The Birthday Girl: The gripping new psychological thriller full of shocking twists and lies. Sue Fortin

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       Chapter 2

      ‘OK, Alfie, I’m heading off now,’ I say, popping my head round the door to my son’s room. I’m dismayed to see him still in bed. ‘Hadn’t you better be getting up?’

      ‘Don’t nag,’ comes a reply muffled by the duvet he pulls over his head.

      I check my watch, I can’t afford to hang about any longer and without giving it too much consideration, I yank the end of Alfie’s cover, exposing his head and shoulders. ‘Come on, you need to get up now.’

      ‘Oi!’ Alfie sits up and snatches at his cover. ‘What did you do that for?’

      ‘To make you get up. You’ll be late for school. I need to go.’

      ‘I’m not stopping you. Go.’

      ‘Alfie! Get up. Now.’ I go to pull the cover again, but this time he’s prepared and holds it tightly around his shoulders.

      ‘Pack it in. Just piss off.’

      I ignore his bad language. Some battles are not worth the fight. ‘Get out of bed,’ I insist.

      I don’t expect him to move so fast but in a split second, Alfie has jumped out of bed and is standing directly in front of me. ‘I’m up now. All right?’ he snarls at me, his face inches from mine as I get the full force of his stale breath.

      ‘OK,’ I say, taking a step back, instantly wishing I had thought twice before going into battle. My heel hits the bottom of the bedroom door, which vibrates violently as the edge digs between my shoulder blades. I let out a small cry of pain.

      ‘I think that’s called karma,’ says Alfie. He pushes past me, knocking his shoulder against mine as he does so. ‘Hadn’t you better go? You’ll be late if you don’t get a move on.’ He slams the bathroom door shut behind him.

      My attempts at garnering a response from Alfie by calling bye to him through the bathroom door are met with the sound of the shower on full-blast.

      Normally, I’d make an effort to smooth things over before leaving, but today I haven’t got time and I think Alfie is deliberately spending longer in the shower than usual to avoid appeasing my guilt by parting on amicable terms.

      As I walk down the road, I reflect that today’s battle was tame. Sometimes the arguments and confrontations can be much worse and I find myself thinking about the future when we don’t live together and wonder if our relationship will be any better then. I’m tired of the emotionally draining status quo we’re at, and I long for quieter days ahead when I’m on my own. Before I reach the end of the road, I already feel guilty for wishing the days away as I remind myself it’s not Alfie’s fault he’s the way he is. It’s mine.

      My spine aches from carrying my rucksack the mere half a mile from my home and I’m sure the knock to my back earlier isn’t helping matters as, even to the touch, it feels tender. I turn the corner into South Street where the dark shop windows and closed doors, yet to be roused from their slumber by the arrival of early morning shop assistants, serve only to reflect the prospect of rain later today. I adjust the straps of my rucksack and hitch it further on to my shoulders as I head towards the end of the road where the four main shopping streets meet and the city cathedral occupies one corner. I scan the benches which line the pavement and overlook the cathedral grounds.

      Andrea is sitting on the middle bench, a Styrofoam coffee cup in one hand and her mobile in the other. She spots me and waves, phone still in hand.

      I lumber over to her. ‘Yay! You came. And you’re the first one. You must be keen.’ I wriggle my arms free of the straps and dump the rucksack on the ground, then take a seat beside Andrea on the bench.

      ‘Keen as mustard, me,’ says Andrea. ‘To be fair, Colin dropped me off this morning so I didn’t have to get the bus. Don’t mistake my dislike of the bus service for enthusiasm to be here.’ She reaches down and retrieves a cup from under the bench, presenting it to me. ‘Here, I got you a latte.’

      ‘Thanks.’ I take the cup and tentatively lift it to my lips, taking a minuscule sip to gauge the temperature. ‘No sign of Zoe yet?’

      ‘She texted me. Said she’ll be five minutes.’

      ‘And no word from Joanne as to what happens now?’ I take a more confident sip of the latte, having deemed it to be of an acceptable drinking temperature.

      ‘Nope. Nothing. So we sit here and wait,’ says Andrea. She leans against the wooden slats of the bench and purses her lips in the way she does when she has something on her mind. I wait for her to speak. ‘I know СКАЧАТЬ