The Killing of Mummy’s Boy
[Waterloo to Portsmouth 2013]
‘I slit someone’s throat,’ the man told the woman on the 4.20 from Waterloo to Portsmouth.
It was Sandra’s first journey back to London since she had moved to the Isle of Wight a few years before. Having a stretch of water between her and the mainland made her feel safe. The Solent could be expensive to cross; some people thought twice before making the journey. She liked that.
Once on board, she had found an empty table and taken off her coat before absentmindedly plucking a stray blonde hair from her cardigan. A man was watching her from the aisle. She followed his gaze. To her embarrassment, her fingers were resting against her left breast. Flummoxed, she struggled with her case, making several unsuccessful attempts to lift it onto the luggage rack.
‘Let me,’ he said.
Now it was her turn to watch as he swung the case up over his head and positioned it on the shelf. His white T-shirt rode up revealing the lower half of his torso. Her eyes tracked the thin line of black hair that ran from his navel and disappeared under the waistband of his jeans. He flopped down in the seat opposite and honed in on the box of doughnuts she had put on the table. The glossy icing and the multicoloured hundreds and thousands glinted through the cellophane window. They were her treat. She couldn’t get them on the island and always made a point of buying half a dozen from the kiosk at Waterloo station.
‘Did you make those?’ he asked.
They were obviously manufactured; the brand name was emblazoned across the side of the box. She shook her head.
‘My sister bakes cakes for the café on Ryde beach. Do you know it?’ he asked.
She glanced at him, momentarily trying to picture where he meant before shaking her head and checking her phone. No messages. She sighed and slid the phone into the pocket of her handbag where she kept her Oyster card. The travel card wasn’t there. Panicking, she rechecked her bag and looked underneath the seat. Nothing. She must have dropped it after topping it up at the station. Luckily, the card was registered so at least she wouldn’t lose any money. Quickly, she took out her mobile again, scrolled down the address book and clicked.
‘Hello, I’d like to report a lost Oyster… sorry…can you hear me now?’ she shouted. ‘My name? Sandra, Sandra Williams…Dove Cottage, Isle of Wight. PO30 5AB.’
She bit her lip impatiently.
‘5A ‘P’? ‘P’ for ‘papa’? No, it’s ‘B’, ‘B’ for …’
The man smiled at her and her mind went blank.
‘Bravo,’ he whispered over the top of his newspaper.
She gave him the thumbs up by way of thanks.
‘‘B’ for ‘bravo’,’ she said. ‘Yes, the card is registered…hello…can you still hear me?’
The line went dead. Irritated to have lost the signal, she sighed and locked her phone. The man threw down his newspaper, making her jump and reached into the pocket of his jeans. Fanning out three Oyster cards on the table, he pushed one towards her.
‘Here,’ he said.
His nails were bitten, his cuticles ragged and bloody.
‘No, thanks, it’s yours,’ she replied.
‘Have it,’ he insisted.
‘No, I don’t need it. I’ll get a replacement. Why have you got so many?’ she asked lightly.
He shrugged, gathered up the cards and put them back in his pocket.
‘I always lose something when I go to London,’ he told her.
‘Where in London?’ she asked, leaning forward, seizing the opportunity to talk about her home town.
‘Leyton. Me girls live there.’
East London, of course, his accent was a giveaway. But a Dad? She would never have guessed he had kids. He seemed free, uninhibited by responsibility. Only someone with children knew the particular pain they could bring. As her friend had warned her when she had told him she was pregnant, ‘Congratulations! You’ll never be so happy or unhappy in your life.’ At the time, it had struck her as nothing more than a jaded comment probably the result of one too many sleepless nights. She had no idea what he meant. Now, sadly, she knew only too well.
‘How old are they?’ she asked, genuinely interested.
‘Eight and nine. Haven’t seen ‘em for years,’ he said dismissively as if ‘years’ was just another word for ‘hours’.
She raised her eyebrows at him.
‘Been away,’ he told her by way of explanation.
Based on his muscular appearance, she imagined him on an oil-rig, braving all weathers.
‘I’m Ben, by the way. Drink in The Lud, down the road from me in Ryde. Know it?’
She nodded.
‘Never seen you,’ Ben said. ‘I Know it but I don’t drink there.’
‘Why not?’ he asked, offended.
She shrugged hoping her indifference would draw the conversation to a close but he was not easily deterred.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ he demanded.
‘Nothing,’ she lied.
Sandra had nipped in there once to use the toilet. She could still smell the inside of the cubicle and picture the misspelt filth scrawled on the walls. There was no paper left on the roll and she had resorted to using the inner cardboard tube.
Ben leant towards her, his elbows on the table and stared into her eyes. Alarmed, she recoiled and looked around for somewhere else to sit but the carriage was full. Four young race-goers on the opposite table were imbibing ready-mixed gin and tonics from cans. One of the two women lay slumped against her partner’s shoulder, her weight pinning him against the window. The other man was boasting loudly about his winnings.
Sandra’s ex-husband had been a gambler and would have lost the family home from under them, had she not divorced him when she did.
She picked up a copy of The Metro from the floor and flicked it open creating a barrier between her and her unwanted travelling companion.
‘Can I see that?’ he asked pushing his copy of The Times towards her. ‘I can’t read this.’
If her newspaper distracted him, she was happy to let him have it. She folded it and placed it on the table. Without so much as a glance at the front page, Ben jettisoned it onto the seat next to him.
‘You’ve kept yourself nice, for your age,’ he said addressing his remark to her chest.
She was wearing her low-cut, cream top. Her hand moved towards her throat and her fingertips felt for her rose locket. She rubbed it gently against her thumb, anxious to cover her chest with her arm as she did so.
His face was set in a permanent smile, like a dolphin’s. His biceps bulged under the thin fabric of his T-shirt. Despite herself, she smirked.
‘What you doing later?’ he asked.
‘My husband’s meeting me at Ryde,’ she lied without missing a beat.
He looked at her left hand and grinned knowingly. No wedding ring. He let out a little snort, disguised as a cough. Sandra inwardly admonished herself. She was getting careless, having removed the ring earlier and forgotten to put it back on. A cheap metal band, it made her fingers itch but she chose to wear it as part of her disguise of normality and respectability. Usually, it kept any unwanted attention at bay too.
‘Off to see my girl now,’ he told her gleefully.
Relieved she would soon be free of him, she smiled.
‘She’s a prostitute.’
Sandra gasped. It was clear from Ben’s ever widening grin he enjoyed her reaction.
‘She’ll do anything for me. Dresses up … got all the gear. Last time, she wore her Grand-dad’s sailor suit.’
From the tawdry description, Sandra pictured a scrawny blonde, dead behind the eyes, sporting an ill-fitting white shirt and blue trousers, a nautical cap at a jaunty angle, splayed across a crumpled bed waiting for Big Ben to strike.
‘Just doing what me Dad told me, ‘Never hurt a woman, Ben. If you want sex, pay her, don’t rape her.’
Sandra gasped but tried to mask how unnerved she was. She had to get away from him, stand in the corridor, if necessary. Before she could move, he jumped up.
‘Just nipping to the loo, watch my stuff,’ he ordered.
This was her chance. Once he had disappeared, she could lock herself in another toilet and stay there until she reached Portsmouth Harbour.
Just as she was about to move, one of the men opposite stood up, blocking her exit, and made several frustratingly abortive attempts to extricate more drink from his rucksack on the luggage rack. He swayed back and forth battling with zips and buckles. Sandra was so desperate to get out she was about to offer to do it for him when he succeeded in liberating two cans and sank gratefully back into his seat.
‘Miss me?’ Ben asked sitting back down.
Not wanting to antagonise him, she forced a smile. To put some distance between them, she checked her mobile again.
‘Has it gone six?’ he asked in an agitated tone.
Again, desperate to appease him, she checked the display and shook her head.
‘Can’t miss the Hover,’ he said.
She relaxed, almost laughed with relief. He was catching the Hovercraft that meant he would get off the stop before her at Portsmouth and Southsea.
‘You’re in great shape. Bet you’ve never had kids,’ he said, leaning over table.
He was so close, she could see the lumps of mercury filling his back teeth.
‘I’ve got a son,’ she told him then immediately regretted it.
Fortunately, he wasn’t listening. His eyes were all over her.
‘Why haven’t you seen your children for so long?’ she asked in an attempt to distract him.
‘Been inside,’ he replied lifting his eyes from her cleavage and looking her in the eye, keen to gauge her reaction.
Sandra looked over at the men opposite for help but their fixed grins were evidence of too many G&T’s. Useless.
‘What for?’ she asked, faking nonchalance, her heart beating in double time.
Sandra wondered if he could hear it thudding. By the look on his face, he enjoyed having her undivided attention and made the most of it, taking his time to reply. Any hope he had been sentenced for a minor crime began to fade.
‘This and that…my third time,’ he boasted, the fear he induced forcing her to hold his gaze.
‘What did you do?’ she demanded, her voice rapid but strained.
‘I slit someone’s throat.’
‘Teas, coffees, sandwiches?’ the steward asked halting the refreshment trolley alongside their table.
Sandra’s relief at his arrival turned to disappointment when she turned to look at him. The steward would be no help. His frail body failed to fill what appeared to be the smallest sized uniform. She must weigh more than he did.
‘Stick some ice in there for us, mate,’ Ben smiled, holding up a small plastic cup.
Young and keen, the lad obliged, scooping in ice-cubes.
‘Cheers,’ said Ben, calmly filling his cup from a bottle he had concealed inside a plastic bag.
She watched, disgusted as he knocked back the drink.
‘Cider?’ he asked proffering the cup.
She shook her head, discreetly wiping her sweaty palms on the seat. Desperate to convince herself he wasn’t a murderer, she tried to convince herself he was just another petty criminal who had to big himself up in order to gain kudos with the lowlifes who hung out in the Lud. To her horror, he seemed to read her mind.
‘Here’s my ID card,’ he said flashing a small plastic card just long enough for her to recognise the official government insignia. ‘I have to keep it with me in case I get stopped by the police.’
Sandra took it as confirmation of his crime and contemplated moving again. Supposing he came after her? She didn’t want to provoke him. If he were to attack her, who would come to her aid? Have-a-go heroes rarely travelled by train these days.
‘You wouldn’t do it again, would you?’ she asked trying to keep her voice slow and steady. She hoped her tone conveyed more of a statement and less of a question.
‘What?’ Ben asked, casually refilling his cup. ‘I wouldn’t do what again?’
The cider bubbled over the top of the beaker and ran down his hand. He sucked it lasciviously off his fingers, one by one, his smirking eyes never leaving hers.
‘Slit someone’s throat,’ she said loudly hoping another passenger would overhear and rescue her.
‘Nah. That was year’s ago,’ he replied casually as if murder was nothing more than harmless boyish behaviour he had long grown out of.
Sandra froze. He might have a knife. Not wanting to goad him, she struggled to fix her features into a neutral expression.
When she had boarded the train, she was unaware of his existence. Now she was privy to his worst crime. At least she hoped it was his worst.
Perhaps she could get off at the next stop? Slowly, she reached into her bag and took out her phone. Her hand was shaking.
‘On train with murderer. Help,’ she texted her friend, Rob.
Logically, she knew there was nothing he could do but she had to let someone know, just in case. Why had she allowed this to happen? What was she doing still sitting here, let alone talking to him?
‘Is that work?’ he asked watching her wait anxiously for her phone to respond.
She nodded rapidly. Best not say anything, she was a hopeless liar. He would see right through her. Then again, it was partly true; she did work with Rob.
‘Tell ‘em you’re busy,’ he laughed. ‘Tell ‘em you’re with me.’
Rob’s reply flashed up on her screen.
‘Murderer?!!! What you like?!! x’
Oh no. He thought she was joking. Trust Rob. There was no point replying.
The train stopped. Her body flooded with adrenalin, ready to run. If she timed it right, she could get off just before the doors closed ensuring he couldn’t follow her. As she was about to make a dash for it, the aisle filled with the people who had just got on. They milled about with their bulky bags, wandering through the train looking for somewhere to sit, blocking her exit. Her heart sank as the whistle blew and the train pulled away.
Fear turned to anger as she watched him wedge the bottle under the crook of his arm and refill his cup.
‘Haven’t you had enough?’ she shouted.
What was she playing at? He had probably cut someone for less. But it was unnerving enough sitting opposite a self-confessed murderer, let alone a drunk one.
‘Last little drop,’ he said surprisingly good-naturedly as he screwed the cap firmly back on the bottle and lifted the drink to his lips.
‘Perhaps if you drank less, you’d see more of your kids.’
She shocked herself. Why wind him up? If the past few years had taught her anything, it was not to say a word out of place. But, she couldn’t stop, delivering the words like gun-fire.
‘You drink too much,’ she told him, picturing her ex-husband downing another Scotch. Turned out it wasn’t the only thing on the rocks, their marriage was floundering too.
‘You sound like my Mum,’ Ben laughed.
She flinched. Just hearing the word ‘mum’ unnerved her. Did it still define her? She knew it did but believed her son may have other ideas.
‘You’re right. Too much drink ain’t good,’ he said staring intently at her throat. ‘Nice pendant. Can I ’ave it, ’ave it for my girl?’
‘No,’ she said her fist tightening around her precious rose necklace.
Her cheeks flushed. He saw and laughed.
‘I’m going to call you ‘Rose’ like the one round your neck.’
How dare he? She opened her mouth to say something but stopped.
‘Not upsetting you am I, Rose?’
He reached across the table and placed his hand gently on her forearm. She pulled away as if scorched.
‘Sorry, shouldn’t have done that, should I, Rose?’
His slow, apologetic tone was almost convincing.
‘Don’t mind me touching you, do you, Rose?’
‘My name’s Sandra,’ she asserted before she could stop herself.
‘I know. Sandra. Sandra Williams.’
He laughed. She froze. Of course, he must have been listening when she reported her lost Oyster card. How could she have been so careless, giving out her details in public?
‘It’s going be nice tomorrow,’ Ben said. ‘I’ll fire up the barbie and have a party. Wanna come? You can get the number 9 bus from Newport. You live there, don’t you?’
‘No,’ she said quickly.
‘Yes, you do. You’ve got a Newport postcode,’ he said. ‘Dove Cottage, Isle of Wight. PO30 5AB.’
Her insides liquefied. Her cottage was in Shorwell, a remote village five miles south of Newport but close enough to share the same postcode. Her neighbour only ever used his house at weekends. The set-up had always suited her but now a murderer knew where she lived she would relish a regular presence on the other side of the party wall.
If he was aware of the terror he had induced in her, he did not show it. Her mind somersaulted as she tried to recall what other information she had let slip.
‘Sandra,’ he repeated slowly, rolling the letters around his mouth as if tasting them. ‘S-a-n-d-r-a? Nah, that’s not you. No, you’re my Rose.’
She shifted uneasily in her seat, hoping the group opposite had overheard. It was too much to hope for. The older man was still jammed against the window. Much to his delight, every time the girl inhaled, her breasts threatened to escape her bra. The other girl, her stilettoes discarded, rubbed her foot slowly against the other man’s ankle.
‘Come to my flat. 150 East Hill, Ryde. I’m always there. I don’t do nothing.’
Of course, he didn’t. The leach.
‘How do you pay your girl then?’ she asked recklessly, calling his bluff.
Perhaps, his sordid tale: the murder, the prostitute and the neglected children, was nothing more than his attempt at a sick chat-up line.
‘I give her this,’ he said brandishing the half-empty bottle of cider.
‘You’d better stop drinking it all then,’ she chided as if admonishing a child.
Her misguided boldness was akin to madness and just as uncontrollable.
‘You’re right, Rose. Last little drop.’
He unscrewed the lid and poured himself another cupful, downing it in one.
‘How did you cope, locked up for years?’ she asked still trying to trip him up.
‘Inside you’re fed, warm and got no bills to pay. And I could get anything I wanted,’ he gave her a sly look, teasing her, tempting her to find out more.
‘How?’ she asked.
‘Let’s just say you ladies are designed to carry more luggage than men,’ he said with a wink, his eyes on her crotch.
She picked up the newspaper and put it across her lap. This time Sandra knew better than to show she was shocked.
‘Let’s say a woman smuggles you in a mobile phone, how do you charge it?’ she asked desperate to catch him out.
‘Wire off a kettle flex and screws out the bedstead. Easy.’
Sandra wasn’t convinced. He could have seen it in a film or on television. Unfortunately, his next admission erased any doubt.
‘I was inside with Bewley before his trial.’
Sandra swallowed hard and looked away. Bewley had been found guilty of murdering a young boy years ago. He had always protested his innocence but the weight of evidence against him was overwhelming. His victim had been the same age as Sandra’s son and shared the same name, Carl. Consequently, the case always had an uneasy resonance for her. She listened intently to Ben.
‘After the trial, Bewley confessed to his cellmate. When me and the boys on the wing heard, we wanted to put him over the railings.’
He looked at her to ensure she understood he had meant to kill him. She blinked.
‘The screws wouldn’t let us do the bastard but they looked the other way when we kicked his head in.’
Sandra recalled seeing Bewley’s picture on the front page of every paper shortly after he was sentenced, his face so badly beaten he was unrecognisable from his earlier mug-shots. Only the headlines shouting his name confirmed his identity.
‘Not upsetting you, am I, Rose?’
She shook her head. Again, he reached across and touched her arm. This time, she did not dare pull away.
‘Come with me, Rose. I get my passport in a few days. We can go anywhere we want.’
Out of nowhere, the idea took hold. Like a wild fire in her mind, igniting long-forgotten sensations. For a moment, she fantasised about what being with a brute like him would be like. She imagined him being very different from her po-faced ex-husband.
‘Rose?’ he said squeezing her arm gently.
Her eyes flickered towards him but she said nothing. Suddenly, he got up. Sandra held her breath but he simply lifted her case down as the train approached his stop, Portsmouth and Southsea.
‘Can I have one?’ he asked nodding at the doughnuts.
‘No.’
‘No?’
The dolphin smile disappeared. In its place, a look so powerful it compelled Sandra to open the box. Calmly, as if being offered them at a party, he selected the chocolate one before walking towards the door.
‘See ya around, Rose.’