No Remorse (Short Story)

  About the Book

  What would you risk for the one you love?

  Catherine has returned to the sleepy Lake District town of Windermere, after ten years away. Once successful and wealthy, she’s shunned by her old friends and desperate for work.

  But there’s someone that’s keeping her here . . . and something that she’s got to do before she leaves for ever . . .

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  No Remorse

  About the Author

  Also by Paula Daly

  Copyright

  Before today, I have been forced to beg only once in my life, and the circumstances could not have been more different from this.

  ‘Catherine,’ he says, sighing, ‘oh, Catherine. How many others did you try before me?’

  The office is dingy and soiled, the air contaminated with diesel fumes from the adjoining warehouse. A lone filing cabinet stands alongside his desk, its lowest drawer dented from being kicked shut.

  ‘Two,’ I reply.

  Sceptically, he raises his eyebrows. ‘Only two?’

  ‘Okay, nine.’

  He smiles, unoffended, and studies the printout before him. Apart from some loosening of the flesh around his jaw and two wads of fat below his eyes, he is the same. He wears the same crumpled suit: too big on the shoulders, too short in the arms.

  ‘Your skills are certainly up to date,’ he says. ‘In fact, you’re actually overqualified. And I see you’ve taken care of yourself. You look good, Catherine. But then you always were nicely turned out.’

  I nod, accepting the compliment even though he is wrong. Under my woollen overcoat I wear a sheer blouse, yellowed beneath the arms from continual use, and my once good trousers are thinned at the knee. My shoes are also dated. Dated and scuffed at the heel.

  ‘You know I’d love to help,’ he says.

  ‘Then help.’

  ‘This is a family business; I depend on the community for trade. If folk get wind of you working here, Catherine . . .’ He pauses, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Well, who knows what would happen?’

  I stand.

  Forcing a smile, I extend my hand across the desk. ‘Thank you for your time, Bill,’ I say, not meeting his eye. ‘I understand it’s difficult. I understand you can’t take the risk.’

  And he rises. Leans in, wrapping both hands around mine, squeezing gently. ‘No,’ he replies softly, ‘I can’t.’

  When I try to pull away, he holds me fast. ‘Why’d you come back, Catherine? Surely it’d be easier in another town?’

  I shake my head as though that’s not an option and he releases my hand, walks around the desk and comes to stand face to face.

  ‘Take care now, love.’

  It’s my signal to leave, so I dust down my coat. I keep my eyes low to try to spare Bill from further embarrassment.

  ‘I’m sure something’ll turn up,’ he adds.

  I go to move, then hesitate. This was my last hope. ‘Bill, please,’ I whisper. ‘Isn’t there anything you can do?’

  ‘There’s not.’

  I lift my head, meeting his gaze. ‘But I’m begging you.’

  ‘I know you are. I know you are, love,’ he says.

  Outside, a sharp January wind funnels through Windermere high street. I turn up my collar, lift my chin and stride along the road as if I have every right to be here. My demeanour shouts confidence. I have the look of the wronged politician’s wife, the woman who will not show weakness even though her world is crumbling.

  I set my focus ahead, estimating that there are approximately three hundred steps between here and the safety of home.

  Home.

  Oakleigh House is the last place I’d imagined I would end up. Not the kind of dwelling I’d envisioned for myself at forty-six.

  A woman shuffles towards me, loaded with shopping. There is something familiar about her, but I can’t recall what so pretend I’m distracted. Wearing a mask of vague confusion I look straight through her, as if I have so much on my mind I’m oblivious to the life around me.

  She stops. Regards me with a fury that seems to have come from nowhere and says, ‘You’ve got a bloody cheek.’

  Before I can answer, before I can register her words, she drops her bags at her feet. The contents spill across the pavement and pedestrians gather, thinking she’s in need of assistance. She’s oblivious to their concern. She is busy jabbing her index finger into my left breast. ‘Get back where you came from,’ she hisses. ‘Climb right back down that hole and get away from here.’

  I am too embarrassed to speak. I watch as a can of Heinz Mulligatawny rolls into the road, causing a motorist to swerve.

  ‘Sorry,’ I stammer. ‘I’m so sorry,’ and she stares back at me, indignant.

  Cheeks burning, I hurry away.

  Two hundred steps.

  Back at Oakleigh, inside the bedsit, I realize the woman is Judy Harper. I’m ashamed I didn’t recognize her as she used to be my cleaner. Judy worked at my house three mornings a week for well over two years. I’m a little thrown by her hostile reception because as far as I recall she has no direct reason to hate me. But, as Bill pointed out, who knows what will happen when people catch on? I’m starting to grasp that I might be unprepared for the potential backlash from this once sedate and dignified community.

  I remove my blouse, slip out of my trousers and change into my other outfit: jeans, sweatshirt and trainers. I’m in the habit of pulling the sweatshirt low over my hips in the manner of a body-conscious teenager. The jeans are from the Save the Children charity shop and are a throwback to the early nineties. High-waisted and stonewashed, they are a total disaster – but at a cost of sixty pence, and with the sweatshirt to cover up the worst of them, I make do.

  I lie on the bed, close my eyes, and begin the diaphragmatic breathing that has kept me sane for the past decade. Within minutes, sleep approaches. Sleep is my escape. When there is no escape, sleep is your friend. My limbs sink into the mattress, my eyes roll back, my jaw slackens, just as the banging begins from below. It’s worse than usual, the occupant sounding out what appear to be familiar songs and rhythms. I have complained, but I’m told there is nothing to be done.

  I’m in a sort of halfway house – although they don’t call it that. As with everything affecting individuals on the margins of society, those in charge see fit to change names and titles every so often in an attempt to destigmatize. It doesn’t work. It simply confuses the public, making them more outraged when they finally comprehend that they’ve been conned.

  The banging continues and I cover my ears. I was told not to confront the gentleman downstairs, who suffers from episodes of debilitating depression. ‘He’s not considered dangerous,’ the officer laughed when I enquired about the noise, ‘but it’s probably not wise to antagonize him unnecessarily.’ I have been in this shared property for eleven days and I am yet to see the man’s face. He leaves under the cover of darkness, takes off in his car – a boxy Kia which I assume was bequeathed by Motability – returning before dawn. It is always around one in the afternoon that the pounding starts.

  I fix myself some lunch – two boiled eggs, one slice of toast, an apple – and turn up the volume on the radio alarm at the side of the sofa bed. Everything a person needs is contained inside this space. Bedroom, living area and kitchen are one. The bathroom is adjoining, fitted into a small closet that once housed the hot-water cylinder. Everything is reduced to the absolute basics, but it is warm and clean and safe.

  There is some respite from the noise as I eat. There are no eggcups, so I must hold the hot egg inside the tea towel whilst spooning out the contents. Opening the second egg, I am satisfied to see it’s gloriously r
unny, only just cooked, exactly as I like it. I eat this same lunch every day and have become an expert in timings, removing my second egg from the pan forty-five seconds before the first, so it is perfectly cooked by the time I eat it. For a seventy-pence lunch I can remain full until evening.

  I check my watch again.

  Even though I know exactly what time I must leave, I run through the logistics once more. Five minutes to get ready, twenty-five minutes to walk to my destination, arriving ten minutes early just in case. I’ve toyed with the idea of making an earlier reconnaissance at lunch, but I’m nervous of attracting attention.

  The banging resumes.

  This time, I feel it directly beneath my feet. The occupier of the room below is thrusting something hard against his ceiling – the narrow end of a broom, perhaps. The rhythm is uneven, seven beats then eight, and the asymmetry gnaws at me until I am forced to leave the room and descend the stairs. I hesitate for a moment before knocking on his door.

  Ten feet along the hallway another door opens an inch and I see an eye. I go to ask the elderly woman who lives there if she knows what the noise is all about, when she closes the door without a sound. A bolt slides across.

  Tentatively, I knock on the man’s door.

  No answer.

  I knock again. Firmer this time.

  The door opens wide and the man I’ve seen only from my attic window stands before me, expressionless. He is remarkably unattractive: bulging eyes, thick acned neck, hairline sitting a mere inch above his brow. He wears a polyester tracksuit top – a football club’s emblem on the chest – and has the cocky stance of a petty criminal who regards himself to be above the law.

  ‘You’re banging,’ I say to him.

  No response. His wet lips remain closed.

  ‘You’re banging on my ceiling,’ I repeat.

  ‘You’re banging on my door.’

  ‘Because you’re banging on my ceiling.’

  ‘I tell you what,’ he says, giving me an ugly smile, ‘clear off now, and I won’t put your head through the fucking ceiling.’

  I make my way to the school, the northerly wind in my face. I wear my awful jeans, trainers, and an ankle-length, belted Aquascutum overcoat. The incongruous outfit makes for a bizarre picture, particularly since I have my wallet, keys, tissues and other detritus contained inside a Tesco’s carrier bag. When I bought the overcoat, Aquascutum was a place I shopped at regularly. I would spend the day in Manchester, buying new winter boots at Russell & Bromley, woollen dresses and suits at Hobbs, heading to Kendal’s for a bite to eat, perhaps buying Julian a tie or some aftershave. Now Aquascutum has gone and so has Julian. The coat was one of the few remaining possessions handed back to me. Everything else – the objects that told the world who I was, that demonstrated my place within society – was reduced to the bare minimum.

  All except one thing.

  And that’s the one thing I can’t reclaim. The thing that, no matter how I turn my life around, I can never have back.

  Elizabeth.

  Let me tell you about Elizabeth. She came early. She was a preemie, a prem, preterm. Lots of different names for a doll of a child. She stayed in hospital for ten weeks – her lungs wouldn’t open, she had no surfactant. They were like the tiny wet wings of a butterfly. Julian and I rented a cottage in Lancaster near the hospital so that we could be with her, and for a while time was suspended. It’s funny, the things that fall away when you’re dealing with something like that. As adults we are addicted to routines. Our routines come to define us. We go to work the same way, wash our body parts in the shower in the same order, arrange our meals, our hair, our lives. A sick child stops all that. A sick child who might not make it changes everything. My whole world fragmented and I barely noticed.

  At three months old, Elizabeth weighed just under 6 lbs. When well-meaning people asked how old she was, I would lie, saying she was a newborn, because I became tired of their questions. All I wanted to do was carry Elizabeth next to my heart and gaze at her. Anything which stopped me from this was not worth doing.

  The last picture I have of her is at four. We were on the shingled beach at Silecroft and Elizabeth had spent the morning playing with her miniature Teletubbies, placing them inside cups, inside her socks – which doubled up nicely as sleeping bags. She was still in the habit of crouching low as she played, her skinny rump brushing the pebbles beneath, something her friends had ceased to do, and I could watch her for hours as she talked and generally bossed those poor Teletubbies into submission.

  The photo shows her squatting in a floppy denim hat, her yellow curls peeping out from beneath, frowning as she watches a black and white Collie bark at the advancing waves. Later, that same Collie, after zigzagging madly along the beach, its nose to the ground following a scent, came to rest beside Elizabeth. And she reached out, cupping her hand beneath its chin with the same gentleness, the same care and concentration you’d use to catch a feather.

  That was ten years ago.

  Elizabeth was fostered for eighteen months by three different families in and around Carlisle and returned to the Lake District when a couple from Ambleside adopted her. Both my parents were dead, and my brother, stationed at the time in Dusseldorf, flatly refused to take her. It was a closed adoption with consent – those were the terms offered and I accepted. It was not a difficult decision. The alternative – a life in foster care, no guarantee of a proper family for Elizabeth – was enough for me to put my own needs aside in an instant. And with a concrete wall surrounding me for the whole of her childhood, it wasn’t exactly difficult to keep my distance. Freedom, on the other hand, has presented more of a challenge. The thought that she is barely a bus ride away torments me to the point where I am unable to breathe.

  I’ve been telling myself I need just a glimpse. One good look at her to know she’s doing okay, then I can move on. I’ve not received any news of Elizabeth for over four years. Before that I would receive one letter per year, in accordance with the Letterbox scheme. The scheme was created to help mothers in prison, the adoptees and their families. It was found that without factual information, children tend to romanticize their pasts, and it can be damaging in later life when they find out their mother is not in fact Madonna, after all, but a strung-out smack addict who left her child unattended for days. The letters pass through Social Services and though I got word that Denise Farley was finding the process too distressing to go on with – writing about Elizabeth’s news and development – I continued to write. I tried to give Elizabeth explanations, not excuses. I told her I loved her, but had had no choice. I told her I thought of her every day and that she was never, ever forgotten.

  Over the years, I have become resigned to the fact that it’s unlikely Denise handed over my letters, and though I requested it many times, she could never quite bring herself to provide me with a photograph of Elizabeth.

  As I near the school I cast around furtively, checking for anyone in authority who may notice my presence. I pick a spot to stand – across the road from where I was yesterday. I alternate so as not to arouse suspicion. There are plenty of parents arriving in cars, but the only other person on foot is an outdoorsy type of woman with a black Labrador. She strides down the hill towards me full of vigour and good purpose, as if to say that though she has a clear calendar, she dilly-dallies for no one.

  A double-decker bus passes. It does a slow, careful three-point turn before pulling alongside the kerb twenty yards away. This is the Ambleside bus. I worked that out a few days ago when I watched it turn left at the end of the road and set off towards the village. I didn’t see Elizabeth board. Of course it’s possible that she’s not been in school. Or perhaps she stays behind late to play netball or hockey. For all I know, she could be at chess club.

  Children pour out of the main doors and the area is awash with navy uniforms. Three girls walk towards me – very overweight, dyed black hair, their roots growing through in various shades of mousy brown. Each wears wrecked balle
t pumps on her feet. When I was inside, I would pore over images in the press of models and celebrities, each averaging a weight of around seven stone. Women in the public eye have definitely become thinner in the last ten years. Each morning I would read in both the broadsheets and red tops about the pressures girls face today from the bombardment of sculpted images, Photoshopped thighs. I left prison expecting to see hoards of emaciated, bug-eyed teenage girls following suit. Girls dropping like flies in the street from hunger and dehydration. It’s been quite an eye-opener to witness the abundance of overweight teenagers, apparently quite unconcerned about their weight.

  The bus driver has yet to open his doors and I watch as the three girls apply black lipstick to one another as they wait. I rise on to my tiptoes, craning my neck to see over them in an attempt to spot Elizabeth. My eyes flit to the bus driver. He is regarding me with cool detachment.

  I hang around for another five minutes, waiting for the stragglers to exit the school. When there is no sign of Elizabeth, I head towards home, my heart heavy again with disappointment. I’m just about to cross the road when an unremarkable grey car pulls up alongside, the driver signalling for me to wait. The driver turns off her lights and grabs her coat from the back seat, before removing a band from around her wrist and pulling her hair into an untidy ponytail. Shrugging on her jacket, she walks around the bonnet of the car, withdrawing a wallet from an inside pocket. Very discreetly, she shows me her warrant card, and I nod in response.

  ‘Catherine Rhodes?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘DC Joanne Aspinall. Can I offer you a lift home?’

  ‘I’m okay to walk, thanks.’

  DC Aspinall smiles. ‘Jump in, Catherine.’

  She pulls away and drives towards Windermere. I’m in the front seat beside her. I don’t ask how she knows my address or what she wants with me. One thing I’ve learned is not to open my mouth unless absolutely necessary. We drive over the mini roundabout and when I glance to the right instinctively to check for oncoming traffic, I take in her features fully. Fear had clutched at my insides when she approached and I was unable to look at her earlier.