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I started to cry. I wasn’t usually so emotional, but lately, it didn’t take much to set me off.
‘I’m sorry to be so harsh,’ Mum said. ‘I don’t mean to hurt you, but you need to understand what a person like Dominic Griffiths is like.’
‘You’re right. I do,’ I said, after taking a deep breath.
‘What does that mean?’
‘I’m going to visit him in prison.’
‘What?’
‘I need to talk to him. I need to hear everything in his words.’
‘Dawn, that is probably the worst decision you’ve ever made. You’ll regret it.’
‘I’m sorry, Mum, but I have to do this. I want to know if he’s sorry for what he’s done.’
‘And if he isn’t?’
‘Then I’ll know what kind of person he is.’
‘You know that already. Look at the crime. Look at what he did.’
‘I’ve looked,’ I said, more tears falling. ‘I know exactly what he did. But I have to believe a person can regret their actions and be sorry for them. If I don’t believe that, then how can I be a paralegal? How can I represent people in court?’
‘Shit!’ Mum jumped up when she saw smoke coming from the oven.
I watched as she brought out the roasting tin and slammed it on the counter.
‘Well, dinner’s bloody ruined,’ Mum said. She stood on the pedal to the bin and threw the whole lot into it, including the roasting tin.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said feebly.
‘I think you should go,’ she said, turning away and standing at the sink.
‘Mum?’
‘I’m sorry your father turned out to be a murderer, but there’s nothing I can do about that. I told you because I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer. I didn’t want you hating me if he turned up on your doorstep wanting to meet his daughter. I honestly thought I knew you better than this.’ I could tell she was struggling to hold onto her emotions. ‘You’re making the wrong decision by wanting to meet him, allowing him into your life, and I know you’ll regret it. I don’t know what else I can say to make you change your mind.’
‘But there’s a strong possibility he didn’t do it.’
‘Dawn, I’m sorry, but we’re in serious danger of falling out. I really think you should go.’
I looked at the back of her with wide eyes. I loved her with all my heart. Mum was hurting, that much was evident. But it takes two people to make a child, and what kind of a narrow-minded, bigoted person would I be if I took what the media said at face value? I needed to hear the truth from the only person who could give it to me.
I stood up slowly from the table and left the room, not once taking my eyes off my mother who was now audibly crying. I picked up my bag and coat from the hallway and left the house, closing the door firmly behind me.
I felt bad for upsetting her, but the truth was never easy to live with.
Chapter Twelve
I sat in front of the mirror in my bedroom doing my make-up. I was on the bed, and the mirror was on top of the chest of drawers, propped up against the wall. I chose a dark red lipstick, a thick layer of black eyeliner and a new kind of mascara that was supposed to make my lashes longer and thicker, but I hadn’t noticed any difference so far. During working hours, I had my thick, dyed hair tied back professionally into a ponytail rather than the beehive I wore at weekends and for nights out. My style was old-fashioned; I loved the look of the Sixties and often joked to Mum I had been born forty years too late.
My mobile rang. I’d been playing a Dusty Springfield album on it, but the music abruptly stopped when the call came through. I looked at the display and saw Mum was ringing. I rolled my eyes. I didn’t need another lecture. Not right now. I already had enough to contend with that morning, and my nerves were playing havoc with my stomach. I had made up my mind and didn’t want it changing for me. The ringing stopped, and Dusty went back to singing about the son of a preacher man. I loved that song. I knew it by heart. I had sung it once at a karaoke night in the local pub. By the time I finished there was only Robyn left. If she hadn’t been with me on the night out, I think she’d have left too. Singing wasn’t my thing, evidently.
I left my flat, locked the door and trotted down the stairs. In the hallway, Robyn was at the post boxes collecting her mail. Robyn Shelley was in her early thirties and worked shifts in a call centre while designing her own clothes in her spare time. Often when I came home and passed her flat, I could hear a sewing machine whirring away.
‘Morning, Dawn. Off to a funeral?’
