The Mother's Mistake: A totally gripping psychological thriller Read online

  The Mother's Mistake

  A totally gripping psychological thriller

  Ruth Heald

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Hear more from Ruth

  A Letter from Ruth

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  The day was a painter’s dream. Vibrant colours. Bright, cloudless sky. Green, leafy trees reflected in a sparkling river. An inviting morning, brimming with expectation of the summer’s day ahead: laughter as families picnicked on the riverbanks, children screaming at the unexpected chill of the water, a line of jostling tourists, competing for the best angle to take a photo.

  I felt like time should stop when I saw her. But it didn’t. The birds continued to chirp as if it were any other morning.

  My breath caught in my throat.

  She was tangled in the reeds. They had wrapped around her pale arm, the current pulling it insistently away from her body until the shoulder had dislocated and the arm bent backwards at the elbow, like a plastic doll manipulated by a child. The rest of her was under the water’s surface, bobbing.

  Even if time had stopped it wouldn’t have been enough. To correct things, to put things right, time would have had to go backwards. Stop me, before I started the chain of events that led me there, to the riverbank, watching helplessly as the little girl was pulled from the water.

  A policeman was wading across the river, the water parting for him, the drag of the current no match for his strong legs.

  He lifted her out, reached into her mouth and felt around for any debris, then tipped her upside down and thumped her on the back. Too hard. A spurt of water came out of her mouth and my heart lifted to my throat.

  ‘Breathe,’ I urged her. ‘Breathe!’

  His colleague reached out from the riverbank to take her from his arms. He handled her roughly as if she were little more than a doll. I fought to get closer, unfamiliar fingers gripping my forearm and pulling me back. But my anger quickly turned to despair. Her glassy eyes seemed to lock with mine. Her soul had already left her.

  A scream scattered the birds and it was only when my knees sank to the muddy ground and my fingers dug into the soil that I realised it was coming from me.

  ‘No!’

  But it was too late. There was nothing I could do but watch as the police officer desperately tried to revive her, performing mouth-to-mouth and chest compressions on the riverside for a good ten minutes, before he let the paramedic take over and collapsed to the ground beside her, stroking her wet hair away from her face. As the paramedic pushed down into her small body, it jumped and shuddered at the force, her chest moving with his hands, pliant and lifeless.

  I’d have done anything to hear her cry, but the only wails were from the police sirens, as car after car arrived, lights flashing with anticipation.

  One

  The car’s wheels crunch against the gravel as we pull up in front of the limestone cottage. Miles of countryside behind us and we’re here. The perfect home for our little family. A shiver of excitement runs through me and I smile as I open the car door and the fresh country air engulfs me. This is the new start I’ve longed for.

  Luckily for us, our daughter Olivia is abnormally calm. She’s slept the whole two hours from our flat in London. I gently unstrap her from the baby seat and lift her out, holding her up to see the cottage for the first time. She whimpers as she wakes, squinting against the bright winter sun.

  Matt gets out of the car and puts his arm around me. I breathe in the cold, crisp air, feel it tingle on the back of my throat. None of the grit of London.

  ‘Happy?’ Matt asks, squeezing my arm.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, and joy wraps around me like a blanket. Already the past seems further away, a distant memory. Now is a new beginning, the start of our life together as a family. Only the future matters.

  The removal van swings into the driveway, as my mother-in-law appears from the path down the side of the building, which leads to her house at the back of the cottage.

  ‘Claire,’ she says, giving me a brief hug before taking Olivia from my arms. She presses my baby to her chest and declares that she is the prettiest little thing she has ever seen.

  I grin at Ruth. We’re lucky to have her. She’s letting us live in her mother’s cottage rent-free, so that we can save up for our own place.

  Ruth looks doubtfully at the removal van. ‘You’ve got a lot of things.’

  ‘It’s mainly baby stuff,’ I say, taking Olivia back into my arms as we watch the men unload the cot onto the gravel.

  ‘We’ll have to see if it all fits.’

  I laugh as I look at the cottage. It’s four times the size of our flat.

  ‘I’ll open up,’ Ruth says as she leads us to the front door. Weeds have taken over the garden and are starting to spread from the flowerbeds across the doorstep. I imagine Matt and me spending a day with our hands in the soil, planting seeds in the sunshine, Olivia watching from her pram.

  My heart thuds as Ruth pulls out a set of keys and tries each one in turn. I can’t wait to see inside.

  Olivia starts to grumble and I rub her back. She’s hungry. As soon as we get inside I’ll feed her.

  One of Ruth’s keys finally fits the lock and twists uneasily.

  As I step over the threshold, I cough. Damp and dust and mould. The air festers. I put my hand over Olivia’s mouth.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, as I take everything in.

  Shoes sit on the shoe rack, coats hang expectantly, and there’s a letter on the ledge by the door, waiting to be posted. An umbrella left out long ago to dry is covered in a layer of dust. The beige stair-lift waits patiently for its owner.

  Pamela, Ruth’s mother, died of a heart attack three months ago.

  ‘I haven’t been in for a while,’ Ruth explains, as she gathers up piles of letters into her arms from the carpet. ‘Who’d have thought there’d be so much post?’ she says to herself.

  I hadn’t expected this. I’m sure Ruth said she’d clear the house for us.

  I step around her and look for a place to breastfeed Olivia. A plastic mobility walker blocks the entrance to a living room. I push it aside, go in and perch on the edge of the floral sofa. I adjust my top and put Olivia to my dry, cracked nipple. She fights at first, knocking me away. I reposition her until s
he eventually latches on and I wince. When she suckles vigorously, I sigh with relief. Olivia and I have both struggled with breastfeeding, but I am determined to make it work. The health visitor said it will help build the bond between us.

  I look around the living room. The mantelpiece is crowded with dusty ornaments and photographs. A book lies open on the coffee table. The house is untouched since Pamela left and I feel like an uninvited guest. Matt brings me a cup of tea in a floral mug, and Ruth whisks out a mat to put it on.

  ‘We’ll have to buy some milk,’ Matt says apologetically, but I sip the tea gratefully, taking care to hold it as far away as possible from my baby. It calms me.

  ‘Full of antiques, this cottage,’ Ruth says. ‘I know I can trust you both to take care of everything.’

  I imagine Olivia as a toddler, zooming round the cottage, causing havoc.

  ‘We might need to move some things,’ I say. I’ve spent the last week looking at furniture online. I’d thought we’d finally be able to choose our own.

  ‘I don’t know where you’ll move things to,’ Ruth replies.

  I’m about to mention her huge house at the end of the garden, but I catch the look Matt gives me and say nothing.

  One of the removal men comes in, out of breath. ‘Where shall I put the boxes?’ he asks. I look round the cluttered room.

  ‘Upstairs?’ I suggest.

  Ruth leads the man away, and finally Matt, Olivia and I are alone. I let myself relax and take in my surroundings. It won’t take long to clear the room and put up some pictures. We can make the cottage our own.

  There’s a sudden crash from upstairs, and my muscles tense instinctively. I see the teacup in my hand turning over. A scream escapes my mouth as the hot liquid splashes over my jeans. The cup falls to the carpet.

  Ruth shouts at the removal men upstairs as Olivia screams. Matt rushes over, and I run my hands over Olivia, praying that the tea hasn’t caught her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say to Matt, tears welling up in my eyes.

  I could have burned her. I could have scarred my child.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Matt replies, his arm round my shoulder. ‘One of the men must have dropped something. It made you jump.’

  I can hear the edge of accusation in his voice. He hadn’t jumped at the noise. If it had been him holding the tea, it wouldn’t have spilt.

  Everything makes me jump these days.

  I’d hoped that would change when we moved to the countryside. But no matter how far I move, there are some things I’ll never escape.

  I cover the side of my face with my hands, peering out through my fingers as I anticipate his next blow. My cheek is cold against the kitchen tiles. I lie where I’ve fallen, not daring to move in case I anger him further.

  Here it comes.

  I feel the connection with skin, the crack of bone. The sensation is entirely physical. My mind is numb. Emotionless. But the punch is hard and I stuff my hand into my mouth to stop the instinctive scream. My daughter is sleeping upstairs.

  I’m a trapped animal, frozen to the spot, as he lets out his anger, punch by punch. I deserve this. I’ve tried my best to please him, to be the perfect wife and mother, but I’m still not good enough. I’ll never be good enough. My scars prove it. My black and blue body proves it. He can never hate me as much as I hate myself. I am nothing. No one. I lie still and let him finish, tiring himself out.

  When his energy has dried up, he gives me one final, half-hearted kick in the ribs. Then he goes over to the counter and pours himself a glass of red wine, the expensive one he bought at Duty Free when he flew back from Buenos Aires last year. He leaves the room and I listen to his footsteps on the stairs.

  When I hear the door of his study shut and I’m certain he’s gone for the night, I stand up shakily. I wince as I put my weight on my left leg. I must have bruised it when I fell. Habitually, I check each limb still works, cataloguing my list of aches and pains in my head. The old injuries are healing, the new ones will take time. My body is in an endless cycle of injury and recovery. It’s getting more and more difficult to lift my daughter without wincing.

  I go to the hallway to look in the mirror. I observe my face critically, as if it’s a painting. My eye is black and there is a new bruise on my cheek. An older bruise on my other cheek has faded to yellow. I’d kidded myself that it would soon be faint enough for me to cover it with make-up and go out to the supermarket or even to a mothers’ group. But he’s made sure that’s impossible. I can’t go out like this.

  For a moment, I let myself imagine fresh air tingling against my skin, my face turned up to the sun. But the idea of freedom is just a fantasy that I indulge myself in from time to time. Because I haven’t left the house for months.

  I’m completely trapped.

  Two

  Olivia’s screams get louder. All I want to do is read my book about baby sleep patterns, but I can’t even manage that. I’m still only on page two. I’m never going to figure out how to make her sleep at night at this rate. Even before Olivia started screaming, I couldn’t concentrate. My mind is so jumbled with thoughts of everything that needs doing, and worries about how I’m going to cope with looking after Olivia. I’d hoped that the relaxed atmosphere of the countryside would rub off on me and I’d form a better bond with my daughter. But even trying to read the parenting books is fruitless. I never get a moment to myself.

  The sofa is an island amongst stacks of brown removal boxes. There’s so much to unpack but nowhere to put it. Every drawer is crammed full with Pamela’s things. Ruth says she plans to go through everything herself, one item at a time. But she’s not emotionally ready yet. In the meantime, we stumble and trip and manoeuvre around the piles of boxes in every room. We are in transition, waiting. Everything in the house is dulled by a layer of dust. Once the house is clear of Pamela’s things and we’ve unpacked so we can see the carpet, I’ll give every inch of every room a thorough scrub.

  The screams get louder. My back twinges in sympathy. My body hasn’t realigned itself since the pregnancy. My spine isn’t straight, my posture is off. I’m constantly leaning over, to change nappies, to comfort Olivia, to bath her. It shocks me how we all do this. Mothers everywhere. We bend down in reverence to our children, bow at their feet, as if they are the demigods we have to pray to, to keep our lives in order.

  The screams have stopped. She’s dead. The thought enters my consciousness and I know I should dismiss it, but I can’t. I imagine finding Olivia trapped between the cot and the wall, unable to take a breath. Terror shudders through me.

  I rush up the stairs, squeezing past the stairlift.

  Olivia is sound asleep in her cot, her toy bunny next to her, in Pamela’s spare bedroom. I sigh with relief. Her face is still damp from her tears and I want to touch her cheek and wipe them away, but I daren’t in case she wakes.

  The battered bed next to the cot calls to me. The black paint has peeled off the metal frame, and the mattress sags in the middle, but I’m exhausted and it looks like the most welcoming bed in the world. I give in and ease myself onto it, as gently as possible so I don’t disturb Olivia. The spring in the middle creaks as it digs into my spine and a faint smell of damp rises out of the mattress as it gives in to my weight. I don’t care. Just five minutes sleep, five seconds.

  The doorbell rings.

  There is a pause, a moment of stillness so complete that I have to hold my breath in order not to interrupt it. Then the doorbell rings again and Olivia’s screams pierce the air.

  I thump the pillow beside me and swing my legs over the side of the bed. There’s no way my baby will go back to sleep now. I pick her up and hold her to my chest, rocking her back and forth.

  The doorbell rings for the third time.

  ‘Coming,’ I shout. Perhaps it’s Ruth, checking up on me. I must get down the stairs before she lets herself in with her key. On our very first evening in the cottage, she came in while we were putting Olivia to bed. We’d found her in the
living room, rummaging through a cupboard, looking for a DVD she’d lent Pamela before she died.

  The visitor is silhouetted in the frosted pane of the door. A flash of red. Too tall to be Ruth.

  I open the door and a woman in a smart red coat smiles at me warmly and offers a manicured hand. In her other arm she carries a small baby snuggled up in a coat exactly the same shade of red as her mother’s.

  ‘Hi,’ she says. ‘I’m Emma. I live down the road.’

  I manage to return the smile as I reach out my hand, juggling Olivia as she fidgets on my hip. I feel embarrassed by the dried baby sick on the shoulder of my oversized jumper and wonder how Emma manages to look so immaculate, with her poker-straight blonde hair and expensive clothes.

  ‘Claire,’ I say and Olivia screams, as if she needs to join the conversation. Emma’s baby stares at the sky, oblivious to everything going on around it. I push my curly brown hair behind my ears, hoping I remembered to brush it this morning.

  I’m sure Emma must think I’m a mess, but she doesn’t seem to notice. ‘I’m so glad someone else with a baby has moved in,’ she says excitedly. ‘I saw the removal van the other day and I thought I must introduce myself. You’re Ruth’s daughter, aren’t you?’

  ‘Her daughter-in-law,’ I correct quickly.