Fault (Define Book 3) Read online

  He was answered by a grunt.

  I took what was left of the pizzas into the lounge and sat on the sofa.

  “Do you want anything else, Max?” He didn’t even look away from the television, just made a noise that I knew well enough meant no. “Well, let me know if you do, right?” We sat, Max engrossed by the small screen, me eating now-lukewarm pizza. I took the plates and loaded them into the dishwasher before giving the kitchen surfaces a quick wipe down. Like Noah said, normality felt good.

  “Right then, are we going to play Connect Four or are you going to carry on ignoring me?” I laughed as I spoke, knowing that Max still appreciated a joke, and he attempted a dramatic flourish when pressing the mute button on the remote control. At times like that, I could vaguely see the vital man he must once have been, not this wrinkled man-child sat in front of me. From a distance, he looked like most fifty-something men, but up close, there was a blurred edge to him: slightly unfocused eyes; a small trail of drool at the corner of his mouth; a sense that his left side had somehow melted, like a candle in a draught.

  I set the game up on the table that was permanently next to the right side of his chair, allowing him access to a semblance of independence: the remote control, a sippy cup filled with coffee, and a box of tissues. “You go first.” His arm shook as he reached out before grasping one of the plastic counters and slowly dropping it into the plastic slot.

  A couple of hours and several games later, we were even. “This one will be the winner. Ready? It’s my turn to start.” I could see he was determined to win, working hard to block my next moves. And he did.

  “So what prize do you want?” Max pursed his lips in a skewed attempt at blowing a kiss. “A kiss? Is that it?” I leant over and kissed him on the cheek. His stronger arm hooked around me in a weak attempt at a hug and I hugged him back, tears springing up at the joyful sound he made.

  “Looks like I’d better get some practice in if there are kisses for prizes!” Noah was stood in the doorway, watching us. His words sent a tingle through me as I imagined him taking my head in his hands and kissing me. Where did that thought come from? I couldn’t let him see how I had misread his joke.

  “How’s the writing gone?”

  “Brilliant. I’ve emailed the column through to my editor. Do you fancy sitting again tomorrow night? It makes such a difference when I don’t have to worry about him. And I think he prefers your company anyway.” Max put his thumb up at that point, making us both laugh. “Cheers, Dad. Love you too! Are you free tomorrow?”

  “I can’t. I’ve picked up an extra shift at drama school. Friday?”

  “That’s great. Same time?”

  I nodded and picked up my bag.

  “See you on Friday, Max.” He blew me a noisy kiss as Noah walked me to the front door.

  “Here you go, Grace,” he said, handing me a twenty-pound note instead of the usual ten I charged for an evening.

  “That’s too much,” I argued, trying to give it back.

  “No, it isn’t,” he replied, keeping his hands firmly in his jeans pockets. “There’s no way I would have finished the column if it weren’t for you. It feels like it should be more than this and some pizza. Please, keep it.” I was too desperate for money to keep the argument going so I slipped the note into my bag.

  “Thanks. See you Friday.” I put my helmet on and started up the scooter, aware that Noah was still watching me from the doorway.

  Maybe I wasn’t the only one who wished their life had turned out differently.

  “ALL I CAN TELL you is that she’s at Goodwood, about thirty miles away. It’s the closest women’s prison. Beyond that, it’s up to the prisoner to make contact.” PC Gibson was closed-faced as she told me what I already knew.

  I had been to the station to complete a more detailed witness statement, as Mum had now been charged. I’d also been warned that I would probably be asked to take the stand as a witness for the defence, assuming she pleaded not guilty. It was a Catch-22: either she pleaded guilty and was sentenced to life, or she pleaded not guilty, and I had to relive that horrific afternoon in front of a courtroom of strangers.

  “But it’s been a week now. Can’t I ring and check she’s okay?”

  “They don’t accept calls from family. If there is a genuine family emergency for a remand prisoner, the police will let them know.”

  “Is she definitely allowed to make calls?” I clung to the hope that she was being denied the chance to make contact with us. I couldn’t contemplate that she was choosing to leave us in limbo.

  “Yes. On remand you have access to a phone, as long as you have enough phone cards. It’s the same for visits. She will be entitled to more than a convict.”

  “How can I go and see her?” I needed to see her, to check she was okay.

  “You can’t, not unless she sends you a VO form.”

  “A VO form?”

  “A Visiting Order form. She will fill one in for everyone she wants to visit her. The prison sends it to you, with a special phone number. You use that to book a visit.” So she’s consciously excluding us. “Look, if it’s any comfort, people do this all the time. They don’t want their loved ones to see them in prison. They try to spare them the pain, or themselves the embarrassment.”

  “I’ve just got to wait, then? Hope she decides to take pity on us and get in touch?” The anger inside spilt over into my voice.

  “You can write to her, care of the prison. They’ll read it before they give it to her, of course, but as long as there’s nothing illegal in there, she’ll get it.” She paused, as though unsure whether to continue. “I think you should write to her, Grace. Tell her how you feel. But don’t be surprised if she doesn’t reply. As much as you want her to be thinking about you and Josh, that might be too much for her to cope with. Sometimes pretending there isn’t a world outside is the only way of staying sane inside.”

  “Thank you. I just wish I knew what she’s thinking, that she’s okay.”

  “I get that, but you also have to look after yourself. Okay? Let me know how things go.”

  Back in the hostel, I asked Alice for some paper and an envelope, wanting to write and post the letter before going to work. The pen was awkward in my hand, unable to recall having hand-written anything in the weeks since exams ended. I stalled at the address. Where could she send a reply to? My days at the hostel were numbered, and I had no idea where I would be beyond that. I opted for the Jacksons’, thinking that might distress her less than seeing a strange address, and added my mobile number in case she couldn’t remember it.

  Half an hour before I needed to be at the drama school, all I had achieved was a pile of crumpled pages. Each had been an unsuccessful attempt at finding the right tone: some casual, suggesting that everything was fine; some accusatory; some the emotional outpourings of a lost little girl. The latter scared me the most as they were the most honest.

  THAT SHIFT AT STAGESTARS was the first time I experienced what it was like to be the focus of gossip and judgement. As each of the little girls greeted me, I saw their mothers huddle together, stealing looks in my direction in between whispers. There had been gossip after Jake’s death, but that had been softened by sympathy. This was different, coloured as it was by small-minded, small-town prejudices.

  Once the warm-up games were over, I moved the girls to the stage area at the other end of the room, helping them rehearse a short section of dialogue. Being on stage was comforting. I was able to immerse myself in the role of someone other than me: a confident drama student with her whole future ahead of her. The person I used to be.

  “Thank you, girls,” I said to the circle around me at the end of the session. “You’ve worked really hard tonight. The last thing I want to do is check that I’ve learned all of your names. First off, Lovely Laura. Goodnight.” I waved her off and she made her way out of the circle. “Next is Delightful Daisy. Goodnight.” I waved each girl off in turn, loving the way they held their breath in anticipati
on of which name would be next. I envied them their innocent simplicity. “Last but not least is Elegant Ellie. Goodnight!”

  “Change your shoes and put your coat on, darling. I need to talk to Grace.” I looked up to find Ellie’s mother walking over to me.

  “Everything okay, Mrs Jenkins?”

  “Yes, that was a lovely session, Grace. The girls really enjoyed it.”

  “Thank you. Ellie is very talented. Does she attend the dance class as well? She has a natural physical presence.”

  “I’m not here to talk about Ellie.”

  I stopped packing up my things. “Oh?”

  “Well, this is quite a delicate thing to say,” she started, unable to look me in the eye. I wasn’t going to make it any easier for her so I stood still, waiting for her to continue. “Are you sure you should be teaching these classes?”

  “I’m a qualified drama instructor and have worked for Stagestars since my sixteenth birthday, Mrs Jenkins. I helped out as a volunteer for two years before that. I’m more than capable of taking classes.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean in that way. I meant, you know, with everything you have going on at the moment.”

  As much as I wanted to tell her where exactly she could stick her assumptions, I couldn’t risk losing my job.

  “Everything is fine. Thank you for your concern, but I’m fully capable of teaching at the moment. Now, if that was everything, I need to finish clearing up.” My turned back was a clear signal that the conversation was over.

  TRAPPED, UNABLE TO move, I struggled to breathe. The pressure of his hand on the back of my head was warm, my hair sticking to his skin. As he ripped my leggings, the material pinged back and snapped my skin, proof that I was still able to feel, that I would still feel what was to come. “Mum!” He yanked my head backwards and banged it back down on the work surface.

  “Shut up, bitch!”

  Hands pawed and scratched at my skin, weight pressed into me from behind, heavy breaths smoked into my ear. Please. Please. Please.

  I woke up disorientated and crying. I’d tried to block out what had happened so I could deal with the changes it brought, but the nightmare reminded me of what would have happened if Mum hadn’t arrived when she did. If she hadn’t saved me. Did that make it my fault that he was dead and she was in prison? Or was it her fault for bringing such losers into our home?

  Did it matter whose fault it was?

  We were all paying the price anyway.

  I CRICKED MY NECK and looked at the clock at the corner of the screen. Ten thirty! I stood and rushed downstairs, rehearsing my apology to Grace. I couldn’t believe I had got so caught up in writing copy for an insurance company that I lost track of time. Fair enough if it was something interesting, but all I’d been doing was trying to make pet insurance sound like one of life’s essentials. She’d been left with Dad for four hours. Why hadn’t she shouted up, told me it was time to go?

  When I reached the lounge, I stopped, unsure what to do. The room was dimly lit by the television, the news channel cycling through the stories of the day. Dad was asleep in his chair, his face so relaxed all signs of the stroke were erased. But I knew what to do with him; Grace was the problem. She was just as deeply asleep, curled into the corner of the sofa.

  I took Dad’s right hand and squeezed it, enough to make him stir. I pantomimed a shushing gesture and pointed at Grace. He smiled sleepily as I helped him to stand before walking him through to the bathroom adjoining his bedroom. Leaving him to get himself ready for bed, a struggle he still confronted head-on every night, unwilling to give up any scrap of independence he could keep hold of, I made my way back to the lounge.

  It wasn’t a situation I had found myself in before. Sure, at university there had been a handful of times where I’d had to wake a girl up in my bed and gently coax her out of my room, unwilling to let her stay the night and think what we had shared was anything more than a night of fun. Who hadn’t?

  But this was different. Grace looked so peaceful, freed of the shadows that had been haunting her earlier. The change in her had unnerved me on Wednesday. Gone was the teenage girl of the last couple of years, replaced by a young woman with too many burdens to carry. I knew her family life was far from typical, but she had always been reliable when sitting for Dad. He enjoyed her company, and I could tell she cared about more than the money she was earning. Bob Lewis, Dad’s best friend and the person who had taken over his job as editor at the local paper after the stroke, had suggested Grace when I was looking for someone to spend time with Dad who wasn’t a silver-topped busybody. It was also Bob who had told me what had happened with Andrea. I could only begin to imagine what Grace had to deal with, and hoped she had somebody looking after her.

  At that moment, I just wanted to let her sleep, let her forget whatever else was troubling her world for as long as she could. She looked like a pre-Raphaelite painting, all pale skin and tumbling copper curls, Queen Guinevere waiting for Lancelot to return. How had I not noticed how beautiful she had become?

  Crouching down, I gently shook her shoulder, but all that did was make her nuzzle further into the cushioned arm of the sofa. I inhaled the long-forgotten smell of cherry and vanilla, remembering what it felt like to notice such a detail about a girl. But I couldn’t afford to be distracted by that. By her.

  “Grace, wake up. You’ve fallen asleep. Grace. Grace.” Either my words or the firmer shake of her shoulder was enough to disturb her and she woke, clearly confused by her surroundings. “It’s Noah. You’re at my house.”

  She sat up, blinking and bleary-eyed. “Uh, I guess I fell asleep,” she said, somehow smiling and biting her lip at the same time, drawing attention to the plummy gloss that still hovered at the edges of her full lips. I tried not to notice as she straightened her top when she sat up.

  “I guess you did. Do you want a coffee? It would probably be good to get some caffeine in you before you drive home.”

  Her smile dropped, and I could have kicked myself. Home. Where was her home? Bob had mentioned that she and Josh were staying with some family friend.

  “What’s the time?” She had checked her phone before I had a chance to answer and jumped up. “Shit! I’ve got to go!” Before I had even stood up, she had collected her bag and helmet and was opening the front door. “Bye!” Not wanting to make her any later, I let her go, convinced I was missing something.

  I checked on Dad, already asleep in bed, and loaded the dishwasher before sitting down on the sofa, my imagination convincing me that I could feel Grace’s warmth still in the cushions. The rolling news told of conflict in Syria, an election taking place in America and a fatal motorway accident, yet none of it held my interest. I wanted to know what was going on with Grace, why she had left in such a hurry.

  Me: Let me know you got back OK. Worried you might have fallen asleep at the wheel!

  A few minutes later, I heard the beep I was waiting for.

  Grace: Scooters have handlebars, not wheels! I’m back. Got told off :-(

  Me: I knew that, really. Maybe! Who told you off?

  Grace: Hostel manager. Curfew is 10.30. Didn’t believe I was working.

  Her brief texts made me angry.

  Angry that she was apparently living in a hostel.

  Angry that she hadn’t said.

  Angry that I got her into trouble.

  Me: Do you want me to ring him?

  Grace: No, but thanks for the offer. I’m on a warning now so I can’t be late again. Or else!

  Or else what? Texting wasn’t the best way to find out. I wanted to talk to her. Even though I’d got myself back on track with my work over the last two nights, I knew what to do.

  Me: I forgot to pay you in the hurry. Sorry.

  Grace: You paid me double last night so we’re even :-)

  Me: Can you sit again tomorrow night? I’m on a writing roll at the moment!

  Grace: Sure. What time? I’m teaching classes until five thirty.

  Me: Why
don’t you come straight from there? Have dinner with us.

  Grace: Sounds great. Thanks :-)

  I stopped myself from replying, from wanting to keep the conversation going, from giving in to thoughts that were clouding the perimeters of my mind.

  ANOTHER NIGHT DISTURBED by noise and nightmares. As I waited for the bathroom to be vacated, I longed for both peace and privacy. Not that I’d had much of either at home, until Jake had fitted me a lock on my bedroom door, but at least I’d been able to work out when the bathroom was free without leaving my room. Part of me clean-freaked out at the idea of following God knew who in the bathroom, standing in puddles of her shower water, breathing in her steamy air.

  The door opened and a raven-haired girl came out, fighting the world with a mask of black eyeliner and red lipstick. She nodded in acknowledgement, just as reluctant to engage with someone else’s reasons for having to share living space in this way.

  I stood under the warm water, giving my conditioner extra time to do its job, thinking about the day ahead. It was the first full day at work since… well, since. I’d planned my Stagestars sessions and was looking forward to not having the time or headspace to think about anything else other than the kids in the classes. And maybe their mums.

  Rinsing my hair, I reflected on how normal Noah had been, how unlike Mrs Jenkins. Maybe he didn’t think my presence would corrupt Max in the same way she thought I would impact Ellie. I hoped Lauren would be as cool about things as Noah; I still needed to explain why I’d missed last Saturday’s shift. How on Earth would I start that conversation?

  Hi, Lauren, have you heard that my mum’s in prison for killing the lowlife who was trying to rape me?

  Too much information?

  Hey, Lauren, did you see in the paper that my mum is on a murder charge, and I’m living in a homeless hostel?