The M Word Read online

  The M Word

  Eileen Wharton

  Bombshell Books

  Contents

  Also By Eileen Wharton

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright © 2018 Eileen Wharton

  The right of Eileen Wharton to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2018 by Bombshell Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bombshellbooks.com

  Also By Eileen Wharton

  Shit Happens

  Blanket of Blood

  Praise for Eileen Wharton

  "Razor sharp wit and comical descriptions are used to good effect by the author to create a novel that guarantees a chortle a chapter." Darren Sant - Goodreads

  "A first class read and highly recommended." Kay Robinson - Goodreads

  "A brilliant read and another one of those books you just cannot put down." - Amazon Reviewer

  "I found this a real page turner. Exciting, scary, touching, funny. All emotions in spades." Amazon Reviewer

  "Would make a wonderful telly series. Funny, naughty, with an entertaining heroine." Amazon Reviewer

  "Hats off to Ms Wharton for a great entrance into the crime genre!" Noelle Holten - Crimebookjunkie

  "A very well written and enjoyable book- highly recommended." Misfits Farm - Goodreads

  "There are enough red herrings to lead the reader astray, and my imagination was working overtime as I tried to piece this well plotted puzzle together..." Lorraine Rugman - The Book Review Cafe

  "The overall plot is fantastic - deliciously dark and creepy - I loved it and can't wait for the sequel." KA Richardson - Author

  "Lovers of serial killer thrillers will enjoy this book. Well written with great characterisation." Lisa - Goodreads

  This book is dedicated to the memory of two beautiful women: Patricia (Patsy) Wharton and Patricia (Pat) Russ. Thank you for the love, laughter and happy times.

  1

  @RobertaGallbreath

  #Restingbitchface

  #Flissflop

  ‘Mother is dying,’ a voice on the house phone says.

  ‘Who is this?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s Fliss, who do you think it is?’

  ‘Let me see. It’s three years since I spoke to you last, Felicity, so I wasn’t expecting to pick up the phone and hear your voice.’

  ‘Are you coming or not?’ my sister snaps.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Home, of course. She’s dying, Roberta. Even you must care about that.’ What’s with the even you shit? Why do people say that? My sister is good at emotional blackmail. ‘She’s asking for you. God knows why.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Days rather than weeks. Doctor said to gather the family. Can you tell Carolyn and Shoni?’

  ‘And Drew,’ I say. Silence. ‘He didn’t do it, Felicity.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘I know my own son.’ Silence. ‘He might be a lot of things, but he’s not a thief.’

  ‘I didn’t ring to argue with you. Just get here, will you.’

  ‘I’ll come tomorrow,’ I say. She hangs up.

  My sister’s a bitch. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not all sweetness and light myself, but Felicity is a witch and a martyr, and there’s nothing more unattractive than the smell of burning martyr. She stayed with Mother when she could have left to live in Bermuda with a police officer from Pocklington she had met on eHarmony. She’s bitter and twisted, and let’s face it, who wouldn’t be, living with Mother all those years?

  #nilbymouth

  Mother’s on form. Even on her deathbed, she can make me feel like crap. She sits up in bed, her grey curls flattened by the pillows she’s now propped on, winceyette bed jacket draped around her spiky shoulders, “ALICE GALLBREATH: NIL BY MOUTH” at her head.

  ‘Don’t know why you bothered coming all the way up here,’ she says.

  ‘It’s only twenty minutes up the road.’

  ‘Why do I never see you, then? There’s nowt for you in t’ will.’

  ‘I don’t want anything, Mother,’ I say.

  ‘That’ll be a first. Stand up straight and put your legs together. You couldn’t stop a pig in a passage.’

  ‘Stop with the compliments, will you?’ I say.

  ‘What you doing here?’

  ‘I came to see you.’

  ‘Want to watch me die?’

  ‘No, Mother. I came to say my goodbyes.’

  ‘Goodbye, then.’

  ‘Jesus, can you not just…’

  ‘What? Just what?’ Mother asks.

  ‘Just be nice,’ I say.

  ‘That’s rich, coming from you.’

  ‘Look, I know I haven’t been the World’s Best Daughter,’ I say.

  ‘Pah. Understatement of the year. Get one of those thingies from the nurse, will you?’

  ‘Thingies? Which nurse?’

  ‘The one that’s plain as a pikestaff. I need to say a decade of the rosary every time I look at her… A thingummy jig whatsit doodah…’ She sets off coughing, and I think she’s going to choke to death there and then. She waves her hand madly in the direction of the cupboard next to the bed.

  ‘In here?’ I ask. She nods. ‘A tissue?’ She nods again. I hand her a tissue, and she spits into it. Fresh red blood mixed with black swirls like a marble. She folds the tissue, shoves it into my hand and gestures to the plastic bag taped to her locker. I try not to retch as I stuff it in. ‘You haven’t exactly been Mum of the Year, either.’

  ‘Go on, kick me while I’m down.’

  ‘I’m not here to kick you, Mother. Felicity said you were asking for me.’

  ‘Yes, I wanted you to know that I know who took the money and your father’s watch, and I want you to get it back.’

  ‘Listen, if you’re going to accuse Drew again, I–’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘That was a terrible time for us…’

  ‘I wasn’t going to accuse Drew,’ she says. ‘I know it wasn’t Drew. He wouldn’t nick off his granny. I want you to get it back. I still want Drew to have it.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘I don’t want it to cause trouble. I just want you to get it back.’

  ‘From where, Mother? Where do I get it from?’

  ‘Fliss,’ she says faintly.

  ‘I don’t understand. What about Felicity?’

  ‘It wasn’t your dad’s watch. Well, it was. But not the man you thought was your dad.’

  ‘What do you mean? Wh
at are you talking about? You’re talking in riddles. Whose was it? Mother?’

  ‘The letters explain,’ she says, her breath shallow and laboured.

  ‘Letters? What letters?’

  ‘In there,’ she says, pointing to the bedside cabinet. ‘They explain.’

  ‘Explain what?’

  ‘Everything. They explain everything. Forgive me…’

  Her breath grows ragged, and the machine beside her beeps. A nurse comes running. It’s all a bit of a blur after that. Doctors run in. They shock her, and her heart starts again, then stops. They shock her again, calling, ‘Alice, Alice, can you hear me, Alice?’

  When I’ve seen paramedics performing CPR on the telly, it’s so clean and clinical. This is brutal. Messy, noisy, the sound of ribs cracking, a blue mouth foaming, eyes rolling.

  It seems like hours before a man in a white coat shakes his head and says, ‘Time of death, eleven twenty-two am.’

  I can’t say that what I feel is sadness, but there is shock. Definite shock. Seeing Mother silent and not deadly. I wouldn’t say she looks peaceful or that she looks like she’s sleeping. She looks dead. Bitter Alice. Deceased. What did she want to explain? What did she want me to forgive?

  I open her bedside cabinet and take out a brown bag. Inside is a bundle wrapped in red cloth. Unwinding the material, I can see letters, a huge bundle of letters, held together by elastic bands. I stuff them into my bag, intending to read them when I get home.

  I sit beside the bed in a state of shock until Felicity arrives and blames me for killing our mother. ‘I think, in fact, that it was lung cancer that killed her.’

  ‘She was alright last night,’ she says. ‘She was chatting about Freda Birchill’s granddaughter being done for shoplifting.’

  ‘She wasn’t alright, though, was she? You called me up here because she was dying. You said to me that she didn’t have long left.’

  ‘Yeah, but I didn’t think…that she would really die.’ Her face crumples then, and I feel almost sorry for her. I put my hand on her shoulder, and she shrugs it off. ‘Do you think it’s been fun looking after her for the past twenty years while you swanned off to the city? You, the big I am.’

  ‘It’s Newcastle, Felicity, not New York. If you wanted a life, you could have chosen one.’

  ‘Chosen? Chosen?’ Her voice rises, and she beats her chest. ‘I didn’t have choices. My path was paved when you left. I couldn’t leave as well, could I? She’d have been on her own.’

  I ignored her self-pity party. ‘She mentioned the money and Granddad’s watch. She said she knew Drew didn’t take it.’

  ‘If you’ve come here to cause trouble, I swear I’ll …’

  ‘Do what? Fliss, you invited me to come.’

  ‘Just go back to where you came from.’

  ‘I came from here, actually.’

  ‘So why do you talk as though you have a mouth full of marbles?’

  ‘What is it you want from me, Felicity?’

  ‘Nothing. I want nothing. Precisely what you’ve given me over the years.’

  ‘I’m going back,’ I say. ‘Let me know the arrangements for the funeral.’

  ‘Oh, yes, leave it all to me as usual. You can tell Drew to stay away, for a start.’

  ‘I’ll tell him no such thing. And I’ll tell you another thing, Mother wants him to have his granddad’s watch. Well, she said it’s not Dad’s. So, what do you know about that?’

  ‘Nothing. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘She wants me to find the watch and give it to Drew, and that’s what I’m going to do.’ Her face turns red, then green, then white. She storms off, sticking her nose in the air.

  2

  #Karmachameleon

  I know you’ll think I’m cold and hard. I haven’t shed a tear over Mother. I’m not sure what I feel. If, indeed, I feel anything at all. Maybe I’m in shock. Maybe I’m numb, and when the numbness wears off, I’ll be a blubbering mess of tears and snot. I’m generally not an emotional person, though. I’m stoic. Impassive. Heartless, some say. I’m certainly not the most patient of people, I don’t suffer fools gladly, and I’m not politically correct. I’m not a do-gooder or a tree hugger, and I pretty much hate everyone. At least I’m consistent.

  I have decided, however, that today, I am going to change. I am going to try to be good and kind. To myself and others. I intend to save up some Karma before that bitch comes around to slap me in the face. Death can do that to a person. It makes you take stock. It makes you want to be better.

  I left for work with the intention of being positive. Then, my menopausal car wouldn’t start. She overheated as soon as the engine turned over. I knew how she felt, but it was very frustrating to have to take the bus and mingle with the plebs. Why couldn’t everything just run smoothly?

  I was called into the office. The boss, Oldham (appropriate name cos he smells of rancid meat), said I have to make more of an effort to be congenial. That’s rich coming from him, the most curmudgeonly old codger I’ve ever come across. Before you ask, I don’t fancy him. He’s old enough to be my dad, and his face looks like a corned beef sandwich left out in the rain. He said my mood swings were becoming intolerable, and I’d better pull my socks up or else. I haven’t worn socks since I was thirteen and I used them to pad my bra. My mood swings? Or else what?

  It transpired, after listening to the middle-aged morons in the canteen, the mood swings may be a symptom of something else. I thought perhaps it was PMS: Pre-Menstrual Syndrome. Symptoms ranged from having a heightened sense of smell to wanting to kill my firstborn for breathing. When my periods stopped, I should have realised. Not that I miss bleeding for eight days a month. But, really? The M word? At my age?

  It’s all downhill from here. And I didn’t even notice the zenith.

  #saggymammaries

  Last night, I ate a Domino’s pizza, four Curly Wurlies and a family size bag of Doritos. I wake up feeling bloated and deflated. Talk about oxymoron. I realise I have nothing to look forward to but saggy boobs, dry patches and a moustache. Death makes you think about your own mortality. Seeing Mother looking so old and frail made me realise that one day, I’d be like that.

  I take a selfie, then regret it. I look like a bloated cow. Even Photoshop doesn’t improve it, so I Snapchat it to Tammy with the caption, “Kill me now”. She sends back a picture of her and her trout pout looking like a beauty queen with the caption, “ALOTBSOL BAE”. I haven’t a clue what she’s talking about most of the time.

  Work is a challenge. Mick the Dick is being his usual smug self. He catches me at the water cooler and asks me what I’m doing at the weekend. I lie and say I have plans with friends.

  ‘You going to the company ball?’ he asks.

  ‘Dunno,’ I say.

  The company ball happens once a year. They hire a castle and a marquee. Everyone gets paralytic on the free booze and ends up canoodling among the conifers. I’ve had enough drunken office fumbles to last a lifetime.

  ‘You’re not one of these boring people who don’t go, are you?’

  ‘I’m not boring at all,’ I say.

  ‘Good, I’ll look forward to seeing you there then. You taking a date?’

  ‘Em…er…yeah,’ I lie. Shit. Shit. Why did I have to do that? Now, I can’t turn up without a man in tow. He looks me up and down.

  ‘Oh well,’ he says.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I say. The bloody cheek of it.

  ‘I’ve got to show him,’ I tell Tammy later. ‘I have to have the hottest date there!’

  ‘How the hell are you going to manage that?’

  ‘You’re going to help me,’ I say.

  I eye myself in the full-length mirror. I used to think middle-age spread was something you put on toast. I now realise it’s the devil at work, turning pert breasts and bottoms into coconut haystacks and things that look like they’ve been hit with a shovel. Luckily, I’m not one of those square-bottomed girls. Not
yet, at least. Mine’s still round. Very round. Like a barrage balloon in a full moon.

  Everything used to be so pert and well formed. Now, if I walk round with my bra off, I get a rub rash on my knees. Lift the hem of your jeans to show your nips type thing. The trouble is, inside, I’m still that sexy siren who’s size six and a femme fatale. It’s only when I pass a mirror or see a photo that the disillusionment descends.

  There was a time when I was so gorgeous, I didn’t just turn heads, I turned gay men. Now, it seems I’m turning milk sour and straight men away.

  I used to be irritated by men whistling at me from building sites. Now, it gives me a thrill, a frisson of excitement, until I realise they’re ogling the pretty young thing walking behind me. Sexist bastards!

  I’m depressed about weight gain, so I eat a tub of Phish Food and four Cadbury’s Creme Eggs washed down with a litre of Rioja. Grapes are good for you, right?

  I suddenly remember Mother’s letters. I unwrap the dusty bundle from the red cloth and release the envelopes from their elastic prison. They smell musty, like old lofts and abandoned railway carriages.

  Letter number one:

  10th November, 1940

  Dear Michael,

  The days are long here on my own. I wish I could have stayed in London with you and Mother and Father. I wouldn’t have minded the blacked-out windows, the sirens and the bombs dropping. I’d have relished leaving the air-raid shelter with the acrid smell of smoke in the air and the buildings crumpled around us, if it meant I could be with you. Being separated makes me feel like only half a person.