she explodes. ‘Ruth, he would never do something like this, not in a million years. How can you even think . . . He’s innocent. I know my son. It’s a terrible mistake. I don’t know what they’re playing at, but they’ve got the wrong man.’ She stops, and I don’t say anything.
When she speaks again, she is quieter, more measured, though I can hear high emotion trembling at the fringes of her words. ‘Ruth, honestly, Jack did not hurt Lizzie. He adored her. He needs us to believe in him, to stand by him until the truth comes out.’
‘No,’ I say flatly.
‘Ruth—’
‘No. You can do what you like.’
‘You can’t just condemn him outright. He’s—’
‘It won’t be up to me, will it?’ I say.
‘Until we know the truth . . .’
I think of Tony’s reaction after your arrest, his reluctance to believe your guilt:
Have you taken leave of your senses?
How I argued that I’d seen first-hand your impulse to run away, that surge of animal energy when you were cornered. How the hard facts meant you were far more likely to be responsible than an elusive stalker or some unidentified stranger.
Perhaps Marian has to believe in you, because she is your mother. I try to twist it round, imagine Lizzie accused of violence, of murder, but fail. I have not had a son; would that would be different, bring a different perspective? So easy to blame the women, isn’t it? Blame Marian for some fault in your upbringing, some problem relating to women. Or blame Lizzie for an affair, like Tony suggested, or some provocation.
Perhaps Marian dares not allow that it might be you because of the cost to her. Parents will do anything for their children, after all. Destroy evidence, invent alibis, lie under oath. Only this year there’s been the Rhys Jones case. A schoolboy shot as he played out on his bike. The killer’s mother lied to the police and was charged with perverting the course of justice.
‘Jack has never been in trouble in his life,’ Marian says. ‘You’re so wrong. I simply don’t understand how you can choose to believe for one moment—’
‘Marian, it’s not something I’ve chosen. It’s a gut feeling. As soon as they arrested him, I knew. He tried to run away.’
‘That’s just ridiculous.’ Now she’s arsey, aggressive, telling me off. ‘You’re just going to abandon him?’
Any restraint snaps. ‘He killed my daughter! Too bloody right I’m abandoning him. I hope he rots in jail.’ I hang up.
‘Nana,’ Florence calls out from the living room. I close my eyes for a moment, then go through to her.
She’s lying on the floor, hands by her sides, eyes half open; she shuts them tight when I come in.
‘Where’s Florence?’ I say, pretending I can’t see her. She loves hide-and-seek. Though she usually picks slightly better hiding places.
‘I’m here,’ she says. ‘Look!’
‘What are you doing down there?’
‘I being dead.’
Fuck! My stomach plummets. I stamp down the urge to haul her up, to tell her to stop it. A flurry of uncertainty: should I ask her more, give her a chance to talk, or explain again what dead is, what’s happened to Lizzie? See if she really understands? But I’m not ready, too wound up.
‘Are you now? That’s sad. So you won’t want any fish fingers then?’
Her eyes fly open. ‘Yes!’ she says.
‘How many? Three?’
‘Two. No, three.’ She gets up and rubs her nose on her sleeve.
I will have to tell her about you, as well. She must be confused. The scene in the kitchen, her brave attempt to protect you, to keep you. My lie about you working. I need help. No doubt there is advice online from bereavement charities about explaining death to a four-year-old. But I doubt there’s much about explaining that the police think Daddy did it. That Daddy killed Mummy.
She adores you.
And I will destroy that.
Ruth
CHAPTER NINETEEN
17 Brinks Avenue
Manchester
M19 6FX
Rebecca is here. When I open the door, she starts talking, saying
When she speaks again, she is quieter, more measured, though I can hear high emotion trembling at the fringes of her words. ‘Ruth, honestly, Jack did not hurt Lizzie. He adored her. He needs us to believe in him, to stand by him until the truth comes out.’
‘No,’ I say flatly.
‘Ruth—’
‘No. You can do what you like.’
‘You can’t just condemn him outright. He’s—’
‘It won’t be up to me, will it?’ I say.
‘Until we know the truth . . .’
I think of Tony’s reaction after your arrest, his reluctance to believe your guilt:
Have you taken leave of your senses?
How I argued that I’d seen first-hand your impulse to run away, that surge of animal energy when you were cornered. How the hard facts meant you were far more likely to be responsible than an elusive stalker or some unidentified stranger.
Perhaps Marian has to believe in you, because she is your mother. I try to twist it round, imagine Lizzie accused of violence, of murder, but fail. I have not had a son; would that would be different, bring a different perspective? So easy to blame the women, isn’t it? Blame Marian for some fault in your upbringing, some problem relating to women. Or blame Lizzie for an affair, like Tony suggested, or some provocation.
Perhaps Marian dares not allow that it might be you because of the cost to her. Parents will do anything for their children, after all. Destroy evidence, invent alibis, lie under oath. Only this year there’s been the Rhys Jones case. A schoolboy shot as he played out on his bike. The killer’s mother lied to the police and was charged with perverting the course of justice.
‘Jack has never been in trouble in his life,’ Marian says. ‘You’re so wrong. I simply don’t understand how you can choose to believe for one moment—’
‘Marian, it’s not something I’ve chosen. It’s a gut feeling. As soon as they arrested him, I knew. He tried to run away.’
‘That’s just ridiculous.’ Now she’s arsey, aggressive, telling me off. ‘You’re just going to abandon him?’
Any restraint snaps. ‘He killed my daughter! Too bloody right I’m abandoning him. I hope he rots in jail.’ I hang up.
‘Nana,’ Florence calls out from the living room. I close my eyes for a moment, then go through to her.
She’s lying on the floor, hands by her sides, eyes half open; she shuts them tight when I come in.
‘Where’s Florence?’ I say, pretending I can’t see her. She loves hide-and-seek. Though she usually picks slightly better hiding places.
‘I’m here,’ she says. ‘Look!’
‘What are you doing down there?’
‘I being dead.’
Fuck! My stomach plummets. I stamp down the urge to haul her up, to tell her to stop it. A flurry of uncertainty: should I ask her more, give her a chance to talk, or explain again what dead is, what’s happened to Lizzie? See if she really understands? But I’m not ready, too wound up.
‘Are you now? That’s sad. So you won’t want any fish fingers then?’
Her eyes fly open. ‘Yes!’ she says.
‘How many? Three?’
‘Two. No, three.’ She gets up and rubs her nose on her sleeve.
I will have to tell her about you, as well. She must be confused. The scene in the kitchen, her brave attempt to protect you, to keep you. My lie about you working. I need help. No doubt there is advice online from bereavement charities about explaining death to a four-year-old. But I doubt there’s much about explaining that the police think Daddy did it. That Daddy killed Mummy.
She adores you.
And I will destroy that.
Ruth
CHAPTER NINETEEN
17 Brinks Avenue
Manchester
M19 6FX
Rebecca is here. When I open the door, she starts talking, saying
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