I pick up the orange strip of card, already knowing what it is. A train ticket. Just one. A single ticket. No return. London Paddington to Bridgend. My eyes scan the ticket, looking for the date, merely confirming what I already know. There it is. There you go. Right there.
30th June 2018.
DAY TWENTY-NINE 29TH JUNE 1988
Yvette Allen peers over the tip of her third cup of tea, glances at the tepid dregs. Fingertips pressed against the morning's newspaper (Wednesday), her eyes fix on the clock on the kitchen wall, follows the red hand as the seconds pass.
She kissed her husband goodbye over an hour ago. Normally she'd busy herself, pouring tea for Jeffrey, buttering toast, tidying up, making a start on the morning's chores. This morning, though, she remained motionless in the silent kitchen, bare feet pressed down against the cold tiled floor, unblinking eyes focussed on the damn clock.
Pulling sharply on her dressing gown belt, Yvette sucks in air and rises to her feet. She'd given it till ten to see if he came downstairs for breakfast. Still no sound. No sign of life. She has to do this, she thinks, climbing the stairs.
“Jeffrey?” she says, tapping on the door.
Nothing. She knocks on the door again, louder this time. No movement. Pulls down the handle, pushes open the door.
Yvette pulls her hand to her mouth to silence her gasp. Not this bad. Surely things haven't got this bad?
Not even the powerful morning sun can bring light to the room, for the curtains are thrust tight together. The foul air suggests that the window hasn't been opened for days, possibly weeks. Stepping over crumpled cans of coke, flat crisp packets and dirty underpants, her eyes can't help but glance at the faded newspaper clippings covering the walls. Jeffrey's bed is just a tepid mound. It is difficult to tell whether the sheets have gathered together or a body lies underneath.
Drawing the curtains and opening the window, Yvette perches on the edge of the bed. She wonders whether Gordon did the same when he chatted with Jeffrey a couple of weeks ago. She clears her throat.
“It's another beautiful morning, Jeffrey. Aren't you supposed to be studying for your exams? Only a couple of weeks now...”
Nothing.
Yvette pulls the bed sheet from his face, smoothes down his dirty blonde hair with her hand. Jeffrey rolls over, looks up at her. His cheeks are puffy and red, his lips dry and cracked. The eyes are perfect circles, signalling anything but perfection. Slowly, he nods his head.
“I will do,” he says.
Yvette squeezes his hand. “Not that exams are that important, not really. We just want to make sure you're okay...”
Jeffrey nods his head again. His dad had already told him this. He knows exactly what she means, needs no further explanation.
“Why don't you jump in the shower, freshen up a bit? I'll cook you some bacon and eggs and we can have a chat in the kitchen?”
Subtle creases appear at the corners of Jeffrey's eyes. “Sounds good,” he says, voice expressionless.
Yvette pushes forward her neck, focuses on the newspaper clippings on the walls. Details of the victims. Her head rotates. One victim more than any other.
“Jeffrey?”
“Yes?”
Yvette holds her son's look, tries to recognise him as the fearless young boy with a swagger, taking on the world with his older brother.
“You told your dad about a girl you liked, didn't you?”
His eyes flick to the ceiling. Doesn't say anything.
“She was the girl that was killed, wasn't she? That lovely, pretty girl. Marie Davies?”
Jeffrey still doesn't say anything. His eyes still stare blankly at the ceiling. A single tear rolls down his cheek just moments before he releases a loud, pained shriek.
Yvette pulls her little boy's sobbing face to her chest, tells him that it is fine, that his mum and dad are here for him. Always.
Jeffrey sits up, rests his back against his pillow. He looks healthier – happier – like he has emptied his soul of pent-up sadness. Yvette thumbs the underside of his chin.
The feeling of impending doom has been growing inside of her the last few weeks. When Yvette was a child, she'd blank out the noise of her arguing parents by closing her eyes and escaping to another world, one where she could walk along hot sand barefoot, or maybe shelter from the rain within a forest. She was reassured that, however awful things got in the real world, she always had a wonderful, albeit imaginary place, to escape to. And then Luke died, and even the brightest sunrise felt drab and grey and powerless. She closed her eyes and thought of her parallel world. But rather than bringing colour and hope to the dark and despair, the alternative world that belonged in her mind terrified her; however desperately she tried, Luke would not join her. She just could not imagine Luke in her fake world. All these years later, Yvette is not sure she has the strength to endure all that pain and suffering again, that she has it in her to come out the other side.
“Just promise me one thing, Jeffrey?” she says.
“Yes?”
“Whatever you are planning, can you promise to please, please be careful?”
Jeffrey glances to the ceiling again for just the briefest moment, before looking his mother straight in the eye.
“I promise,” he says.
DAY THIRTY
