If I close my eyes now, I can see the whole scene play out. Christopher and Ben, down by the canal. Soon there will be footsteps clack-clacking over the bridge, giggles ripe with promise. The night owls are already hooting and staggering away to their homes, to alleyways, to back terrace walls. Skirts will be concertinaed against bare white thighs, flies will be unzipped in haste. Yes, it is late. The hour for drunks and geezers has come, the hour for sex, for murder. Is that what this was? Or was it a kind of exchange for him – one life for another where two could not be? Was murder the only way he thought he could secure his place in the world?

Christopher pleads his case. Ben punches Christopher because he doesn’t believe him. Maybe he realises that Christopher has brought him here under false pretences. Whatever, they fight. Who is Billy, who is Martin?

You’re Billy.

No, you are.

You.

No, you.

But Christopher is Billy. He knows that now. Billy is the bigger of the two, and when Ben’s punch floors him, he sits up quickly and locks his arms around Ben’s knees. Ben falls backwards onto the gravel. They roll, first one on top, then the other. At a certain point, Billy grabs the oily rope from the canalside and pulls it around Ben’s neck.

If I’ve imagined the rest, I must also imagine this. It requires little effort – these images barely leave my mind. Billy pulls hard on the rope. Ben thrashes for his life, fails, is tossed into the water.

‘I killed the real Martin to become Martin,’ Billy said to me as night became day. ‘I baptised myself with the canal water. I named myself Martin. But I can’t be Martin, can I? Not now. Not now.’ He wept.

‘It’s OK, my darling,’ I told him.

But it was not OK.

And even then, I could not have imagined what he had done next.

---

Christopher had run from the canal, crying and pitiful. He ran all the way back to the Wilsons, his only intention to pick up his car and drive home. And there outside the pub was Rebecca. She was hovering by the door, he said, as if she dared not go in.

‘Rebecca?’ It was out of his mouth before he could stop himself. He said that if he could have kept his mouth shut, he could have hidden his face, got into the car and driven away. But he did call her name and she did turn. She turned and she saw him and she recognised him.

‘Billy!’ A name he did not want. A mother he did not want.

‘Why have you come here?’ He grabbed her by the arm and shook her. Her arm was a stick – it made him sick to touch it, like touching a skeleton.

‘Billy! Stop it. You’re hurting me.’

He let her go.

‘You’re too late,’ he said. ‘Billy had to go.’

She laughed; her bottom teeth were pitted black. ‘I might have had a drink,’ she said, ‘but I’d know you anywhere. Don’t you remember me? I used to visit you but you never let on, did you?’

‘I’m not Billy.’

Out of her bag she took her purse. Out of her purse she took a white envelope, folded in two. Out of the envelope she took a letter. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Tell me that’s not your ma.’

He saw it before he could see it. He knew that didn’t make sense but that’s the way it was – he knew, as he had known things all his life. He saw the letter and knew that all the lies ended with it. In the top right-hand corner, Margaret and Jack’s address in Hestham Avenue, Morecambe. Force of habit, the habit of a well-trained typist who liked to do things right.

The writing was Margaret’s, of course – her careful cursive hand. She had been moved to write to this poor woman, a woman she did not know. Surely there was no kinder act in this world? A promise between women, between strangers: to love a child in the other’s stead. Margaret, whom he had judged, with no right to do such a thing. His parents, whom he had failed, for no better reason than a lack of words. But some things are not easy to say. They did not tell him the truth of his birth; he did not tell them about Phyllis. Why? Because he could not find the words. He had left them in silence, the worst possible form of cruelty. He was beyond forgiveness. He was a monster.

‘Don’t cry, Billy.’ Rebecca took hold of the letter and pulled it from his hands. ‘She was a good woman to write that. It’s been a comfort to me over the years, has that.’

He heard the slur in her voice, smelled the alcohol coming out of her every pore. She took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one.

‘Do you smoke, Billy?’

‘No.’ He hadn’t smoked since university.

‘Do you want a cigarette?’

‘Yes.’

She passed him her own and lit another. Despite the revulsion that churned his guts, he sucked where her foul mouth had been. The tobacco made him retch. He threw the cigarette to the ground.

She blew smoke away from him. ‘Do you remember me?’

He nodded. ‘From the road. You wore a blue headscarf. You asked if I was Billy.’

‘So you do know me! And you looked for me, didn’t you? And you found me.’ The glee in her gruff smoker’s voice made him feel sick.

‘I found you,’ he said.

‘I remember. And you’re doing so well for yourself. Going to be a teacher, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’ He did not stop to wonder how she knew this, not then.

‘I’m glad your life worked out for you, Billy, love.’

‘I’m not—’

‘My life didn’t pan out so well.’ Through the slurs, he was aware as he had been in her awful flat of her well-spoken diction, what remained of it, her vowels and consonants committing themselves half to her origins, half to her wretched existence now. She was not as well spoken as her father, but even so, he could hear him in her voice, and now, looking at her, could see something of him in her brow, her mouth. Something of his grandfather, the man he had met. Something of himself. Her hair, of course, was black. Dyed, he suspected, but dyed to match what it had been. She was his mother. He hated her.

‘Get in the car,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you home.’

‘Buy me a drink?’ She cocked her head towards the pub and smiled her awful smile. ‘Little drink for your ma?’

‘I’ll pick some up on the way.’

‘Good boy.’

They got into the car. Rebecca directed him into town, to the Threshers next to Blockbuster on Church Street.

‘Get cider,’ she said. ‘That’s what I have anyway. Get what you want for yourself.’

He left her in the car. In the off-licence, he bought a two-litre bottle of Strongbow and a half-litre of whisky. In the car, he passed her the smaller bottle.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘This should keep you going till we get to your place.’

‘You’re a good boy,’ she said. ‘I knew you wouldn’t mind helping me out once you knew the truth.’

Teeth gritted, he drove, while Rebecca talked. She had been put into the convent at eighteen. Her parents had left her there. She was three years older than Phyllis had been. He didn’t care.

‘I would never have given you up, Billy.’

‘Stop calling me Billy.’

‘I would never have given you up.’ She swigged at the whisky. The smell of it filled the car. ‘They made me. I didn’t even know you’d gone till after. Never even got to say goodbye.’ She sniffed. ‘That’s cruel.’

He did not look at her. ‘Your father seemed like a nice chap.’

He felt her shift in the passenger seat.

‘You’re so good-looking,’ she said. ‘You look like Cary Grant or someone. Your dad was very handsome. He was cultured too.’ She laughed to herself. ‘His name was Richard. We were going out, you know. It wasn’t a one-night stand or anything of that sort. We’d been going steady for six months. He was a funny sort. Odd, in his way, but I liked him all right. His idea of a date was to get the train to somewhere or other and go and see ruins. Ruins he loved. Couldn’t get enough of them.’

They had reached the coloured blocks of Southgate flats. Christopher stopped the car.

‘Let’s get you home,’ he said.

‘Did you buy the cider?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good boy.’

She was swaying as she opened the door to the flat. The door banged against the inside wall. She leant against it for support.

‘Do you still have the whisky?’ he asked.

‘Yes, Billy, love. It’s in my bag.’

She went ahead, into the darkness. Billy followed but stopped to search out a light switch. He turned on the light but almost wished he hadn’t. The hallway was a mess: balled-up clothes, shoes, a net bag with what looked like cans of food inside. The place stank of stale cigarette smoke, stale food, stale life.

‘Come in, then, if you’re coming,’ she called to him from the living room.

He followed. The room was much the same as when he had first visited. An ashtray lay on the thin carpet, full of orange cigarette butts. Other butts too, browned at the edges, one with a pin sticking out of the end. He fought the urge to run.

‘Where’s your boyfriend?’ he said.

She sat heavily on the sofa and patted the cushion next to her. ‘Sit down, Billy.’

‘I’ll fetch you a glass.’ He stepped over plates, mugs half-full, scummy. More clothes, a shoebox, one burgundy court shoe. In the kitchen, the smell of off food grew stronger. He put his hand over his mouth and nose. In the sink, a half-eaten Pot Noodle, a mug full of cigarette and reefer butts, plates thick with ketchup or something that had dried hard and brown in stripes. In the cupboard without a door he found glasses. He sniffed them, ran them under the tap and shook them dry. On closer inspection, he thought they might in a past life have been jam or mustard jars.

In the living room, Rebecca had lit a cigarette. She smiled as he came towards her, showing the black gaps at the side of her mouth. She had put on the ceiling light. It was too bright – he could see the dark scabs on her face.

‘Drink?’ He poured cider for her, a small one for himself.

She took the glass from him. ‘You’re a good boy, Billy.’

He surrendered. ‘Thank you. I do my best.’

She drained her glass and held it out towards him. He refilled it. This wouldn’t take long, this final thing he had to do, and then he could get on with the rest of his life.

‘Do you remember me from your street?’ She picked at one of the scabs on her cheek.

‘Yes.’ How often, he wondered, would she repeat that question if he let her?

‘And you looked for me, didn’t you? You looked for me?’

‘Yes. I looked for you.’

‘My Billy.’

She dropped forward and drove her cigarette into the hedgehog pile, sending three or four cold, spent butts over the side to the floor. When she righted herself, he saw that her eyes were shining. The sight was pitiful. She was as thin as an abandoned dog. He imagined her ribs beneath her dark clothes, contracting and expanding like the bellows on an accordion. Bile rose to his throat; the taste reached his mouth and he swallowed some cider to clear it.

He poured more cider for her. ‘Did you finish the whisky?’

She winked and pulled the bottle from a fold in her clothes that may have been a pocket. She must have taken it out of her bag, he thought. She must have been drinking it while he went for the glasses. Less than a third of the bottle remained.

He teased it from her grip. ‘Chaser?’

She giggled like a little girl – the effect was grotesque, and again he sipped at his cider to quell his rising bile. ‘Naughty. Go on then.’

He poured a glug of whisky into her cider. While he did this, she pulled out her cigarettes and lit another, offered him the packet.

He shook his head. He felt sick.

‘Cheers,’ he said, handing her the gruesome cocktail. ‘To family.’

‘Oh, Billy.’ Her voice wobbled with emotion and her eyes filled. ‘To family. My boy.’ She tipped the glass and guzzled its contents. It was unwatchable. He could not take his eyes from the sight.

She groaned as the alcohol hit her and collapsed against the sofa. ‘I’ve had a lot of problems, Billy. Drugs and that. People take advantage. I’ve been inside, but I’ve never done anything bad. If they hadn’t taken you, I would’ve been all right. But they made me work in that place and in the end I ran away. I had to.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He eased the glass from her hand and filled it: cider and whisky in equal measure. Surely this would knock her out like a shot horse.

‘It’s not your fault, love.’ She took the glass from him and cradled it in both hands. ‘But of course I had nowhere to go. Ended up in a hostel. I sorted myself out though, got myself the flat. It’s not much, but it’s somewhere to live.’

‘And your boyfriend?’

She peered at him and leaned slowly to the left. For a moment she looked as if she would keep on sliding until she hit the sofa cushions, but she gave a slow blink and straightened up. ‘Boyfriend?’

‘There was a man here when I came to see you. I left him directions. I gave him money.’

Her mouth fell open – he averted his eyes from those black iron pits in her bottom jaw. ‘You mean Bri. He’s not my boyfriend, Billy, love. He’s my neighbour.’ She drank. It almost hurt to watch her. ‘He’s all right, is Bri. He’s my friend.’

‘He was very nice.’ He filled her glass again. She had drunk over a pint, he reckoned, in the short time they had been there. The whisky was gone.

Without prompting, she began to weep, sucking at her cigarette and blowing out the smoke with a bitter pursing of her blackish lips. ‘You’ll help me, won’t you?’ She closed her eyes. The glass lolled but by some miracle did not spill. ‘I just need a bit of cash to see me through the week.’

‘You want money?’ His fingers tightened around the glass.

‘Don’t say it like that,’ she said. ‘You make me sound awful. I only mean a bit, maybe something each week. I wouldn’t call on Phyllis or anything. I wouldn’t do that.’

‘Phyllis? How do you know Phyllis?’

She gave a brief laugh, as if it were perfectly obvious. ‘I’ve followed you all your life, Billy. I knew you were at university. I was so proud. I knew your name, the name they gave you. Christopher Harris. I followed you to the coach station once. They had no right to take you from me. If I hadn’t had to give you up, my life would have been different.’

‘Why haven’t you contacted me before?’

She shrugged. ‘You looked happy.’

‘So why now?’

‘You contacted me, remember?’

‘Have you spoken to Phyllis? Have you been near her?’

‘Not spoken, no. But I know where she lives, her and David. I sit in the town hall gardens sometimes and watch the twins play football.’ She laughed. ‘That Darren’s a terror, cheeky little bugger. But it’s not like I’d ever say anything, Billy. I know how much you like it there. Not like I’d go bowling up to the front door to introduce myself.’

She stopped and fixed him with her black eyes. And then, as if drink had taken her only in that moment, she closed her eyes and let her mouth fall open.

He caught the glass before it fell. He watched her, counted to ten.

As he crept from the room, she snored into the silence. He found her bedroom at the back of the flat. More stale smells – body odour, talcum powder, shed skin on sheets. He shivered, lifted the pillow from the bed, tried not to notice or think about the diffuse brown patch made, he supposed, over time, by the grease from her head.

She was snoring regularly now, her mouth still open. She had slid against the sofa’s edge, the angle awkward. She was so thin. Patches of pink scalp showed through the oily strands of her dyed black hair, and he saw now that the roots were a greyish white. She would be what? Forty? Forty-one? He took her by the shoulders – small and square like Phyllis’s, but there the similarity ended. He laid his mother, this broken bird, flat on the cushions.

‘I am sorry, Mother,’ he said. ‘I will pray for you. And for Martin. You can find him in heaven as I have Phyllis here on earth.’

He pressed the pillow to her face.

‘Oh Lord, take the soul of Rebecca Hurst. May she find peace in heaven in your care, Amen.’

She kicked, and her arms rose like the arms of a zombie in a horror film. The same choked noise as Ben had made down at the canal came from under the pillow. He could not say how long this lasted, only that when it was over his arms ached, his back, his neck. He checked the pulse at her neck. Nothing. Her face was grey even in the bright overhead light.

He poured the rest of her cider onto the sofa and wiped the glass with his handkerchief before placing it beside her slack hand. He picked up his own glass and slid it into his pocket. He took the pillow back into the bedroom and replaced it where he had found it.

At the living-room door, he stood a moment. She was stone still but he watched her for another minute, to be sure.

‘Goodbye, Mother,’ he said, and left that place.

---

From the moment the door banged against the wall, I had known something was wrong. And now here we were, the world turned inside out like an old coat, our life’s possessions fallen out of the pockets and spread on the ground.

‘What are we going to do?’ he said.

‘It’ll be OK,’ I replied. But I knew it wouldn’t be. I was trying to trace a line through the mess of my own thoughts.

‘You need to go back to your room,’ I said.

‘I can’t leave you.’

‘You must, love. Until we work out what to do.’

‘But I can’t be alone.’

‘You’re not alone. I’ll be right here.’

I had to look away from the pleading in his eyes. Did I see a murderer? I don’t know. I saw him, my Christopher, the love of my life, but everything had changed. He had killed two people, and one of them was my son. I did not know what that made him. I still don’t.

‘Go to bed,’ I said.

He nodded finally and gathered up his dirty coat.

‘Give that to me.’ I took it from him. ‘Leave the rest outside your room, I’ll wash them for you.’

On the landing, I laid my hand on his cheek and told him to go, told him again that everything would be all right. If I close my eyes now, I can remember the way his cheek felt against my hand, the merest prickle of stubble. That moment, the memory of it, is something. But I must go on. I have come this far and now I must finish this. I will finish this.

So.

Once Christopher had gone into his room, I went downstairs. I was going to go back to bed but I couldn’t face the sight of it, the memory of all he had told me. Instead, I made tea and sat in the kitchen. It was cold, so I put on Christopher’s coat. Why, I don’t know. Comfort, possibly – the smell of him. Upstairs was silent. I thought he must be asleep. I stared out of the window at the garden. I thought of the barbecues we’d had there with David and the twins that summer. I’d been happy, yes, but I’d been lying to myself. I’d been lying to myself for years. How could I have been happy when I knew something was not right? Christopher had told a lie. I had lived one. At least that’s how I saw it in that moment. And now my son was dead.

I don’t know how long I was there before I remembered the clothes. Christopher’s sweater and trousers were on the floor outside his room. I listened for a moment at his door but heard nothing, so I gathered up his things and brought them into the kitchen, put them into the washing machine. I was about to switch the machine on when I thought perhaps I should wash his coat too. I started to empty the pockets, and it was then that I found the letters, crumpled up. I dropped the coat to the floor.

Your son, Benjamin Bradbury.

My son. My Martin. The boy who had been taken from me, who had come all the way from America to find me, and who had put his heart on this page. He wanted only to meet me and he was now lying dead at the bottom of the canal. He had died thinking I didn’t want him.

I imagined him then as I have imagined him in these pages: no photos, no cine film, nothing to go on but two short letters – his life caught in no more than a glancing light. My Martin, whom I would never see, never know, never love with a love that was natural between a mother and a son. There was nothing left but mess. A man whom I had loved as a son had killed my firstborn child. He was a murderer. Whose mind, tell me, whose, could stay intact in the face of that?

I went into the hall and dialled 999.

‘You need to come right away,’ I said. ‘It’s about my son. He’s murdered two people.’

I gave them the address. They must have asked more questions and I must have answered them. I put down the phone and stifled the choking sound that came out of me.

I was sitting on the hall carpet, back propped against the wall I must have slid down. I thought I heard Christopher’s bedroom door open and close. Then nothing for a moment. I thought I must have imagined it. Then the grinding squeak of his window opening. I thought he must be hot, that he might come down and run a glass of water, but he didn’t come and there were no more sounds from upstairs. But there was a draught, now I thought about it, and I began to shiver. I pulled on Christopher’s coat once again – better to wash nothing now that the police were coming. I went into the lounge, switched on the gas fire.

I can’t remember anything about the time I spent waiting; I suspect I was in a kind of trance. At about 6.15 a.m., the police came: a man and a woman, both young. I can’t remember his name but I remember hers was Yvonne. I remember it because that’s what the other one shouted, later.

‘He’s upstairs,’ I said when they came in.

It’s frightening, having two uniformed police coming through your front door. At least, I was frightened. The policeman headed up while the woman waited with me. She was talking to me, I think, but I can’t remember what she said. I don’t think I was listening. I think I was listening for what was happening upstairs.

‘Christopher,’ I heard the policeman say, then knocking. ‘Christopher, can you open the door?’ Then he shouted down the stairs. ‘Yvonne! Can you get up here a sec?’

‘Excuse me a minute,’ she said and went out of the living room.

And then. And then. And then I was up there too, on the landing in my nightdress and Christopher’s coat. Both their backs were to me and they were fighting with Christopher’s bedroom door. I can remember my ankles were cold. I remember wondering where the cold draught was coming from.

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked – and I wonder if I knew already what the matter was; when I remember it, that’s the way it feels and I know I felt sick.

‘The door’s jammed,’ the policeman said. He had his radio; he was talking into it, asking for backup.

‘Christopher won’t hurt you,’ I said. ‘If you knock, he’ll probably open the door.’

‘I’ve tried that.’

‘Christopher?’ I called out to him, as I always did when I heard him come home. ‘Christopher? Christopher?’

But he did not call back.