Page 4 of Vengeance is Mine

‘It’s nothing like that, I assure you. It’s just… you should prepare yourself for a bit of a shock.’

The first shock was seeing the state of my mother. Rita Shepherd is the complete opposite of me. She’s petite, dainty, wee. She wears size eight clothes and size three shoes. She’s always dressed smart, doesn’t overdo the make-up and has her hair professionally touched up once every three weeks to hide the grey she’s paranoid about. The wreck of a woman waiting for me in the charging suite of the local nick was nothing like the person I’ve called Mum for the last twenty-one years. The moment she looked up and saw me, the tears started to stream down her face. I took a deep breath. I wanted to cry too but knew I needed to be the strong one here. This wasn’t going to be easy.

The drive back to Mum’s house in Ryton was fraught with tension. I kept glancing at her as we drove quietly along the deserted roads. Every time we passed a lamp-post, and the bright yellow light entered the car, her face lit up. She was unrecognisable. Who was this woman sitting next to me? She was slumped in her seat, arms rigidly folded, a look of tiredness and embarrassment etched on her face. The car reeked of alcohol. I wanted to talk to her, to ask her what the hell was going on, but now wasn’t the right time. I just needed to get her home. Besides, I had no idea where to begin. There were so many questions running around my mind, I didn’t know which one to ask first.

Once inside the three-bedroom semi-detached house I’d grown up in, in the comfort of a warm living room, both of us holding mugs of hot, strong coffee, I couldn’t hold my tongue any longer.

‘You’ve got some explaining to do, apparently.’ I felt like the mother here. This was a real reversal of roles, and I didn’t like it.

Mum nodded.

‘What is it? Are you ill?’

‘No,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

‘Money worries?’

‘No.’

‘What is it then?’

‘Dawn, just let me tell you in my own way.’

‘Go on then.’

My lips were pursed. I glared at my mum, my role model, my hero. I couldn’t begin to fathom what was going on inside her head. We never kept secrets from each other. We prided ourselves on having a very open and honest relationship. I told my mum everything – from the big issues like getting a new job, to the embarrassing ones like the time I was caught having sex in a bus shelter with Mark Foster on the night I passed my driving test. Mum reciprocated. She told me about the time she found a lump in her breast (fortunately, it was only a cyst) and when her business was in trouble (now fully solvent again). There was nothing, as far as I was aware, that my mother could be keeping from me.

‘I was hoping I’d never have to tell you,’ Mum began. A tear escaped her left eye and ran down her cheek. ‘I don’t buy newspapers, as you know, but I went into Morrisons, and there it was on the front page of a couple of tabloids. I almost collapsed right there and then. I’ve been looking online ever since, and it looks like it’s definitely happening.’

‘Mum… I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘It’s about your dad,’ Mum said, looking up at me for the first time.

‘My dad?’

She took a deep breath to compose herself. ‘I’ve been lying to you your whole life. I’ve always known who your father is. I’ve always known where he is.’

I could feel my eyes widening. So this was the shock the PC was talking about. When I had been old enough to understand, Mum had sat me down and told me that she hadn’t known my dad, that she had just met him at a party, and although it hadn’t been planned, she had been over the moon when she discovered she was pregnant. She had known she didn’t need a husband or a stepfather to raise me – she was more than capable of bringing me up single-handed, and that’s what she had done. I was a credit to her, apparently. Everybody said so. I’m not one to blow my own trumpet, but ten GCSE passes, all As and Bs; three A-levels, two As and a B. And… Screw it, why not brag? A first from Newcastle University.

‘Who is he? Where is he?’ I asked, the words tripping over each other as I spoke.

My mum cried. The tears fell in a torrent. She couldn’t speak. All my life I’d wanted to know who my dad was. It was hurting me seeing Mum so upset, but I needed her to explain.

From under the sofa cushion, she produced a copy of the Evening Chronicle and handed it to me.

The newspaper was a week old. The front-page headline was huge: STEPHANIE WHITE’S KILLER TO BE RELEASED. I remembered reading that story in my lunch-hour. Stephanie White was a teenage girl who disappeared on her thirteenth birthday in 1999. Her killer was due to be released early for some reason I couldn’t remember; I had only skimmed the story. Why was she showing me this?

‘I don’t understand,’ I said.

‘Dominic Griffiths,’ Mum said through the tears, ‘the man who killed Stephanie White. He’s your father.’

My stomach lurched, and I suddenly felt freezing cold. What was she saying to me? I couldn’t bring myself to look back at the newspaper I was holding. I couldn’t take my eyes off my mum, searching her face for answers. She nodded, confirming what she’d said. Eventually, I looked down at the paper on my lap and at the small photograph of a young Dominic Griffiths staring back at me. He had only been twenty years old when that picture was taken, when he’d butchered little Stephanie. He was tall and had broad shoulders, large brown eyes and dark, floppy hair. I remembered looking at this exact same photo when I read the story last week and thought he looked pretty hot for a murderer. I had no idea I’d been looking at my father.

Oh my God, I actually thought my father was hot. My father, the killer.

I heaved. I dropped the paper and lifted a hand to my mouth, but it didn’t get there in time. I vomited all over myself.

Chapter Two

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