The Sleepover

by Samantha King

  “Well, that’s good to know. It feels like such a long time since we were a family. Look, I know this might be bad timing. But I just want to say—”

  “Craig . . .”

  “Please, hear me out. I so want to make things up to you. You and Nick. Actually, I’ve had an idea. It’s looking a bit ahead, but assuming Nick gets the all-clear at some point”—he holds up crossed fingers—“how about the two of you hang out for a few days at my cottage? It would be perfect for Nick to recuperate. Give you a change of scene, too.”

  “Your place in Twickenham? I thought it was occupied?” And I’m pretty sure Nick would rather go straight home. I’ve never been to Craig’s rental property. I’m not even sure what creature comforts it offers, and Nick is going to need as many as he can get if—when, I mentally correct myself—he wakes up.

  “It was. But the last tenant left a while back. I needed them out so I could spruce the place up. It’s been a while since I decorated it, but it’s got a pretty view of the Thames. Nice private plot. No one will bother you. Not even me. I mean it,” he adds seriously when I look surprised. “I don’t want to rush you, Isobel. The cottage would be all yours. I’ll keep my distance. Leave you and Nick in peace until he—you—let me know if you want me around.”

  “Right.” I’m still not sure. “It’s really kind of you, Craig. It’s just . . . You know, I think Nick would actually prefer to go home. Once he—”

  “Sure. Understood.” He holds up his hands. “The offer’s there if you change your mind, though. When the time comes, I mean. Just say the word.”

  “Thank you. And I will think about it.”

  “Excellent.” Craig’s smile widens. “I hope you do. You’d love it, Isobel. I’ve often thought we should have made more use of it. Maybe we will in the future. Who knows?”

  I smile, not wanting to dash his hopes or provoke a return to discord between us. But all thoughts of my future are on hold—at least until I can be sure Nick will be part of it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  My voice mail is full of good-luck messages from the staff and pupils in Nick’s dance class—and from some of his classmates at school, which is a heartening surprise. But the one voice I’m hoping to hear is absent: there is nothing yet from DCI Maxwell, not even one of the keeping-in-touch messages DS Clarke used to leave me.

  I miss her quiet, steady presence, I realize, and it dawns on me that I’ve come to rely on her almost as a friend. I’m tempted to call her. I know she’s busy with the investigation, though, and I don’t want to cause any delay. I’ve had another long chat with Jo, in any case, and she confirmed that DS Clarke is “in the throes of intensive inquiries.” I can tell how hard Jo is trying to take her place, so much so that I didn’t like to shoot her down when she said it sounded like a “brilliant idea” for Nick to recuperate at Craig’s cottage—when he wakes up.

  We’re all talking so deliberately in terms of when rather than if—even Dr. Lynch, who reiterated that she’s a firm believer in the medical benefits of positive thinking, and that I should keep talking in those terms to Nick.

  “He needs to know his mum believes in him,” she said.

  “Always,” I told her, squeezing Nick’s hand.

  “What’s his ‘happy place’? Have you ever talked to him about that?”

  I remembered DS Clarke asking me that, too, and I gave the doctor the same answer. “On stage. Cuddled up with Marzipan. Daydreaming by the river.” I tried not to think of Jason, but that was another reason for my uncertainty about Craig’s offer: Jason drowned outside Eel Pie Island boatyard; a cottage on the island is just too close for comfort.

  “The river? Lovely. Your husband’s cottage sounds perfect, then.”

  “Ex-husband.”

  “Sorry.” She pulled a grimace. “I didn’t mean to put my foot in it.”

  “You didn’t.” I knew she was really just trying to keep my spirits up. “Craig and I are separated. As far as I’m concerned, that’s the way it’s going to stay.”

  * * *

  Something soft brushes against my face. “Marzipan. Get off.” I turn over, frustrated at being woken up by Nick’s cat. I’m so tired . . .

  “Izzy? It’s Dr.—”

  “What’s happening? Nick?” I fight my way out of sleep, panicking when I see Nick’s petite, dark-haired consultant standing over me.

  “It’s OK. You just nodded off. You’re allowed.” She winks, helping me sit up.

  Still half in a dream of home, it takes me a moment to realize that the softness I felt wasn’t Marzipan but a blanket someone has laid over me. Dr. Lynch? I feel like she’s been looking after me as much as Nick over the last two days. Seeing two unfamiliar doctors at her side, however, I scrabble to my feet.

  “Is he all right?” I stumble toward Nick, adrenaline kick-starting my brain.

  “They’re going to reverse his coma, Izzy.” Craig, standing sentry at Nick’s bedside, looks as shocked as I feel.

  “Your son’s done brilliantly,” one of the other doctors tells me. “The brain swelling has receded. He’s breathing independently. We’re confident he’s strong enough now for us to stop the drugs. That will allow Nick to emerge naturally from his coma.”

  “How long?” Joy fizzes through me; I beam at him, and then at Dr. Lynch, wanting to launch myself around the bed to hug her. “How soon until he wakes up?”

  “Hard to predict.” Her tone is measured but her smile matches mine. “Given he’s been sedated less than forty-eight hours, we shouldn’t have long to wait. Hopefully a few hours—maybe ten max. Depends how determined he is. Judging by how hard he’s fought to stay alive, I’d say extremely. This is one very determined young man.”

  “A few hours,” I echo, gazing down at Nick. He looks thinner, painfully fragile, but there is a little more color in his cheeks now. I stroke the bandage on his forehead, jumping when his eyes flicker. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe he’s actually going to be OK.”

  “He’ll be very weak to begin with,” Dr. Lynch warns. “We’ll need to keep him under intensive care for at least another twenty-four hours. After that, all being well we can start to talk about a rehabilitation program.”

  “All being well.” Nervously, my thoughts leap ahead to school, dance classes. “Can you tell yet? If he’s going to be OK, I mean. Completely back to his normal self.”

  “Well, as my colleague here said, Nick has done extremely well. I’m cautiously optimistic. But we’ll only know for sure once he regains consciousness. Cognitive function. Motor skills. We’ll need to assess them all. There’s everything to be positive about, though.”

  “Thank you. I can’t thank you enough.” Impulsively, I give in to the urge to hug her.

  “A rehabilitation program.” Craig digs in his pocket for a handkerchief, takes off his glasses, and slowly cleans them. “That sounds pretty involved. Can it be home-based?”

  “All depends on our initial tests. Nick might need specialized care. Physical therapy. Emotional therapy such as counseling. Or he might just need a period of quiet recovery at home. Being in familiar surroundings can certainly help,” Dr. Lynch tells him. “I can’t give you a definitive care plan at this stage, I’m afraid. He’s suffered a significant trauma, and there are too many variables. Our discharge planner, Ben Holt, will guide you through his patient journey. And I’m here. My whole team is here to support you. Whatever happens when Nick wakes up.”

  “Memory loss?” Craig steps forward, gently touching the bandage on Nick’s head.

  “Too soon to say. In fact, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’ll talk more in due course. For now, though, I think we should all take a moment to appreciate a small miracle.”

  “And wonderful care from his doctors,” I say, unable to stop smiling now.

  “We aim to please.” Dr. Lynch’s dark eyes twinkle as she smiles back. “Good work, team.” She nods at her colleagues, makes a few notes in Nick’s file, then turns to leave.
<
br />   Craig intercepts her. “I want to extend my thanks, too, Dr. Lynch.” He settles his glasses back on his face then holds out his hand. “And a donation to the hospital. If I may.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” she says, accepting both his handshake and his offer.

  “Not at all. After everything you’ve done? It’s the very least I can do.”

  * * *

  For the next few hours, I sit and wait, determined not to miss the moment Nick regains consciousness. My heart is bursting with hope; my mind is imploding with fear. Every time I start to feel excited about the prospect of Nick coming home, a voice in my head whispers that there’s still a killer out there. The police can’t tell me who that is, or why they targeted my son; nor can they guarantee they won’t try again.

  “Maybe we should just run away,” I whisper in Nick’s ear, leaning close. “Far, far away, where nothing and no one can ever find us.”

  “Mum?”

  A tingle feathers down my spine. Did I just imagine that? “Nick? Nick?” I take hold of his hand, my eyes filling up as his fingers twitch; tears spill over as he squeezes back.

  “My head hurts.” Blue eyes open briefly before blond lashes sweep down again.

  “Oh, sweetheart.” I thought I’d lost you. I press his palm against my cheek, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, exactly as they did the very first time I held Nick, when the midwife laid his tiny body on my chest. I look up, sending a prayer of thanks into the universe. Everything around me suddenly looks brighter; the sterile white walls seem to glow. I feel like a solar eclipse has passed over, bathing the whole world in brilliant sunshine.

  “My throat hurts, too.”

  “Don’t try to speak, darling.” I can barely force out words myself. “The doctor said you’ll be sore all over for a little while. But they’re taking good care of you. You’re going to be just fine.” I sweep back his bangs, taking care not to touch the freshly changed bandage.

  “What happened?” His body suddenly flinches, his eyes snapping open now as he tries to sit up. “Where’s—”

  “Shh.” Gently, I urge him back against the pillows. “It’s OK. Just rest for now.”

  “Your mum’s right.” Dr. Lynch smiles as she appears in the doorway, accompanied by a nurse, both of them moving swiftly to Nick’s side. “Hello, Nick. I’m very pleased to meet you. My name’s Dr. Lynch, and you’ve been paying me a little visit in the hospital. Do you remember? You had quite a bump to your head. But we’ve fixed you up good as new. All you need to do now is lie there and take things easy. You have my absolute permission to be lazy. OK?”

  “I’d make the most of it while you can, mate,” the nurse at her side jokes. “Doc’s a harsh taskmaster. She’ll have you making your own bed, if you’re not careful.” He chuckles, using humor to distract Nick from a deft-handed assessment. “Lungs are clear,” he says quietly to Dr. Lynch.

  “I’m so tired.” Nick closes his eyes again; a tear trickles out of one corner.

  “Sleep,” I tell him, wiping my own eyes. “I’m right here.”

  * * *

  After sitting with Nick for half an hour more, just gazing at him as he drifts in and out of exhausted but thankfully natural sleep, I leave the doctors to wheel him off for yet another CT scan and more tests, and hurry out of the room in the direction of the bathroom.

  Locking myself in a cubicle, I lean back against the door, cover my face with my hands, and cry until my throat is raw and my chest feels like I’ve been punched. I’ve been trying so hard to be strong, but now the avalanche of emotions I’ve fought to hold in check finally overpowers me. I’ve felt the storm coming; I just haven’t wanted to show any sign of distress around Nick, even while he was unconscious.

  I’m determined he’ll see only a new, positive me from now on. My son has come back to me. The police will find their Suspect A. I’ll take Nick home, start life afresh, and together we’ll make new dreams to obliterate this nightmare. I feel like I’ve been given a second chance with him, a second chance to be a better mum, and I’m not going to waste it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “Here you go, Marzipan.” I give her extra tuna, feeling bad about leaving her alone while I stayed at Nick’s bedside for a further twenty-four hours. Even after Dr. Lynch encouraged me to take a break, it took Craig another hour to convince me to leave—to come home and have a proper bath, change into fresh jeans and sweater, and get the house warmed up.

  Nick can come home. I fly upstairs to make his bed, tidy his room, and check there are no unsettling signs of the police search. I put his laptop back on his desk, then change my mind and hide it under my bed. I still want to talk to Nick about why he didn’t tell me he was on Facebook; I need to understand who he’s been in contact with online. But all that can wait.

  For now, I want to keep him well away from the Internet. I’m avoiding it, too. Every time I turn on my own computer, or the TV or radio, I hear Nick’s name and see his photo. DCI Maxwell was spot on about press speculation; the tabloids are having a field day with the breaking local story. If I see the headline “SLEEPOVER SLASHER” one more time I’ll go mad. Until Nick can tell me himself what happened on Friday night, I don’t want sensationalist scaremongering to get into my head.

  I know the detectives are as eager to question him as I am. DCI Maxwell tried, with little success. Nick stared blankly at him, looking even more confused when Jo asked if he could remember who was with him in the woods. It’s obvious Nick remembers little, if anything, and Dr. Lynch warned the police not to push him too hard too soon. I hope that once he’s home, surrounded by his own things, his memories will start to filter through. In fact, it’s the reason I’ve finally declined Craig’s offer: Nick has never been to the cottage, and I’m worried it will confuse him to be taken to a strange place.

  Propping Sleepy Bear on his pillow, I wonder if the button-eyed, patched-up golden bear Nick’s had since he was a baby will be forgotten, too—along with Marzipan, perhaps even the dance steps Nick has spent a lifetime learning. “Memory is unpredictable,” Dr. Lynch told me: many victims of violence remember only the big details; sometimes it’s tiny, inconsequential things that come back to them; occasionally they recall nothing at all. Craig joked that it was usually bankers like him that had a selective memory. He’s trying hard to stay upbeat, but I can tell he feels as powerless as I do.

  We can’t force Nick to remember, and with no new police leads, his testimony alone will hold the key. Somehow, I need to help him release it, and my decision to take Nick home was reinforced when Dr. Lynch suggested that familiar smells and tastes can often trigger memories. Craig immediately offered to do a food shop for all Nick’s favorites. I check my watch as the doorbell rings.

  “That was quick!” I call out, sparing one last glance at Nick’s room before heading along the landing and down the stairs. The doorbell rings again, insistently this time, swiftly followed by the sound of a car alarm. It’s very close. It’s mine.

  “Oh, what?” I hope Craig isn’t leaning on the doorbell because he’s bumped my car trying to squeeze his behind it on the short driveway. Hurrying through the hall, I have to put my fingers in my ears to block out the strident wail. “Damn it. Car keys.” I dash into the living room, then the kitchen, hunting for my bag, before striding back to the front door. “Coming!”

  As I flick up the latch, a shadow moves in my peripheral vision. I hear footsteps, and suddenly I’m gripped by a shiver of intuition that something isn’t right. Craig hasn’t called out to me in reply, as he generally would, or rapped on the door with his usual jaunty knock. Opening it slowly, I peer out cautiously before stepping into the porch. There’s no sign of Craig, nor any shopping bags. Only my car sits alone on the driveway, headlights flashing.

  I quickly deactivate the alarm, but I can’t switch off the jangled sense of threat so easily. Déjà vu envelops me as I cross the front yard, remembering the broken plant pot outside my window, the heavy
footfall in the alley. Feeling like I’m reenacting a play I once watched, I walk slowly to the side of the house, tingling again with the panic that kept me cowering against the wall a week ago.

  This time, there are no footsteps disappearing into the distance. Nobody is there. Maybe someone reversed onto my driveway and bumped my car, I think rationally. Perhaps they rang the doorbell to let me know, then changed their mind. I walk around my already somewhat battered Mini, checking it for yet more scrapes, freezing in shock when I get a clear look at the rear window: it’s completely caved in, demolished in a glittering spiderweb of shattered glass. This was no minor bump; it wasn’t an accident at all . . .

  Turning sharply, I try to run back to the house. But fear has stiffened my body, and my boots slip on the icy path. I fall flat on my face, the jolting impact knocking the breath from my chest, while the bang to my forehead sends pain splintering through my brain. For a second, I can’t move. All I can do is lie on the frozen ground and stare up at the graffiti spray-painted across the walls of my home: Liar! Bitch mother! Guilty!

  Unable to tear my eyes away, I pull myself slowly to my feet, groaning as I touch my fingers to my forehead and they come away wet with blood. Red, sticky blood. The same color as the words emblazoned across my front door: You’re next, slag.

  * * *

  “I was waiting for Craig. He went shopping for me. Why isn’t he here yet?” I feel angry, violated by what’s happened, and unfairly some of my agitation spills out toward Craig. “He might have been able to stop them. Or seen who did it. Who would have done this?”

  “We’ve got officers knocking door-to-door.” DS Clarke comes to sit next to me on the sofa, flannel in one hand, Band-Aid in the other. “Let’s hope your neighbors are more forthcoming this time. We spoke to most of them when Nick went missing. No one saw anything. Knew anything. That’s cities for you. People keep themselves to themselves.”