The Wrong Mother

19

Friday, 10 August 2007

I walk and walk, head down, looking at none of the people I pass, speaking to nobody. An endless network of suburban streets. It’s only when I get to the main road and see the Picture House and the Centre for Alternative Medicine in the distance that I realise I’m in Spilling.

In front of the Picture House, there’s a lamppost with a dustbin attached to it. It’s almost full, a lager can and the remains of a kebab at the top of the pile. I place the plastic bag on top of these and press the whole lot down. The syringe, the blood-soaked lilac dressing gown-I will never see them again.

I’m walking away when I remember the third item in the bag: the book with the black cover. Spanish. I stop. I ought to leave it where it is, I know I ought to, but I can’t. Looking round to check no one’s watching me, I go back to the bin. Someone is watching me: an old man sitting on a bench across the street. Staring. He isn’t going to move, or look away. I hesitate for a few seconds, then decide it doesn’t matter. Each small decision is a struggle. I pull the carrier bag out and rescue the book. Open it. There’s a letter inside that’s been written on a small lined sheet of paper, but it’s nothing interesting, only a note somebody has written to Encarnación Oliva, giving lots of details about when they plan to go away and when they’re getting back, dates and times, followed by something about Amy’s school that is too complicated for my brain at the moment. It’s addressed to ‘Dear Encarna’, but I don’t know who it’s from because it hasn’t been signed. Odd.

I tuck the letter inside the book, put the plastic bag back in the dustbin and start to walk home. It will take me half an hour. Longer, unless I walk faster. It’s hard-the soles of my feet are stinging so badly from standing on broken glass. I’ve got money in my purse, I could get a taxi. Why aren’t I desperate to get home as soon as I can? What’s wrong with me?

I stop walking. For a moment, I’m convinced I can’t do it. Nick. Home. I will have to say something. I cannot envisage speaking to anybody ever again. All I want is to disappear.

Zoe and Jake. I start moving again. I want my children. I walk faster and soon I don’t notice any more that my feet hurt. It will be okay. Everything will be like it used to be.

My street looks the same. Everything is the same, except me. Esther’s car is parked outside my house. All I have to do is take my keys out of my bag and let myself in.

My head starts to tilt and twist when I see Jake’s pink football in the hall. My breath catches in my throat. The ball is in the wrong place. I need everything to be where it belongs. Jake’s football should be in the cupboard in his bedroom. I pick it up, dropping the Spanish book at the same time. Now there are definitely too many things on the floor: a pink plastic doll’s dummy, a rolled-up copy of Private Eye. I can’t pick them up. Neither can I walk past them.

‘Sally? Sally, is that you?’ A woman’s voice. I look up, expecting to see Esther, but this woman is tall and thin with short brown hair. I’ve never seen her before. ‘It’s okay, Sally,’ she says. ‘You’re okay. I’m Sergeant Zailer. I’m a police officer.’

The word ‘police’ startles me. I take a step back. Everybody knows. Everybody knows what happened to me.

I open my mouth to tell the policewoman to leave. ‘I’m going to fall,’ I say. The wrong words. My legs buckle. The last thing I’m aware of seeing is the black cartoon animal face on Jake’s pink ball, right next to my eyes, enormous and terrifying.