My Husband's Son: A dark and gripping psychological thriller

by Deborah O'Connor

  They drew closer.

  I watched as the largest kid in the group launched a particularly aggressive tackle. Sweeping in low, he went for the boy’s shins, trying to bully the ball away. He almost succeeded in knocking him off balance, but the boy was too quick. Folding the ball back up into the air behind him, he turned to meet it and then used his knee to guide it down to the ground and over to the safety of the kerb. He lifted his face in triumph and his features came into focus.

  I felt my heart jump.

  Blond hair, wonky front teeth with a gap in the middle and dark brown, almost black eyes. It was the boy from the off-licence. Barney?

  This was the first time I’d seen him up close, without mesh between us, and the effect was dizzying.

  Without thinking, I got out my phone and started taking pictures. I was moving in for a better shot when I realised I’d caught the attention of a few passers-by. An elderly lady on a mobility scooter changed route and began gliding towards me, her face a mixture of suspicion and concern. Suddenly aware of how dubious I must seem I put my phone away, sidestepped into a nearby bus stop and pretended to study the timetable. The lady on the scooter came to within a few feet of where I stood and stopped. She sat there watching me, apparently debating whether or not to say something, while I kept my eyes fixed on the timetable. A few seconds later and I heard the squeak-thump of her scooter starting up. I waited until its battery-powered wail had faded into the distance and then I turned back to the group of boys.

  They’d started a kick-around on the pavement directly in front of the off-licence, Chinese take-away and launderette. Laughing and shouting, they were passing the ball to each other in quick little movements designed to keep everyone quite literally on their toes. The boy was now red-faced and breathless, the blond hair around his neck and ears dark with sweat.

  Lauren had been a devoted football fan. Thanks to my dad, she’d inherited an evangelical love of our local, two-bit team, Sittingbourne FC. The proud owner of both their red and black home strip and their yellow and black away colours, she had faithfully attended every match they played from the age of four. During football season you could guarantee she’d spend the preceding bath-times before a match perfecting the chants she and my dad were planning to bellow in the stands that weekend. I would have to cover my mouth with my hand, hiding my smile, as Dad amended the racier chants into something more PG (the team’s arch rivals were referred to locally as the Lilywhites, a nickname that easily lent itself to a very sweary rhyme when they weren’t playing up to scratch). Once she had the hang of a particular chant, Lauren would try singing along with Dad. Surrounded by bubbles, the bottom of her hair damp and curling against her shoulders, she would do her best to make her small voice boom as loud as his against the bathroom walls.

  My football knowledge had been zero but still, she’d tried her best. Saturday teatimes after a game would see her forego her usual Powerpuff Girls or Charlie and Lola telly in place of that day’s match-day programme. Printed on shiny A4 paper, stapled in the middle, it was presented to me like a precious gift. ‘Mummy,’ she would say in the bossy, officious tone she’d recently picked up from her Year 1 teacher, Miss Moorehouse, ‘I would now like you to read out who played today and which position they held.’ While her finger slid down the team line-up, I would dutifully read out each player and whether they were centre-half or left-back. Her lips would move in sync with mine, silently mouthing the names of her heroes.

  Dad still made sure to buy her a new Sittingbourne scarf every year without fail. But now he took it to tie around her headstone. He said the black and red stripes looked nice against the grey marble and green grass.

  The kids had got a steady rhythm going. As the ball picked up speed, the large boy fumbled a pass. He panicked and kicked the ball with too much force. It ricocheted off the shoulder of another boy and flew into the air, straight towards the window of the take-away. They all flinched as it impacted hard against the glass. Within seconds a small Chinese woman wearing a purple velour tracksuit had appeared.

  ‘No football!’ she shouted from the doorway. Her accent was full-blown Geordie. ‘There’s a park less than two minutes away. Go play there.’

  Anticipating her ire, some of the kids had already collected their backpacks and were skulking away down the street. The boy, however, went straight over to where she stood.

  ‘We’re sorry,’ he said, collecting the ball under his arm. ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘Be off with you!’ she said, trying to sound stern. The boy’s manners had disarmed her. ‘Or I’ll call the police.’

  The group needed no convincing. Hitting the window had punctured their fun. With a wave of his hand, the boy corralled those that remained over to the off-licence. One push on the door and they all bundled in.

  I got out my phone and reviewed the pictures I’d taken. Most of them were too far away. They showed the boy as a blur; nothing more than a distant twist of royal blue. There were the odd one or two that had him in decent close-up, but they had captured nothing more than the back of his head as he lunged for the ball.

  I heard the bell above the shop’s door jamb ring out and looked up to see the boys re-emerge, clutching sweets and cans of Coke. They began to walk away, back in the direction from which they had come. I did a roll call. The boy was no longer with them. He must still be inside.

  I approached the shop and pressed on the door. This was my chance to get a shot of his face. It didn’t budge. Locked. I took a step back. The blind had been drawn and a ‘Closed’ sign now hung in the window. The guy must be on a toilet break or maybe he was out back, making the boy something to eat. Either way, I couldn’t afford to hang around for too long. My work supper with Mr McDonald was at 6 p.m.

  Resigned to coming back again some other time soon, I was about to leave when I had an idea. The shop might be closed, but what if the off-licence had a garden or a backyard where Keith let the kid out to play? What if the boy was there right now, messing around on his scooter or his bike? It would be cutting it fine, but I should have just enough time to take a quick peek and, hopefully, a better photo of his face. Then I’d be on my way.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The back alley stank of rotten food and urine. The cobbles had once been blue but were now grey, their edges curded with potato peelings and soft cardboard. I counted the gates as I walked, an assault course of wheelie bins, crates and empty drums of vegetable oil dotting my path.

  Tramping past the flies and the dog mess, I tried to marry up the extra-wide loading doors, burglar bars and wooden gates with their high-street shopfronts. Reaching what I guessed to be the back of the off-licence I saw that, instead of a yard, a single-storey, flat-roof extension filled the space. Built out to the alley, the only openings in its red brick wall were a reinforced metal door and a long, thin window near the roof.

  The window was six feet off the ground, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I looked around. I needed to climb onto something high enough to allow me to see inside. I put my bag on the least grubby bit of floor, balanced my jacket on top and stashed my phone in the waistband of my skirt. Grabbing the nearest wheelie bin I could find, I rolled it under the window, its wheels giving out a deep, rumbling noise.

  Unsurprisingly, I hadn’t anticipated my day would involve me having to clamber on top of a bin and so this morning I’d decided to wear my black suede stilettos with the polished metal heels. My fallback footwear of choice whenever I had a particularly difficult meeting to attend or when, like today, I needed a bit of Dutch courage, I considered them and their spiky, weapon-like heels my armour, there to fortify me against whatever might come my way. Super-high (even for me), when I’d bought them the girl in the shop had referred to them as limo shoes (so precarious, beautiful and expensive they necessitated the wearer to be driven everywhere lest she damage them or herself). Now, looking at the dimensions of the bin, I realised I couldn’t have worn a more impractical shoe.

 
Putting my hands behind me I tried to hoist myself backwards onto the lid. But the bin was empty and, almost immediately, it toppled onto its side, taking me with it. As I broke my fall with my hands, I heard the right underarm of my blouse rip wide open.

  Dusting myself off, I reassessed. I needed something with a solid base to support me. Finding a bin packed to the brim with bags, I heaved it over to the window and placed a bottle crate next to it. Stepping up onto the crate, I put one knee onto the lid. The plastic buckled almost instantly. I waited for it to meet the top of the bin bags inside and, as soon as it had stabilised, I raised my other knee up. The bin’s column swayed beneath me and, once it had settled into position, I grabbed onto the window ledge and peered inside.

  What I saw was some kind of living room. Pine laminate covered the floor and the walls had been painted magnolia. A mismatched sofa and armchair were the main pieces of furniture; an airer with grey clothes drying on it, a dead-looking yucca plant, small chest of drawers and a TV being the only other things in the room. A framed photo sat atop the chest of drawers. Too far away to see in any real detail, it seemed to feature the boy and two other people, all wearing sunglasses and sunhats, aboard some kind of small boat. One of the men was on the large side. Probably the shopkeeper. But the other person was more difficult to identify.

  I realised the TV was tuned to a cartoon channel and looked at the room again, more carefully this time. Lego was scattered next to the sofa, and now a small hand appeared, moving a toy ambulance back and forwards and around the bricks. The hand was part covered by a royal blue sleeve, hanging low on the wrist.

  It was him. The boy.

  Slipping my phone out of my waistband, I turned the camera on and held it up to the window. The boy’s hand kept coming further and further out as he raced his toy faster and faster. I held my phone steady, willing him to break cover.

  The hand disappeared from view for a few seconds and then re-emerged at the side of the sofa, this time pushing a miniature red racing car. He pushed it too hard, lost control and the car flew forward, out of his grasp. This was it. I held my finger poised on the photo button. He reached out to retrieve the car and as the back of his head came into view I began taking photo after photo. Just a bit more, just a bit more, I begged, snapping away. I could almost see the side profile of his face when I heard the back gate of a shop a few doors down being wedged open.

  I climbed off the bin as fast as I could, my dismount levering open the lid, and as my heels clattered down onto the alley cobbles I caught a whiff of the rotten sweetness contained within.

  ‘If it isn’t my damsel in distress.’

  It was the bloke from the café. The one who had helped me.

  Wearing jeans and a pale green T-shirt that highlighted the dash of his shoulders, he smiled but then looked behind me, concerned, as though he’d realised it didn’t make any sense for me to be out here.

  I couldn’t remember his name.

  ‘Tommy,’ he said, guessing the source of my confusion.

  ‘Tommy. Of course,’ I said, brushing off the old leaves that had attached themselves to my skirt.

  ‘What are you doing out here?’ he asked, his Glaswegian lilt more noticeable than the first time we’d met. ‘On the hunt for another cold drink?’

  I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic.

  ‘The shop was shut so I thought I’d try a short-cut back to the car.’ I tried to sound ditzy. ‘I got lost.’ It was a weak lie and I couldn’t tell if he’d bought it. ‘Judging by that sign above the door it seems I’ll have to find somewhere else to stop.’

  He picked up the rubbish sacks, deposited them in a cylindrical industrial bin and came closer. When we’d first met I hadn’t realised how tall he was, but now, standing next to him, I saw that he was at least six foot, if not more.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry,’ he said quietly. ‘Keith can’t find any takers. He’s likely to be there for a good few months yet.’

  He looked me up and down, taking in my outfit, waist and breasts.

  ‘How’s the leg?’

  ‘Fine,’ I said, realising my bag and coat were still on the floor. I started to panic. What if he noticed them there and asked me why, if I was out here because I’d got lost, I’d gone and put all my stuff on the ground?

  ‘Come on through to the caff and I’ll make you a cuppa.’

  There was no way I could take him up on his offer. If I was going to be on time for my meeting with Mr McDonald I needed to leave in the next few minutes. Still, for some reason I found myself hesitating.

  ‘Can’t. I’m on the clock.’ I had to push the words out fast before I could change my mind. ‘I’ve got one more appointment before I’m done for the day.’

  ‘Shame,’ he said absently. He was looking at me again.

  ‘Which way is it back to the car park?’ I asked, picking up my phone and bag as subtly as I could.

  ‘That way.’ Without taking his eyes off me, he gestured behind him with his head. ‘Unless you want to come to the pub? Once you’re finished, I mean? I’m due to close up soon, and me and Keith normally reward ourselves with a pint in the George and Dragon.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Knowing Keith, he’ll already be there.’

  I found myself staring at his mouth. Surrounded by the short, dark outline of his beard, his lips were wet and pink.

  ‘I really should be going,’ I said, filling my lungs with air. I needed to clear the fug in my head.

  ‘Can’t blame a man for trying,’ he laughed.

  I walked slowly, hoping he would go back inside and allow me to climb back up onto the bin. I wasn’t sure if the photos I’d taken were any good and I wanted to get some more, just to be sure. But I hadn’t gone far when I heard footsteps.

  ‘Where are my manners?’ he said, falling in next to me. ‘I’ll walk with you. Make sure you take the right turning.’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ I said, trying not to sound irritated.

  We walked in silence, me struggling to navigate the cobbles in my metal heels, Tommy whistling under his breath, until we reached the opening that led out onto the street.

  ‘Goodbye then,’ I said, keeping my voice light.

  He nodded.

  As I walked away, I got the feeling he was standing there, watching me go. I turned back to check. I was right. Backlit by the sun, he had his head cocked to the side, his arms crossed high against his chest. He acknowledged me with a tiny nod.

  Hoping I might be able to sneak back for another photo, I turned to look round one last time as I reached the corner of the street. But he was still there, watching me, an unpassable black silhouette.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Back at the car, I got out my phone and opened the album of photos I’d taken. I planned to email the clearest ones through to Martin immediately.

  I swept my thumb across the screen, moving through the twenty-five shots. They were no good. Either I’d held the phone too near and got a close-up of the window frame or else I’d held it so far away I’d caught my own reflection in the glass. I flicked ahead, hoping the others would be better. Finally, I came to a picture that depicted the room I’d looked down in on. I squinted at the image. I could just make out the child’s hand at the side of the sofa. I scrolled through the remaining shots and there was his arm and shoulder, there the blond-haired top of his head.

  There was only one photo remaining. My heart drumming, I prayed for it to show some or all of the boy’s face. It was possible. I’d kept pressing the button right up until I’d had to jump down from the wheelie bin. But, as the picture loaded, I saw it revealed only the merest edges of the boy’s hair and hand.

  I slumped in my seat. It was frustrating but I had to go. My meeting with Mr McDonald was in fifteen minutes. I put my key in the ignition and started the engine.

  As the motorway flew by in a blur of bleached grass verges and low, grey cloud, I let my thoughts go back to what I had seen through that window. In my head I rewound the boy’s
hand reaching out for the racing car and tried to freeze-frame the millisecond advance of his forehead, nose and chin as it emerged from behind the sofa. I found myself willing him to keep going, to keep pushing the toy further than he actually had. As if, by doing so, I could fast-forward to the point at which he fully showed himself and get the photo I needed.

  The faint line of the Cleveland hills appeared on the horizon and I noticed that the other side of the motorway had emptied of cars, while my lane was congesting into long, lazy lines of traffic. I pressed gently on the brake pedal and soon I was bumper to bumper with the blue BMW in front. I could see the outline of the back of a bald man in a grey suit behind the wheel. My eyes travelled down the length of his car to the boot. On reflex, I began to wonder who or what might be inside.

  And then, like toppling dominos, my thoughts went back to the day Lauren went missing.

  That Saturday, Lauren had been playing outside the caravan on her bike while I stood at the caravan’s tiny kitchen sink, washing tomatoes and boiling eggs for lunch. Mum and Dad were in the small living room, doing Sudoku. The meal all set, I went to call Lauren in. But she wasn’t there. I found her bike abandoned, a few feet from the steps that led down from the caravan’s front door. Tipped onto its side, the front wheel was still going, the spokes making a tick-tick-tick noise every time they brushed past the brake pad.

  At first, I’d tried not to be too frantic. I’d wanted to believe it wouldn’t be long before we found her underneath one of the caravans’ crawl spaces, hiding behind the brick stacks the cabins rested on. But then, as the minutes had slipped by, a feeling had started to harden inside me, a feeling I knew to be true but that I wanted to ignore. A feeling that the moment to act had gone, that something tectonic had already shifted and changed and that there was nothing I could do to shift it back.

  In the distance, on the other side of the motorway, I could see flashing lights and the backed-up traffic beyond. There had been a crash. One car was flipped onto its roof, the seam of the exhaust pipe running along its metal underbelly like the spine on an upside-down roast chicken. Behind it were four other cars, concertina-crushed into each other. The usual fire engines, ambulances and police cars littered the scene, but there were also other people in fluorescent yellow vests busy erecting a hoarding between my lane of the motorway and theirs. I wondered what they were doing, and then I realised. They were blocking the view. Martin had once told me how the emergency services had made this a policy after they discovered that a crash on one side of the motorway means an 80 per cent increase in the chance of a crash happening on the opposite side within half an hour. ‘They can’t help it,’ he’d said, ‘the drivers take their attention off the road to have a quick look and before you know it – bam!’ He’d slapped his hands in the air. ‘It’s happened all over again.’