In the end, I tucked the car into the small layby just to the side of our gates. I didn’t want to take Jack in, but equally I couldn’t leave and miss this opportunity. Slightly opening my window to relieve the misting glass, I sat and waited, feeling my chest rapidly rise and fall. You’d stated you’d be leaving around eight and would be expecting me home at some point, so I reckoned I hadn’t long to wait. Eventually, the hall light illuminated shapes across the driveway, indicating movement in the house. I ever so quietly released my car door so as not to wake Jack, discreetly squeezing myself through the gap up against the hedge.
A small break in the privet allowed me a viewpoint. I could just about make out the elevated area before the front door. The sound of raised voices hit me, despite my distance. The front door opened as the security light shone down. I crouched further into the hedge as the electric gates opened. My blood turned cold as the action unravelled before me. The young lad I’d seen at the house once before was punched out of the front door, before tumbling head first down the few steps to the driveway. I gasped too loudly; my legs began to wobble. He was gagged, with hands tied behind his back. Not capable of breaking his fall or with any chance of defending himself. What the hell was I involved in? This was someone’s son. I hated myself for even being there. The others laughed on, as if it were some form of drunken prank. You didn’t laugh but towered above with a half-smile. Jesus Christ, what should I do? I knew what I should do but what about Jack? I couldn’t risk it — shouting out or trying to help the lad could put Jack in danger.
Even I hadn’t thought it would come to this. But why hadn’t I, given the lessons I was taught? I’d known all along what you were capable of. But this felt worse; the images would torture me for a long time. Who the hell were Jack and I sharing our lives with? What kind of a monster? But why? I watched in horror, the lad being roughly pulled to his feet then bundled into the boot of the white car, hitting his head on the hard edge. My body threatening to vomit, my mind racing.
I couldn’t chance being caught as a witness. Would we be next? I staggered back to my car with jelly legs, hands trembling trying to open the door. Once in I flicked the central-locking button switch. I swallowed at the pizza threatening to resurface and waited until I could hear the turn of a car engine. I turned the key in the ignition, so to be synchronised with the sound of the thug’s car, hoping to God my headlamps didn’t come on. Slowly I reversed – until the rear of the white car began to edge out of the driveway. Quickly, I slipped into first, then second and picked up speed to pass the car and driveway as if I were an innocent passer-by, praying you didn’t notice us. As I approached the driver of the white car he politely tucked into the hedgerow to let me pass. What the hell? I sped on as if our life depended on it.
Where were they taking the poor lad?
A few hundred meters further down the lane, I bumped the car on to the grass verge. Allowing myself to breathe again. I sat and waited. What should I do? How could I possibly go home, but how could I possibly not? Should I call the police? But that could ruin everything, all my planning, everything, Jack’s life from here on, our freedom. The worst surely had already happened for the lad, whatever they were up to. I’d read about these things in gory crime thrillers – often carried out to scare people only, warn them off, stop them from talking. About what? The worst for him had already happened, please. They would let him go, dump him somewhere; he’d have learned his lesson. But what had he done?
I restarted my engine still feeling so close to the house. I drove around, circling the area for the best part of an hour, the images replaying over and over. Feeling sick to the core. Reliving the scene; wondering where the lad had been taken. Was he okay? Then chastising myself – of course he wasn’t okay. It was 8:15 p.m. Jack would wake soon; I needed to return home. Please let you be gone. I couldn’t face you, not now or ever.
Some time on, I arrived back to an unoccupied driveway. The house in darkness. A huge sigh of relief. I carried Jack’s heavy body up the steps, all the time seeing the face of someone else’s son scraping down the slabs; the look of absolute fear in his eyes. I had to go in against my will; with nothing other than my mobile with me, I had no choice. But I knew at that moment, my plan needed to be brought forward. There was no way we could continue to live under the same roof as you. A line had been crossed; time to leave. I’d prepare the necessary belongings and leave once you’d left for work in the morning.
I fetched the blanket from a spare bed so I could sleep in Jack’s room in the chair next to his bed. With me I grasped my car keys and my mobile. I’d spent a couple of hours gathering supplies, nothing that wasn’t essential, all mostly Jack’s. I hadn’t planned for this yet; I didn’t even know where we’d go. A refuge maybe? I looked up the number for the Citizens Advice Bureau. I would ask to speak to a voluntary solicitor in the morning. I researched reasonable cheap bed and breakfasts in the not too close area. I could use the money I’d stashed away, until I knew my next move. The solicitor I’d consulted a few weeks ago had assured me I could apply for some emergency funding in court. It wouldn’t take too long to achieve, he’d promised. I’d make my way to the courts in Leamington Spa in the morning to file my application. I was already exhausted but the adrenaline fuelled my hypervigilant state.
At some point, in the early hours of the morning, I heard you return, slamming the front door with force. My neck stiff with tension, I could hear you staggering around as items clattered and clanged on the floor. My stomach twisted and turned; I could see my legs physically trembling as I imagined your drunken black mood. Why hadn’t I taken the opportunity to leave that night? Then, I listened intently as you consciously climbed each moving stair. Please, don’t look for me. Please. I rubbed my sweaty palms on my jeans, baulking at the taste of bile. Seconds later, I stopped breathing, aware you were standing on the other side of the door, listening. My heart missing a beat as the door opened slowly, I slumped low in the chair, feigning sleep.
Your thuggish self staggered towards me, kicking at toys on your way. A robot began to bellow instructions. I didn’t dare glance at Jack. I squeezed my muscles tightly, worrying I was going to lose control of my faculties. The game had changed tonight. You were far more evil than even I’d believed. My heart jumped to my mouth. I felt sheer fear, sweat glistening at my brow as you loitered, soaring over me. You kicked out at my left foot. I pretended to stir in my sleep before slumping lower in the chair. How did you not notice me shaking? I only had the alcohol to thank. Heavy fumes smothered my lungs as you exhaled in my face. Chortling to yourself. My eyes scrunched tight. I was petrified – you must have realised I was awake?
‘Pathetic,’ you whispered in my left ear.
I held my breath.
‘Absolutely, sodding pathetic.’ You switched to my right ear, stumbling, thumping down hard sharply on my lower arm. ‘Look at the state of you!’ Your face millimetres from mine. Hot breath tickling my tortured face. Before swaying back, still leaning hard now on my wrist with your full weight. You flicked my face with your fingers. It stung, bringing tears to my clamped-shut eyes. I resisted flinching. ‘Look at the state of you,’ you spat in my face. ‘No wonder you’ve no friends. No one. Even your interfering parents left you.’ You snatched my mobile from my tightly bound fingers, hurled it, smashing it against the wall. Jack stirred. Please, God, no, Jack, please.
My chest ached, ready to explode. You hovered, glowering at me. Your eyes burning through my soul. Then you spun, kicked my right foot, before staggering back out of the room. No key for this door, I thought. I stole a gasp of air.
Please, God, let this be the end. I’d got away lightly this time.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Cornwall 2016
‘Come on, Jack, for goodness’ sake; have you seen the time?’ How many times do I utter this statement? I wonder.
‘Yeah; I know, I’m coming!’
‘No, you’re not, though, are you? Else I wouldn’t need to shou
t. I’ll see you in the car. I’ll turn it around, ready to go.’
Moments later, Jack shoots down the path towards me, his huge sports bag bouncing off his back. I catch myself at how grown up he suddenly appears; as if when he hit fourteen, he fell asleep as my little boy, then changed to a lad overnight. He gives me a big teasing grin; he understands it will prevent me from having a go for taking his time. He opens the back door, hurls his bags across the seat, then slams the door, making me wince. At the same time his mobile catapults, landing in the footwell of the back seat. I reach back for it.
‘It’s fine, Mum; I’ll get it,’ he says, all too quickly. As lovable as Jack is, he’d normally have me bending in all positions to pick things up for him. Old habits die hard.
‘Okay. I was just trying to help.’ I glance at him eagerly twisting back for it. ‘Stroppy pants.’
‘Yeah, it’s okay. I’m on it. Thanks.’
Catastrophe over, he pulls the sun visor down, adjusting his hair in the mirror.
‘It’s fine; looks gorgeous, in fact.’
He pans it back. ‘What?’
‘Your hair – looks great. Don’t worry.’
He relaxes in his seat and smiles. ‘Yeah, whatever, Mum.’
‘Did you pull the door to properly, and shut the gate?’
‘Yeah, I did. What’s the big deal with the gate? You never used to bother shutting it, before.’ I take my eyes from the road to observe his almost defiant eyes. ‘Anyway, Allan’s bound to leave it open when he drops the post, so what’s the point?’
I have no right to challenge him. ‘I know, just feel better with it closed.’ I notice his tensed fists. ‘You’re right, no big deal.’
The mood instantly changes in the car, away from light, normal school-run banter to a feeling of something heavier. But then what did I expect, given the recent revelations? I don’t know how to tell Jack about last night, but I’m going to have to, later maybe. In the end, I stuffed the second envelope into the wooden chest in the kitchen. Why didn’t I set it alight on the fire instead? I remained awake for most of the night, moving between moments of sheer fear to red-hot anger; then an overwhelming sadness. When are Jack and I going to be allowed to move on?
‘You okay?’ I squint at him.
‘Yeah, think so.’ He looks straight ahead. ‘Are you?’
‘Yes, of course I am.’ I feel his eyes on me, looking for clues. ‘It’s going to be okay, Jack. Everything will be okay.’ Who am I trying to convince?
I can tell he’s psyching himself up, as he used to as a small child. ‘Will it, though, Mum?’
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ What a stupid question – what is wrong with me?
‘You know why. I’m not stupid, you know.’
‘I know you’re not. Anything but.’ He looks out of the window as I reach for his clenched fist. ‘We’ve talked about this. We just need to be vigilant, you know, be sensible. That’s all.’
‘Right, so that’s normal, isn’t it?’
‘What? Being sensible?’
‘No, having to be vigilant. I’m fourteen, but I can’t go anywhere alone. We live in Cornwall – it’s supposed to be safe, you said. All my friends will think I’m a freak! No, sorry, Seb, can’t meet you at the beach, because Mum isn’t here to hold my hand and walk me down. No, sorry, Jake, can’t meet you in Truro because it would mean walking to the bus stop alone, then travelling on a bus alone! Yeah, that’s not weird at all!’ He sighs loudly. The pain in his eyes does not go unnoticed.
‘I know, Jack, I know. I’m sorry. But it’s only for the time being. Just until—’
‘For the time being, okay, so how long is that going to be? And then what? What’s he going to do? What are we going to do? Shouldn’t we talk to the police? Isn’t this what normal people would do?’
‘No, Jack. No, we can’t do that, not yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘First of all, we’ve nothing to go on.’ I think about this, as it’s not quite true: I have the certificates and the other envelope; not to mention the other stuff. But it still doesn’t prove unquestionably they were from him. I don’t have any proof he’s been stalking us. To the police, he hasn’t actually done anything wrong. Yet. ‘Look, it’s not that simple, take it from me. Going on past experience, the police only want to know if you’ve hard evidence. Suspicion and observations are simply not enough, Jack. It’s wrong, I know, but they only get involved once a crime has been committed.’
‘Smart, so he has to kill us first. Great!’
‘Jack, don’t say that! It’s not what I meant. That’s not going to happen. Don’t say such horrible things.’ My stomach flips. He’s right, though. How can it be that my child is even having to think in this manner? It’s happening again, the feeling of not being able to protect him, against all my most basic instincts.
‘Come on, Mum, we both know what he’s capable of. Or have you forgotten?’
I’m a little taken aback, as Jack doesn’t know the half of your behaviour. He was too young, yet his words tell me otherwise. Could he have been digging, researching? I’ve blatantly avoided doing the same. Stuck my head in the proverbial sand, pretending ignorance is bliss. Perhaps Jack now understands more than I do. His mobile bleeps; he turns it over to read the screen. Like a paranoid mother, I instinctively lean over to take a look.
He moves the mobile out of view. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Who is it?’
‘What?’
‘The message, who’s it from?’ What am I doing? Invading his privacy, like some kind of controlling mother.
‘What’s wrong with you? It’s just a Snapchat. Why do you want to know? Jesus!’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be nosey. I’m just worried about you. You’d tell me, wouldn’t you… you know, if you knew anything?’
He nods and turns to look out of the window.
The car fills with an uncomfortable silence. This is how you get under our skin. You’re not even here, yet still creating tension. Don’t let him in, Eve; you’re better than this.
I take Jack’s white-knuckled fist and squeeze. ‘Unclench your hand, Jack.’
‘What?’
‘Unclench your hand. It’s bad for you.’ He straightens out his hand without argument but returns to look out of the window. ‘I’m sorry. We’ll sort this out, just give me some time to think about how best to handle it.’
‘Okay.’ He nods. A mishmash of love and hatred burns through my gut. Someone give me a knife, a chance to stab you slowly over and over.
Half an hour later, I make my way to the multistorey car park in Truro, having dropped Jack off at school. Right on cue, as I leave the concrete blot, it begins to spit. A glance upwards informs me it’s a passing shower; I scurry into the small coffee shop for a shot of caffeine and wait. I place myself in the window, cradling a double black Espresso, to watch the world go by.
I don’t feel like clinic today – too much buzzing in my mind – except I’m booked up, including a trip to see Milly again. She’s just eleven years old. Her mum’s boyfriend is the local pot dealer, by all accounts. Recruiting children as young as and including Milly to sell his wares. Offering her freebies as payment. What initially gave her an enormous high sent her crashing, stretching her right-brain imagination into the frightening land of paranoia. Her way to escape was to descend into the dark world of self-harm. With a little help from the world of elusive hashtags and manipulative emojis.
I wince further at the recall of the certificates I received last night. You haven’t changed; I sense you feeling hard done by. Betrayed and forsaken by your son and wife. You blame me. You will never grasp the truth, an even further distortion of the imagination, this time held captive by the left-side dictator. You are dangerous.
A deep Cornish voice breaks my thought. ‘A penny for them!’ he says, tapping my shoulder as he shuffles by with his stick. You wouldn’t want to know, really. I smile back at him. The rain begins to ease so I prepare to
make a run for clinic. But I’m momentarily stalled in the doorway as I spot the familiar figure, casually strolling in the fading shower, running his hands through damp hair. Before turning to deliberate the steps, one by one, missing the first. William Adams? Yes, I’m sure it is; I’ve his image implanted in my mind’s eye. Why is he going in there? The Truro counselling place? How strange.
A minute later, I walk past the entrance, to confirm I’ve the correct building. Why would he be visiting there, when he’s already booked in with me? Has he switched? Thought I was useless? Given my state of mind during our appointment, this wouldn’t be difficult to believe. There’s something peculiar about this man. Am I simply reading too much into it? After all, he didn’t leave his contact details, so maybe he did think I wasn’t up to the job. But there’s more to this than meets the eye, I’m sure of it. I walk on by for now, but I’ll return later. Besides, professionally I should know if he is seeing someone else at the same time as me. After all, we could undo each other’s work, a conflict of interests. I know the practitioners fairly well here; it shouldn’t be too difficult to find out.
My morning’s appointments pass slowly. A fear of flying and an antidote of exposure therapy via guided imagery. A teenager who is bombing out of school, another victim to a boarding routine. A further OCD case; why is this becoming so prevalent? Is it a case of clutching at control in an increasingly insecure society? Finally, a case of domestic abuse. Should I simply relay my story? Don’t wait, get out now, there is no such thing as an ideal time to leave. Don’t play the game, just get out; and especially if you have children.
I pull up outside the GP surgery in Mevagissey to see Milly, wondering how she will be today. I had an interesting phone call with her mum in between appointments earlier. Circumspectly, stepped my way through it. Was she aware of her boyfriend’s antics? Of Milly’s involvement? I could very easily have made matters worse for Milly too. It makes me shudder to think this is even possible, but it is. Turns out, her mum was aware of her boyfriend’s pot-dealing, just not that her daughter has been sucked in. Milly isn’t aware of her mum’s knowledge; it is for me to encourage her to open up to mum. The boyfriend will hopefully be gone by tonight, probably move back to his own residence, the pot hole.
Her Greatest Mistake Page 22