Prologue New Year''s Eve 2021 The mothers are in the cellar of the pub when it happens. Eight minutes until the new year, and the two friends are arguing. Standing between the barrels with their hands moving in the air. The one in the faded band T-shirt speaks quickly, shaking her head, thrusting back her curly hair as it falls into her face. The tall one in the green velvet dress presses her temples as if she''s in pain. When her friend gives up pushing back her hair, she reaches out and tucks it behind her ears for her, with an angry, impatient intimacy. The first thud reverberates over their heads. Louder than the rumble of pub noise; loud enough to make them pause and glance toward the closed cellar door.
That''s all it is, at first, just a pause. The woman in green frowns and touches the silver locket at her throat, her skin flushed from collarbone to chin. When there''s nothing more, they turn back to each other. Both talking at once, drawing closer together-skin still flushed, curls falling free again. Then a far bigger crash, an eruption of shouts, and they stop dead. For a moment, they''re still. Eyes locking. Chests moving up and down.
Their argument is freeze-framed and dust particles hang in the air. Then the cellar door flies open. Alice! Chrissy! You need to come! You need to come now! Instantly, they are running. Their sons'' names are being shouted at them. Talk of an argument, an ambulance . What? What is it? the mothers yell over each other. One trips on the stairs and the other pulls her upright. Are they hurt? What''s happened? In the dim chaos of the pub, a crowd blocks their way.
They push into the gaps, clutching each other''s hands, the crowd splitting wide open as people see them coming through. A hush falls. Heads turning, palms held over mouths. Spatters of red on the floor amid the trampled crumbs and spillages of the night. The two women come to a halt in the space that has formed around them. One son is on the floor. The other stands over him. Somebody is sobbing in the crowd, saying they can''t watch, they don''t understand.
Is he breathing? It all happened so fast. The mothers each scream a different name as they break hands and run forward. My darling boy . Tell me you didn''t . What has he done? Outside, the church bells start to ring in the new year and a blue flashing light streaks through the dark. One Chrissy Thursday, December 7, 2023 Chrissy clutches her phone and stares toward the tall metal gates. Where is he? What''s taking so long? The whole place feels deserted and it strikes her that she''s never been here in the morning before. The sky is winter white above the coils of barbed wire and the car park is only half-full.
She thinks of all the times she has waited in cars for him in the past. Picking him up from soccer matches, friends'' houses, gigs in nearby towns. She used to crank her stereo up loud as she waited, Leo looking half-embarrassed and half-proud when he appeared. She was the only mum who listened to Nirvana live albums and Sabbath B-sides. The only one who owned a pub and sang guest vocals in her son''s band. Now she sits in silence, her stomach in shreds, waiting for him to come out of prison. He really should''ve appeared by now. Flicking on the radio, she whizzes through the stations in search of something he''ll like.
But all the songs seem fraught with pointed lyrics or painful memories, so she hits the off button and the silence returns. Maybe it''s better, so they can talk on the way home. Leo has been subdued during her recent visits. She''d thought he''d be buoyed by the prospect of early parole, as it began to look more likely, but instead he seemed to withdraw, seemed to flinch at her tentative excitement. Now she realizes: He must''ve been terrified-must be terrified. She flings open her car door, unable to sit any longer. Her curls blow across her face as she paces toward the prison. She can hardly believe he''ll come walking out this time, that she''ll be able to take him home with her.
The wrench of those fortnightly good-byes. And the rush of guilt, always close behind, that Alice never got to say one to Robbie. How will it be, though, once Leo is back with her in the village? Will they be ostracized even further? Will the whispers grow louder? Will the notes continue to arrive? Just shy of the gates, fresh panic stops her dead. She was so sure it was the right thing to do, bringing her boy home, refusing to be driven away. But now her heart pounds in every part of her . Is she making a terrible mistake? "Shit," she hisses, looking back at her phone as if it will tell her what to do. All she has is a solitary email, but her head jerks back when she sees who it''s from. Alice, who never speaks to her anymore.
Alice, who blocked her number a week after Robbie''s death, when Chrissy said the stupid thing, the careless thing, and ruined their friendship forever. Her stomach turns to liquid as she opens it and sees the words, Dear Christina. Only her husband ever called her that. And Alice knows this all too well. Dear Christina, I am writing to inform you that your son, Leo Dean, is strictly prohibited from entering Cromley''s pub (previously the Raven) once it has reopened. Violence will not be tolerated under the new ownership. Strong action will be taken if he attempts to enter the premises. Although we cannot impose any restrictions beyond this, we also ask, on behalf of the village, that you consider the effect of your continued residency here.
Sincerely, Alice Lowe and the Pub Committee Chrissy exhales shakily, then reads it again, staggered by the formal wording, the sting of that final sentence. It was manslaughter, she thinks, her eyes blurring with tears. Involuntary manslaughter. He pleaded guilty. Haven''t we been punished enough? If a parole board can decide Leo is no threat to his community, why can''t people who''ve known him all his life try to do the same? People who saw the two boys grow up to be as inseparable as their mums. People who couldn''t be certain, when questioned, whether it was a push or a punch that caused poor Robbie to fall. And Leo has no plans to go bursting back into the pub. He looked stunned when Chrissy finally told him, only a couple of visits ago, that it was going to reopen.
He knew she''d had to put it on the market, of course, after hanging on to the shell of it for longer than she could afford. But she''d put off admitting that half the village had joined together to "reclaim" the place. "About . twenty of them put money in, I think," she finally explained three weeks ago, squirming in her plastic chair. "With a smaller committee doing most of the actual decision-making. Fixing it up"-she remembers pausing at the implication that it needed fixing, needed exorcizing-"and . reopening it." Leo sat forward.
"Why the fuck didn''t you tell me, Mum?" "I don''t know ." "Who owns it now, exactly?" "Well ." She muttered a few names, including Georgie, the newcomer Leo has never even met; then she came, eventually, to the point: "It''s being led by . Alice." He stared at her across the table. They''d stopped mentioning Alice''s and Robbie''s names some time ago, without really acknowledging that they had. "Alice?" Footsteps pull her back to the present. She looks up keenly, shoving the phone and its shitty email into her pocket.
But it''s an older man with a straggly silver beard, walking with a slight limp. Chrissy looks back at the prison. What if there''s been a problem? A complication . a delay to Leo''s release? She knows it happens, but it never occurred to her, foolishly, that it might happen to them. Maybe she should go in and check. Leo asked her to wait here, though, said he wanted her to see him walk out. That''s it, she can''t stand it anymore. She tosses back her hair and strides toward the prison entrance.
Reaching the external reception booth, she peers through the holes in the glass screen at the uninterested man poring over crosswords that she has never, in two years, seen him finish. "My son-my son''s being released today," she says. "It should''ve happened already. Do you know if there''s been a . a problem?" He shunts the crossword aside. "Name?" "My son''s?" she says, then feels stupid. She tries to speak clearly as she tells him Leo''s name, but her tongue sticks and she fluffs her lines. The man types something into his computer, narrows his eyes, then turns his back to pick up a phone.
After a minute or so he swings around to face her, putting down the phone in the same motion. "My colleagues inside the building are checking." He returns to his crossword and Chrissy is left standing there, craving a cigarette, churning her keys in her pocket. There are some visitors arriving now. A woman with three children in tow and a baby bawling in her arms. Must be a special visit, extended family time; she remembers hearing about those. She has a precarious sense of wading against the current even though she''s standing still. Preparing to leave with her loved one-please don''t tell me otherwise-instead of going inside for regulated hugs and muted conversation.
The longer she waits, though, the mor.