Lock the Door

by Jane Holland

  ALSO BY JANE HOLLAND

  FICTION

  The Queen’s Secret (as Victoria Lamb)

  Witchstruck (as Victoria Lamb)

  Wolf Bride (as Elizabeth Moss)

  Miranda

  Last Bird Singing

  Girl Number One

  POETRY

  Camper Van Blues

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2017 Jane Holland

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503941786

  ISBN-10: 1503941787

  Cover design by Mark Swan

  For my readers

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Prologue

  ‘The test results are in.’ Dr Shiva checks a document on her desk, then looks up at us; her brief smile is sympathetic, which fills me with dread. ‘I’m afraid it’s bad news. You need to prepare yourselves.’

  I clutch Jon’s hand, glancing sideways at him. He’s staring straight ahead, rigid in his seat, but his fingers squeeze mine in return.

  ‘No,’ I hear myself say, automatically denying the words she has not even spoken yet. There must be a mistake, I’m thinking. The wrong test results. A mix-up in the lab. Some overworked junior doctor sleepily typing the wrong surname . . .

  But of course there is no mistake.

  I see my husband’s face begin to close in as Dr Shiva continues, her soft voice filling in blanks we had hoped would remain empty forever.

  ‘No,’ I say again.

  I glance down at Harry, fast asleep beside us. He looks so peaceful, tiny wrinkled hands curled into fists on top of his blanket. He didn’t wake up even when Jon unbuckled the seat belt and carried him into the hospital, still cradled in his car seat. He had his last feed only an hour ago.

  A thin, grey rain begins to fall outside the window.

  After all the information and support leaflets have been duly handed over, Dr Shiva rises to shake our hands on the way out, diminutive and professional in a golden-brown dress and black boots, noisy bangles on her wrist. I still don’t quite believe her. But her immaculate white coat and name label are unassailable.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Smith,’ she keeps saying. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Smith.’

  And she probably is.

  I wonder how many other people she will have to apologise to this morning, shaking their hands with just the right amount of professional concern.

  Harry is still asleep.

  The car seat handle crooked over my arm, I carry him out of the consulting rooms. I look at the others still sitting in the waiting area with its plastic seating and toy table, their expressions patient and distracted, one woman watching a toddler play, another reading a magazine, untroubled by having to prepare themselves for bad news, and wonder how many of them . . .

  The hospital corridors are impersonal and overheated, the bright fluorescent lighting somehow intrusive. There are lines painted on the wall with smiley faces and arrows to help us escape the maze of departments.

  PAEDIATRICS

  OUTPATIENTS’ RECEPTION

  WAY OUT

  We run through the car park in the rain, my coat over Harry to keep him dry. I keep my face politely blank until I’m back in the car. Back in its rain-streaked little cave, looking out at the world.

  Jon does not notice. Or ignores my heaving chest. He secures Harry’s car seat in the back, then goes to pay for the parking ticket. When he gets back, he’s soaked, swearing under his breath.

  Rain is falling more heavily now. I look round at Harry, but he is lying still, as pale as his blanket. Apart from a tiny yawn as we left the consulting room, he has not stirred.

  ‘Here.’ Jon hands me the ticket for the exit machine, flicks the windscreen wipers on, then concentrates on backing out of the narrow space.

  I clutch the parking ticket and watch the wipers swing back and forth. So pointless, wiping away rain that returns a split second later. Almost before the wiper has completed its arc.

  Jon stops backing, partway out of the space, and stares at me helplessly. ‘Meghan, for God’s sake . . .’

  But I don’t care who sees me crying. What does it matter? What does any of it matter? From today, nothing will ever be the same.

  I look round at Harry again, nestled so cosily in his car seat. Oblivious to his condition, his future. I wish now that I had chosen to ride in the back beside him, to hold his tiny hand, to watch him even as he sleeps.

  ‘Our perfect boy,’ I cry, and hear my husband cry out too, like a wounded animal.

  Imperfect, as it turns out.

  Our perfectly imperfect boy.

  Chapter One

  I have a tiny fleck of grey at my temple. I noticed it last night in the bathroom and was shocked, though I didn’t say anything to Jon. I am only twenty-five.

  In the supermarket aisle, I turn over the packet of hair dye, check down the list of instructions. They don’t look too complicated.

  Test patch first for allergic reaction . . .

  This might be a good time to go blonde. I’m finally starting to settle into a treatment routine with Harry, and I’ve always been dissatisfied with my brown hair. It’s not exactly mousey, but blonde seems more exciting than chestnut. Camilla next door is a blonde, and she and her husband, Treve, have such a great relationship, I really envy them. Besides, I went blonde once as a teenager, for the last summer of sixth form, and got far more attention from boys that term. Quite the head-turner.

  I put the product back on the shelf, though it promises one hundred per cent grey coverage. Stupid idea. Jon would call it a waste of time and money. I already know what he’ll say. ‘It’s one strand, Meghan. What’s all the fuss about?’

  And what is all the fuss about?

  One grey strand of hair. That can happen sometimes before you hit your thirties. It doesn’t mean anything. Excep
t that I know how ambitious Jon is, and how hard he works at the law firm, and I don’t want him to feel embarrassed that his wife is not as young and exciting and energetic-looking as he might like. Not that Jon would comment on my appearance. Some days he does not even seem to notice me. But I’m uneasily aware that I don’t make as much of an effort as I used to. Not since the birth.

  ‘Come on, Harry.’

  Harry does not answer. Still asleep, hopefully.

  The doctor said to treat him like any other child. Easy for her to say. Some nights I feel like he’s made of glass, especially when I undress and bathe him before bed. As though he might shatter at any minute.

  Seven months old this Saturday.

  I’m getting used to the buggy and basket routine. The trick is not to hurry. And at some point, I suppose, he may be strong enough to ride upfront in the little plastic trolley seat.

  As usual, my mind shies away from anything that involves the future. ‘What a gorgeous little boy,’ women exclaim over Harry in the street. ‘He’ll be a heartbreaker when he grows up!’

  He’s a heartbreaker now, I think, but say nothing.

  What is there to say, after all?

  The first few weeks after he came home from the hospital, I saw parents out with those sling things, baby snug against their chest, and asked Jon if we should try one. But he wasn’t impressed. ‘New Age nonsense.’ I wasn’t so sure. You never saw those babies wriggling or screaming. But it was certainly true what Jon said, that we had paid a huge amount for the buggy and its accessories and ought to get some proper use out of them before Harry . . .

  A woman drops a family-size shampoo bottle further up the aisle, spattering cheap red shampoo everywhere. The loud crack wakes Harry; his eyes spring open in his flushed face. His legs jerk first, then his chest heaves, and he cries out, sharp and plaintive.

  ‘There, there.’ I bend to comfort him, and tidy the blue fleece he’s kicked off. ‘Hush, it’s okay.’

  The woman looks at me apologetically. ‘Sorry,’ she mouths before fleeing the scene of her crime.

  Harry looks up at me accusingly, but settles down after a few thin, disgruntled cries. He only recently had his feed, and it’s obviously an effort for him to keep his eyes open.

  ‘Checkout next, I promise,’ I mutter.

  I grip the basket firmly and manoeuvre the buggy past the staggered splatters of red shampoo. It looks like strawberry jam without the bits. I see another woman up ahead browsing the medication shelves; a fifty-something in a tired-looking suit and heels, her head is almost entirely grey.

  Abruptly, I decide to go back for the hair dye. It can always go into the bathroom cabinet for later. It may be one grey hair now, but who knows what’s coming next?

  I glance back down the aisle.

  Do I really have to turn the buggy in this tight space, and then negotiate my way back through the red spillage, as if performing a slalom?

  It’s only a few yards.

  Leaning forward, I check Harry. He’s already asleep again, looking angelic. It’s a risk. But it’s only, what, ten or eleven steps there, plus the same back again?

  I let go of the buggy handles.

  My heart beating fast, I walk-run back to the hair dye shelves.

  Quickly, I locate the dye and turn to see a middle-aged woman in glasses bending over the buggy.

  Bending over Harry.

  I’m too shocked to react at first. Like my brain can’t quite decipher what my eyes are seeing. She’s broad-hipped, with smooth black hair – falling to mid-way down her back, a suspicious lack of grey for her age – and thick ankles. Flat shoes and opaque black tights. Dull skirt and blouse under a duffel coat; an odd combination, especially in such warm weather.

  Then I see her finger extend towards my boy.

  Touching him?

  ‘Hey, what are you doing?’

  The woman straightens at once, looking blankly in my direction.

  I run back and drag the buggy away, waking Harry again. I glare at her as he starts to cry. ‘Did you touch him? Did you touch my baby?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ she insists, her eyes widening.

  She has a strikingly broad Cornish accent: carss for course. A local, then. Dark-brown eyes and thick-rimmed, rectangular glasses that look slightly too large for her face. She has thin lips, the hint of a moustache above them. Older than the perfectly black hair suggests, I realise. This woman obviously has no problems using hair dye.

  I don’t trust her.

  ‘I saw you. It looked to me like you were touching him.’

  ‘No,’ she repeats, backing away.

  ‘He can’t be touched. It could be dangerous. He’s not well. He . . . He gets infections very easily.’

  ‘Didn’t touch him,’ she insists. ‘Never touch them.’ Again the strong Cornish accent, the words slurred together, not quite clear.

  At first I am inclined to believe her. But her gaze grows restless and shifty, moving past me as though to check who else might be listening, and something clicks in my head. What does she have to hide?

  Other shoppers are staring now. A member of staff who was walking past the head of the aisle stops and comes towards us, his expression concerned. He has a phone in his hand and is speaking into it.

  I look down at Harry who has woken up and is yawning delicately. He’ll need changing soon. I’ve already been out of the house too long. I should get him home.

  ‘I don’t let anyone touch my baby,’ I tell the woman vehemently, anxiety fuelling my panic.

  She blinks at me as if confused, though she understands me well enough. It’s an act, I’m sure of it now. The countrified innocence, the surprised expression. Her voice is high and breathy, a touch of genuine indignation behind the denial. ‘I come round the corner and he was just sitting here, all on his own. So I thought . . .’

  The member of staff comes to a halt beside the buggy.

  ‘Ladies?’

  He’s wearing suit trousers and a smart lavender shirt with matching tie. The badge on his shirt says JERRY: ASSISTANT MANAGER. He notices the shampoo mess on the floor first, a frown tweaking his brows together. He looks down at Harry, and then at me, and lastly the woman in the duffel coat. The phone is still in his hand.

  ‘Is there a problem, ladies?’ he asks, carefully not directing the question at anyone in particular. ‘Can I help?’

  The woman turns to him at once, a note of outrage in her voice. ‘Yes, actually, you can help.’ Her voice grows stronger as his gaze sharpens on her face. ‘I want to make a complaint. This woman’s mad. She just accused me of touching her child. I did no such thing.’ The strong accent intensifies. ‘Left him alone in his buggy and walked away, she did. I thought the poor little thing was going to cry. I was just saying hello to him when she charged up and—’

  ‘You touched him.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  I stare at her, and feel my face begin to burn.

  ‘Well, I’m not going to stand here arguing,’ I tell them both. ‘I have to take my baby home. He needs changing.’

  I wrench the buggy round, the metal shopping basket banging against the handles. Make a complaint against me, indeed. I’m feeling murderous now, which is why it’s best for me to leave.

  The assistant manager pauses to speak to the woman as I wheel Harry hurriedly away, then follows me through the narrow aisles. I do not look back at him.

  ‘Excuse me, madam?’

  I pay no attention.

  ‘Let me help you with that,’ he insists, and I stop, reluctantly letting him take the heavy basket. The crook of my arm hurts from where it’s been hanging. I would have used the tray under the buggy, but that’s already full. ‘Go on, I’ll carry it to the till for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I keep pushing Harry towards the tills.

  ‘Do you want to pursue this matter any further?’ the assistant manager asks, glancing back over his shoulder.

  I look too, but th
e woman in the duffel coat has disappeared.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I wouldn’t normally suggest this, but under the circumstances . . .’ He hesitates. ‘We could inform the police. Though only if you genuinely feel your child has been threatened.’

  I am relieved he does not think I was exaggerating. He has nice eyes too, warm and concerned. But the mention of police only increases my anxiety.

  ‘Thank you . . . Jerry.’ I make a point of glancing down at his name badge. ‘But it’s not important. Looks like she’s disappeared now anyway. She got the point. I don’t like people touching him.’

  ‘Of course. That’s only natural.’

  ‘He’s special, you see.’ I smile down at Harry, who is gurgling now and twisting his fist in his mouth. ‘A special baby.’

  The assistant manager smiles as though he understands, but he doesn’t. Not really.

  I’ve noticed that before, since bringing Harry home from the hospital. When they see a woman out with a baby, people always nod and smile, and think they know what’s going on, what your life must be like. They only see what’s on the surface, never what’s hidden. How could they, after all? Like an iceberg, there’s always more underneath the waterline, concealed in frozen darkness.

  More than anyone could possibly imagine.

  Chapter Two

  I stop by the supermarket’s spacious baby-changing room on my way out and investigate Harry’s nappy. To my surprise, and concern, it’s dry.

  Instantly, I’m scared.

  I stare down at the nappy, then pat it tentatively with the back of my hand. Definitely dry. That was not what I was expecting. Harry fed normally this morning, the nappy should be wet by now.

  I struggle to remember the danger signs, but my brain is closing down in panic. Dry nappy, listless behaviour, weak cry . . . and fever.

  I feel his forehead with the back of my hand.

  A little warm, perhaps.

  Hurriedly, I fumble for the digital thermometer in my emergency pack, and check his temperature for fever. Waiting for the beep that shows it’s finished taking a reading seems to last forever.

  36.2 CELSIUS

  That’s easily within the normal range.

  Harry kicks his stubby legs, blowing bubbles while he watches me refasten his nappy and striped navy-blue sleepsuit. Flaky mummy, he’s probably thinking. Getting all uptight over a tiny change in routine.