The Girl Next Door. Phoebe Morgan

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СКАЧАТЬ the room. I waited a few seconds, but he didn’t come back.

      Downstairs, everything is silent. The family liaison officer is still there, or at least her car is. Their kitchen curtains are open too and I notice there are wine bottles on the windowsill. An oddly neat row of them, three empty, one half full. The recycling men come on Wednesdays. Theresa ought to have put them outside, really.

      Behind me, I hear my husband coming down the stairs. I turn back to the hob, where the remainder of the porridge is bubbling over, waiting for Harry. He’s going to be late for school.

      ‘What’s that I hear about the best porridge in the world?’ Jack says, entering the room dressed for work: blue shirt, the cufflinks I bought him last Christmas. Little crossed ribbons; the silver glints in the light filtering through the kitchen window. He’s doing the false voice he uses for the kids. I look behind him for Harry, but there’s no sign of my elder son.

      Jack kisses me on the cheek, takes a sip from the cup of coffee I proffer. The mug says: ‘Best hubby in the world.’ A cruel joke, courtesy of Hallmark. Sophie is beaming, and I reach out to touch her hair, feel the soft brown curls of it underneath my palm. The curls were a surprise when they came; my own hair hangs straight down my back, or it used to when I was younger. Now it sits on my shoulders, trimmed once a month at Trudie’s Salon in the town. The name makes me shudder every time I go in; the epitome of parochial.

      The toaster pings and I flip the bread onto a plate for my husband, watch as he spreads it with too much butter. He won’t put on weight, he never does.

      ‘What are you up to today?’ Jack asks me, pulling a silly face at Finn, and I take a deep breath, steel myself.

      ‘The usual, Jack. You don’t need to worry.’

      He doesn’t reply. We both know that second sentence is a lie. The only person who needs to worry is me, as long as I’m married to him.

      ‘Where’s Harry?’ I ask, and Jack shrugs.

      ‘Coming down, I guess.’

      I go to the foot of the stairs, place my hand on the bannister. ‘Harry!’ As I stand there I think of how many times I have done this, the familiarity of it. Rachel will never call for Clare again, never feel the frustration that comes with having a teenager in the house, never sigh and look at her watch as the breakfast goes cold.

      ‘Harry!’

      ‘Coming, I’m coming.’ I hear him before I see him, and then he is there; my boy, his black hair hanging scruffily down towards his shirt collar, the smell of Lynx Africa emanating towards me. His school bag trails behind him, bumping on each stair until he’s in front of me. His skin is pale, his eyes look a little bloodshot.

      ‘Darling,’ I say, reaching out before I can stop myself, running my hand along his jaw and straightening his collar, ‘how are you feeling today?’ I can see the expression hidden beneath his features; I saw the way he used to look at Clare. He shifts away from me, just a little, the movement as hurtful as it always is. It’s not that we don’t get along, Harry and I, it’s that we’ve stopped knowing each other, somewhere along the way. But he’s my firstborn, my surprise baby, born years before the others, when Jack and I were young.

      Tying us together.

      ‘I’m fine,’ he mutters, not meeting my eye.

      ‘Breakfast is ready,’ I say, for want of anything else, and he finally looks at me, nods.

      ‘Thanks, Mum.’ I watch as his school bag drops to the floor and he lopes into the kitchen, hear the squeal of Sophie as she sees him. He’s good with her, and with Finn. It’s us he’s grown distant from, me and Jack.

      As he pulls out a chair at the table, I see his eyes flicker to the window, to where the Edwards house stands silently in the cold February light. He stares for one second, two, then his gaze moves away.

      After breakfast, Harry leaves, headphones in as always, bag slung across his right shoulder. On the doorstep, I catch him, my hand on the sleeve of his blazer.

      ‘Harry,’ I say, ‘be careful, won’t you?’

      My eyes lock onto his. The moment hangs between us, and suddenly I feel foolish. He is seventeen – but then I remind myself that Clare was sixteen, on the cusp of adulthood too. Age isn’t always a protection.

      ‘Of course,’ he says, ‘I’m always careful, Mum.’ A half smile, blink and you’d miss it. ‘Don’t worry.’

      He closes the front door behind him and I watch him cross the street through the window, his cheeks immediately beginning to redden in the cold air. The sky is grey, giving nothing away. As I watch, a car pulls up beside him, then swings left, coming to a stop outside next door.

      ‘Mummy!’ Finn calls behind me, pulling my attention away, ‘I can’t find my shoes.’

      Ten minutes later, and we are finally ready to go. Sophie and Finn are bundled up like two little snowmen, their reading folders clasped tightly in their hands. Jack is still sitting at the kitchen table; I glance at my watch. He should have left fifteen minutes ago.

      ‘Jack,’ I say, ‘you’ll be late.’

      My husband’s gaze doesn’t move, his eyes focused on the now-congealing bowls of porridge that I’ve yet to clear up. Sophie is staring at me, confused. Quickly, I pull my face into a smile and blow a kiss at Jack, making a loud smacking sound which makes the children laugh.

      ‘Say bye bye to Daddy!’ I say, and we all wave at him, two snowmen and a wife.

      Turning away from him, I step outside, a child in each hand, and that’s when I see them: the flowers. They’re on the ground outside the Edwards house, lining the front of their lawn. Pink flowers, red flowers, yellow flowers, wrapped in cellophane, handwritten notes damp in the morning chill. Overseeing them all is a large teddy bear, grotesque and unseeing. Glassy eyes stare blankly into mine.

      Quickly, I pull the children across the road, just as a blue van slows down in front of us and pulls up alongside the car I saw. Both are emblazoned with the words ITV News. I swallow. It hasn’t taken long.

      ‘Mummy?’ Sophie says, catching the expression on my face, but I quickly bend down and wrap her scarf around her even more tightly, re-do her zipper so that it’s right up to the chin, blocking her view of the Edwards’ front lawn. Finn isn’t concentrating, he’s fiddling with something in his pocket. I hurry them down the road towards the school, trying desperately not to look back over my shoulder. Our feet slide a little on the pavements; they should have gritted the roads again, it’s cold enough.

      For the next ten minutes, I listen to Sophie chatter about her art class, soaking up her innocence, her total obliviousness to the fact that a dead teenager has been found not five minutes from where we’re standing. She loves art, it’s her favourite subject. Like mother, like daughter. On Mondays I wash her uniform in a hot spin; there is always paint on her shirt. I’d complain to the teacher, but I don’t want to draw attention to us. Not anymore. I saw the way the headteacher looked at me when I had to cancel the PTA dinner last month; the concern in her eyes, the questions about life at home. I guess walking into a door doesn’t quite cut it these days.

      ‘Jane!’ Sandra grabs my arm after I’ve waved goodbye to the children. She’s wearing a thick woollen scarf and too much СКАЧАТЬ