Page 33 of Cuckoo

‘You ungrateful bitch!’ Mother suddenly screamed, standing up. She snatched a glass from the table and hurled it at me. I ducked and flinched as it shattered everywhere.

‘You ungrateful, spoilt brat! Howdareyou decide a thing like this and not tell me? And save all that money behind my back without even considering paying towards the bills here, your upkeep?’ She started towards me and I curled into myself, backing up against the sink. My eyes flicked towards the discarded knife lying on the chopping board. I should have kept it in my hand, shouldn’t have left it within her reach. A whip of a glance and yet she saw it, followed my gaze to the blade.

Her whole attitude shifted in the blink of an eye. ‘Oh my GOD, Claire! You think I would hurt you? I wouldneverhurt you, not the way you’re hurting me! Iloveyou. I bore you, didn’t I? My first child, my only child!’ She began crying, wailing hysterically as she sank back into the nearest chair, bringing a shaking hand to her forehead in a show of despair.

I stood there, still as a statue, unsure how to deal with her when she got like this.

‘How could you do this to me? How could you do this to your poor mother? I love you so much, Claire, darling, you know I do. Nobody will ever love you as much as I do! Why would you do this to me when all I’ve ever done is love and care for you?’

I bristled slightly at her words, but remained still, trying not to show any sort of reaction. That was what she fed on– reaction.

She continued, ‘I have no husband, no other family, and you’re abandoning me, leaving me here entirely alone?’ She wept and sniffed dramatically.

What came out of Mother’s mouth and her actions rarely aligned. Moving very cautiously, I slid the knife behind me. I didn’t trust her not to reach for it, to sink it into my side before she even realised what she’d done. She was too unpredictable. ‘Mother, I’m not abandoning you, I’m not going far. I’ll still see you all the time—’

‘You think I’d want to see you? After you’ve left me like this?Betrayedme like this?’ she spat at me, crocodile tears instantly vanishing. She stood up again and stalked towards me as I backed up once more against the sink. I could feel the edge pressing into my lower spine. She gripped my wrists, pinning me there, and I was surprised at her strength. I wondered if I would have purplish-blue bracelets in the morning, reflecting the pressure from her fingertips. Then I gasped in surprise as she spat in my face. I was unable to wipe it away, her claws still gripping on to me, and felt it slide slowly downmy cheek. I held eye contact, refused to turn my face away. I hoped she could see the hatred burning behind my eyes.

‘You will never survive without me, Claire, darling. Nobody will ever pay attention to you, or care for you the way I have. You’ll just carry on your whole life being invisible. If not me, what reason would anybody ever have to notice you? To think of you?’ she hissed, toe to toe with me. She was so close I could feel her breath on my face, her narrowed eyes boring into me

‘Claire, darling. Listen carefully while I tell you something very important,’ she said, her voice low and dangerous. ‘If you leave me, if you move out and abandon me, you will live to regret it.’

I left that evening.

Chapter Thirty-Two

I’m standing outside number 48 St Margaret’s Avenue, shaking like a leaf. I cannot believe what I am about to do. It’s Saturday morning, and while Noah’s car is still outside the house, I also know that every Saturday morning, without fail, he goes out on a run. Not a short run either, Noah is a very fit and healthy individual. No, he will run for at least an hour, usually topping twelve kilometres. I assume that staying over at Lilah’s house hasn’t changed this.

But I’ve obviously timed myself to arrive extra early, watching to make sure I see him leave before I make my move. And sure enough, come 9 a.m. the door swings open and there he is, looking as gorgeous as ever. He’s wearing tracksuit bottoms and an old T-shirt and has his earbuds in. I’ve squatted behind a tree on the opposite side of the road and faked tying a shoelace, watching him as he fiddles with his Fitbit.

But then, instead of kicking off his run, he does something strange. He looks back at the house, as though checking for something, and heads over to his car. He unlocks and opens the boot. From where I’m peering around the tree, I can see him removing an old gym bag and rummaging around in its pockets. Then he pulls out a phone. But it’s nothisphone. No, his phone is sitting on his shoulder, strapped there by one ofthose fancy running belts. This phone is an odd little brick, like the burner kind a drug dealer would use. My heart thuds in my chest as I watch him slide it into his trackie bottoms. While his back is turned as he sorts out the bag and the boot, I hurry away from the house. At the end of the road, I crouch down behind a tree and wait, holding my breath.

Sure enough, a few minutes later Noah appears. He’s frowning at the burner phone then he presses it to his ear, still walking. He’s coming towards me and I worry that if I look up at him, he’ll feel my gaze and spot me, so I keep my head down, tucking myself into the smallest space I can. I hear his voice saying: ‘Hey… Yeah, I know, I’m sorry… I know, I’ll make it up to you… Yeah. I know. Mmm…’

My stomach is in my mouth.Who is he speaking to?

‘Listen, I need to wrap some stuff up first,’ he’s saying, and I’m crawling along to try and keep up with him without being seen. My stomach is in knots.

‘I know, I know, but I…’ And then he’s too far away, across the street from me, and there’s no way I can follow him any longer without being seen. I let out a huff of frustration, collapsing back onto the ground with my back resting against a wall to compute what I’ve just learned.

Noah has a burner phone, which he is hiding from Lilah, and which he hid from me, too. He is using it to speak to at least one person, though I have no idea who that person is. So there’s Lilah, there’s this new layer to Noah’s double life, and there’s me. None of this is making any sense, none of it is slotting together. How does he have the fuckingtime?

I peer back over the wall tentatively and see him in thedistance. He must have finished the phone call because his hands are now empty and he’s jogging away confidently until he turns off towards the riverfront and I can no longer see him.

It takes a lot of strength to restrain myself from shouting after him, demanding to know who he was speaking to, begging him to take me back. But no, today isn’t about Noah. It’s about Lilah. I wait five minutes in case he has forgotten something and comes back early, but after that has passed I feel brave enough to head back to her yellow front door. I’ve been standing outside it in a panic for at least three minutes now. I don’t know what I’m most afraid of: whether it’s hearing what she has to say about Noah, finding out why she had my picture in her drawer, or why she was circling maternity rights information. Whatever it is, there’s something gripping me by the throat, stopping me from knocking.

So I close my eyes and take deep breaths.

I had been living alone for seven months when I first started getting the phone calls from Mother. Contrary to what I had promised her, I had not made the slightest effort to visit her since moving out. Initially, guilt had kicked in and I had thrown her a bone in the form of a couple of brief emails, informing her of my safety and asking if she was well. I received pages and pages in response, shortnovels, all varying in storyline. In some, she was depressed, unable to get out of bed without her darling daughter, her reason for living, beside her at home. In others, she was having the time of her life, she had three new boyfriends and was partying in waysshe could never have imagined had I still been living at home with her, because I had always been a block on her true potential. And in some she said she was glad I was gone because she had never truly loved me. I had been a negative presence in her life and she hoped that I realised now just how much I needed her, how much I owed her, because it should be obvious to me that without her I was nothing.

So I’d stopped emailing.

And then, three months later, the call came.

I remember experiencing that same gripping sensation around my throat at the sight of her name on the screen. It restricted my breathing, made me pause with my hand over the accept button. Until finally, curiosity won out.

‘Claire?’ Her voice, sounding very cold and clear.

‘Hi, Mother,’ I replied, trying not to sound as wary as I felt.

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