadn’t been allowed to visit my mother after her sentence was extended because of her behaviour, but I do have a dim recollection of her wearing a baggy dress. At the time I hadn’t given it much thought. Now I realize she must have been pregnant.

‘Her?’ I repeat disbelievingly. ‘I have a sister?’

Mum’s eyes are wet. ‘The prison authorities made me have her adopted. I begged the panel – including Vicki Goudman – to see if she could be fostered instead. That way, I’d be able to keep in touch with her. But they said that with my record and behaviour, adoption was “in the best interest of the child”.’

She gives a little sob. ‘They wanted to have you adopted too, but because you’d been in the fostering system and were getting older, they allowed you to carry on. If you had been adopted, you’d have been someone else’s child instead of mine.’

My mind is whirling. ‘Where is my sister now?’

‘That’s the thing, love. I’m not allowed to know. Nor are you. She’ll be about ten now. We can only hope that when she’s eighteen, she’ll try to find us.’

‘What did you call her?’

‘Alice.’ Tears are streaming down Mum’s face. ‘After Alice in Wonderland. Remember how it was one of your favourite stories?’

This is too much to bear. A sister? What does she look like? Is it possible that I’ve actually passed her on the street? Supposing she doesn’t try to trace us when she’s older? Supposing she does and Mum is dead by then?

And that’s when I make my decision. My initial feeling after David had gone missing was that I couldn’t possibly go ahead with a pregnancy that hadn’t even been planned. But then my body changed. Food started to taste metallic. My breasts became sore. I was sick every morning. How could a little tiny seed do this? The picture of ‘it’ sucking its thumb on the three-month scan made me realize I couldn’t have an abortion. Instead, I’d go for adoption and give my child a better life. But to be honest, I began to get doubts from the moment I felt the first kick. Now the discovery that Mum had to give up my sister – and the effect on her – has helped me finally make up my mind.

‘I’m going to bring up the baby myself,’ I blurt out.

Mum’s eyes instantly brighten. ‘I’m so glad! A grandchild will give me something to live for.’

I feel both relief and terror. I’m due to give birth any day. How are we going to cope?

‘You’ll need a DNA test as soon as it’s born so you can get maintenance,’ adds Mum, her eyes narrowing.

I shake my head firmly. ‘I’m not going to bother.’

‘Why the fuck not?’

‘I don’t want to be constantly chasing him for payments. And if there is an inheritance at some point, I don’t want his dirty money. I’d rather manage on our own.’

I almost add the words ‘like we did’, but that wouldn’t be truthful. We hadn’t managed.

Instead, I vow to myself, I will do things differently.





DAILY TELEGRAPH, 7 NOVEMBER 2018


The body found at Deadman’s Creek in Cornwall has been identified as 49-year-old Jackie Wood, a former prison officer.

A witness saw the deceased hovering at the top before finally leaping to the rocks below. A suicide note was later found at her home. The police are not looking for anyone else in connection with the death.





63



Vicki

15 November 2018


I’ve taken my solicitor’s advice and stayed put in Penzance. Despite my fears that I’d be the centre of curiosity or pity or ridicule (or all three), the town has become almost protective of me.

‘Some journalist was sniffing around here yesterday,’ one of my neighbours informs me. ‘Sent him packing. Thanks for the treatment, by the way. I’m sleeping a lot better now. Funny. I’d never have thought of aromatherapy until you moved in.’

It’s heart-warming. I’ve even joined a yoga class, although I have to quietly tell the teacher that I suffered from epilepsy. ‘I haven’t had a seizure for a while now,’ I say, with my fingers crossed.

‘Don’t worry,’ she reassures me. ‘My niece has it too, so I know what to do. It’s more common than we realize.’

Very true.

I spend my spare time walking up and down the seafront. The open air gives me an immense wave of freedom. I read. But never the news.

Yet I still can’t get rid of a nagging feeling that something isn’t right. It’s not just that Patrick has failed to get in touch. I thought that his pursuit of Zelda meant that he still cared for me in some way. But obviously not.