‘Before that. Before she met your father.’
‘Was there a before she met my father?’ I wasn’t being as facetious as I sounded – Mum and Dad acted as though nothing existed before they got together. And I never questioned that. Other people might internet search their parents, but I wasn’t someone who needed to know that. I mean, I’d already partially worked out that Mum might have left nine years ago because of an affair. If that was the case, I didn’t want to know because that would mean I’d have to judge her, and judge her pretty hard.
‘Awww, I see you’ve had all the luxuries and privileges of ignorance. I couldn’t ever get away from the fact that my sister was in prison and wasn’t there when I grew up. She’s still on licence so she can’t even commit the pettiest of crimes because she’ll be sent back to prison and forced to serve the rest of her life sentence. And I have to watch her tear herself apart every day because what happened to her in prison lives with her constantly.’
I had often contemplated things like that. What happened to the people who went to prison and came out? Not even the ones who claimed to be innocent, just those who walked out of the gates determined to never go back. Did they get on with their lives? Because how would that be possible? Everything you do would have your conviction history running through it like words through a stick of rock. Every official thing needed you to declare where you were, what you’d done, who you once were. How did you get on with your life when that history was always following you around? It was just a thought I had, though. Nothing I dwelt on. Nothing like this man was telling me; he had to more than dwell on it because his sister was living it.
And what about the long-lasting effect of his sibling’s jail time on Logan Carlisle? Con and I used to fight all the time. I mean, it was practically expected that we would irritate each other so much it could take the plaque clean off the other’s teeth, but what would he be like if I hadn’t been around when he was growing up? Would he be doing what this man was doing and confronting the person he blamed for my predicament?
‘You know, all of this would be so much easier if you started at the beginning,’ I said, trying to be patient.
Ever so slightly he scrunched up his lips and the ripples of his jaw showed he was grinding his teeth together. Angry. He was angry. I wondered briefly what he would have done if he had spoken to Mum. Would he be behaving like this? Less angry? More righteous? Softer and more coaxing? I couldn’t work out what this man’s gameplay would have been if he’d got his intended prey. And Mum would have been prey. The look in his eyes, the barely concealed contempt, the hint of a snarl around his mouth suggested she was someone he was desperate to get his hands on and rip apart.
‘From what I know, it started in 1986. For Poppy, anyway. For Serena, your mother, it started before that. Marcus Halnsley was their teacher. He’d taught them history in separate schools and they both had an affair with him. It went on for a couple of years. And then the night they tried to leave him, he was killed. Stabbed.’
He was talking, saying words and I was listening to them. But my mind was also doing that multi-tasking thing and doing basic maths: 1986 would have meant my mum was fifteen or sixteen when she was . . . But if, as he said, it was earlier, that would mean fourteen. My mum was fourteen and she was sleeping with her teacher? My mum? This man, this Logan Carlisle, had clearly, obviously never met my mother. I was still partially convinced my parents had only had sex twice in their lives and those were the times my brother and I were conceived. There was no way . . . No way.
‘Stabbed. He was stabbed through the heart. They both went on trial but my sister went to prison. Your mother got away with what she did.’
‘Whoa there,’ I said. He was older than me, but he felt very much like my age or even slightly younger. Definitely more naïve than me. How else would anyone say all that and expect the person they were saying it to to just accept it? ‘I’m not saying what you’ve said isn’t true, but could we slow down with the accusations and conclusions? I mean, if any of this happened, wouldn’t I have heard about it? Any of it? Some of it?’ I placed my hands palm down on the fake-vintage table. ‘Like I said, I’m not saying it’s not true. But at the moment, I literally only have your word for any of this. And you could be a complete fantasist, you could have the wrong Serena, you could be someone sent to wind me up.’
He glared at me, his nostrils flaring slightly as his gaze slid down his nose and slapped me. That’s what it felt like, a slap from someone who felt nothing but contempt for the person in front of them. ‘I was meant to be talking to your mother, and she’d obviously know that this is all true.’ He sat back in his seat, the look on his face solidifying rather than dissipating after my challenge on his lack of proof. ‘When I picked this up, I didn’t think I’d need to do this, but you know, if I’d been allowed to be a Boy Scout, I’d have been pleased that I heeded the “be prepared” advice.’
He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out his mobile phone. It had a large screen, the latest model. Shiny, new-looking. ‘I’ve got the original at home. Obviously I don’t carry it around. But I thought, you know what, let me take a photo of this, just in case.’ As he spoke, he was working on the phone screen. ‘Just in case I meet someone who doesn’t believe me.’ He practically slapped the phone down in front of me with an ‘argue with that!’ flourish.
It was a photo of a newspaper clipping.
And yeah, it could be doctored, altered, edited, but I knew it wasn’t.
As small and blurred as that image was; as unremarkable as it looked in terms of high definition and pixel resolution on this shiny screen, I’d know her face anywhere.
She held an ice cream that made her look coy and coquettish, she had a tiny two-piece swimsuit that showed she had a body she was proud of, and she had the words, ‘AS COLD AS ICE CREAM’ above her photo, labelling her as what she really was.
My mother was an Ice Cream Girl, like he said. Did that mean he was right, too, about her being a killer?
poppy
Now
The sky isn’t one type of blue. It never is. It is blue overlaid with blue, overlaid with azure and sapphire and teal and lapis. It is blue upon blue upon blue.
The sky is never simple, never one thing, never easy to define. The sky is there as a reflection of my life, something that at first looks clear and simple, but when you move closer, look a little bit deeper, there’s always so much more.
‘MumMumMumMum,’ comes from the backseat.
‘Yes, sweetheart?’
‘Is Dad late, again . . . again?’
‘Yes,’ I reply through my teeth. I don’t mean to grit them, but I can’t help it. It’s all right for him, he won’t get the little digs and sideways looks about lunch being delayed because we’re a nanosecond late; he’ll get the red carpet treatment as usual. He can do no wrong since he’s almost made a respectable woman out of me, so my parents won’t care that he’s – I look at the car clock and grit my teeth harder to stop the seethe – twenty minutes late. ‘If he’s much later, we’ll have to go in without him.’