An elderly woman walked past them. ‘You should be locked up.’
‘I didn’t—’
Gareth grabbed Mathew’s arm. ‘Ignore her. You’ll only make it worse if you argue.’
‘But I didn’t do anything.’
‘I know. But it’s all over the news. People just make up what they don’t know.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they’re sad. It makes them feel better about themselves. It’s like saying, Hey, I’m not perfect, but at least I’m not as bad as him.’
‘Maybe we should go back to Granddad’s.’
‘Who’s more important? Amy or stupid strangers who don’t know the first thing about you?’
‘Amy.’
‘Then let’s hear no more nonsense about going home. I think a nice bunch of pink carnations would look nice on the grave. What about you?’
‘Amy liked Daffodils.’
‘Daffodils it is, then.’
After buying the flowers, Mathew followed his brother along St Mary’s Street and across the road at the traffic lights to Castle Street. At least there was no one to stare at him as they neared the cemetery.
Upon reaching Amy’s grave, his nerves had settled down slightly. The blue-grey marble headstone had a streak of bird poo running through Amy’s date of birth, but he needed no inscription to know when she was born: one hour after him, three days before the new millennium.
‘We need to clean the headstone,’ Gareth said. ‘I’ll get some water while you do the flowers.’
‘What am I going to cut them with?’
Gareth produced a small pair of scissors from his jeans pocket. ‘These might help.’
Mathew took the scissors. He wished he could remember things like his brother could. Sometimes, he couldn’t even remember his own name or what he’d had for breakfast. He knew it was only because of the fractured skull he’d suffered thanks to Paul Whittacker’s drug addiction, but that didn’t make it any better when the Dark Days came.
Gareth returned with a watering can. He pulled a cloth out of his pocket, poured some water over the headstone, and rubbed it to remove the bird poo. By the time he’d finished, the headstone was almost as clean as the day it had been erected twelve years earlier.
Gareth straightened up and stretched. ‘Fit for a queen.’
‘Amy was a princess.’
‘True. But she’ll probably be a queen by now.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘I know so.’
‘I love you, Gareth.’
‘Love you, too, buddy.’
‘Do you think I’ll go to prison?’
‘Not if I have anything to do with it.’
Mathew wished he could believe him, but he knew no one could protect him. He was at the mercy of the police, and that was just about the scariest place in the world to be.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Alison sat on the bed in Jodie’s bedroom. Terry and her mother talked downstairs, but the floorboards and the threadbare carpet muted the words. They’d been planning to give the room a makeover when Jodie went back to school. Alison had saved enough money from her part-time job at the school, and Terry had promised to chip in with the rest. They’d ordered a new burgundy carpet, a pine bed and a bright-yellow duvet set from Bedland. Yellow had been Jodie’s favourite colour, thanks to her love of daffodils and buttercups.
The duvet was screwed up and hanging over the end of the bed. Dirty washing littered the floor. Alison needed to tidy the room, but she didn’t want to do anything to erase that final Thursday from the history of the house.
On a white dressing table with a heart-shaped mirror, a notebook sat open and facedown. She went to the dresser and picked it up. Turned it over and walked back to the bed. The springs creaked as she sat back down on the lumpy mattress.
Her child’s writing was so contradictory to the messy room. There was a drawing of a smiling yellow sun in the top right-hand corner of the page. Then Alison read what may have been the last thing Jodie had ever written.
I wish I was a flower,
Sitting in the sun,
Watching all the children play,
Having lots of fun,
Hoping I’ll be picked,
To be a special friend,
Someone to depend upon,
Until the very end.
By the time she reached the end of the poem, tears were streaming down her face and spilling onto the page. Her hands trembled as the poignancy of the words filled her heart. The simple wishes of a child. The simple wishes of most people on the planet, captured in one simple verse.
Alison laid the book on the bed. Wiped her eyes. Replayed that fateful Thursday in her mind. Waking Jodie at eleven. Beans on toast for lunch. Telling Jodie to tidy her room, and Jodie rolling her eyes in that way only young girls can. Both defiant and dismissive.
Thursday. A normal day on a normal street. The school holidays starting to drag. Jodie’s initial excitement at breaking up for the summer turning into boredom. A lot of the other kids were away on holiday with their parents at this time of year. Some abroad, others at the coast. Alison always felt guilty they didn’t have enough money to take Jodie away. Terry’s wages at the supermarket kept the wolf from the door, and this year they’d paid off the catalogue, but they’d spent all the spare money on the upcoming bedroom makeover.
So much for plans. So much for hope. She stared at the ceiling. ‘Do you really hate me that much?’
God didn’t seem to be available for comment. Maybe He was busy plotting the next miserable chapter in someone else’s life. The next poor sod to wake up on a warm summer’s day and have their heart turned to ice.
Jodie was dead. And all for the sake of a stupid carton of milk so they could have cornflakes for breakfast. Seeing her lying on that cold mortuary slab, dressed in a plain white gown, the strangulation marks around her neck looking like a devil’s necklace, had proved heartbreaking beyond anything Alison could have ever imagined. Jodie had seemed so peaceful, yet so violated. Her mouth, once so vociferous, now silent forever. What sort of sick human being could take an innocent child and do something so terrible to her?
There were no words to describe the hatred she felt for the monster who’d taken the life of her beautiful daughter for his own depraved pleasure. Reduced her to nothing but a shell. Jesus Christ, she didn’t even know what she wanted to do with Jodie’s body. They’d never talked about cremation or burial before. Why would you when your child was only eleven years old?
A knock on the door. If that was her mother come to offer her another cup of tea, she wouldn’t be held responsible for her actions. Alison knew she only meant well, and that Jodie’s loss had ripped a chunk out of her heart. too, but it seemed the more she tried to help, the more Alison wanted her to go away.
The door creaked open. It was Terry. He looked whiter than the ceiling. Stubble peppered his cheeks and chin. ‘I’m gonna nip into town. Is there anything you need, love?’
Alison sniffed and folded the poem in half. ‘To change places with Jodie.’
‘I know. Me, too.’
‘I keep thinking she’s gonna walk in any minute. Then we’re gonna have a row about the state of her room.’