Page 26 of Her Last Breath

‘Mum, I’m tired. Let’s just eat in peace.’

‘I’ll tell you why,’ her mother said, ignoring her. ‘Because you want to see me die, make sure it’s real.’

’Why would you say that?’

Jane picked up the fork and forced the food into her mother’s mouth. Maeve only finished half of it, pushing the plate away. The carers had screwed up her day at both ends. Turning up late for breakfast and dinner.

‘I’m turning in soon. Let me know if you need anything.’

‘No. Thank you.’

The words were choked and Jane knew her mother was crying again.

Back in the kitchen, Jane sighed as she looked at the full sink, the bloodied tissues from the morning lying around, the half-chopped apple.

Jane looked out of the window, the bare concrete yard reflected in the light from the kitchen. Shards of memories from her childhood filled her mind, as she remembered those early days. Before Ed died.

Although her mother was always highly strung, Jane’s childhood had been a happy one. Her mother was there when she finished school, Ed and her walking home together to enjoy a warm tea. Then time to play before her father came home and they all ate dinner together as a family. Bath time, followed by a story. She had felt safe, sure of her brother and her parents always being there.

After Ed died, the teas became cold bread with butter and jam. Her father working late, dinner was usually Jane on her own. No stories before bed. The three of them alone in their grief in different parts of the same home.

Jane left the dishes and went out into the backyard, needing some fresh air.

On the ground she saw the familiar faint scratches of the hopscotch. Jane picked up a stone and started to draw over the scratched concrete, but stopped halfway, feeling her emotions grip her, the stone shaking in her hand.

After cleaning the kitchen, she retreated to bed, bone-tired. As soon as her head hit the pillow though, she was wide awake.

As the night dragged on, Jane found herself unable to sleep. She threw back her sheets, wandering across the landing to Ed’s room. She stood outside his door, her hand on the doorknob, resting her forehead against the cool painted wood. For the last two months of trips back to Burnley since the end of June, she hadn’t plucked up the courage to go in. Tonight she needed to be close to him.

The smell of damp hit her as she opened the door, dust tickling her throat, making her cough.

Jane looked around the room lit by a single bulb. Burnley FC bedsheets, posters on the wall. The players long faded from memory apart from the reminiscing of diehard fans. Sitting down on the single bed, her hand felt the starched material under her fingers. A pinch of sadness hit her as she imagined her mother alone in the house, washing the bedding and making up the bed for her son. A son who would never come back. Followed by the burn of resentment that Jane was forgotten even before she left.

Jane saw Ed’s wardrobe in the corner, opened it to see his clothes still hanging. Washed and ironed, preserved despite the threat of moths and mould, as though he was on a trip. Everything waiting for him.

Jane rushed from her brother’s room and into her own, falling onto her bed, onto the cheap bed covers she had bought in a rush from Primark.

Ed was more alive in this house than Jane, who could hear her own heartbeat, feel the warmth of her breath. She felt the bitterness and the injustice run through her veins, felt hatred for everyone who should have loved and cared for her. Her mother and father. And Ed. In that moment she felt hatred towards him too. Ed had killed himself; he had done this thing, torn this family apart. And yet it was Jane who was punished for it. Jane who suffered.

Overwhelmed by her surroundings, the house that was needling her with its secrets, Jane reached into her bedside cabinet for the only thing that would numb her pain.

Day Two

Chapter 15

The clattering from downstairs woke her with a start. Opening her eyes, her mouth cotton dry, her head throbbing, Jane realised it was already 7 a.m. The carers were here, filling the house with the smell of properly cooked food, the buzzing noise of the electric hoist to help her mother in and out of bed, the familiar chatter of Burnley accents. It sounded and smelt like a morning from her childhood.

After a quick shower, she swallowed two paracetamol with water, despite the temptation of more vodka. Jane zipped up her boots, headed downstairs to the kitchen.

‘Morning, Detective,’ said Lorraine. ‘You like some brekkie?’

‘Thanks, but you don’t have to.’

‘No bother,’ said Lorraine. ‘You working the case of that poor young girl they found in the river?’

‘Yes,’ Jane said through a mouthful of bacon and Lancashire tea.

‘So sad. They say she had two small kids.’