Flowers for the Dead (11 page)

“Nice muscles,” Sara flirted.

This was something she had been doing more and more as he got older, Adam realised. It was as though she believed he actually liked what they did. As though she was trying to seduce him rather than force him.

It made his flesh creep.

She flicked her hair, sending her perfect blonde bob swinging. “What do you think of my muscles? Want a feel?” She was proud of her slender figure, achieved with daily runs and Pilates.

Adam longed to shove her away from him. To take her face in his hands and run at the wall, smashing it into the plaster. But he knew he would never have the courage to stand up to her.

Instead, he let his body go on automatic pilot, and let his mind drift free, retreating into the world of myth and legend. One day, when he was older, he would find a pure and true woman, like in the stories. He would protect her, and prove he was a worthy man. She would love him for himself, just the way he was, and demand no changes of him; she would not be constantly disappointed by him and think he was a useless failure at everything. He dreamed of a woman he could rescue, and who in turn would rescue him.

But as he and his mother moved together his dreams changed. He wished he had a sword like the knights of old, to run her through with it. He imagined it so hard that he could see it, right in front of him. The plumes of blood flying up like leaping flames from her guts as he stabbed and stabbed. Her groans of pleasure twisting into screams of pain in his mind. Adam smiled as he picked up pace.

He was still smiling as he showered, but as he scrubbed at his flesh he started to sob. He could not get clean. Sometimes he scrubbed until it hurt almost as much as the sandpaper his mother used on him as punishment. Turning the shower up, he stood under the scalding water, making his skin bright red and the bathroom fill with mist. It made no difference. He never felt clean.

Bad boy. Dirty boy. Useless. Disgusting.

He dried himself with a freshly laundered towel, carefully folded it back up, and then used another one, just to be sure. Folded that too, and put them both in the wash. Went to his drawer of neatly folded underwear and pulled out green boxers, and matching socks – they had to be not only the same colour, but the exact shade. Put on a green t-shirt that went with them, and a pair of clean blue jeans.

Eurgh, there was a stain on the leg of the jeans which had not come out in the wash. He would have to throw them away. Disgusted, he quickly pulled them off, tossed them in the bin, and put on a new pair. Did his hair, and once he had finished, ensured the comb lined up with the front of his chest of drawers, that the hair gel went back in the exact same spot, two inches in diagonally from the front corner, and the logo facing the front.

In a world that was so out of control, taking charge of the little things was everything.

Without discipline, Adam worried his anger might turn inwards. That he might smash himself to pieces. He couldn’t find the words to describe the emotions ripping through him, not even to himself. Even the language of flowers, which had so helped him, fell far short; there were so few expressions of bitterness or hatred.

He picked up the notebook in which he had jotted his favourite flowers and flicked through it. Perhaps he would send his gran something. He felt the need to reach out, to do something, anything to ease his situation. To be free of the scratchy feeling under his skin. Nothing, there was nothing. Then he remembered something.

Instantly, the storm inside him calmed. The crawling under his skin eased, and his head stopped buzzing.

He pulled on a thick long-sleeved top and his padded ski gloves then marched from his bedroom, straight down the stairs. His mother was in the lounge, he could hear the soft drone of the television, but he did not go in. Instead, he went outside, down the road a little way to some scrubland. Waving in the breeze were nettles almost as tall as Adam. He ripped up an armful, then headed back to the house. Scattered them all over his parents’ bed.

Cruelty
, they screamed.

He went back downstairs, a strange smile twisting his lips. Into the kitchen he went before trudging back up the staircase carrying the coffee maker. Opening the large window in his parents’ bedroom, he heaved the machine up onto the sill then gave a shove.

There came a terrible crashing sound, followed by a shriek of shock from his mother. He heard the front door open, saw her run out and stare at the twisted bits of silver metal and red plastic scattered across the drive. Slowly, she looked above her. Lips white, pupils tiny, hands bunched. Her expression was terrifying. He knew there would be only one way for her to deal with such rebellion. Crush it.

CHAPTER TWELVE

~ Edelweiss ~

Ever-lasting courage

PRESENT

Adam is creating a beautiful bouquet of loss and love, of healing and redemption, all for Laura. Fingers working joyously, choosing, cutting, arranging, binding, only occasionally pausing to flick through his gran’s old
Floriography: The Language of Flowers
book for inspiration or to double check the meaning of a particular bloom.

Dahlia to convey the dignity she has shown in dealing with the loss of her family. Tiny blue forget-me-not, of course. The ever-lasting courage of edelweiss joins sprigs of fennel flowers for strength. Finally, he includes bright azalea, meaning ‘take care of yourself for me’, so that she knows she no longer has to carry this burden alone.

He wants her to know that everything will be all right. That he is here for her, protecting her like her very own knight in shining armour. All this he is saying through the bouquet he is creating.

So excited is he about her reaction to the news he is giving her that that very night he drives the three hours from his home to Essex. He knows Colchester well, of course, from his childhood, and he feels cheered: it is clearly a good sign, a sign from fate that he and Laura are meant to be.

He parks in an NCP car park on Balkerne Hill, and walks to Drury Road with a lightness in his step that he hasn’t felt for a long time. Forever, it feels like. He checks no one is looking, then pops the flowers on the step outside, before crossing the road and walking away, whistling happily to himself. If only he could stay around to see the smile of delight on her face, but he is too careful to make such a rookie mistake.

Hours later Laura gets home after a long shift at the bakery’s café, and after opening the porch door, notices a bouquet of flowers resting against her front door. Huh, that’s weird.

They are a strange mixture of what looks like little wildflowers and stuff she would see in a garden, but it is all the more pretty for being unusual. There is a printed note with her name on, but no indication of whom they are from.

Maybe Ryan, as an attempt to get back together? She doubts it. Flowers are not really his style, though he is the sensitive type, so it could be. It would be typical of him to forget to put his own name on.

More probably it is Aunt Linda. Flowers are the kind of thing she might give Laura.  Though it isn’t like her to omit something as obvious as a note.

Well, whoever it is, it is a lovely thought. Laura smiles as she arranges them in a plastic vase she bought when she moved into the flat. She hadn’t taken anything from her parents’ house, the memories had been too much. Instead, she had given things to her extended family of cousins, aunts and uncles, and close family friends, and the house had been sold.

The only thing she had kept was the beautiful brass-frame bed. Its sweeping and twisting ornamentation had reminded her of ivy from a fairy-tale – like it would have grown around Sleeping Beauty’s castle until she was saved by her handsome prince.

She dials Aunt Linda. “Hi, thanks for the flowers.”

“Flowers? Not guilty,” her aunt laughs.

“Huh. Wonder who sent them, then?”

“Ah, maybe someone else wanted to put a smile on your face,” Aunt Linda says tentatively.

Laura pulls her usual face at the subtle reference, but smiles. “I’ve been doing as I promised. I’ve been trying,” she offers. “And, well, I have to admit that I do feel a bit better for it. It comes and goes, of course, but…”

“But it’s baby steps in the right direction. That’s brilliant,” finishes her aunt.

Laura fills her in on everything she has been up to in the last few days. Which isn’t much, yet is giant leaps in Laura’s attitude.

“You know, everything that you’re doing now…your parents would be proud,” Aunt Linda says before saying goodbye. It gives Laura a warm glow that feels like a hug.

She has no idea that as she draws her curtains someone is outside watching her. Longing to be with her. Planning her future.

***

SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO

The Bourne family was visiting Moseley during the Whitsun break, sitting on Ada’s patio and looking out across the vast garden. Graeme jumped up, spotting his mother walking towards them laden with a tea tray before Adam did.

“It’s light enough,” she protested, but did not stop him from carrying it. Despite it only being full of cups, a pot of tea, and home-baked Victoria sponge it had clearly felt heavy to the delicate woman.

Ada was only 69, but lately her graceful movements had become that little bit more rigid. Her hands were so stiff from arthritis that Adam often had to open jars for her. He had also noticed she had started sipping peppermint tea constantly, and wondered if her stomach was delicate. There was no point asking her though as he knew she would never dream of showing weakness. There was no point in complaining about things, one simply had to get on with life.

“Would anyone like cake?” she offered brightly. Father and son almost fell over themselves in their eagerness. With a laugh, Ada served up.

“Sara?” Ada proffered a slice.

“It’s looks wonderful, but not for me, thanks.” Sara patted her perfectly flat stomach and stage-whispered, “Watching my weight.” Of course, everyone muttered protests that she looked fabulous and did not need to worry about such things.

It was a beautiful May day, not a cloud in the sky as the family chatted. Once Ada had finished her peppermint tea, she gave a contented sigh, tilting her head back to let the sun warm her.

“Graeme, could you be a sweetheart and put the parasol up for us?” asked Sara. “It’s getting in my eyes. Well, if that’s okay with you, of course, Ada?”

“Of course, dear, of course. Make yourself at home.”

“Oh, I only wish I could have such a beautiful home,” she flattered. “Have you ever thought about having a conservatory? If this were my place, I think I’d be tempted. And you could chop down some of these trees, really open the place up, have some decking put down.”

Ada gave a dignified smile. Instead of glaring at her daughter-in-law, she stared across at the narrow strip of wild plants she kept untouched beside one fence. There, six deep orange gatekeeper butterflies were trying to oust one another from a single ragwort flower with varying success, and peacock butterflies rested on the nettle patch, their brilliant red standing out against the greenery.

“Adam could pull all those weeds out, if you wanted,” Sara offered, seeing where she was looking. Ada ignored her.

“Mother, are you tired? Do you want us to leave you alone for a while so you can rest?” Graeme asked gently.

“I’m fine, thank you,” she said, patting her son’s hand.

“Well, how about Adam and I take a turn around the garden, and leave the two of you to catch up with each other.” Sara stood and looked pointedly at Adam, who got up clumsily, catching the table and causing some of the tea to spill into the saucers.

“Do be careful,” his mother chided.

“Sorry, sorry…” He started to run for a cloth, but Ada stopped him.

“That’s what saucers are for,” she smiled, her hazel eyes gentle, the gold flecks in them almost glowing in the sunlight. “There’s no harm done.”

Instantly he felt better.

Sara hooked her arm through Adam’s and they wandered down the garden path. As soon as they were out of earshot, she leaned in and whispered conspiratorially.

“The old bat can’t live forever. One day this place will be my home, and then I’m going to do exactly what I please to it. And it’ll be all the more fun knowing she’s spinning in her grave.”

Adam didn’t say a word. Sara did not expect him to, simply carried on.

“She’s always banging on about the past. Life’s all about the here and now, not great uncle this or her grandfather or whatever she wants to go on about.”

“What about your parents?” asks Adam.

“What about them? Don’t know if they’re still alive, don’t care.”

Why should she care about her birth parents? She had only vague memories of them, and none of those were good.

She would never admit it to her son, but as a child Sara had longed to be part of a proper family: with a mum and dad who cherished her, and perhaps even a younger sibling that she could look after and become best friends with. They would have shared all their secrets. Instead, she had been raised in a combination of children’s homes and foster care.

Always eager to escape, Sara had spent years going out at twilight, that time when people put on their lights but have not yet drawn the curtains. She had loved looking in as she walked by. Seeing comfortable homes and loving families, and imagining herself a part of them.

Long before she hit her teens she had realised that those things were a pipe dream for someone like her though. If her life was to change for the better, she was going to have to make it, no one was going to rescue her as if she were little orphan Annie. So she had learned to pretend to be the perfect person even when she was not. How to manipulate and downright lie to get her own way. How to think of only herself – because if she didn’t no one else would. How bullying could be useful, and cruelty fun.

When she was sixteen Sara had met Graeme after lying her way into a nightclub. There had been an instant attraction between her and the dashing nineteen-year-old who had joined the army the year before. Sara instantly recognised him as a good thing, knowing that with the forces he would have a steady job, decent money, and even a pension. Even if he died, she knew she would be taken care of. Within weeks she had fallen pregnant ‘accidentally’.

The memories crowded in on Sara as she strolled with her silent son beside her. Just as she had hoped, Graeme had proposed the instant he found out she was expecting his child. The second he had leave, he had taken her to Moseley to meet his mother. What a shock that had been! He had not thought of warning her, and to this day Sara felt riled when she remembered how wrong-footed she had been meeting Ada. She had instantly felt dowdy in the Next outfit she had spent all her savings on, while Ada wore Chanel. Sara was willing to bet the old buzzard bought her bras from Rigby & Peller, who made them for the Queen.

Annoyance had been tempered by glee though. Sara had known she had fallen on her feet with Graeme, but when she had seen just how well off he was she had felt like she had won the lottery.

Ada had tried to be nice to the girl, but had sorely misjudged by sharing the tale of how Graeme had been raised single-handedly by her. The look on her face had been as though it was the greatest tragedy in the world not to have a father. Sara had almost burst out laughing in the woman’s face. So what? Look at the privileged, loving upbringing he had had. He had no right to feel hard done by.

As Sara walked, lost in memories, she trailed her hand through some long ornamental grasses, scaring up two resting ringlet butterflies. Their wings were such a rich, dark brown that they looked almost black. They were the exact colour of Adam’s hair. She looked at him from the corner of her eye and remembered how, fourteen years earlier, she had genuinely looked forward to being a mother.

Carrying a life inside her had foolishly reignited her dreams of being part of a loving family, just as she had imagined all those twilight times.

When she had given birth though she had been bitterly disappointed. There had been none of that fabled rush of love as she looked down at her son. He was a carbon copy of his father and Ada: same hair, same eyes. There was nothing of her to see.

The stupid brat had rejected her DNA, like her mum and dad had rejected her. He was not her son. He was nothing but a crying, whining annoyance.

Anger had grown in direct proportion to Adam’s passing years. He did not even have Sara’s strength of character. He was pathetic, a weakling, and slightly feminine - not something she would ever have applied to Graeme, but he certainly didn’t get it from her either. Sara was strong, determined, out-going. If she saw something, she made sure she got it. The only time he had shown any kind of gumption was when he had thrown the coffee maker from her bedroom window, and chucked a load of nettles on her bed. He had been punished for that, of course, and she was confident he would never do anything like it again.

The circuit of the garden had been completed. Adam slipped from Sara’s grasp to sit once more beside his father and grandmother, but Sara continued inside.

She poured herself a vodka and was about to swig it down in one when Graeme walked into the room.

“A little early, honey,” he said, raising his eyebrows as he ostentatiously checked his watch.

In his own way Graeme was as much about control as Sara. He never loosened up. When they had first met she had to admit for a while she had entertained hope that they might be happy together. But Graeme was too remote to give her the passion she longed for. He was never around either, thanks to his job; he was married more to that than to her, and had risen rapidly through the ranks as a result.

Sara was not the type to allow herself time to wallow and stagnate; instead she had adapted. Pushed her silly ideas of romance to one side and instead concentrated on the infinite possibilities a man like Graeme presented. He was ambitious, successful, hard-working. The fact he was never at home was a good thing, she told herself, as she took a genteel sip of her vodka and tonic. It meant she was free. She had the stability and home she had always craved, did not have to worry about money, and when Ada finally died, Sara, via Graeme, would become positively well off.