Forgive Me Not Read online

  ‘Why are you so forgiving?’ she whispered, and stroked his ears.

  He licked her hand.

  Bligh’s mum had met someone else during his last years at high school. The signs had been there. She’d started staying out at night. Bligh talked of his parents’ arguments and did everything he could to keep his mum happy, regularly baking her favourite coconut cake and doing the housework. But it wasn’t enough to stop her moving away. She was keen for him to visit often, but his dad became fragile and faced problems that forced Bligh to stay. He hardly talked about his mum, but when he did, his face flushed and his voice wavered as if sadness blew on sound waves like a breeze.

  Was that why he’d stood by Emma for so long? Because belonging to something, however screwed, was better than the prospect of being alone?

  Until she’d finally gone too far, even for Bligh, and had thrown his misguided loyalty back in his face.

  Emma could hardly find the strength to get back on her feet. It reminded her of days spent on the pavement in Manchester. How numbness crept into her legs, which buckled when she finally stood up. But sitting here moping wouldn’t get the rabbit hutches clean. And it wouldn’t help Andrea or Bligh, who’d hardly had time to sit down since that Christmas she left.

  She straightened up, brushed herself down and mulled over a proposition she’d been meaning to put to Stig.

  12 months before going back

  Emma sat in a chair opposite someone called Ben. She was beginning to regret dialling the number on the orange flyer. The small office at Stanley House wasn’t as friendly as the waiting room, with its comfy soft chairs and piped pop music. The only sound here was a clock ticking. The chairs were wooden. Emma squinted in the artificial light.

  For the first time ever, her problems were official. That word made her throat constrict. She was in the system. Ben was the assessment officer. She’d thought he’d be wearing a suit; that more than ever in her life she’d feel that she didn’t fit. What a relief to be met by a T-shirt, jeans and tattoos.

  After breathalysing her, Ben filled out the top of a form and consulted a stand-up calendar on his desk. It was June the fifteenth. Emma rarely knew the date. He pushed the paperwork and pen across. ‘First things first. Fill this in.’

  Her eyes scanned the questions, and pages rustled as she gave details about her drinking habits, medical history, financial and family situation, criminal record and drug use – at least she could skip those last two sections. Her insides felt numb. Her writing hand shook. The complex horror of recent years had been reduced to a list of scribbled answers on a page.

  ‘And now for the most important question,’ said Ben in a voice loaded like a gun. A gun that made her afraid, because when it went off, the race would start – the race to facing her problems head on. ‘Why are you here, Emma?’

  Was that a trick question? ‘I want to stop drinking. For good.’

  ‘Nice one. I agree that’s the right option for you.’

  Her brow furrowed.

  ‘Some people come in with ideas about simply cutting down.’

  ‘I just want you to make all the craziness go away.’

  Ben leant back in his chair. ‘For the treatment to work, you are going to have to stop first.’

  His words didn’t compute for a moment, and when they did, instinctively her hands covered her face. ‘Are you messing with me?’ she asked eventually, looking up. ‘That’s your job, isn’t it? That’s why I’m here. What’s the point if you expect that to happen before I even start?’

  ‘We’ll sort out a detox – at the end of that, you’ll be dry. But this isn’t about stopping; it’s about staying stopped, and to do that, you have to change the way you think.’ He handed over a box of tissues. ‘Only you can do this, Emma. We’re here to offer support, but you’ve got to take responsibility for yourself. That’s what recovery is about.’

  Emma stood up and paced the room. ‘But I’ve tried so many times. I… I can’t do it on my own.’

  ‘You’re braver and stronger than you think.’

  Under any other circumstances she would have laughed. An addiction worker quoting Winnie the Pooh?

  ‘Proved by the fact,’ he continued, ‘that you’ve brought yourself here. Admitted you’ve got a problem. That takes a lot of guts. And in my experience, the people who succeed are those like you who self-refer – not the people forced here by relatives, social services or the courts. Honestly, there are lots of positives.’

  The chair rocked as she slumped back into it, but after a moment, she sat up a little straighter than before.

  ‘And you won’t be on your own. We’ll offer you as much education and mental rewiring as we can.’

  She blew her nose and followed him back out into the waiting room while he fetched her allotted case worker. The baby. She was doing this for the baby. She mustn’t run out of the door.

  But case worker. How had it come to this? They were for people who’d grown up on deprived council estates. For underage single mums who needed support. For people with mental health issues. Not Emma. She’d got a couple of A levels and grown up in a village where the worst crime was sabotaging a neighbour’s efforts for the summer fete bake-off.

  A door left of reception opened and a woman with tousled greying blonde hair appeared. Black-framed glasses. Flowing floral shirt. Baggy slacks. Flip Flops.

  Emma liked the Flip Flops. Someone prepared to show their curled toenails and cracked skin was familiar with imperfection.

  The woman consulted her clipboard and peered over the top of her glasses. ‘You must be Emma. Emma Bonneville.’

  Sounded posh, didn’t it? She never mentioned her surname on the streets. It was French. So was her father, apparently. That was all he’d given her – a name no one could pronounce.

  She stood up, heaved her rucksack over one shoulder and followed the woman through the door and along a corridor. They stopped outside a small room and went in. It was sparse, like the other one.

  ‘My name’s Lou. Lou Burns,’ the woman said, and they sat down. Lou opened her laptop on a nearby table and rested Emma’s paperwork on her knees. ‘I’ve looked through your details.’ She put down her pen. ‘Tell me about when it all started to go wrong, Emma. How long have you been drinking heavily?’

  ‘I wrote all that on the form.’

  Lou took off her glasses and placed them next to her laptop. ‘This is your first serious attempt to get sober?’

  ‘I tried lots of times on my own,’ Emma said, ‘but it never worked.’

  ‘And your family – are you in contact? You haven’t written down a next of kin.’

  ‘They’ve disowned me. Everyone has.’ Tears trickled down her face. Was this what getting better was going to be like? Her body expelling liquid instead of taking it in?

  Lou studied her for a moment. ‘You must feel very lonely. Well, you aren’t alone any more. We’re here to help.’

  A tiny light ignited inside Emma’s chest. She’d felt lonely for such a long time, even when she’d lived at the farm surrounded by family and animals.

  Lou put her glasses back on. ‘Okay… let’s get things moving.’ She handed over a timetable of therapy sessions. ‘We offer a lot at Stanley House. And after your detox I’ll be pitching a case for you to go to rehab. If you attend regularly here, that will strengthen your case.’

  ‘Strengthen my case?’

  Lou stopped tapping at her laptop for a moment. ‘Our funding is stretched. You’ve got to show willing, Emma. I’ll refer you to our Listening EAR programme – EAR for Education and Reduction. It’s two hours of group therapy, here, three times a week.’

  ‘Group therapy?’ She failed to keep her voice steady.

  Lou reached out and squeezed her arm. ‘I know it’s tough. But rehab is group therapy too.’

  ‘But all our stories will be different.’

  ‘On the surface, yes, though I think you’ll be surprised. The feelings of fear and despair, the reasons
for using… they’re usually pretty much the same. It’s a level playing field. Even the facilitators have had problems in the past.’ She sat back and stared hard at Emma. ‘So are you up to the challenge? Do we go ahead?’

  Emma clenched her fists tight. She could do this. She couldn’t go on waking up every morning wishing she were dead. And more importantly, the baby deserved the best chance.

  ‘Yes. Please. I haven’t meant to sound ungrateful. It’s just I’m so confused at the moment…’

  ‘I understand. This is a massive step.’

  ‘There’s something else.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m about eight weeks pregnant.’

  Lou’s face remained expressionless.

  ‘I only found out recently. I’m worried. What if I’ve done some damage?’

  Lou tapped furiously at the screen for a moment. ‘Right, well this changes everything. We’ll have to get you a detox immediately. It’s too dangerous to do during the second trimester, and that’s not far off.’

  ‘Can’t I have some time to think about it?’ Emma’s scalp felt tight. ‘I’ve heard terrible stories from friends about seizures and hallucinations.’

  ‘That’s why it should be done in a residential detoxification service.’

  ‘In hospital? With doctors and nurses?’ Her face fell. ‘They’ll think me the worst person ever.’

  ‘People aren’t there to judge – they’re there to look after you and baby,’ said Lou calmly. ‘I’ll have to inform social care as well.’

  ‘No! Please! They’ll—’

  ‘They will help you make the best decisions. Everyone is here to support you. Of course you have options, Emma, regarding the pregnancy. I can fetch you a leaflet, and if you decide—’

  ‘I’m keeping it,’ Emma blurted out.

  Where had that come from? It didn’t make sense, but then sometimes, in life, the most important things never did. In school they’d once touched on chaos theory – to expect the unexpected. Perhaps that was what this was. Your stereotypical order of life was: get a job, fall in love, move into a house, get pregnant. Perhaps this chaotic decision was right but simply a case of working things backwards.

  Then there was Joe. What would he have wanted? Would he approve of her decision?

  ‘The social care duty officer will sort you out with emergency accommodation – a hostel,’ said Lou. ‘We should be able to book the detox for later this week. It’s really important that you keep on drinking until you go in. It can be dangerous to stop suddenly after months or years of abuse. Then, once you’re out, your hostel worker will work on finding more permanent accommodation whilst I concentrate on getting you a place in rehab.’

  ‘I haven’t got much choice, have I?’ Emma mumbled, and attempted a small smile.

  ‘There is always a choice. You could run away, back to the obscurity of the streets. But you know this situation is just going to get bigger and bigger – literally. And you rang our number. I get the feeling that maybe you’re ready to stop running. Running from yourself. Running from responsibility.’

  Emma’s next words came out in a whisper. ‘It’s scary.’

  ‘It is,’ said Lou in a quiet voice. ‘This process means you’ve got to deal with your feelings for possibly the first time in years. But we’re all on your side, Emma. And after treatment – if you want – recovery services will give you the tools to build a different life.

  She could picture it now. Her and the baby in their own little flat. A pram. A cot. They’d make friends at playgroup. Emma would purée vegetables and get up at night whenever the baby cried. And when it got older, they’d be best friends. Watch movies together. Go shopping. Eat pizza. Although Emma would always be a mum first, and set rules about staying out late and getting homework done. There would be pleases and thank yous. And tidy bedrooms.

  She thanked Lou and took a large mouthful of tea. It scalded the back of her throat, but she hardly noticed and rested a hand across her stomach. Everything would be all right now.

  Chapter 10

  How much had changed in a year, thought Emma, as she strolled into Healdbury. Today, the twentieth of June, was her sobriety birthday. For three hundred and sixty-five days she’d not picked up. How was that even possible? Last night she’d caught the bus to her favourite AA meeting. She’d chaired for the first time. Old Len had sliced up a chocolate cake. Another member handed her a card signed by everyone.

  Now she crossed the road with Dash and walked down towards the village. Sparrows chirped, leaves rustled and a distant ice cream van played a perfect earworm melody. As she approached the supermarket, the mundane chat of shoppers took over, accompanied by Smooth Radio escaping a car. As usual, Rita with the asymmetrical hair sat there. Emma stopped for a quick chat and handed over a packed lunch that she’d prepared for her at the farm before leaving. Then she headed on down the road and turned left. Stig sat reading outside the pet shop.

  Emma stopped for a moment and rummaged in her purse. A big gold disc smiled up at her. It was AA’s first-year sobriety coin. She took it out. Her friend from treatment, Rachel, had given it to her a few weeks ago. She’d kept it safe until today, and now she kissed it with ceremony. She’d taken it as a sign that, one year on, it was time for her to take the next step and earnestly start helping others while she had the chance – before she had to confess and face head on the worst thing she’d done in the past. She stared at the coin for a moment and then slid it back into her purse.

  Dash pulled at the lead. He and his new friend, the Duchess, greeted each other with sniffs and metronome tails. Emma handed Stig a packed lunch as well.

  ‘I’ve just got to speak to Phil in the pet shop before I change my mind about a plan I’ve got, and then I’ll come back out. I’ve a proposition for you.’

  Stig sat upright and smiled. ‘It’s a long time since I’ve had one of them. Leave Dash with us if you like.’

  Nerves strumming the inside of her stomach, Emma passed him the lead. Then she took a deep breath and pushed on the door. The bell rang as she went in. The shop was empty of customers. She glanced around at the plastic bags of food and the two fish tanks that smelt of algae. They needed a good clean, as did the hamsters’ cage. She’d enjoyed her days working here until things got out of hand. She’d turn up with a hangover more often than not, and resent how the job dirtied her polished nails.

  Phil was doing a crossword. He looked up and adjusted his cap. Straggly greying curls poked from underneath. A scowl crossed his unshaven face.

  She approached the till. ‘Hi, Phil.’

  ‘Emma,’ he said, looking back at his crossword. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Firstly, I… I’d like to apologise for… for everything. Looking back, I’m surprised you didn’t sack me sooner and I’m grateful for all the chances you gave me here – and elsewhere. Like that time I threw whisky at you in the pub. I was totally out of order.’

  He tossed down his pencil. ‘That was nothing. Not compared to what came after.’

  Her shoulders tensed.

  His newspaper rustled as he folded it up and stuck it under his arm. ‘Always mithering me, you were, to buy you a drink. Same for the other men in the pub. Polly and Alan only put up with you for as long as they did because of Andrea and Gail.’ He shook his head. ‘What you in here for now? Because if you’re looking for your job back, you can forget it. I could never trust someone who stole my car.’

  Of course. Andrea had told her about it afterwards. Emma’s eyebrows knitted together. It had been late at night. The off-licence was shut. She had reckoned the motorway services would be open – they sold what she needed. So she’d stolen his keys from… off the pub table, that was it, and told herself he’d never notice. She’d be there and back in half an hour, which she might have been if she hadn’t fallen asleep at the wheel and smashed the front bumper.

  ‘Can you remember how much the repairs cost?’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘I’ll bring a cheque in this afternoon.’
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br />   ‘You don’t even know, do you?’ he said, and jabbed his finger in the air. ‘Bligh and Andrea bailed you out. It wasn’t cheap, either. The windscreen had to be replaced. If it wasn’t for Bligh, I’d have reported you to the Old Bill. Just get out.’

  ‘But… it’s just… Phil…’ She hadn’t told anyone else about her idea yet. ‘I want to set up a soup run to help the homeless people coming into Healdbury. The charity shops here are overflowing with spare clothes I could also hand out, and the farm always has surplus produce. I’m going to go door-to-door asking businesses for donations.’

  ‘Good luck with that.’

  Emma swallowed. ‘Some of the rough sleepers like Stig outside have dogs. I wondered if you’d consider donating a few tins of dog food and—’

  ‘You’re serious? Like I’m really going to encourage more piss-heads like you to visit our village, let alone to look after animals that deserve far better owners.’ He jerked his head towards the window. ‘That Staffie looks like it could do with a right good feed. It’s shameful that bloke just using it to get the public’s sympathy.’

  ‘Stig’s not like that. He loves the Duchess to bits. You know, when I was on the streets a vet used to visit the homeless dog owners in Manchester to check over their pets. He’d walk around at night with his rucksack full of tablets and jabs. He said many of the dogs were happier than some of his registered patients because they were so loved and in the company of their owners twenty-four seven.’

  ‘Likely story. Go away. I’m not in the mood for this crap.’

  ‘I don’t drink any more, Phil,’ she said in the same steady manner, despite her knees feeling as if they might give way. ‘I’m really sorry for what I did, and—’

  ‘Have you forgotten how you threw up on top of my stock of best cat toys? How you borrowed twenty quid out of the till?’