This Mother's Story

Joe Knox pressed the doorbell once more. Come on, he chunnered, he really needed this scoop. This story could get his newspaper career back on the right track. Come on, Andrea, open the door. If he could get the interview with Andrea Martin, the mother of murdered teenager, Billy, then who knew where his career could go from there? This could even lead to a break into television journalism. If he could get his foot inside this door, then lots of other doors would open for him and his writing. He might even go the full Truman Capote and write a full book about this case. But, everything hinged on getting Andrea to open the door. 

As he was peering through the living room window to see if Andrea was hiding behind the sofa, a woman approached. She was in her fifties and carrying supermarket shopping bags.

‘Yes? Can I help?’

‘Good morning, Mrs Martin. My name’s Joseph Knox. Could I talk to you about an article I want to write? I can assure you this will be handled with the utmost respect for you, and for Billy.’

Andrea shook her head, rummaged for her house-keys and unlocked her front door.

‘I really don’t think so.’ She said. 

She shuffled across the threshold, dragging her shopping bags with her. 

‘Mrs Martin, please.’ Joe protested. 

‘If my husband was still alive, he would smack you in the mouth.’ 

‘I understand you have been through a lot-’ 

Andrea gave him a look that stopped him in his tracks. The look said that he couldn’t possibly know what she’s been through. As she slammed the door, Joe called out.

‘I’ll give you time to think about it.’

The murders seven years earlier had rocked the Greater Manchester town of Irwellham. Four people, all in their late teens, had been stabbed to death in separate incidents over a period of several weeks. The teenagers had known each other, all in the same year at college, but the police had been unable to find a link, and ultimately, the murderer. As quickly as the terror had stunned the village, it subsided, leaving the rest of the town to move on, but those affected, to try and pick up the pieces of their shattered lives. 

And that was the angle that Joe Knox wanted for his article. His article would be tasteful, and be sensitive, but it would be a sensation. It would put his name on the map. He would be the Irwellham Murders writer. He could just see himself on the television chat show circuit discussing the case, and his popular article. The foreign press might even pick up on his story. He could make the newspapers world-wide, could be front page news in America, Australia. 

The next day, Joe managed to find Andrea Martin’s mobile phone number. He sent a sensitively worded text message, explaining who he was, and how he just wanted to tell her story. If anything, Joe was actually doing her a favour. And he would pay her for the story, not that it was about the money, of course. These things were more important than pounds, shillings and pence. 

And the next day, Joe called her number. The line rang and rang, and, just when he was about to end the call, Andrea picked up.

‘Hello?’ 

‘Hi, Mrs Martin, I’m Joe Knox, the reporter. I sent you a text message yesterday, I don’t know if-’

‘I got it.’ She replied.

‘I just think it will be so beneficial if you told your story. Those lives lost, those poor souls taken too soon. It really is a tragedy. It could help others out there in a similar position.’ 

There was a long moment of silence. Had she hung up? Had she fainted? Or was she considering the offer?

‘Okay.’ She said, finally.

‘Okay? You mean, you will do it?’ Joe said, trying to contain the excitement in his voice.

‘Yes. Come here tomorrow.’ She said.

Joe agreed, said he would be over early afternoon, if that was convenient. Andrea replied that she would have the kettle on. As he hung up the phone, Joe punched the air in delight. This was it. This was the big break he needed. He had a sense he would never look back after this interview. This was a game-changer. 

Just after two o’clock the next afternoon, Joe knocked gently on the front door. This time, there was no need to pound on the door, to ring and ring the bell. He was expected. A moment later, Andrea opened the door. She bid him good afternoon, a sad smile on her face. She showed him through to the living room. Joe looked around the room. The walls and fireplace were crammed with photos of her late son.

‘He was a handsome young man.’ Joe said.

‘Yes, he really was.’ 

‘Firstly, let me thank you for agreeing to this interview. You can finally tell your side of things, the mother’s story.’ 

‘Yes, I think this process will actually do me some good.’ She said, nodding. 

‘We’ll run through some questions, just relax and get it all off your chest. Tell your story, get it all out, and then I’ll go through any questions I have. Now, how does that sound?’ He said.

‘That all sounds perfectly reasonable. I’ll make the tea and then we can start, or would you prefer coffee.’ She replied.

‘Tea is fine, thank you.’ He said.

‘Lovely.’ She said, the sadness still haunting her smile. 

She returned moments later with two cups of tea on a tray, with a plate of biscuits. They sipped their tea while Joe arranged his sound recording equipment and grabbed his notebook and pen. 

‘Shall we start with what Billy was like as a child?’ Joe prompted.

Andrea nodded, a far-away look in her eyes, as the memories of her dear son’s childhood came back to her.

Joe opened his eyes. He felt so strange. Was he dreaming? Where was he? Had he been drinking? It took him a moment to figure out where he was. Then it all came back to him, the interview with the mother of the murdered boy. His head felt fuzzy. He went to rub his face with his hands. He couldn’t move his arms. He looked down in confusion. He was sitting in an office chair, his arms and legs tied to the chair with rope. What was going on? He pulled and tugged, trying to free himself. 

Andrea appeared in front of him, a crazed, demented look on her face. The mask of calmness had now slipped. Joe noticed the knife in her hand. A horrid thought occurred to him. The realisation that Andrea wasn’t the merely mother of a victim, but the murderer. The knife, the wild look in her eyes. Had something snapped within her those years ago? Had her son and his friends pushed her too far? Teenagers could be a lot to handle, especially for someone as clearly highly-strung as Andrea.

‘It was you, all this time, you were the killer.’ He said.

She grinned, waving the knife as she ranted at him. 

‘You had to keep pushing, didn’t you? Had to keep prying. You wanted the story, well, you’ve got it!’

‘Please, let me go. I won’t tell anyone that you killed those teenagers.’ Joe said.

‘This,’ she waved the blade, slashing at the air. ‘is the story you so desperately wanted. Your name will be in the newspapers but not in the way you had hoped. I had put it all behind me, but you have brought those dark days. ’

She stepped nearer and nearer, and despite the manic grin on her face, her eyes were filled with tears.  

‘You told me to let it all out. Well, here we are.’ She continued.

The knife in her hand swished this way and that as she got closer to him, the edge of the blade getting nearer and nearer his throat. 

‘I won’t tell anyone that you’re the killer.’ He insisted. 

She swung the blade back away from him, ready to slash down with all her might. 

Joe closed his eyes, tried to prepare himself for the attack, for the agony that would follow. 

There was a hacking and cutting sound. He screamed and shrieked, tears streaming down his face, eyes shut tight.

Everything went quiet. Silence. 

He opened his eyes. He didn’t feel any pain. He looked down.

The restraints had been slashed. He moved his arms and legs, slowly, carefully. 

He looked at the woman in utter bewilderment. What was going on?

She looked at him in hatred and disgust. 

‘You aren’t going to kill me?’ He whispered.

‘I am not the killer.’

‘Then, why all this?’ 

‘You needed reminding of the true horror of what we went through. This isn’t just a scoop, Mr Knox. This isn’t something for people to read over their breakfast. People were killed. Lives were destroyed.’ 

Joe nodded, suddenly having a full understanding for the first time. He had been chasing these stories for years, seeing them merely as headlines, as stepping stones in his career. Only now did he see them as people.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom