What Once I Was

Chapter 1

A cool breeze embraced my shins as Bradley Walsh's hysterical laughter filled our empty home. With Robert still at work, I would make the most of the television before his return. He hated my shows, said they were a complete waste of time. I think he just hated the fact I would shout the answers at the screen, slamming my fists on the arm of the chair if I was wrong. He much preferred to watch television in peace. 

Our dog, Rover, slept with his head rest upon my feet. He covered his face with one paw. It didn't look the most comfortable of positions, yet his slight satisfied snore had be questioning. It was a picture perfect spring evening.

"We'll find out after the break,"

"Come on boy," I eased myself from the comfort of the armchair, joints groaning in protest. Advert breaks were the perfect time to let Rover into the garden to relieve himself.

I'd almost missed the phone call. Our kettle really is quite deafening when flicked on. Robert is always telling me we've no need for a home phone, that only spam callers would ring.

I know he's right, but I can't part ways with it. Stuck in the past, I suppose you could say. Besides, I quite like the satisfaction of slamming the phone onto the receiver. Mobiles don't give that same thrill.

I'd answered in the same chirpy voice I always use on the phone. Mrs Collins speaking, may I ask who's calling?

Her voice was soft, barely audible over the Febreeze advert. I'd had to ask her to repeat herself, explaining my slight loss of hearing.

"It's me mum. It's Naomi,"

I'd almost dropped the phone onto the floor, my throat closing up. It couldn't be. It was impossible. There was just no way.

Silence stretched between us for a moment or two. It's rare I'm speechless, let me tell you, but those words knocked the wind from me.

"Mum? Are you there?"

Her voice seemed quieter, unsure of herself. I spluttered, the words lost in the air.

"Who is this? Why are you doing this?"

I could hear her breathing down the line, a swallow and a sniff. Whoever she was, there was no way she was Naomi. I just knew it.

"I'm your daughter. I just want to come home."

I could hear the false tears in her voice. She was a talented actress, let me tell you; but not quite good enough.

My grip around the phone tightened, heartbeat quickening. I wanted to scream at her. To shout obscenities I'd never otherwise use. But I didn't. I stayed calm, kept my composure. I'm a lady and far too tired to give a stranger the satisfaction of seeing the hurt they'd inflicted.

So instead, I simply told her.

"I don't know who you are, but you're sick and twisted, ringing a grieving mother like this. I don't know how you found our number, but if you call again, I'll call the police!"

It was a struggle to place the phone on the receiving, my hands shaking as much as they were. I know she heard the commotion of it.

I'd almost fallen into our armchair, her words, her voice ringing through my mind. It was a cruel prank. It couldn't be true. I just knew it.

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"Why did you think she wasn't Naomi? Did you not think there could be a slight chance?"

I glare at the interruption. The first officer stares unblinking, waiting for my answer. I can almost hear his mind whirring, searching for the answer, reaching his own conclusions.