by Maria Goodin
“Exactly! She will find a nice man, who can give her everything she wants. Someone way better for her than me—”
“Oh, so you are not good enough, is that it? No. You know what you are? You are scared. Scared to take a chance—”
“No, that’s not—”
“Yes, is it!”
I throw the screwdriver into the pile of discarded, cardboard packaging.
“I’m done here,” I tell her, heading for the door.
She lets out a groan, as if I’m exasperating her, and suddenly shuffles forward in her chair. For a second I think she’s about to stand up and batter me in frustration, but she just sits there, bent over, staring at the floor.
“Are you okay?” I ask, pausing in the doorway.
“Yes!” she snaps, waving me away. “Go. Go enjoy whatever you lonely English men…” She stops short with a sharp intake of breath.
“Irena?” I ask, walking over and crouching down in front of her. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
She shakes her head dismissively, but the fact she doesn’t shout at me or hit me when I’m so close sends alarm bells ringing.
“I need to lie down,” she says quietly.
I support her weight as she stands up, but even on her feet she remains doubled over.
“Aghhh,” she groans, gripping my arm.
With horror, I spy blood seeping through the inside thigh of her white jeans. I try to sit her back down, unsure whether she’s noticed, but she has.
“Oh no, God, no!” she cries.
“Okay, just sit down,” I say, lowering her gently.
“Get help,” she whimpers, clutching my arm tightly.
I freeze, unable to draw my eyes away from the blood creeping along the inside of her jeans. And then I hear a voice shouting get help! but it’s not Irena’s, it’s Tom’s.
My vision blurs, the brightness of the yellow-painted nursery plummeting into darkness. I’m sucked into a sickening swirl of sounds and images: the black canal water flying past me, the glow of the moon, my heart thumping, the thud of my trainers, the smell of bonfire smoke… I feel like I’m being dragged down into a whirlpool, the present moment getting further and further out of reach. But I know I need to claw my way back.
Get help!
Tom’s voice echoes inside my head. I see blood dripping from my hands, from Libby’s face… I’m running, but I must turn around, I must get back to the present…
Irena’s nails dig hard into my skin, and I feel myself rushing back into my body. I look at my hands as if I’d forgotten they belonged to me, the reddish indentations where Irena’s fingers have been.
I stand up quickly, the room spinning slowly around me, a high-pitched ringing in my ears. I feel faint, but I have to act. I force my hands to move, to take my phone from the back pocket of my jeans. My hands are shaking and I’m terrified I’m not going to press the right buttons. I fumble with the digits, unsure if I’m hitting the correct numbers.
Irena cries something in Polish and clutches at her stomach. I crouch down again, taking her hand.
I think I hear Tom’s voice in my head once more, but it’s quieter this time, like it’s coming from far, far away.
And then I realise the voice is coming from my phone.
“Hello? Which service do you require?”
“Ambulance, please,” I say, astonished that I managed to dial the right numbers and pronounce the right words.
Irena clutches my hand and I squeeze back, relief flooding through me as I’m connected to the ambulance service.
Chapter 23
Panic
I toss and turn, trying to sleep, but when I do it’s fitful and plagued by nightmares. I wake fretful and disoriented, my heart racing.
In one dream, I trudge the length of the canal path for what feels like hour upon hour. As the seasons change, I sweat beneath the baking sun, plod through piles of autumn leaves, then lean into a winter snowstorm that freezes my hands. Suddenly I realise that this whole time I’ve been dragging a wagon behind me, and in it sit a couple of paramedics – a man and a woman – sharing jam sandwiches. I haul the wagon up the grassy bank, through a copse and over the allotments until, with relief, I spy the bonfire burning.
But I’m too late.
Everyone’s dead.
There’s no one here, just rivulets of their blood running between the dry, cracked earth.
The paramedics eye me scornfully. I’ve wasted their time and they have no more sandwiches left.
But then I hear a baby crying.
I rush over to the bonfire, following the high-pitched wail. Irena’s there, huddled in the darkness, blood dripping down her naked legs, weeping.
And on the bonfire there’s a baby. He’s screaming and screaming.
I want to lift him out, but my hands are still frozen from the snowstorm. I can’t move.
All I can do is stand, paralysed, and stare at the screaming baby as his skin blisters and burns.
And then, as I look closer, I realise with increasing horror that the baby’s not even Irena’s.
He’s mine.
I’m at home when my phone buzzes. Unusually, it’s Chloe.
Before I’ve even answered, I’m envisaging Josh in a terrible accident, a car coming too fast round a corner, a silly stunt gone wrong…
“Hi. I’m sorry to call you, I just, I wanted to tell you something about Josh,” she says, sounding stressed out.
“Right…” I say, cautiously.
“Do you know where he is right now?”
“Yeah, he’s gone shopping with Sam.”
“No, he hasn’t. He’s on his way to King’s Cross. And not with Sam. He’s gone to meet a total stranger.”
“What?”
“Did you know there’s this girl he likes?”
“Yeeesss…”
“Well, he’s gone to meet her.”
“Meet her? I thought… I thought the girl he liked was you.”
“What? No,” she says as if I’m a complete idiot. “I told you we don’t see each other like that.”
Yes, I think, cursing my own stupidity, and I didn’t believe you.
“So who is she?”
“I have no idea! I’m sure she’s not real though. I mean, I don’t think she is.” Her voice rises with a sense of urgency.
“Sorry, back up a bit—”
“They’ve been chatting online for months. They met on some, like, music forum or whatever. But every time he’s suggested, like, calling or FaceTiming or Skype or something, she makes some excuse, which is more than just a bit dodgy, don’t you think?”
“Hang on, I’m really confused—”
“I just don’t think he should be meeting up with this person on his own. I’m not sure she’s who she says she is.”
“So, he’s been messaging this girl, but he’s never talked with her in person?”
“No.”
“Or seen her?”
“Only in photos. And she’s, like, super pretty, and that makes me suspicious – not that Josh couldn’t get with a super pretty girl – but I’ve been watching this programme on MTV where, like, social outcasts go online and do exactly this kind of thing—”
“And he’s gone to meet her?”
“Yes!”
“And you knew he was going to do this? Why are you only telling me now?!”
“I didn’t know! I’d been telling him not to go, because I told him this ‘girl’ could be, like, some weird paedo or an axe murderer or something, and he said he wouldn’t go, but then I heard that he’s going anyway. He’s arranged to meet her at King’s Cross station at eleven and… hello? Are you still there?”
I hang up and immediately call Josh, my mind racing. What made me so convinced the girl he liked was Chloe? She even told me they were just good friends and I still didn’t question whether there might be someone else! Feeling foolish, I realise that I saw Libby and myself in those two and imagined – hoped – that they might have
what we once had. Blindsided by my own hankering after the past, I saw something that wasn’t there and missed the cues. And now God knows who he’s meeting.
“Josh, call me immediately please,” I tell his voicemail service.
I then send him a text, repeating the same order, grab my keys and drive straight to the station. I have fifty minutes to get to him.
I’m already too late when I arrive at King’s Cross fretful and anxious, my mind playing out every nightmare scenario. I try to reassure myself that nobody gets abducted in broad daylight at King’s Cross station. But what if he’s persuaded to go somewhere else? I would have never thought Josh was that stupid. But then I never would have had him down for doing any of this. We’ve talked about internet safety at home, they’ve covered it at school. What would possess him to be so stupid?
He’s refused to answer his phone, but has at least responded to a couple of text messages, so I know that as of twenty minutes ago he was still alive, something I imagine myself telling the police in a few hours’ time. Apparently I wouldn’t have let him go to London to meet up with this person if he’d told me about it, seeing as I never give him any freedom and treat him like a child. I reply calmly, ignoring his complaints and simply telling him not to leave the station or follow this person – whoever the hell they turn out to be – anywhere secluded, highlighting cars, vans, empty train carriages and public toilets as areas of particular threat.
When he stops texting, I become so fearful that the woman sitting opposite me on the train asks if I’m okay, as my leg is jiggling up and down at a hundred miles an hour and I’m chewing my thumbnail mercilessly.
I fly off the train, running past the other passengers, swearing loudly when the gate spits my ticket back at me and refuses to let me through. After realising I’ve tried to stuff my car parking ticket in the slot, I correct the error and finally emerge on the other side, pushing my way through the crowds, searching frantically for my kid.
I turn in circles, frustrated at all the people getting in my way. I see police officers loitering and immediately assume they’re here to deal with a reported incident involving my son. I hear an announcement start up over the loudspeaker and expect them to announce a missing child. And for one bizarre moment I think I see him – the Leader – a tall, lanky man disappearing through the barriers on the other side of the concourse.
He came back, this time for my boy.
“You don’t have to worry,” I hear a voice say behind me, “she didn’t turn up anyway.”
I turn with a start to see Josh standing behind me. I want to grab him by the shoulder and yell at him, not to ever, EVER do that again! But he looks so dejected, and I’m so relieved to see him, that instead I take a shaky breath, place a hand on his shoulder and steer him back towards the platform for home.
I glance back for a moment, catching a final glimpse of the tall, lanky man. He looks nothing like the Leader. I rub my face, wondering if I’m going crazy.
I grip Josh’s shoulder. “You and I,” I say through gritted teeth, “need to have a long chat—”
“You wouldn’t have let me—”
“Do you have any way of knowing who this person really is?” I interrupt, my anger already rising.
“Yes. I know her. She wouldn’t lie—”
“Well, she clearly would, seeing as she’s not here!”
“She’ll have her reasons. And you didn’t need to rush to my rescue!” he snaps, stopping dead in his tracks. “Why do you always think something bad’s gonna happen? Why can’t you just let me have a bit of freedom? We talked about this—”
“And you didn’t even give me a chance! You just went behind my back!”
“What would you have said if I’d told you?”
“I don’t know! But it would have been nice to have the chance—”
“Oh, come off it, Dad! You’re not gonna just change—”
“You didn’t even try me!”
“Josh?”
We both stop and turn towards the owner of the soft voice, a teenage girl who’s looking nervously at my son.
“Becky?” he asks, looking stupefied.
“Yes,” she nods, smiling awkwardly. “I’m sorry I’m late. My phone lost signal. I was really worried I’d missed you.”
She looks down at the ground uncomfortably, holding her head at an angle just like Josh does so that her long dark hair obscures part of her face.
Josh just stares at her.
“You look just like in your pictures,” she smiles, sheepishly. “I… um… I know I don’t. Look like in my pictures, I mean. But… yeah… this is me.”
She laughs nervously and makes a vague, apologetic gesture to herself.
“So now you know why I didn’t want to video chat,” she says, as is she’s admitting a deep, dark secret, “’cause I don’t look quite like you thought. All those pictures were, like, airbrushed and stuff…”
Josh shrugs.
“You look… fine,” he says, sounding confused. “I mean, you look… nice. You look pretty much like in the photos.”
She shakes her head dismissively, but it’s clear Josh is genuinely baffled, and so am I. She probably isn’t “super pretty” as Chloe described, but she’s got pretty eyes, a nice – if slightly gawky – smile. She’s very slim, all limbs and angles, and about an inch taller than Josh.
Both of them shift awkwardly from one foot to another.
“I’m probably not as funny as I come across online,” offers Josh, trying to even the playing field. “Being online gives me longer to think of witty things to say.”
She laughs, suddenly more at ease. “Okay, so you’re not as funny and I’m not as pretty… that makes us more even.”
“No, you are… you’re… I mean, you’re really pretty,” Josh mumbles, unsure whether to look at her face or his shoes.
Becky looks like she could burst with happiness. I feel a flood or pride and think that I could probably learn a few things from my son. Where did he get the confidence to put himself out there like that? Where did he learn to swallow his pride and say what he feels? I’m not happy about the stunt he’s pulled today, but he’s clearly able to take a risk where matters of the heart are concerned and that’s a good thing. And I feel a little calmer in the face of his competence.
Becky looks over her shoulder and beckons over a woman standing a few feet away.
“This is my mum,” she smiles.
Becky’s mum is also tall, very slim and looks about fifty. She greets Josh with a smile, her eyes creasing at the edges.
“This is my dad,” mumbles Josh, less enthusiastically, gesturing vaguely towards me.
Becky’s mum eyes me with surprise and then holds her hand out to me.
“Becky thought I was being too overprotective,” she smiles with a roll of her eyes, as if we’re in this together, “but I said there was no way I was letting her travel from Reading to London on her own, not at this age, and meeting someone online… well… you can’t be too careful, can you?”
I shake her hand.
“No,” I say, catching Josh’s eye, “you really can’t.”
We all stand in silence for a moment.
“So,” says Becky, smiling a bit more confidently at Josh, “I thought maybe we could go get some lunch?”
Josh looks quizzically at Becky’s mum and then at me, as if he’s not sure how all this is going to work.
“Oh, I thought I’d just… you know… potter around here for a bit,” says Becky’s mum quickly, looking around as if wondering how to occupy herself for an hour in Accessorize and Boots.
“And didn’t you have somewhere important to be at three o’clock, Dad?” asks Josh.
I check my watch, thinking I’ve got plenty of time. I can hang around here, stay close. It’s not the greatest part of London: too many strangers, drug pushers, groups huddling suspiciously in corners. I can get a coffee, accompany him home…
But he’s staring pointedly at me, and I kn
ow these fears that seem to be escalating out of control are mine to deal with, not his.
“Yeah, I guess I should get back really,” I say. “You’re sure you’re okay making your way—”
He glares at me.
“Right. Keep your money safe and text me,” I say, fighting the urge to drag him home.
But the tiny smile he gives me as I tear myself away makes it clear my pissing off and giving him his own space is very much appreciated.
Later that day, I wait on grass so bright green and springy it barely seems real. I stand beneath a large oak tree, watching people arriving at the crematorium, stepping out of their cars in dark suits and dresses. My stomach turns.
You have to do this, I tell myself, you just have to.
But I don’t move. I don’t want to face what lies ahead. I want to walk back to my van and drive home.
“You okay?” a voice asks.
I turn to see Michael approaching.
I shake my head slowly. I’ve worked my way through an entire packet of paracetamol this week and I still can’t shift the pulsating pain in my temples.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I tell him.
He sighs, watching the mourners. “There’s no right way.”
“I don’t know what to say, what to do.”
“It doesn’t matter,” says Michael. “What’s important is that you’re here, that you say something.”
I nod thoughtfully.
“Come on,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder and taking a deep breath. “Let’s go.”
There’s a figure crouched in front of the gravestone, a grown man with a broad back and hairy arms. I still can’t understand how he got that way, how he grew upwards and outwards without my even knowing.
Michael clears his throat. “Tom?”
Tom stands up, his eyes darting between Michael and I as if he’s having exactly the same thoughts as me: who are these men?
“Fuck me,” says Tom, eyeing Michael up and down. “What happened to that prissy little choir boy I once knew?”
Michael smiles. “Some cocky kid introduced him to metal music and Jack Daniel’s. It was a slippery slope from there.”