CHAPTERFOURTEEN
In Aldershot, Owen walked into the quiet side street where Woodham’s Independent Books was located. Hidden away from the national retailers in the main shopping area, and not trading online, it was a wonder Woodham’s survived on its local reputation alone.
With a pang of sudden sadness, Owen remembered his dad had first taken him there. Not intentionally. His dad was not a bookish man. More a man of action. His action that day had been to drag his five-year-old son off to town, away from the turmoil at home. Trail the boy through a few shops. Then, not by choice, fall into a dusty bookshop to shelter from the rain.
Owen remembered the moment, the sense of magic. All those books. He thought it probably changed his life. Maybe even saved him to some extent. Though what it saved him for, he had no idea.
By the time he was seven, Owen had become a regular visitor at Woodham’s. Often walking alone from home or diverting there when sent on an errand by his mother. He hadn’t cared he would be in trouble with her for getting back late because in the bookshop he always entered another safer, better world and Mr Woodham always seemed pleased to see him. He never minded him reading without buying, would often talk to Owen about the books. Sometimes, miraculously, he’d find a secondhand copy of something battered beyond selling, which then became a gift for Owen. Another addition to a growing library in his bedroom.
Owen had been convinced Mr Woodham, the rotund white-haired proprietor, was Father Christmas. An assumption the old gentleman seemed happy to maintain, and when he died three years ago, Owen had preferred to imagine Mr Woodham had returned to work with his elves. Delusional. But sometimes you needed to fool yourself to survive.
Woodham junior had taken over the shop. He must have been about forty, had a public school accent and wore three-piece tailoring more suited to a stockbroker or a lawyer. He’d continued the Woodham’s bibliophilic traditions with all the passion and generosity of his father, but with better organisational skills and fewer free books.
Welcomed by the tinkling of the shop bell, Owen’s nostrils twitched at the familiar smells of dust, paper, glue, cloth, cardboard, even leather. A strange sensory recipe, which could be nothing other than books, new and secondhand in large quantity. It was a homecoming. He was tempted to browse but knew he mustn’t. Today there was no time to waste. His mother’s Christmas present was awaiting collection. A book he’d ordered over the phone between lectures.
‘Only thing is, I’m in Sheffield,’ he’d said. ‘At university, I can’t collect it until the end of term, just before Christmas.’
‘No problem.’
‘Shall I send a cheque?’
‘No, no… pay when you collect it. We know you.’
‘Oh, thanks. Um, just one more thing… would it be possible to have it gift wrapped for Christmas?’
‘Of course. We’ll have it ready to go straight under the tree,’ Mr Woodham junior said.
Now, standing in the old shop, breathing its familiar scents and remembering the conversation, Owen wasn’t sure his mother would have a tree. Since Dad’s death, she’d done less and less at Christmas, not that she’d ever done much before. Sometimes Christmas seemed to pass her by as an event that happened to other people. But she had mentionedCross Stitchin her last letter to him back at the beginning of November, not specifically as a seasonal gift, just a book she might like to read. Someone had told her it was good. No doubt a well-meaning friend. One of the few who had the staying power to stand by Elizabeth Kingsley during her years of decline.
With the book paid for and stuffed into his rucksack, Owen walked the remaining mile to home at a brisk pace, not stopping to buy anything else along the way. He kept up a steady speed, ignoring the opticians, the charity shops, and the fast-food joints.
Narrowly avoiding a maniac boy-racer speeding in an old VW Golf, Owen crossed the road and walked on into a more residential area. Former army accommodation, the houses had been sold off to a private landlord in a government cost-saving exercise shortly after his father’s death. They’d stayed in the rental accommodation because his mother could not face the move. It was not an area an estate agent would find an easy sell now.
Owen thought of Bethan being driven home by her dad. He imagined them arriving in Laugharne, a pretty coastal town with its own castle. Quaint cottages, the sound of gulls, the smell of the sea. Her Christmas would be very different to his.
Turning right into Wellington Close, he saw his house. Halfway along on the right. He walked past the neighbouring properties, some still valiantly trying to make something of themselves. They had clean windows and fairy-lights in their Christmas trees. His own less welcoming home grew closer with every step. Though not the street’s most run-down property, Owen noticed number twenty-nine was scruffier than when he’d left it in September. The grey pebbledash was stained slimy black under the window frames. The unwashed windows were dull with grime, and the wet grass at the front had grown so long it was lying flat; defeated by the weight of rainwater. Ignoring a stomach sinking feeling, Owen paused by the gate hanging by one hinge and looked at the two up and two down box. His home. No fairy lights. No Christmas tree, not even an artificial one. Then he took the last remaining steps across the weed rimmed concrete flagstones, fumbling in his pocket for the door key.
Would his mum be in? Probably. She almost never went out. Too scared. Would she have done anything to prepare for Christmas? Maybe not. Most likely not. Best not to expect too much. He slotted the key into the lock and shoved at the door. It got stuck six inches ajar.
‘Mum?’ he called out. ‘You in? The door’s jammed.’ Owen pushed again. He was slender, but not slim enough to squeeze through the gap. He was big and strong. Brute force would have to do. He shouldered the door edge, taking care to avoid the half glazing. The door gave under his pressure, and he stumbled in. A heap of mail, several bills, a couple of catalogues all scuffed up into a pile between the door and the wall.
Owen shivered at the cold, worse inside the houses than out. Then his nostrils caught a strange, semi-sweet smell in the air. Mum was never a domestic goddess. He guessed it was time for him to get out the cleaning materials. He heaved the rucksack off his back, dumped it against the wall, shut the door and flicked the light switch. Nothing happened. Had she forgotten to pay the bill? Wouldn’t be the first time.
‘Welcome home, Owen,’ he muttered and turned to face the darkened hall.
What he saw in the shadows made no sense.
It looked like his dad’s old tow rope, secured somewhere out of sight on the upper level, stretched taut over the edge of the upstairs banister. The banister was broken, snapped and listing out into thin air. At the end of the line, hanging like a rag doll, a female body.
‘Iesu Grist!’ Owen seized the chair, which was always placed by the phone. He imagined his mother sitting limply on it when he called home. Had he not made enough calls?‘Christ. Oh, Jesus Christ!’He shoved the chair below the woman, but the seat was too low to provide support. Her pathetically small feet, shoeless and strangely purplish red, dangled in the air, toes pointing downward, inches above the seat.
Owen climbed onto the chair and put his arms around the rag-doll waist, taking the strain off the rope. She was icy cold. He shuddered.
Mustn’t puke. Keep calm.‘What do I do? Christ, what do I do? What have you done, mum?’One limp arm swung, nudging him with unusual tenderness.
‘Mum?’
She didn’t answer.Had he expected her to?
Face beneath her chin, Owen looked up. ‘Mum, what have you done?’
She still didn’t answer. Her dark hair, lank, streaked with grey, hung limply and brushed his forehead. Their eyes met. Her clouded pupils stared at him in blank disinterest from conjunctivas reddened with burst blood vessels. Somewhere inside, Owen thought he was screaming, but he heard no sound, except for the thudding of his heart and rushing of blood in his ears. The pain in his head intensified to the brink of explosion.
‘Mum, Mum, Mum…’ he said, angling himself as he supported her weight against his hip, and with his free hand, fumbled for his phone. ‘Why? Why now?’ Owen leant his head against her chest and called the emergency services. Then he phoned George. There was no one else.
