The Other Mother

The Other Mother

Heidi Field

Chapter 1

I walk to the far end of the platform, checking over my shoulder every few seconds until I reach the furthest bench. I’m early for the train, so I settle down with a sweet tea and a magazine. I need to distract myself, but every time I catch another passenger appearing from the ticket office in my peripheral vision, my heart misses a beat and I snap my head up.

It’s getting harder and harder to get away from Alec as this pregnancy progresses. He’s leaving for work later to make sure I’ve had breakfast, he calls to check in on me several times a day and he can’t get home fast enough to just hang out, run me baths and feed me. I feel so guilty lying to him and keeping secrets.

Alec is a builder by trade, but now a successful business owner; under his meticulous management and budget control, his construction company has grown bigger every year. He’s not what you’d expect when you meet him though, he’s as bohemian as me, parachute trousers, baggy cargos, linen shirts, nearly always in some form of canvas, flat-soled shoe. We love the colour, the loose feel of our clothing choices and how it makes us feel relaxed and free. He’s my guy, you know, the one who gets me, wants what I want, is on the same life trajectory as I am. He’s my tribe.

It’s only a matter of time before Alec follows me or asks to come along and meet the elusive best friend that I have kept him away from for the last eighteen months. Thank goodness his construction company can’t function without him—all those teams of builders need a lot of management and he needs to spend a considerable portion of his day kicking them up the arse to get the jobs done on time. He has suggested getting himself a supervisor to take some of the flak, which would be a disaster, giving him more time at home and less chance for me to get away.

The tannoy announces the imminent arrival of the train, so I pack the magazine into my pink tote bag, push the lid onto my cardboard mug and stand up. There is a breeze today and it wafts some welcome cool air over my bare arms and ruffles my patterned harem trousers. I feel constantly overheated carrying this extra weight. It’s why I chose my new pixie cut look—less hair to get sweaty and end up glued to my face and neck. I’ve chopped and changed between bobs, long fringes with shaved back and sides, and I even had a buzz cut for a year. Now I’m back to the pixie, this time in a pale tangerine shade and I’m loving it. I feel younger and lighter, a fresh me, a fresh start.

I pick a window seat in an empty carriage and watch the world go by as the train trundles along the track towards the prison. The closer I get, the more my stomach knots up. It’s always so hard seeing Mason; the guilt consumes me and as soon as he steps into the visitors’ room I want to cry. My pregnancy doesn’t help, either, reminding Mason that my life is moving forwards without him, that I have found happiness and he is left behind, left out, my murky secret. Two years ago, I’d have never expected to be here, with Alec, expecting a baby, and I know that Mason doesn’t think I deserve it.

The station is a five-minute walk from the prison and I take my time, letting the air fill my lungs as I try to contain my nerves. Visiting a category-A men’s prison is a daunting experience and it’s no easier after two years. I know all the stories about the inmates, the prison is nicknamed Monster Mansion. Gunner Piper is in here. His celebrity status as one of the world’s most prolific serial killers is something that has caused so much media discussion. I still can’t believe that Mason was his accomplice.

I make my way to the visitors’ centre, hand over my passport and the prison ID and stuff my bag, coat and valuables into a locker. Stepping through the scanning machine and holding my arms out for the pat-down has become a routine that no longer scares me and I don’t flinch anymore when we enter the prison for a second search and the drug dog’s obligatory sniff. My pockets are checked, my shoes, even under the fold in my roll-neck[1] .

There is a dress code that all visitors must adhere to: no short skirts or low tops, no ripped jeans, no steel-toe-capped shoes, no expensive watches or sunglasses. I always wear a roll-neck, even when it’s warm, and I go sleeveless with a tank top, because I get a rash on my neck and upper chest when I’m anxious and I don’t want Mason to see that I’m struggling. I bring him the ten pounds he is allowed and some snacks and a book. It’s not a lot. I wish I could do more for him.

Stepping into the visitors’ room I scan the tables. There’s a smell of fresh coffee and sweat, comforting and uncomfortable at the same time. All the inmates are wearing red bibs, like the ones kids wear at football training sessions when they are put into teams. Mason is team prisoner, the group that can’t leave, red for danger. He is dangerous—I know that. He’s where he deserves to be, but every time I see him hunched over a table waiting patiently to see me, to see the only person in the world who gives a shit about him, I can’t help thinking that he’s here because of me, because of what I did all those years ago, what I put him through.

I walk over to his table and place a hand gently on his back. “Hello, sweetheart. I love you.”

Mason looks up and smiles at me. He has a fresh bruise on his cheek, a cut on his lip and his hand is bandaged. This has been happening since he got here, his association with Gunner placing him at the bottom of the hierarchy. Being a serial killer is one thing, luring boys to the murderer’s table is, according to the inmates’ code, even worse. I often wonder if my boy will survive his time in here, if he even should.

“Do you want something to drink?”

“Sure. Thanks, Mum.”

I get up and head to the café bar in the corner of the room and get us both an apple juice. As I turn back to the table I see Mason staring at me. I smile. He forces a grin that wobbles. I can still see that sweet, confused, angry nine-year-old looking at me with such pleading, desperate eyes, his whole body shaking with rage and fear. I did so many things wrong and I know that if I’d made a different choice that day we may not have ended up here.

Sitting back down I reach for his hand, the good one. “What happened this time?”

Mason shakes his head, his long black hair flopping forward and covering most of his face, hiding those icy blue eyes and the dark circles that have become a feature of his pale face since he arrived. “New guy, heard the stories, thought he’d have a pop.”

“I’m sorry.”

Mason shrugs. “Going to the gym loads. Getting bigger. I’ll keep fighting back till they get off my back.”

My poor boy, he was always such a loner, never good with friends, too moody and confrontational, traits that are not serving him well inside the prison walls.

“Are you studying anything? Last time you said you might take a course?”

“Joined the woodwork. Gonna do an Open University Access course in science, maths and technology. If I get on OK, I’ll do more. Here a while.”

I squeeze his hand. “Yes, my darling, you are going to be here a while, so you may as well make the most of it. Studying is great. You were always good at school, when you could be bothered to go.”

He sucks his teeth. He’s irritated with my comment but he knows I’m right.

I shift in the chair, it’s not so comfortable for a woman who is seven months pregnant. “Maybe you’ll learn something about yourself in here, too.”

“Yeah, Mum. Whatever. Don’t start all that again. Maybe you’ll learn something. Do a better job with that one.” He nods to my belly.

“I did the best I could. The best I knew how.”

“Did you? Put me first, huh? Is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night?”

I take a deep breath. I know what he’s referring to. Mothers aren’t perfect. They make mistakes. Sometimes circumstances are difficult. “I made the only choices I had.”

Mason flicks his head to the side, his mop of hair sweeping across his face.

He lifts his chin and looks at me. “For you, not for me. And I’m the one paying the price.”

My heart rate accelerates, and I can feel the heat rising up my neck. He’s never said anything about what happened all those years ago, what we did, what we said to each other, what we agreed, and a niggle in the pit of my stomach starts to grow. What if he decides to tell someone? Confess it all?

What if he decides I should be paying a price too?

Chapter 2

Then

The first time Mason’s dad spoke to me out of school was when I was in the corner shop near my house. It was just me and Mum and my brother, Tony, at home. Dad had gone when I was too young to remember. Maybe that’s why this man, my English teacher, managed to win me round so fast—my lack of a father figure, my need for a man’s love.

Standing at the counter about to buy myself a can of Coke and a packet of salt and vinegar twirls, I heard his voice in my ear.

“I love salt and vinegar twirls, my favourite.”

I was wearing my school uniform, pleated purple skirt, dark grey collared shirt, purple V-neck jumper, short grey socks and my treasured black patent leather flats that Mum had just bought me. Unlike a lot of the other girls at school, I wore my skirt the correct length, just above the knee, and my jumper was a little baggy, a hand-me-down from Tony.

I turned and smiled, feeling awkward that my teacher was talking to me out in public. All the other girls in class chatted about him, how handsome he was, how charming, gossiping about how he didn’t wear a wedding ring and never mentioned a girlfriend. Why would he though? It isn’t something a teacher is going to discuss with his class.

“Yeah, they’re really nice.”

I looked back at the checkout girl and paid for my drink and the crisps and left the shop. I had a fifteen-minute walk home through the park and it was a warm spring day, kids playing, mums with buggies, other kids from school hanging about, delaying their walk home to maximise on their fun.

I heard an ice cream van playing its music and turned to see where it was stopping. Just back across the road. I loved a Mr Whippy with a flake and Mum always let me go out and get one whenever we heard the ice cream van arrive near our road.

“Come on, I’ll buy you a Mr Whippy. I’ll even get two flakes.”

I jumped and spun around to find my English teacher, Mr Bang, smiling at me. You can imagine how that surname played out with the girls at school.

“Oh, um, OK.”

I was fifteen, tall and skinny with long white-blonde hair and I didn’t much care for what other girls thought of me, which was often not very nice considering they all wished they were tall, thin and blonde. The boys picked on me too, but that’s because they all fancied their chances and I wasn’t interested. Fifteen-year-old boys, in my view, were so immature.

I liked the tingle I got in my belly when Mr Bang offered to buy me an ice cream, like he had singled me out and I knew it would have made the other girls in class jealous. We walked together over to the ice cream van and I felt a little self-conscious, looking around to see if any of the other kids from school had noticed me and Mr Bang strolling along together, but there were no purple jumpers or grey shirts in sight, only a slowly forming queue of mums with toddlers.

“Two Mr Whippys with two flakes each please.” Mr Bang paid for the ice creams then handed me one and I put my lips around the top of the ice cream and sucked off the swirly bit without even thinking what I was doing.

Mr Bang laughed at me and then used his thumb to wipe off the ice cream that was smeared at the edges of my lips. I swallowed and kept my eyes on him, not sure if I should step away or just smile.

I chose the smile. “Thank you for the ice cream—it’s delicious.”

“You’re welcome. I don’t have anyone else to buy ice creams for and it always feels a bit lonely getting one just for myself.”

“I better get home. Mum’ll be wondering where I am.”

“She at home is she? I thought she worked?”

He knew more about me than I realised. I guess that was normal—he was my English teacher and I wasn’t very good at English. If I had been one of those average students who always did well enough, I’d have been invisible, but I was poor at Maths and English, the two most important subjects according to every teacher at school. I suppose they talked about me in the staffroom. I preferred to put my efforts into textiles and DT and PE.

“Yeah she is. She works at the clothes shop on the high street but she calls the house to check I’m home from school.”

“Sounds like she’s an excellent mum. I’m heading across the park, so how about we walk together for a while and you can tell me what you think of my classes.”

I bit off a piece of chocolate flake and chewed it, enjoying the creamy chocolate in my mouth. “Mmm. OK.”

I didn’t really want to walk home with Mr Bang, but I didn’t want to be rude either and he was really good-looking and much more friendly and interesting than the boys at school. None of them would have offered to buy me an ice cream and then walk me home. It could have been worse—I could have been accosted by Mr Ardrage, the angry physics teacher, or Mrs Glossing, the grizzly old crone who taught us Spanish.

We wandered along in silence for a while eating our ice creams, leaving behind the play area and all those mums and buggies, until we were alone on the path with the trees each side making an arch above us that let little shards of light through. It was all a bit magical and peaceful, and I imagined that Mr Bang was my dad, walking me home from school asking me all about my day and telling me about his.

“Do you want me to carry your bag? Looks heavy with all those schoolbooks in.”

“You’re alright. I’m used to it.”

“Come on,” he said, reaching for my backpack and peeling it down off my shoulders. “I’m bigger and stronger than you and I’d hate to see you end up looking like the hunchback of Notre Dame.”

“I know who that is. I watched the Disney film.”

Mr Bang laughed. “Yeah, me too. I’m a big fan of Disney films. Don’t tell, though, it’ll ruin my street cred in the classroom.”

He was being a bit cringe but sweet at the same time. “I’m not sure you have street cred, sir.”

“Lance. Call me Lance. Sir is so formal and we are having such a lovely time walking through the woods having an ice cream together.”

There was no way I was calling him Lance—that just felt too weird—but I smiled and nodded so that I didn’t offend him. It did feel good though, walking along with him, talking. Me and Tony never spent time together and Mum was always so busy.

“So, what about my classes? Any good?”

I laughed. “They’re OK, I guess.”

“Just OK?”

“I’m not very good at English. I never know how to answer the questions.”

“Maybe I’m asking the wrong questions?”