Chapter three

[London 2011]

Chopping shallots always made Sandra cry. Smaller than onions but more potent, they got her every time. She dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a piece of kitchen towel before referring back to the recipe book propped open on its stand on the vast marble work surface. Dessert, dark chocolate mousse, was prepared and chilling in the fridge. The fillet steak in brandy sauce would be cooked when her three colleagues arrived. She had invited them to dinner by way of thanks for the hours they had put in on a successful pitch. It was a big win for the agency, securing her yet another pay rise. She glanced at the clock, seven thirty. They were due at eight. 

The cast-iron pan was heating on the hob. As she poured in a thin stream of olive oil, she heard Carl’s key in the door and smiled to herself.

‘Hi love. You’re late. Good day?’ she asked, her back to him, slicing vegetables with her Sabatier knife. 

Chop, chop.

‘How was college?’ she persisted. 

Chop, chop.

‘Carl?’ she called, wondering whether she needed to cut up another shallot. No, stick to the recipe, four should be enough.

Chop, chop.

‘Just need to sit down,’ he replied.

‘How did the exam go? Coffee in the pot but if you fancy something stronger, I’ve just opened a nice bottle of …’

‘Just need to sit down, Mum.’

Chop, chop.

‘Go through to the lounge, love. Relax. I’ll be with you in a sec.’

Chop, chop.

‘Just need to sit down. Just …’

Chop.

She turned to see her son, clutching the work surface with both hands, his face ashen. He looked like his insides had been sucked out. She dropped the knife and ran to him.

‘Carl!’

Her arm around his waist, she helped him to a seat.  

‘What’s wrong? Are you in pain?’ she asked kneeling beside him.

‘Just need to sit down,’ he repeated, his voice thick, his body distorted and awkward like he was made out of Meccano.

She stroked his cheek gently like she did when he was a child. He turned away. Her fingers were wet. 

‘I just left him, Mum.’

‘Who?’

He looked at her, his eyes full of tears. She barely recognised him. Flakes of rusty blood clung to his straw blond hair.

‘I left him dying in the dirt like a rat. His throat cut. Blood.’

‘Who?’

‘Dunno. Some bloke.’

‘Where?’

He looked up and glared at her. She reached out to touch his arm. The sleeve of his denim jacket was spotted with red.

‘The park.’

‘What? D’you mean the one at the back of us?’

Carl nodded, his eyes closed. 

‘Are you okay?’ she asked. 

‘His throat was cut, Mum.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Sandra gently brushing his fringe out of his eyes. Specs of dry blood attached themselves to her fingertips. Horrified, she wiped her hands down her skirt. ‘Are you hurt, darling?’

He shook his head.

‘What happened?’ she said gently.

‘I was walking along the path, opposite the skate park when I heard shouting. A bloke had just let his dog off its lead and the thing had gone racing off into the bushes so when I heard screaming, I thought it was attacking someone. I ran in and saw some guy slumped against the wall.’

‘And?’ she prompted.

‘Blood. The slit was like a smile.’

‘Did you see anyone else?’ she asked anxiously.

Carl looked straight ahead as if he was reliving the moment. He sniffed loudly and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

Turning to pull a square of kitchen paper from the dispenser, she noticed the pan was smoking. Grabbing the handle, she threw the skillet into the sink and turned on the cold tap creating a cloud of smoke. Her eyes stung. 

‘Did you see anyone else?’ she repeated turning off the tap.

‘Yes,’ said Carl, chewing his lip. ‘He was grinning. Smirking, proud of what he’d done.’ 

Sandra spun round, shaking 

‘How do you know it was him?’

‘He had a knife. He was covered in blood. So much blood. I didn’t know that …’

‘Oh my God,’ she interrupted, her voice thin and raspy. ‘Why didn’t he run when he heard you coming?’

‘I don’t fucking know. Don’t ask stupid fucking questions.’

Sandra rocked backwards, shaken by the velocity of his response. She had never heard him swear. Then again he had never witnessed a murder before. Who could say how he should react? Carl lifted his hands to his face, his long slender fingers covering both eyes, pressing hard against the sockets. She could hear him sobbing.

‘Carl, I’m so sorry, come on,’ she said putting her hand around his shoulders. 

Immediately, he pulled away. His face was one big open mouth making him look like a macabre clown. As he spoke, a line of drool, like albumen, swung from his lips.

‘I ran away. Your precious fucking son left a dying man. Happy now?’ he roared, raising his clenched fists above his head. ‘I left him for a fucking jogger to find. There you go, Mum. Bet you’re proud now, eh? Still think we’re so fucking superior because we live in a big house and I went to a private school? Well do you?’ 

This wasn’t Carl talking. He had witnessed evil, seen one man kill another. It suddenly occurred to her it could have been far worse. A few moments earlier and it could have been Carl lying there, bleeding to death. 

‘Carl, don’t torture yourself, don’t dwell on it.’

‘You didn’t see it. Christ.’

He was right. A terrible image had been indelibly inked on his memory, one of the many things in her son’s life she could do nothing about. 

As a single parent, she had often felt inadequate. She knew she lacked certain qualities that Carl’s father had in spades. He was, when the mood took him, very funny and could make Carl laugh, tricking him out of a tantrum. He could be surprisingly patient too. It crossed her mind to ring him. She had his number somewhere. But what was the point? Somehow, he would make it all her fault. Best keep him out of it.

What Carl had seen had been horrific and unprecedented. She could do nothing to erase the graphic images left behind, let alone salve his torment. At some level, she understood his ordeal had only just begun. 

She took out a bottle of Remy Martin and poured him a large glass.

‘Here,’ she said gently pushing the glass into his hand. 

He took a mouthful, his face hidden behind his long blonde hair.

‘You phoned the police?’ she asked.

Carl looked up, his eyes wired, his tone hard.

‘Oh yeah, I stood there, took out my phone and dialled 999, while the bloke cut me too. Of course, I didn’t call the fucking police.’

‘Sorry, don’t worry, I’ll ring them,’ she said, putting her arm around him again. ‘He can’t have got far and I daresay the jogger has reported it by now.’

Carl fell against her, gripping her arm. He was hurting her, his fingers pressing into her flesh until they found the bone. She eased away and took his hand in hers.

‘Carl, this is very important,’ she said slowly and steadily to ensure she held his attention. ‘Did the killer see you?’ 

He nodded and vomited just as the doorbell rang.

That night, two mothers lost their sons.