Don’t Say a Word: A gripping psychological thriller from the author of The Good Mother. A. Bird L.

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СКАЧАТЬ But it’s those little cruel ones that stick in your dreams. Emotional torment scars just as deep as the physical stuff.

      Josh looks at what appeared in his package.

      ‘What! You built my spaceship? Mum, you can’t do that – it was mine to build!’

      Urgh. What was I thinking? Of course boys like to build their own Lego. I look at my effort. It’s not that worthy of thanks, but some would be nice. I started another cup of tea between the booster engine and the hatch door. I think I lost my place in the instructions; the hinges don’t quite work.

      Unhinged. Hah.

      ‘Sorry, Josh. I wasn’t thinking. Why don’t you break it up and start again, OK?’ He tuts at me, but he does as I say. ‘I’m going to go and shower,’ I tell him. ‘Grab yourself some toast.’

      I rustle off, leaving him fussing over the spaceship.

      I’m such an idiot. Why did I spend all night in a fitful half-dream, half-wake, full-of-hatred place just because my kid ordered a toy? Him and his mates, they’re members of some ‘Activity envelope’ club – you (I) pay a monthly subscription and some toy turns up. Usually they’re crappy bouncy balls or Airfix model aeroplanes. But Lego is cool.

      Apart from when it gives you nightmares. Stupid. A neighbour must have received it for us earlier then left it on the mat outside our flat when I popped out. And I chose to spend the night sobbing into the kitchen table because of some stupid incident way back in another lifetime. When Chloe was still around.

      But she’s gone. And she’s not coming back. Whatever those texts say, I won’t allow it. I think about it under my bed. I should check it again, shouldn’t I? No, not now. Focus. Jump in the shower, wham on some concealer, stick on a pretty dress and try not to lose my job through having cotton wool for a brain.

      And get a life. Stop sitting on the sofa every evening, brooding. Move on.

      Josh has finished the spaceship by the time I’m back from the shower.

      ‘Right, let’s fly to the moon!’ I tell him.

      ‘I need to get to school, not outer space,’ he chides me. I see his eyes flick to the clock. That child is a punctuality addict.

      ‘That’s what I meant, kiddo. Let’s go.’

      ‘No coffee?’ he asks.

      ‘You’re enough of a wake-up call for me, my love!’ I don’t tell him I was up half the night drinking caffeine.

      ‘Uh-oh! Don’t crash the car!’

      ‘Hah, hah. Come on, get your blazer.’

      I manage not to crash the car either on the way to school or to the office.

      In the car park I notice that no one else has a bit of paper on their windscreen claiming to know their secrets. But then, like me, I guess that everyone else has been home and removed it. Probably not after falling asleep in the bath and before having a panic attack but – hey! – that’s Jen Sutton for you. Full of surprises.

      ‘Pretty dress, Jen!’ Sheila calls out when I walk in.

      ‘Thank you! Coffee in a mo!’ I shout back.

      Before I can even think about cleaning the cups, Bill is at my shoulder.

      ‘Ah, Jen. Can I have a word, please?’

      He looks grave.

      ‘Sure, what’s up?’

      ‘In my office?’

      ‘Oh, of course. Sorry.’

      I troop behind him. He shuts the door behind me. He offers me a chair and I sit across the desk from him.

      ‘Look, Jen,’ he starts. Fuck it. Conversations that start that way never end well. I smooth down my dress and try not to panic.

      ‘I know you’ve got, well, special circumstances.’ Bless him. He always speaks like we’ve been bugged. ‘But other people, they don’t know that. They’re not going to make allowances. Lucy, for instance.’

      Oh shit. Lucy. In all my internal melodramas I’d forgotten about Lucy and her stupid forms.

      ‘Now, don’t worry, I’ve talked to her for now. She calmed down. Didn’t explain any, um, history, just explained that you don’t have anyone to help with the childcare and all that. Can’t help it if you need to rush away.’

      ‘Thanks, Bill. I appreciate it.’

      ‘Don’t worry, don’t worry. The thing is, though, there will sometimes be deadlines and we need to be able to count on you or … someone … to meet them. Or just be extra-efficient during the day. You understand?’

      ‘Yes, Bill. I do, but –’

      ‘Yes, I know, I know the buts. Listen, I get it, I really do. And I’d have a heck of a job explaining letting you go to – well, you know who. But I’m not running an outreach service. I’m running a law firm. OK?’

      ‘OK.’

      I nod. I look earnestly into his eyes. I do the ‘you can count on me’ sincere smile.

      And then I go into the bathroom and I cry.

      He doesn’t fucking get it all. He doesn’t get that there’s only one of me. He doesn’t get how fucking hard I’m trying and how difficult, how fucking fucking difficult it is going around with ‘my secret’. How much I want to just be like everyone else, but it’s not my bloody fault – it’s not – I had to do it; I had to get out and you’d think, ten years on, that you might somehow have managed to escape that and that you could live like an ordinary person and that your boss who knows all (or some, a bit) of the baggage, would understand why I can’t just leave my son wafting around after school for anyone to collect. Fucking bitch Lucy. Fucking bastard Bill. Why can’t they be more like Tim?

      But even as I rant I know; I know that he’s right. Of course I’ve got to do my work, like anybody else. Of course I have to balance my childcare responsibilities with my work. It’s the real fucking world. It’s what everyone complains about. I can’t hide in my shadow world. I’ve got to get real. I’ve got to find a way to keep a job, a child, a life going at the same time.

      Yeah, sure, the State will pay me if I sit on my arse at home (a luxury, I wouldn’t even have to prove I was looking for work). Or even if I’d gone ahead and home-schooled him (at first it seemed like the only option – I couldn’t think about leaving him at school). But it wouldn’t be enough. It wouldn’t pay for monthly toy boxes. And it wouldn’t get me off that fucking sofa. Thinking. Brooding.

      So. Calm down. Deep breaths. Be professional. At work, focus on work. Do something proactive. Show Bill he can count on you. Be indispensible. Dry your eyes. Go and see Tim about that case. Thank him for trying to smooth things over with Lucy yesterday.

      I wait until I’m sure there’s no one around then I emerge from my cubicle.

      Hah. Wasted effort with that СКАЧАТЬ