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CHAPTER TWO

PRESENT DAY

Liam, Manchester, 1.45 pm

Don’t mistake my relief for happiness. It’s vital that you understand the difference.

I suffer with asthma, but when I was younger it literally consumed me; probably down to my father’s forty-a-day habit and the fact we lived right next to the Mancunian Way. When an attack took hold, I felt like fifteen rugby players were in a scrum around my windpipe. You never get used to that crushing feeling; desperately trying to drag in air that evaporates the moment it reaches your lips. Then my foster mum would appear, as if by magic, with a reassuring smile and an inhaler tucked inside her pinny.

‘You’re always losing them, Liam,’ she would say soothingly. A quick press of the nozzle and the deadly grip loosened. For a blissful moment I felt free… but definitely not happy. How could I be happy when I knew all too well that the feeling would return… and the next time it could be fatal?

Today I have pressed down the nozzle, figuratively speaking, of course. I’ve struggled through the denial, fought against the sadness, given into the anger. But I know the relief will soon evaporate, leaving cold droplets of fear in its place… it always does.

I sit down tentatively in my easy chair, light up an Embassy No 1 and draw in deeply. I need a minute to think. I know I shouldn’t be smoking, by the way, so you don’t need to lecture me. I close my eyes lightly, inhale the finality of the situation along with the tar. It is there that I see her, floating just behind my eyelids, her face just slightly out of reach: Alice, my beautiful, darling Alice.

Snapping my eyes wide open, I cast them onto the front-room door, just slightly ajar, my heart hammering so fast I feel almost giddy. I look and wait, not daring to take another breath. But Alice isn’t there. Of course she isn’t.

Looking over towards the huge bay window, I notice that the curtains are closed. I realise only then what a blessing that is. It’s nice to feel hidden; cocooned against the torrential rain that’s bouncing off the window panes and the howling of the wind as it smashes against the door knocker.

Elliott is eyeing me suspiciously, like he knows I shouldn’t really be smoking in the house. I bring my finger up to my lips.

‘Shhh.’

He smiles. I wink.

It’s then the situation really hits me, as I look into my boy’s open, trusting face. The brief freedom of a few seconds earlier disintegrates in front of my bloodshot eyes, just like I knew it would. I begin to feel a stirring in my stomach, an acidic cocktail of panic and regret thrashing around, desperate to erupt. I take another drag of my cigarette, this time more harshly than I should, deep into the lungs. I pray the nicotine will banish any feelings of doubt. I’ve no room for doubt. ‘Smoking kills’ reads the label on my half-smoked packet. I realise I’m crying.

Elliott whines from across the room. ‘Sorry, pal,’ I whisper, while rubbing my eyes with the cuff of my sleeve. I rake my free hand through my thick, chestnut hair, greying just slightly at the sides. At thirty-six, I have what you would call a ‘lived-in’ face: rugged around the edges, with emerald-green eyes and naturally tanned skin. I suppose I used to be handsome, before all of this happened, of course. Now, every time I look into a mirror, I can’t help but notice that my cheeks are a little too hollow and my eyes have lost their spark. Still, there’s worse things in life to worry about than your own appearance, isn’t there?

As I lay my head on the squashy headrest of my chair and close my eyes, the salty tears run freely down my cheeks. ‘It will be okay,’ I protest; to myself, or maybe to Elliott? I’m not too sure.

He continues to look at me strangely, which makes me feel even worse.

‘Just the smoke making my eyes water,’ I offer, while wafting the cigarette in his general direction. It’s pointless really as I know Elliott doesn’t understand. I then notice Bob the Builder is on the television, his absolute favourite. Balancing the half-smoked cigarette on the side of the ashtray, I walk over to where he’s sitting, crouch down so we’re eye to eye. As he looks up at me, I focus on his dark-blue eyes, eyes that draw you straight to him, mesmerise you.

‘I love you, mister. Everything I have done, and everything I am about to do, is for you. You know that, don’t you?’

In response, Elliott cranes his head around me, transfixed instead with Scoop the digger and Jess the cat. Or am I getting confused with Postman Pat? What’s Bob’s cat called? Pilchard, that’s it. I laugh; fancy thinking of such trivial things at a moment like this.

‘You’re a little sod, you are, pal,’ I laugh through my tears, while ruffling his soft, Milky Bar curls. ‘It’s all right, son, I’ll let you off. Watch your programme.’

God! I adore that little boy so much.

And yet I’ve no choice but to leave him behind.