Joanna awoke late. There was no need to hurry—seven years retired, no one to care for but herself. She could afford to linger. Yet a restless unease gnawed at her. Why? Everything was fine, nothing to fret over. And yet.
She rose, tidied herself, set the kettle on the stove, and glanced out the window. Over the house opposite, the sky blushed crimson—soon the low winter sun would rise. So the thaw had finally broken. “Good,” she thought. “I’ll have tea and pop to the shops.” She lifted the whistling kettle.
Tea in hand, she sipped in small, careful gulps. Warmth spread through her. Petite and slight, she’d never filled out, even after bearing her only son. Her husband had been a broad man. He used to call her JoJo, his little sparrow. But he’d been gone ten years now.
She raised the cup—then a sharp buzzer jolted the flat. Her hand jerked, tea sloshed, scalding the thin, age-spotted skin. She barely kept hold of the cup. “Here it is,” she muttered. “Knew something was coming.” The buzzer rang again, insistent.
Blowing on her hand, she shuffled to the door, grumbling, “Who on earth turns up at this hour?” At first, she didn’t recognise the hulking man in rumpled clothes. “Oh—” Her breath caught. Even in the dim hall, she saw the years carved into him. David—her son. He stared back, just as startled by her frailty.
“Got a guest, Mum,” he said, forcing a smile.
“David? Why didn’t you call? I wasn’t—” She pressed her face to his chest. His arm draped awkwardly over her shoulders.
She caught the scent of travel, stale clothes, and something darker—something that twisted like wire in her chest. She pulled back, searching his face. Stubble, puffy skin, red-rimmed eyes.
“Just you? Where’s Emily? The baby?”
“What, not happy to see me alone?” His gaze drifted past her.
“Sorry, love—just surprised.” She stepped aside. “Come in, get warm.”
David crossed the threshold, dropped a duffel bag, and scanned the narrow hall.
“Home. Nothing’s changed.”
“On leave in the dead of winter?” Her eyes flicked to the bag.
“Later, Mum. Knackered.” He shucked his coat onto the peg.
“Right, of course. Kettle’s just boiled.” She hurried to the kitchen, fetching his old mug.
He followed, wedging himself at the tiny table, legs splayed. She set the tea before him.
“Hungry? I’ve got stew. Made it yesterday, almost like I knew.” She hovered.
“Go on, then.” A flicker of a grin. “Missed your cooking.”
She bustled, reheating the pot, ladling a steaming portion. Thick bread, his dad’s heavy spoon. She sat opposite, chin propped on her hand.
“Got anything stronger?” He stirred, not looking up.
“Don’t keep it,” she said flatly.
She watched him eat—ravenously, noisily, like a stray cat finding cream.
“How’s Emily? The little one—what year’s she in now? Why didn’t they come?”
He chewed, deaf to her.
She knew. The drink. The wife had thrown him out. Where else would he go? Of course she was glad. Her boy, home. But the dread coiled tighter.
He pushed the empty bowl away. She jumped up, poured fresh tea, nudged the biscuit tin forward.
“Emily and I split. I’m back for good.”
“That’s all right. Rest up, find work. You’ll sort it.” She busied herself at the sink, then sat again.
He slurped the tea, eyes distant. Then stood.
“Right. Need a kip. We’ll talk after.”
She washed up, heart heavy. She’d known. And now? When she peeked in later, he sprawled on the sofa, telly blaring. She perched beside him.
“Tell me what happened. You let them keep the house? Decent of you. This is your home too.”
“What’s to tell? It’s done.” He didn’t turn.
She studied him—older, hollow-eyed, a stranger. Maybe just tired. The trip down from Newcastle was long. She’d never visited. Money, fear, excuses.
She remembered his graduation, the proud announcement: a job up north, a fresh start. A wife soon after, then the baby. Those first years, they’d all visited. Then the gaps grew. The bottles at meals. His dad’s frown, Emily’s tight lips.
Once, she’d asked Emily outright: “How bad is it?” The girl had wept. “Promises, then three days later…”
David brushed off their concern. Then stopped coming entirely. Calls dwindled. “Fine. Busy. New flat, no time.” If she dared ask about the drinking, he’d hang up.
She sighed. No use dwelling. He was here. She’d nip to Tesco. Let him rest. But when she returned, arms aching with bags, the flat was empty.
His room now. The duffel sat by the bed. She fought the urge to rifle through it. Not proper. No gift, either. Hardly mattered.
He stumbled in near midnight. Pissed. Loud in the hall, dropping things. “Met the lads, then?” she called.
“Had a few. Don’t start.” He swayed past her.
Morning brought a sheepish David, refusing food, gulping tea.
“What’s the plan?” She fixed him with a look. “I won’t have drinking here.”
“Gonna chuck me out?” He shoved the cup.
She flinched, the burn on her hand throbbing anew.
“Forgot the flat’s half mine?” Bloodshot eyes locked on hers.
Her pulse skittered. She remembered insisting they add his name to the deeds. His dad had resisted. “Only child—what if something happens?”
Each day, he’d claim job-hunting, stagger home blind drunk. She’d stand at the window after he passed out, staring at the sodium-lit streets. This wouldn’t end well.
Then came the mates. First one, easily shooed out. Then crowds. The reek of booze and sweat. Mornings spent scrubbing ashtrays, fighting tears.
Talking did nothing. Once, he raised a hand to her. Big as his dad—what could she do? She went to Terry next door, ex-police.
“Could call it in. But two nights in cells won’t fix him. Where’s his money from?”
“Robbing my purse. Took my wedding ring, Nan’s earrings. I’m at my wits’ end.” Shame burned her cheeks.
“Hold tight. Lads like him slip up. Gets nicked proper, he’ll do time. Till then—if it gets bad, bang on my wall.”
Easy to say. The flat stank. Strangers lolling about. She stopped cooking—they’d strip the fridge. Bread and beans for them. She went hungry.
Where to turn? Nights, she wept, begged God to take her. Better dead than this—her son a thief, stealing from his own mum. A ghost in her home.
When had he changed? Bright boy, good grades. His dad would’ve been ashamed.
Then came Lucy. Hard-faced, cheap perfume. “We’re getting hitched,” he’d said.
She drank like him. Their rows turned violent. Joanna hid in her room, waited out the storms. Lucy sometimes cleaned up—small mercies.
One night, she woke to fingers under her pillow. She clicked the bedside lamp. David didn’t blink.
“Cash. Now.”
“I’ve none—” The look in his eyes froze her. She fished out a crumpled twenty. He tore the bed apart, found nothing more.
The shame. The fear. That night, she prayed they wouldn’t come back. Let them vanish. The guilt horrified her—what mother thinks such things? But oh, the peace if they were gone.
They weren’t. The buzzer at dawn brought two plainclothes officers.
“Robbery. Corner shop. Your lad’s in custody. Others got away.”
“Lucy?”
“Scarpered.”
Her chest wJoanna buried the shameful relief with her tears, whispering to the empty flat that she’d rather he stay gone than come home to ruin them both.
