Silent Victim

by Caroline Mitchell

I laughed, kissing her on the cheek. ‘You know me, I’ll give anything a go once. The pot’s boiling over, by the way.’

  Her attention diverted, I grabbed the keys from the hall and made my way to the car. That was close. Too close. I made a mental note to tell Emma we had been flossing if she pressed me about it. Not that she would. She’d be too busy throwing up. I caught the unkind thought as it shot across my consciousness. What had happened was changing all of us, and I hated the direction in which I was being taken.

  After posting the sample and picking up some groceries, I headed back home. I could have left it until tomorrow, but I wanted to make the post. The three hundred pounds I was paying for a quicker result would be worth every penny. There was no way I could have waited. I hated putting on a pretence that everything was OK. Jamie was mine, he had to be, and the sooner I got a positive result confirming this, the better, because the alternative did not bear thinking about.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  EMMA

  2017

  Blinking in the darkness, I lay next to Alex, his shallow breathing the only sound in the room. It was one of those utterly black nights when the sky was thick with clouds, the moon and stars extinguished from view. My darkest memories crawled out of their box, clawing at my insides as I recalled what I had done. I imagined our oak tree, its bare branches stark against the grey, lifeless landscape. Dad sitting on the bench he had built at its base, staring mournfully into the skyline as he thought about Mum. It was a haunting scene in my memory, coming to me with greater clarity now the lights had been doused in every room of our home.

  It had been Alex’s idea to turn them off, citing a migraine that had come on after supper. But I knew from his sideways glances that he could not bear to look at my face. I closed my eyes as tiredness washed over me, my throat still sore from bringing up the food I had so carefully prepared. So much for my resolve. Had Alex really gone to the shops before dinner, or was it just an excuse to get away? The thought swam with all the others in a murky distillery of gloom.

  Falling into sleep, my dream returned me to my childhood. I was four years of age, squirming as I awoke in damp flannel sheets. I had wet the bed again. I knew that Mummy would be mad. I blinked in the darkness. Eyes open or closed, it all looked the same. My room was blacker than the night outside. I slid from between the sheets, landing the balls of my feet on the harsh wooden floor. My heart fluttered like a hummingbird as my wet nightdress sent a chill through to my skin. Mummy told me if I got out of bed that the ghost of the Strood would get me. But I was more afraid of my mummy than the ghost. I reached out with my fingers splayed, blindly patted the blankets until I found the bedpost, which led me to the wall. Grasping the edge of the thick polyester curtains, I pulled hard until a chink of light filtered through my small box room. My gaze fell to the floor, half expecting a decaying hand to shoot out and grab me by the ankle. Grunting, I tugged the blankets on my bed, but they were too thick and heavy, and hot tears fell down my cheeks as I realised I couldn’t change the sheets by myself. The more I pulled, the heavier they became. A whine growing in my throat, I climbed on top of the bed and curled up on my pillow.

  With a slow creak my bedroom door opened. My heart pounding hard, I stuffed my fist into my mouth, trying to hold back my scream at the sight of the long reedy shadow bleeding through. Was the ghost really coming to get me? A hand reached out, flicking the light switch on the wall. Bright light flooded my bedroom, stinging my eyes and chasing the shadows away. It was my father. I jumped from my bed, wrapping my chubby fingers tightly around his neck as he crouched down to speak to me. I took comfort from his earthy smell. I knew Daddy went away to dig for treasure, but archaeology was too big a word for me to fully understand. Frowning, he took in the messy bed, the damp nightdress.

  ‘Have you wet the bed again? Why didn’t you tell Mummy?’ he said.

  My words came in choked sobs as my four-year-old body shuddered in response. ‘Muh . . . Mummy said the ghost would get me if I le . . . left my bed.’

  Undoing my fingers, he rose from his position, his leather shoes creaking on the floorboards as he walked. Picking up the empty jug on the dresser, he gave me a curious glance. ‘How much have you had to drink?’

  I stood open-mouthed, but my words would not come.

  He knelt for a second time, his voice soft and coaxing as he told me I had done nothing wrong.

  ‘Mummy said I had to drink it all,’ I said. My voice was barely a whisper.

  As his frown returned, I realised it was Mummy who was in trouble, not me. It gave me a certain satisfaction that I wasn’t the only person who got things wrong.

  Quickly, Daddy changed the sheets and dressed me for bed. Tugging at my curtains, he opened them wide and left them that way. I liked it when Daddy was home. I scooted to the edge of the bed. The stale scent of urine hung in the air, the damp mattress soaking through the freshly laid sheets. Muffled voices filtered from my parents’ bedroom as my father asked my mother why she had insisted I drink so much before bed.

  Mum denied it, of course, calling me an attention seeker and a liar. I knew what those words meant because I had been called them before.

  I had come to hate the sound of her angry voice. It was a rough, grating noise, echoing like a trapped crow in the room. I wished that Daddy didn’t have to go away, so Mummy could be happy all the time and wouldn’t drink the brown stuff from the bottle that made her so mad.

  ‘You’ve been drinking again, haven’t you? For Christ’s sake, Isobel, she’s four years old,’ my father said, and I wondered what my age had to do with it.

  The bedsprings bounced and squeaked as if to signal it was the end of the conversation. I imagined my mother turning around to face the wall, grasping handfuls of blankets in her bony fists.

  A light switch clicked off, and the sound of change rattled against the floor as my father undressed. It was a comforting noise. But morning would bring more disapproval after he left. I whimpered, tears pricking my eyes.

  ‘Emma,’ a voice said from so very far away. ‘Emma. It’s OK. It’s just a dream.’

  I blinked in the darkness at the hand gently shaking my shoulder. Disorientated and groggy, it still felt as if I were a child, back in the room where Jamie now slept. ‘What?’ I murmured, taking a slow breath.

  Alex stretched to switch on his bedside lamp. ‘You were crying in your sleep. Are you all right?’

  I touched my cheeks, which were wet with tears. No wonder the dream felt so real. I steadied my voice, vowing my son would never hear the harsh whispers that had been a backdrop to my childhood. ‘I’m OK; sorry I woke you.’

  Seconds ticked by as we lay in the dark, my past circling around us like a kettle of vultures. Slowly, Alex’s hand reached across the void and cupped mine.

  I squeezed it back. ‘It’s going to be OK,’ I whispered. ‘We’ll get through this.’

  But my voice contained more confidence than I felt.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  EMMA

  2017

  Spikes of rain hammered my car windscreen, making me curse the inclement weather. It felt like a lifetime since I had enjoyed the sun on my face. It would have been better to stay at home and talk things through with Alex, but Josh had been unable to cover my shift at work. Not that I expected customers in this weather. For once, my diary was free of appointments, and I was very tempted to tell Theresa to shut the shop for the afternoon. But I had forced myself out of the house just the same. Besides, it was bring your teddy to school day today, and Jamie could not wait to participate in the indoor picnic they had planned for lunch. I was all too aware that I was running late as the clock on the car’s dashboard showed 11 a.m. By the time I got the buggy out of the boot and put Jamie in, he would be soaked. I pulled up the handbrake and turned round to face my son. ‘I’m just going to get a parking ticket from the machine. It’s just over there,’ I pointed. ‘You stay here in the warm, and I’ll be back in a second.’

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bsp; Jamie nodded, staring out at the rain. I rooted through the glove compartment for change. Like many family cars, the space was stuffed with a half-eaten packet of sweets, wet wipes, receipts and old coins. Taking the keys from the ignition, I shoved them in my pocket before pulling out my red umbrella and opening it through the crack in the door. ‘Back in one second,’ I said once again. ‘You can watch.’

  Like a meerkat, Jamie’s head bobbed as he tried to get a clear view of outside. ‘But I can’t see, Mummy,’ he said, straining against his straps towards the breath-fogged pane.

  Turning back in my seat, I clicked the button of his seat belt, allowing him enough freedom to watch me get the ticket. ‘I’m going to lock the car, OK? You stay inside and watch Mummy. I won’t be a second.’

  Hunching my shoulders, I pulled my collar up and faced the rain. It pattered hard against the thin fabric of my umbrella, and I activated the car’s central locking system before tottering through the puddles towards the ticket machine. I had the sense to wear trousers today, my billowing blouse kept dry beneath my long fleece coat. I rifled through my change, depositing it into the machine. I was just about to turn round when the sudden screech of car tyres filled the air, chilling me to the marrow of my bones. Time seemed to stop in that second and I was snapped back into reality as I heard a child’s cry. Jamie. My child.

  ‘No! No, no,’ the syllables fired from my mouth as my umbrella fell to the ground. My eyes flitted from my car door that was wide open and the 4 × 4 parked awkwardly nearby. I sprinted towards it, my eyes fixed on the small hand jutting out on the concrete, and the teddy bear thrown to one side.

  ‘Oh my God!’ The driver’s screams filled the air as she scrambled out of her Range Rover, almost tumbling over herself in her haste to reach my son.

  ‘Jamie,’ I cried, falling to my knees, searching the puddles for a reddish tint of blood. Raindrops splattered his face and he blinked, his little hands clawing the air like a tortoise that had been flipped on to its back. The tall thin figure of the driver loomed over us, her hands on her mouth. Her long blonde hair trailed down the sides of her face as the rain dripped down its length. ‘He ran straight in front of me. I didn’t see him . . . I . . .’

  But I was too busy dialling 999 as I tried to shelter my son from the rain. It was an automatic reaction and I struggled to find the words to call for help.

  ‘Mummy,’ Jamie cried, apparently none the worse for wear.

  ‘It’s OK, sweetie, you’re going to be OK,’ I said, my heart feeling like it was going to beat its way out of my chest. My left hand holding the phone, I patted down my son with my right, unable to believe he had escaped with his life.

  ‘He ran out in front of me,’ the woman repeated, her voice trembling above me. ‘I didn’t hit him. I braked the second I saw him. He . . . he tripped over his own feet.’

  ‘What’s your emergency?’ A voice said on the other end of the line. I blurted out my location, requesting an ambulance as I told the operator my son had been knocked down. Jamie was crying, and warm tears fell down my cheeks as I realised what I had almost lost. I touched his face, checked the grazes on his hands from where he had fallen. Reaching out for his teddy, I drew them both near as I sat in the icy cold puddle, rain driving down my face. I craned my neck to stare at the driver, her face white and frozen in shock.

  ‘He . . . he came from nowhere . . . I didn’t hit him . . . I swear.’ Her words were disjointed, raised against the fury of the rain. Mascara streaks began to tear down her cheeks, her fingers touching her lips as if caressing the words for comfort. I glanced back at my car – to the back door that was wide open. I had locked it when I left. I was sure of it. So how did he get out? A memory reignited in my brain, old and rusted. Harry the golden retriever, lying bloodied and lifeless on a day just like this. I heaved for breath, feeling my grip on reality loosen a notch.

  Sitting in the back of the ambulance, I took comfort from the fact that no injuries were found. I had not expected the presence of a police officer as paramedics checked Jamie over. After catching his breath, Jamie was able to tell them that he had tripped over and fallen, but had not been hit by the car. He seemed excited by the prospect of being in an ambulance, and his eyes grew wide as a uniformed officer joined us, introducing herself to him with a smile. PC Bakewell seemed far less enamoured with me, however. After obtaining my details, she informed me that an automatic referral would be made to children’s social services.

  ‘Why?’ I said, suddenly feeling small under her disapproving gaze. An efficient-looking woman with short brown hair, she turned over the page of her notebook and wrote down my details.

  ‘I only took my eyes off him for a second,’ I said, panic lacing my words. ‘The child lock was on in the car. Somebody must have opened the door from the outside.’ The thought hadn’t entered my head until that second when I blurted it out. My eyes opened wide with the revelation. ‘Yes, that’s it. Someone opened the door of my car and let him out. He was running across the car park to see me.’ I hesitated as I tried to work it out. Had I activated the central locking? If I had, then how could somebody have opened the car door?

  PC Bakewell raised an eyebrow in a manner that suggested she was thinking the same thing. ‘Did you see anybody else around?’

  I frowned. ‘No. Have you asked the woman driving the 4 × 4? She might have seen something.’

  But the police officer stared unblinkingly, seeming unimpressed. ‘It’s a public car park. There’s bound to be people hanging around. Besides, why would someone do that? Just how long had you left your child alone?’

  I pursed my lips, feeling them strain over my teeth as I sucked hard. I thought about Luke and what would happen if I told the police the truth. It was him. It had to be. He was watching me, waiting for me to fall. I shook my head. ‘I don’t know – seconds,’ I said wearily, watching as my child was given the all-clear. I wanted to draw him close. To smother him in kisses and never let him go. I could blame Luke all I wanted. This was my fault. Right now, I was the biggest threat to my child.

  PC Bakewell smiled at Jamie, lowering her voice as she gave me words of advice. ‘Visibility is very bad with all this rain. Your son could have been killed.’ The tone of her voice told me she placed the blame solely on my shoulders. ‘I’ve seen too many incidents like this with horrific outcomes. Don’t take your eyes off your child again.’ She looked at me with eyes that spoke of the memories of incidents she preferred to forget. ‘Anyway’ – she offered up a brief smile – ‘I’m glad that luck was on your side. Don’t let it happen again.’ After a quick word with the paramedic, she bid me goodbye. Jamie was going to be OK, but I would not be going into work today. After I had promised to make it up to him with ice cream, we headed home. I needed to tell Alex what had happened before he heard it from anybody else. I looked at the keys in my shaking hand and I wondered if I could trust myself to drive. After tucking Jamie into his car seat, I slid behind the steering wheel. I caught my reflection in the mirror, barely recognising the person staring back at me. My eyes were bloodshot, my face chalk white with shock. This would not be the end of it. Social services would now have a record of my carelessness and I would have to explain myself all over again. How had I allowed my child to toddle across the car park in the pouring rain, resulting in him almost being run over? What sort of mother did that make me? What sort of person? After all we had been through to have our beautiful child . . . I pushed my key into the ignition. I had to force these feelings away and concentrate on calling home to break the news. Alex could barely look me in the eye as it was. Had it been an accident, or had my past reared up to greet me once again?

  CHAPTER FORTY

  ALEX

  2017

  My phone’s ringtone drilled into my brain, resurrecting the sense of dread that had been keeping me company all day. I was plagued with a premonition that had made it near impossible to catch up with my work from home. It seemed crazy to worry about such a simple thing a
s Emma taking Jamie to nursery, but when I came home from Leeds she was so paranoid and upset, I wondered if there was more to her state of mind than she was letting on. I could not bear to confront her about Luke, at least not until I had the DNA results in my hand. Now, as her name flashed up on the screen, I knew I had been right to feel worried.

  The first thing she told me was that she was at the shops with Jamie, picking up ice cream before they came home. This deviation from the usual routine quickened my pulse, and I could tell from the tremor in her voice that, despite her reassurances, something was very wrong. Slowly she relayed what had happened, her voice growing hushed as she told me about the accident. Jamie piped up in the background, asking her to hurry up so he could eat his ice cream at home. I stood, my heart in my throat as the papers I had been holding fell to the floor. Emma calmly spoke as if she had been reading the words from a prompt. I took a breath, grounding myself as I absorbed the news. ‘Are you sure he’s OK?’ I said, imagining Jamie in the back of an ambulance while I was casually browsing over figures between puffs on my vaporiser.

  ‘He’s fine; we both are,’ she said as I strained to hear over the beeps of the checkout till in the background. ‘He’s been checked over by the paramedics as a precaution, and he’s none the worse for wear. Can you get the heating on? Light the fire? We’re soaked through. I’ve promised him Ben & Jerry’s and his favourite programme on TV.’

  I peered through the window and watched the rain hammer down. ‘Why didn’t you call me when it happened?’ I said, unable to comprehend the logic. ‘I should have been there. He must have been terrified.’ A frisson of annoyance rose up inside me as Emma continued to reassure me in a ridiculously calm tone. What had she said to the police and paramedics? Now we had a social services referral to worry about too. Mum would be horrified. This sort of thing may have been the norm in Emma’s family but . . . I pulled away from the window, bitter seeds of disgust blooming inside me. How could she leave me in the dark when our son could have been killed? Or did she think that I could wait, given that I was not his natural father?