14.2

Fiona drove home to where she’d left Mary looking after Wayne.

As usual, he was sleeping peacefully.

It took Mary less than a second to realise something was really wrong with her friend.

‘What’s the matter, Fi? And where’s Simon?’

At the mention of his name, Fiona burst into tears.

It took almost a full half hour for Mary to prise it out of her.

‘So where the hell is he now?’ Mary said.

‘I don’t know,’ Fiona sobbed.

‘Jesus Christ, Fi. What the fuck were you thinking? I could have taken him for a few days, let you catch up on your sleep.’

‘I felt like I was losing my mind. He just… wouldn’t… sleep.’

Fiona went to lean on Mary’s shoulder for support, but Mary straightened her arms, pushing her back forcefully. She glared at her, keeping her arms out in front of her as a barrier.

‘Na-ah, Fi. Not this time. I’ve had your back for a lot of shit over the years, but this is just… mental. I’m sorry, but I can’t defend this. It’s fucking disgusting.’

Fiona shrunk from her friend’s rage.

‘I’m not feeling myself right now, Mary.’

‘Well boo-fucking-hoo, Fi. Cos this isn’t like being turned down for prom or not getting picked for the netball team. You’ve endangered your baby. Do you have any idea what could happen to him out there on his own?’

Mary’s voice was growing shrill as her rage built.

‘You know, I can’t do this right now. You’ve made this mess… you can fucking clean it up this time. I’m out. I’m fucking out.’

Mary turned and left, slamming the door behind her.

Fiona slumped against the wall and carried on crying.

*

Mary wouldn’t return Fiona’s calls or messages for a good week.

Fiona mourned not only the loss of her son, but the loss of her oldest friend too.

She’d really fucked up this time.

She felt the loss of her friend as much as she felt the loss of her child.

Then, out of the blue, Mary’s voice greeted her as she picked up the handset of her landline.

‘Hi, Mary, I’m so glad you called,’ Fiona began.

Mary cut her off abruptly; ‘This isn’t a social call, Fiona.’

Fiona’s heart sank. Mary never called her Fiona, it was always Fi. This was the equivalent of getting called your full name by an angry parent. She knew it meant her friendship was in real trouble.

‘I’ve been driving round for the last few days, trying to find your child for you.’

‘Oh thank you, Mary.’

‘I haven’t done it for you. I did it for him.’

‘Simon will be as grateful as I am.’

This seemed to be the last straw for Mary. ‘And how the fuck would you know what your son is thinking?’

Fiona was speechless.

‘Just shut up and listen, Fiona. I tried to spare you – cos what you did is a big fucking deal – but the police weren’t prepared to give me any information at all without a name.’

Fiona gasped.

‘So… I gave a fake name.’

‘Oh thank you. Thank you.’

‘Shut up and listen. They said you were facing some real time for this. Child abandonment is a big fucking deal, Fiona. They said if you turned yourself in they could arrange for me and my mam to look after the kids while you served your sentence. Subject to your rehabilitation, of course.’

‘Sentence?’

‘Yeah, Fiona, sentence. Cos this is a really bad thing you did. Anything could have happened to the poor kid.’

‘And what if I don’t turn myself in?’

Mary exhaled hard. ‘How did I know that was coming? You’re so fucking selfish, Fiona. If you don’t turn yourself in you’ll never see Simon – or me – again.’

‘I can’t go to jail. What about Wayne?’

‘If only you’d shown that much concern for Simon.’

‘I know but that was different.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘I can’t go to jail, Mary.’

‘Well I guess this is goodbye then,’ Mary snapped and hung up.

*

Fiona had to live with the aftermath of her decision and it was something she wasn’t prepared for.

She’d thought life with both twins was bad, but life with just Wayne was worse.

Guilt insistently gnawed at her mind.

A relentless weariness and sadness followed her everywhere she went.

Tears were never far from her eyes, regret perpetually lingering on her lips.

Wayne seemed more settled without his unruly brother and this was a blessing, but instead of the peace allowing her to sleep, she found her restless mind kept her awake even longer.

She became a broken woman, forever regretting an impulsive decision that would plague her for the rest of her days.

*

Simon was at the back of her mind all the time, never far away.

But as the years drew on, the wound slowly healed.

She never truly forgave herself but she had learned to take it easy on herself.

She’d done the best she could.

*

Simon had a shitty time of it.

His mother’s impulsive decision had led to him being shipped from foster home to foster home.

He saw things that no child should have to see and it created scars that no child should have to bear.

But the worst wound of all, one that never quite healed, was what was blurted out late one night when he was thirteen.

His latest foster mother was a shitty excuse for a human being, dragging home sub-humans from bars after leaving Simon alone and starving – the money that should have been being spent on feeding and clothing him instead being spent on shots and cigarettes.

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He became angry and withdrawn, understandably so.

And when he had the audacity to ask her for some food one night after she’d staggered in from the pub, reeking of vodka, sex and stale puke, she’d looked at him real funny.

She’d lit up a cigarette – after half a dozen attempts – and gave him that weird squinty look that he knew meant she was sauced and thus he would be walking on egg shells both now and in the morning when she was ‘fragile’.

‘We need to talk, honey,’ she drawled.

She patted him on the hand in her usual cold and loveless way.

Love was a four letter word in this home.

Still, the contact was nice.

‘What is it?’ he said.

She shushed him loudly, went hands-free on her smoke and began to scour the cupboards for something to eat.

When it became clear that there wasn’t anything there, she snapped at him, ‘Why haven’t you got any food in?’

‘I don’t have any fucking money, mam, aren’t you supposed to be providing the food for me?’

She went hard across his face with the back of her hand.

Her long, red false nails grabbed his chin, dug in hard enough to draw blood.

‘I got news for you, honey,’ this last word was spat out, as though it was a fly that had somehow gotten into her mouth. ‘I ain’t your mammy.’

His mouth gaped open.

He’d been here a long time, couldn’t remember being anywhere else, so this came as a real gut punch.

He struggled to find the words to express how he felt.

While he searched, her fingers nipped in again.

He winced at the pain.

He told her she was hurting him, but it made no difference.

‘Neither was the last poor bitch who got saddled with you. Nor the slut before her. And probably not the one before her either.’

His mouth flapped soundlessly. His eyes became hot and wet.

‘Ain’t you figured it out yet, honey?’ she said, a cruel grin creasing her features. ‘No one wants you. Not even your own mammy wanted you.’

He looked up at her, tears pouring down his cheeks.

‘What do you mean?’

She drunk in his sorrow like the cheap shots she downed in happy hour every night.

‘They say your mammy had two babies. Twins. She kept one. But she gave you away. Don’t you get it? Even your own mother was disgusted by you. And who could blame her? Look at the state of you. You’re pathetic.’

‘You’re lying,’ Simon said, chest heaving, tears plopping to the floor around him.

‘I’m ecstatic to say I’m not.’

She was dumbfounded by the rage in his reply.

‘You fucking slut,’ he said, his eyes blazing. His face became a mask of rage.

She slapped him hard, slamming his lips against his teeth, reopening the wound from a few nights ago.

‘You little faggot. How dare you speak to me like that.’

The taste of his own blood seemed to really tip him over the edge of the abyss.

He flew at her like a wild man, fingers splayed.

She was startled by the ferocity of his response.

‘You slut,’ he hissed through clenched teeth. ‘How dare you treat a child like this.’

His hands sought her throat.

She slapped them away but they came back much stronger.

She retreated fast, tripping over the mess of takeaway boxes that covered the carpet.

She landed, legs splayed, on her back.

He caught a flash of her bare arse and frowned even more.

‘You’re diseased,’ he hissed. ‘Riddled with the semen of a hundred men.’

She tried to get to her feet but he shoved her back down.

She kicked out at him, but he grabbed her ankles and threw her legs to the side.

Before she could do anything else, he was sat on her chest.

He was a skinny kid – mostly due to the malnourishment he suffered while in her care, partly because that was the way he was built – but she still couldn’t shift his weight off her.

His hands grasped her throat tight enough to make her wheeze.

‘You fucking slut. You dirty fucking whore,’ he spat. His eyes had grown darker. Only madness dwelled behind them now.

She clawed at his arms, leaving bloody furrows in his skin, but it was to no avail.

Her chest began to heave.

As her arms came up to defend herself, he slammed her head into the floor, hard enough to make her see stars.

His thumbs crushed further into her windpipe.

‘Die, you fucking whore,’ he shouted, his spit showering her face.

He was like a boy possessed.

She tried to plead for her life, but he craved the terror and sorrow in her eyes.

He slammed her head into the floor, his grip sinking in ever deeper.

She’d been dead for some time when he finally let go.

He backed away, startled by what he’d done, but not sorry.

Not even a little bit sorry.

*

He stared at her for a while, blood racing around inside his head.

It was a weird feeling, but one he enjoyed.

He knew enough of the world to know that he’d done a bad thing, and that even though he was young, he could still be put in a young offender’s institute.

He wanted nothing to do with this.

So he packed up what few belongings he had and ran.

*

Simon had gone through his foster mother’s belongings before he left.

He’d been searching for money and had got the booby prize when he found less than a tenner in change in her top drawer.

But while searching, he found something arguably of more use to him.

Copies of the forms his late foster mother had filled in were there, among newspaper clippings with the articles that detailed Simon – or unidentified infant, as he was known in the local papers – being abandoned.

His full details were in there. His birth mother’s name was on one of the forms. He’d never known her name until now.

Also in there were papers detailing how much money his foster mother was being given to look after him.

He never saw a penny of it; had had to fight for every morsel of processed crap he’d ever been fed.

One more reason he was pleased he’d crushed the life out of her useless body.

But all that was child’s play in comparison to what he was going to do when he found the bitch who had volunteered him for this life of misery and suffering.