Don't Say a Word

by A. L. Bird

  Then, rescue.

  In the form of Lucy. Bizarrely.

  She’s sticking her head round the door of the meeting room.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, Bill. May I borrow Jen? It’s rather urgent.’

  Is it? Has she shown sudden compassion and memory about my pick-up times?

  Oh fuck.

  The Land Transfer forms.

  Lucy gets Bill’s best subtle unimpressed look. I’m allowed to share in it. Crap. Crap crap crap.

  ‘Yes, of course, Lucy. Send in Sheila, will you? She can carry on note-taking.’

  I leave the room with as much dignity as I can muster. I know I’m in for a major bollocking now. Well stuff it. She’ll just have to have her forms tomorrow. It’s 3.35 at least by now.

  When I’m out of the room, Lucy strides ahead of me until we’re out of earshot of the meeting room. Then it’s blast-off.

  ‘Well, Jen, where are the forms? I’m assuming you’ve done them? You know I have to send them over by 4 p.m.?’

  Silence as I try to rally my brain. With the lunchtime window scare, the Dan call, the drugs picture – I just forgot. I clean forgot.

  ‘I’m waiting, Jen.’

  She’s actually tapping her foot. Oh God this takes me back to all those kitchens, hallways, lobbies – holding chambers for frustration of adults at fucked-up children.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  I wait for the response.

  ‘Sorry isn’t good enough.’

  Yep, there it is.

  I give a little shrug.

  ‘Have you done anything on the forms at all?’

  ‘I’ve started, but –’

  ‘Well finish now then!’

  That is a shout. She is definitely shouting.

  I look at my watch.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Jen, do you have to be somewhere?’

  ‘I have to collect my son,’ I tell her.

  ‘You should have thought about that before,’ she tells me.

  Yep, yep, I should have thought about that before. Before I swore at my new foster dad (then wanted to stay). Before I threw the key of my new children’s-home room into the River Don (then wanted to get my phone). Before I grabbed my bags and told them all I was leaving (but didn’t have any money).

  But now I’m a grown-up. Now I get a say.

  ‘Look, Lucy. It’s nearly 4 p.m. now. You won’t get the forms over before then, even if I stay. This transaction’s been going on for months. Why don’t you call the other side and explain it’s being pushed back one more day? I need to collect my son.’

  I make to walk to my desk.

  Lucy grabs my arm.

  I recoil immediately.

  ‘Jennifer Sutton, don’t you dare speak to me like that! Put back my transaction I’ve been working on for months because you couldn’t be bothered to do your work? Your son can wait at the gates like everyone else. Or get his dad to pick him up. Or a friend or something?’

  ‘His father doesn’t pick him up,’ I say. I could say so much more. But that means enough in itself.

  ‘Look, don’t bother me with your domestic arrangements. You get to that desk, you do your work, or I’m taking you straight back into that meeting room and getting you fired this instant.’

  Suddenly a male voice chips in.

  ‘Lucy, a word?’ It’s Tim.

  Lucy wheels round to face him. ‘What?’ she snaps.

  If it occurs to Lucy she needs to adjust her tone to speak to a fellow partner, she doesn’t show it. If anything, her eyes narrow.

  ‘Thought I ought to mention it’s entirely my fault Jen hasn’t done those forms. She was working on something for me, which I asked her to prioritize. She’s just too polite to mention it. Isn’t that right, Jen?’ I nod, mutely. Tim is dignified, reassuring. Lucy is even redder than she was.

  ‘You asked her to prioritize, without speaking to me?’

  Tim lays out his hands and shrugs. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Lucy. Perhaps I haven’t quite worked out the etiquette here. But look, I couldn’t help overhear that Jen needs to pick up her son. Perhaps she could do your work tomorrow?’

  ‘I do need to pick up my son, Lucy,’ I add.

  ‘Right, come on then – in to see Bill. Then see what happens about your precious son.’

  She’s right. I need this job. I need the money for some decent clothes for Josh. The Lego. The security, the food, the role model. I cannot sit at home on the dole. After all this, I cannot do that. To him. To me. I look at the clock: 3.50. Fuck.

  She’s marching me closer to Bill’s meeting.

  ‘Wait, Lucy. Wait. I’ll stay. I’ll work fast – and accurately – and I’ll get it done. OK?’

  I’ll be fifteen minutes late. He’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. Do not let paranoia destroy you.

  Tim chips in again. ‘I’m sure she’ll manage it. Jen seems very diligent.’

  I wrestle my arm free from Lucy’s and stand facing her a moment. She glares at me and Tim.

  ‘Fine. But I am not forgetting this, Jennifer. Do you hear me?’

  ‘I hear you.’

  Back at my desk, I want to call the school, tell them to get him inside. But Lucy is watching me. Of course she is. And Tim has gone back to his office. I have to get on with it.

  OK. Open up the form.

  Right now, he’ll be packing up his bag. Thinking about seeing me.

  Which of these stupid pull-down menus is it? Right, that one.

  Now he’ll be dawdling on the school steps with his friends, reliving the day’s events.

  Why can’t I just free-fill this little box? What do the xxxxs want me to type in that I’m not typing? Fuck.

  Approaching the gate. Looking with casual certainty, knowing I’ll be there.

  Have I even saved this? No, it’s still the template. Fuck.

  And now he’s seeing I’m not there. Double-checking. Looking again.

  I have never not been there.

  Here we go, here we go, final box to fill. Oh shit, what’s the name of the transferee? Is it Suggs or Sugg?

  So now he’s having that tightening feeling all over him – the signal from the brain that starts with the shoulder slump, goes to the dropped head, finally works its way to the straightening up again of the back with a defiant ‘OK, so I’m not wanted – I can deal with that.’ But he should never, never have to deal with that.

  Here we go, done – email and print, email and print.

  Besides which, there are people who want him. People/person, he/she, I don’t know. They shouldn’t be able to. But what if, what if, what if? What if I get there and it’s too late? It will be too late then for ever and ever and ever.

  The cocking printer isn’t working! I will not lose my son because of the printer! Paper, it wants paper. Here we go then, have the bloody paper; fill your boots.

  Race round to Lucy.

  ‘Here we are, Lucy. Sorry about that. I’ve checked them through. They’re fine. OK?’

  I’m mentally searching my bag for the car keys. I can get them out then vroom, off to the school.

  But Lucy is taking her time. She owns eternity. Come on!

  ‘I would have left a space here.’ She gestures to the form with her disgustingly lacquered nail. Do not make me redo it. ‘But I suppose it’s fine. Good. Right, you’d better go off to your lovely son. See you tomorrow!’

  And now she’s beaming at me! She’s fucking beaming at me! Like an abusive fucking boyfriend she’s done her bit, had her fun, landed her metaphorical fist and now she’s all considerate again. Like those fucking social workers once they’ve struggled through your ‘chaos’ to find a ‘solution’ and think they’ve saved the world.

  But fuck that; fuck them. At least Tim tried to help, but I’m still late. Run to the desk, grab the handbag, pull out the keys (yes, they’re where I thought they were) and race to the car. There’s some note under the wiper but I ha
ven’t got time to look at it now. Get in, and drive.

  It’s 4.25 by the time I get to the gates. And Josh isn’t there.

  Chapter 6

  Scenarios, words to scream, numbers to call, flash through my mind.

  I ditch the car behind a car that’s just pulling off, tail lights all red. Is he in that car? Should I be running shouting after it? No. There’s a little blonde head bobbing about in the back of it. No sign of Josh’s dark curls.

  Jumping out of the car, I scan around for a sign of Josh. His schoolbag, a discarded shoe maybe. You always see a discarded shoe in these cases don’t you?

  Oh come on, Jen. You’re over-reacting. He may well be safe and sound inside. No reason to suspect otherwise. No real reason.

  But still my heart clutches at my lungs.

  Up the school steps and open the door. Or rather, grasp the handle. There’s a code. Of course there is. And of course I don’t remember it, because I never usually have to come in. It’s stored on my phone. Which I left in the car. Shit. I buzz the buzzer. No response. Run back to the car, grab my bag with my phone in.

  Precious seconds flash away. If he’s gone, he’ll be even further away now. I look up the code on my phone and tap it in. I pull open the door and I’m into the lobby area. Quiet. Empty. A few discarded bits of Lego. Signs of a gone Josh? Fuck Lucy. Fuck her. Fuck me. What’s a job compared to looking after Josh? Why am I even doing this? I don’t have to. He’s the most precious thing and now I don’t even know where he is.

  I open a door off the lobby.

  And there we have it. Noise. Children.

  My child.

  Sitting on a bench reading a book. Engrossed.

  I run to him.

  ‘Josh!’

  He looks up. Smiles.

  ‘Hey, Mum,’ he says.

  There’s no reprimand. No complaint. Just acceptance.

  Still, I need to explain.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late, sweetie. I had to finish something up at work.’

  I ruffle his hair. I’d forgotten how lovely it is. Even since this morning.

  He shrugs. ‘No worries. Chris only just left. And this book is good – have you read it?’

  He holds up something about a spy.

  ‘No,’ I tell him.

  ‘You should,’ he says.

  ‘Are there no teachers about?’ I ask him.

  ‘Mrs Morgan is here, but she’s just popped out. She said to say she’d be back.’

  So, someone could just walk in here and –

  ‘Mrs Sutton?’

  ‘Ms,’ I say. It’s instinctive.

  ‘Of course, yes. I’m sorry.’

  She lowers her eyes a little. She doesn’t know, you see. She has the same story as Josh.

  ‘I arrived a little late, and there was no one around,’ I tell her. ‘Anyone could walk in.’

  I should soften it, but I care more about my child than her feelings.

  The woman flinches. She’s not one of the young trendy teachers. She’s a grey-haired lifer with a big bosom and a cardigan. Cares about the children, but only so much. Knows what to do with a reprimand.

  She draws herself up. ‘Well, they’d have to know the code, wouldn’t they, love?’

  It’s true. And it’s true there are signs up saying: ‘Don’t hold the door open for anyone you don’t know’ (the kids must love abusing that). And it’s true that they know most of the parents by sight. But she’s aware, isn’t she, this Mrs Morgan, that in the real world doors get propped open when it’s hot. That ‘kind’ parents hold the door open for other parenty-looking types. That some men – and women – are great blaggers.

  ‘Got held up at work, did you?’ she says to me, in my pointed silence.

  And there we have it. The blame squarely pinned back on me.

  ‘I couldn’t help it,’ I say. ‘One of my bosses wanted me to work on.’

  ‘I like to say the child is always the boss. They dictate what needs to be done. That’s what I told my daughter when she was thinking about going back to work.’

  I want to smack Mrs Morgan in the face, but I doubt that will help for Josh’s 11-plus prep.

  ‘Are you my boss, Josh?’ I ask, turning to him.

  He has his head in a book again. He looks up. ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind,’ I tell him. Best he doesn’t hear my mockery. I’m not sure who I’m attacking – Mrs Morgan, or myself. Or whether it sounded like Josh.

  ‘For the future, just so you know, Ms Sutton, we bring them through here after 4.15. Usually we let Josh stand by the gates – we watch from the window obviously – but if you’d like we can just keep him in here as a matter of course.’

  ‘I won’t be late again.’

  ‘No, of course you won’t, but if you are …?’

  ‘I won’t be.’ And I won’t, will I? It was just this once. I was distracted. Bitched. Daniel’s face, the photos of the wraps of crack, and Lucy’s snarling face flit into my vision.

  No, this is Josh’s time.

  ‘Come on Josh,’ I say loudly. ‘Let’s go. We can get an ice cream on the way home, OK?’

  Ice cream brings his head out of the book. ‘Yay!’ he says. It’s like he’s seven again – perpetually delighted by everything.

  All that afternoon into evening we play. Aside from ice cream, there is Lego, chess, burping competitions, collaborative homework. Josh gets the best of my best self. When it’s time for bed, we nestle up together on his Lego Movie duvet cover (‘Everything is Awesome’ – yeah, sure it is), and read page and page aloud of his book.

  For all that my mother didn’t teach me, one thing she did: the value of books as an escape tool. Tonight, every night, I’m passing on that lore. When it’s time to sleep, tonight (as every night) I don’t want to leave him, or turn out his light. I sit there a little while, until he gently nudges me away with his leg.

  ‘Night, Mum,’ he mumbles. ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you too,’ I tell him. ‘Sweet dreams, Josh.’ I give that beautiful hair/forehead cusp a long kiss. I don’t let him see the tears in my eyes. He doesn’t yet understand all the reasons for crying. And I don’t want him to.

  Josh settled, I fetch my customary glass of red wine (there are worse poisons) and pull some leftover potato salad from the fridge. I curl up with it on the sofa, then flick on the TV, softly, so as not to wake Josh. There’s a Jennifer Aniston film halfway through so I settle for that.

  Jennifer Aniston at a wedding. Jennifer Aniston looking pretty. Jennifer Aniston with a boy. Good old Jen, out and about. Is that how people live? Do they really flit gorgeously from scene to scene with the only continuity being their subconscious pursuit of an honourable bachelor?

  Maybe. Maybe there are people who always pursue and never give up. Chloe, for instance. Unless she really is done. Is that what all this ‘normality’ is that I’m playing at? Waiting to see if Chloe has finally left us alone? And if she has, whether I’ll ever get over my remorse at leaving her?

  I change the channel. Some mating insects. Lovely.

  I flick off the TV and eat my potato salad in silence.

  I’m not sure this is living, really. Is it?

  Should I, at twenty-nine, spend my evenings sitting quietly on the sofa, my only pastime respecting my son’s sleep? Unless you count tight-roping between guilt and fear a pastime – I should be a circus act.

  But not counting that, should I just be cloistered away here? Yes, I should. And no, I shouldn’t.

  Imagine for a moment that a man lived here too. What would that be like? What would we do? Would we sit quietly on the sofa too? Would we murmur sweet nothings? Would we drink wine together, dare the odd loud laugh, even if Josh’s sleep pattern were momentarily disturbed? Would we go out, maybe? Get a babysitter?

  Would we feel life had moved on from having a newborn?

  I allow my mind to drift back to the man from whence the newbo
rn came. And to her. The evenings spent together. We weren’t alone then. And we weren’t drinking red wine then.

  But that wasn’t romance. I can see that now. I can see the fucked-up twisty captivity of it. Wanting a father figure. Wanting stability (ha!). Wanting a house where the only rule is: You don’t touch what’s not yours.

  She was his, the other girl. I never was. I need to remember that. But it doesn’t mean I’m safe from her. She’ll come looking, from time to time. A return to chaos. A return to life on the run. Should I check the phone again? Not my regular phone. The other phone. The one I keep under the bed. Probably. Just in case there’s anything on there, about Chloe.

  I pull myself up off the sofa, pad into my bedroom, take the phone out of the shoebox. The old, clunky Nokia. Switch it on, half hoping it will beep, half hoping it won’t.

  BEEP BEEP.

  New message.

  It’s from her. Shit.

  ‘ONE DAY I’M GOING TO FIND YOU.’

  I clamp a hand over my mouth, so I won’t cry out. Sent last night – 11.54 p.m. A late-night spear shooting through the dark. When will she give up? When will she let us be?

  I know the answer.

  Never.

  I could reply. I could put an end to it now. Say she’ll never find me unless I go to her first. Which isn’t going to happen. Can’t happen. Because think of Josh. It wouldn’t be safe.

  And besides, she might be able to do something clever, like track my location, if I reply. Who knows – desperate times and all that.

  No. Just put the phone back in its box. Close the lid on all thoughts of Chloe. You have to be strong. Ignore her. Stop trembling, put away those tears.

  Shit. This is why I both should and shouldn’t spend the night on the sofa. Josh needs to be safe but I need somewhere else to put my brain. I should call Daniel tomorrow. Try and get a life. Everything is fine. Everything is safe. I pull myself up, ditch my supper things in the kitchen area. I go and run myself a bath. That’s what this girl needs. A long, hot, soak, to scrub everything away. Maybe one day I’ll feel truly safe. Truly clean.

  ***

  Chloe. Sitting on a sofa. Her hair a wild loose mane, frizzing out to the side of her head. Eyes bright and wide and dark, made darker by the liquid eye liner surrounding them. Knees hugged up to her chest. I’m sitting next to her. On the other side of her, my knees bunched up too, touching almost like mirror images of each other. My hair tied back, not wild at all. We’re holding hands.