“Hello, I—”
The words slip out of my mouth as though by accident, and the woman gives me an odd look and a slightly wide berth instead of a reply. She’s gone before I get to ask what was inside the box. It reminds me of another time when I arrived home to find people I did not recognize coming in and out of our front gate.
* * *
I left school at lunchtime the day the headmistress said that my fees hadn’t been paid. I just walked out without a word. It felt like the whole school was staring at me, and I couldn’t take it any longer. We weren’t rich—far from it, living in our little old house with its damp-infused rooms, drafty windows, and homemade everything—but my parents believed that education could overcome anything. I had attended private school from the age of eleven, and the year when I was due to sit my GCSEs was not a great time to stop. So, I hurried home, hoping that my mother had a secret stash of cash somewhere.
She didn’t.
When I got there, far earlier than I should have, strange men were coming out of our house, carrying boxes. I stood on the lawn in the garden allowing them to pass me on the path, and only started to panic when two men came out of the front door with our TV. Unlike a lot of homes those days, we still only had the one. I rushed inside to find my mother standing in an empty room.
“Why are you home?” she said. “Are you sick?”
“Why are they taking all our stuff?”
I was always good at answering questions with questions. It was one of the many skills I learned during childhood that has come in handy as a journalist.
“Things have been a little difficult, moneywise, since your father … left us. A lot of our things were bought on credit cards and I can’t pay for them on my own.”
“Because you’re a cleaner?”
I hated myself for the way I said it, not just the words themselves.
“Well, yes. My job doesn’t pay as much as your father’s used to.”
I knew she had only started cleaning other people’s houses because we needed the money. She wasn’t really qualified to do anything else—that’s why she wanted me to finish school, because she hadn’t.
“Can’t we just call Dad and ask him to send us some money?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“I only know that you said he was gone and was never coming back, and now we can’t afford to have a TV.”
“We’ll get a new one once I’ve managed to save up, I promise. Word is starting to spread and I’m getting more and more work. It won’t take long.”
“And what about my school? They pulled me out of class today, said that my fees hadn’t been paid. Everyone stared at me.”
She looked like she might cry and that wasn’t what I wanted to see. I wanted her to tell me that everything was going to be all right, but I didn’t get to hear that either.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, and took a step toward me. I took a step back. “I’ve tried everything that I can think of, but we’re going to have to find you a new school.”
“But that’s where all my friends are…”
She didn’t reply, perhaps because she knew I didn’t really have any.
“What about my exams?” I persisted; she couldn’t deny those.
“I’m sorry, but we’ll find somewhere good.”
“Sorry, sorry, sorry! That’s all you ever say!”
I stormed past her and ran upstairs to my bedroom. I noticed that it was the only room in the house where nothing had been taken, but I didn’t say anything about that. Instead I yelled loud enough for her to hear before slamming my door.
“You are ruining my life.”
It was only years later that I understood how wrong I was—she had been trying to save it.
* * *
I stare at the box delivered to my mother’s porch just now, then use my phone to Google the name written on the side. It’s a cheap and nasty meals on wheels company. The idea of my mother—a woman who for years would only eat organic food or things she grew herself—eating ready meals makes me want to cry. But I don’t.
Holding my phone in my hand has sparked something in me, the beginning of an idea that I already know isn’t good, but sometimes bad ideas turn out to be the best. I’m aware that Jack didn’t tell me that the victim was Rachel Hopkins so I could broadcast it, but if I’m going to save my career I need to get back on-air. I call the newsroom. Then I dial my cameraman’s number and Richard answers immediately, almost as though he had been watching and waiting for my call.