The Dead Ex(90)

Treat them mean. Keep them keen. My mum’s advice was spot on when I told her that I’d found him. ‘That’s what I should have done with your father.’ Then she stopped.

I held my breath. Whenever I’d asked Mum more about my dad in the past, she’d just said it was a long time ago and that she didn’t want to talk about it.

‘What happened, Mum?’

She sighed. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Yes it does. I’m a grown woman. You owe it to me to say.’

Something seemed to give in Mum’s face. ‘I’ve been thinking that myself for a while. Maybe you’re right.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I met your father on the beach when I was in Trinidad just before going to uni. Then we bumped into each other in a bar later on. It was as simple as that. We didn’t even ask each other’s names. It was only a couple of months later, when I’d moved on with my friends to another place, that I realized I was pregnant. How naive of me.’ She laughs. ‘A girl from a small Welsh village who’d never thought about contraception. I considered going back to look for him, but I didn’t even know his name. If I’d been in the UK, I’d have probably got an abortion – sorry, love. But it was too late, and I had no money. When I asked my parents for help, they went mad. Called me every name under the sun. Whore, slut … It was horrible. They told me I’d made my own bed and had to lie on it. By then, I felt you were a part of me. So I got a room at a London hostel. Had you at the local hospital. I tried to make it on the benefits I got, but it wasn’t enough, so I began dealing. We needed the money, love. Even council flats don’t come cheap.’

I was reeling. Trying to take this in. ‘Were those your parents in the photograph you gave me?’

She nodded. Hurt flickered in her eyes. So she did care.

‘Where are they now?’

‘No idea. And I’m not bothered. Why should I be? They didn’t give me any support. It’s been just you and me, babe. Remember what I used to say? We make a great team. Keep on playing the game. OK?’

And I did. At first it felt weird being a Helen and making up all that stuff about a big family. But the funny thing is that my new identity grew on me. It was easier to sleep with David if I pretended to be someone else. It also helped to erase the memory of Mr Walters. This time, at least, it was me in charge. Then I made the same mistake as my mother. I got pregnant. Who would help me now? When I’d threatened to ring my ‘dad’ during the ensuing argument with David, I’d almost believed my own fantasies.

‘Stupid idiot,’ Mum shouted when I told her. ‘You’re going to ruin your life, just like I did.’

‘Don’t say that.’

‘We’ll make him pay. And her. Keep on looking. Find out where the bitch lives.’

And, not knowing what else to do, I did exactly that.

Now I take in her bedraggled appearance as I let myself into the flat. The smell of whisky on Mum’s breath. Her dirty fingernails. ‘I found her.’

Her eyes light up. ‘Go on, then! What happened?’

‘She had a fit.’

Mum rolls her eyes. ‘Great.’

‘You don’t sound surprised.’

‘I’m not. She started having them after the accident.’

What? ‘Why haven’t you told me before?’

She shrugs. ‘Didn’t seem important.’

What else didn’t seem ‘important’, I wonder. Is there anything else she hadn’t told me? Then I have a horrible thought. Mum had been furious when I’d told her about David’s reaction to my pregnancy. What if …

No. She wouldn’t do that. Whatever else Mum is, she’s always had my best interests at heart. We’re a team.





51



Vicki

12 July 2018


The day is here. My trial. Twelve strangers and a judge are going to decide my future.

The other women prisoners watch as I am taken from my cell. Their silence is far scarier than their usual shouting and swearing. I don’t flatter myself that they feel any empathy. Their subdued behaviour arises from the incontrovertible fact that one of them will be next.

I am led, handcuffed, towards the courtyard, where I am put in a prison van. After a short bumpy road followed by a smoother surface indicating a dual carriageway or maybe a motorway, we stop. The door is opened. Sunlight blinds my eyes, and I stagger slightly, staring up at the dirty white high walls around me. I don’t think I’ve seen this court before. At least, not from this angle.

‘You all right?’ asks the officer. She has probably been briefed on my medical condition.

‘Just finding my legs after the journey,’ I say.

They continue to wobble from nerves as I am led in a back door, through a maze of corridors. ‘Do you need the toilet?’ someone asks.

I nod. An officer unlocks my handcuffs and waits outside the cubicle. She seems relieved when I emerge. More corridors. Up some stairs, shaking, trying not to look down. Through a door. Then into a glass box overlooking the rest of the court. The elevation seems ironic.

All eyes are on me. I glance up at the public gallery and see a few faces from my old life. Are they here to support me or merely out of curiosity? There’s Frances. Jackie. And further to the right is Nicole. I try not to catch her eye.