My Husband's Son: A dark and gripping psychological thriller (20 page)

I turned onto the high street and studied the horizon. Even from this distance I could see the shop’s metal shutters were down. I parked, went over to the door and peered through the letterbox. At the back of the shop, behind the cage, I could see empty shelves: dirty marks on the wall where the confectionery display used to be. I drew my gaze forward and saw that a pile of unopened post had started to collect, take-away menus and free newspapers splaying out across the floor.

I bit down on the inside of my cheek. Soon I could taste blood. I should have acted sooner. I should have trusted my instincts.

I turned towards the café, its fried-food reek clashing with the clean morning air. Keith and Tommy. They might enjoy a pint together from time to time, but how close were they really?

I set off down the street, the rat-tat-tat of my metal stilettos loud on the empty concrete. As I got closer I started to imagine what it would be like to see Tommy again and my pace slowed. Eventually, I came to a complete halt.

The last time we’d spoken I’d hung up, and as for when I last saw him in person: just thinking about it made me blush. I looked back at the abandoned off-licence, old leaves already starting to fur the gap where the shutters met the pavement. I had no alternative. Pulling my jacket straight, I smoothed my dress and forced myself on.

Inside, the red plastic two-seaters were full of people eating cooked breakfasts and drinking tea, the sizzle of egg and bacon providing a backtrack to their quiet conversation.

I approached the counter and was greeted by a hip-level mass of frizzy bleached hair, bobbing around by the till. I leant over and saw a girl on all fours, busy picking up a scattered pile of serviettes. Sensing my presence, she heaved herself back up to standing and brushed her hair out of her eyes. My breath caught in my throat. It was Kimberley. Keith’s niece. She was still here.

‘Is Tommy around?’ I asked, trying to contain my surprise.

‘Depends,’ she said, eyeing my jacket and dress. ‘Who’s asking?’

I took in her thick dark eyebrows and small, black eyes. There was something about her face, her features, that reminded me of someone. I wondered why the police hadn’t questioned her when they came out here to do their canvassing. Maybe she hadn’t been on shift that day or maybe she had lied to them about her connection to Keith. Whatever the reason, her being here was a good sign. It meant it was likely Keith and the boy hadn’t gone far. Maybe all wasn’t lost after all.

In the kitchen beyond I noticed someone reaching inside one of the metal fridges. Obscured by the door, all I could see were the bottom of their black-and-white-checked chef’s trousers and black trainers. Tommy. My heart stuttered in my chest.

‘A friend; a friend is asking,’ I said loudly, waiting for Tommy to recognise my voice. At that, the fridge door closed shut. My heart beat a little faster. But the person who emerged wasn’t Tommy. Instead, I found myself staring at a young black guy wearing a back-to-front baseball cap.

Kimberley watched my reaction with amusement.

‘He’s upstairs,’ she volunteered, apparently deciding to take pity on me. ‘In his flat.’ She nodded at the entrance. ‘Back out the way you came, first on your right.’

I did as she said and, after finding the door in question, I knocked hard and waited.

Nothing.

I was about to knock again when I heard someone pounding their way down the stairs. Fighting the urge to run and hide, I pulled my face into a smile.

The door opened and then there he was, blinking against the bright morning sun. His chest and feet were bare; it seemed I’d woken him.

‘You.’

‘I was in the neighbourhood.’

He crossed his arms and I noticed how his forearms were a tanned, golden brown, his chest white. The contrast was so sharp it made it look like he was wearing a T-shirt.

‘I did not expect to see you again.’

‘I stopped for a drink at the shop,’ I said, my voice shaky. ‘But it seems to have closed down?’

He smiled.

‘You better come in.’

Relieved he hadn’t, after all, shut the door in my face, I followed him up the narrow stairs. When I reached the top I found myself in an open-plan kitchen and living space, empty except for an L-shaped black leather sofa and an enormous plasma TV on the far wall. There was only one photo on display; a small, square snap framed in silver, it sat on a shelf next to the TV. I moved in close to the photo. It featured three children: two boys and a girl standing outside a terraced house. The washed-out oranges and yellows of the print and the boxy, thick-fringed haircuts suggested the photo had been taken some time in the late sixties or early seventies. In the picture the children had their arms wrapped around each other, their eyes screwed up against the sun.

I picked it up, wanting to study it more closely.

‘Who is this?’

‘Me and my brother and sister.’ Gently, he took the picture from me and replaced it on the shelf.

I sniffed the air. An old fried-food and washing-powder smell seemed to have sunk deep into the walls, floor and ceiling.

Tommy headed for the small kitchen that took up one corner of the room and began to fill the kettle.

I walked over to near where he stood and leant against the fridge.

‘Has Keith moved?’

Getting two mugs out of a cupboard, he set them to one side and used a spoon to tap out a rhythm on the kitchen counter while the kettle boiled.

I’d gone in too fast. I tried a change of tack.

‘Sorry I haven’t been in touch.’ I moved closer, forcing myself into his eyeline. ‘How come you’re not at work?’

He smirked and shrugged his shoulders. It was as though my presence both bored and entertained him.

‘Isn’t this your busiest time of day?’

Again he said nothing. Instead, he searched my face, as though looking for an answer or for a truth of some kind, and then, when that proved fruitless, he reached both of his hands up to my head. I thought he was going to pull me in for a kiss, but instead, he smoothed my hair back away from my face. Then he did it again and again, so hard I could feel my roots pulling on my skull. After a while, the repetition became enjoyable and I was just starting to relax when he darted his head forward, as if trying to scare me. I couldn’t help but flinch. He laughed and lunged again. This time he put his mouth to mine.

He tasted of cigarettes. As we kissed, the friction of his beard against my skin created a burning sensation. He seemed to be enjoying it but then he withdrew and pushed me away, back against the kitchen counter. Removing my jacket, he pulled down the sides of my dress, the soft jersey material coming away easily from my shoulders. He looked at me for less than a second and then moved on to my bra straps, slipping them off and down onto my arms. With two tugs, he freed each of my breasts and then, as if his time was up, he stopped and took a step back.

I stood there half-naked from the waist up, the flat’s central-heated air blowsy on my body. I wanted to cover myself, or to at least cross my arms over my chest, but I sensed that to do so would be to fail somehow.

Tommy stared at my breasts and I felt my nipples harden. He registered their change with a smile and then, without saying anything, he went back over to the kettle and began pouring the tea.

Smarting with a humiliation I didn’t quite understand, I pulled my bra straps and then my dress back up into place.

Tommy handed me a mug and came and stood alongside me.

‘OK then,’ he said, taking a sip.

‘OK,’ I repeated, not sure what had just happened.

‘You asked about Keith.’ A muscle twitched underneath his right eye. ‘I told you about his sister, Jenny. Seems her husband’s out of prison.’

‘Oh?’

Tommy eyed me carefully. It felt like he was trying to decide whether or not I could be trusted with the next piece of information.

‘We had the police round here the other day, asking questions.’ I studied the flickering muscle under his right eye. It was a tiny movement, barely noticeable. ‘We reckon her ex told them some lies about his and Jenny’s custody arrangement. Naturally we all kept our mouths shut.’

‘But Kimberley is still working in the caff?’

‘Why are you so interested in Keith and his family?’ He smirked. ‘A lesser man might get jealous.’

I considered telling him my suspicions about Mikey. Confessing that it was actually I who had called the police. But no. Keith’s reason for upping sticks was entirely plausible. It all made sense. The realisation left me both reassured and deflated.

He clicked his teeth.

‘Got any plans for tomorrow night?’ he asked, as though the last few minutes had never happened. Going over to the sash window next to the sink, he lifted his arms up high and rested his hands and forehead against the glass. ‘There’s a fireworks display in Ropner Park.’ He looked down at the street below. Keeping his hands on the window, he turned to look at me, his eyes slitted against the bright sun. ‘We could go together?’

Keith and the boy’s disappearance made sense but still, there was something about that kid, something I couldn’t let go. I had to be sure. Kimberley continued to work for Tommy. That meant he still had contact. He was the key.

I moved across the kitchen until I was stood directly in front of him. I reached my hands up to his shoulders and dipped my fingers into the scoop of his clavicle.

‘Sure,’ I said as soon as I saw the beginnings of a smile on his face. ‘I’ll be there.’

I floored it all the way back to the office, the cigarette flavour still on my tongue. I opened the window a crack and the space around me filled with motorway roar. Remembering the feel of the air on my skin when Tommy pulled down my dress, I shivered. I opened the window a little wider. There would come a point soon when I’d have to think about the things that had gone on between us, when I’d have to acknowledge the things I’d let him do. But for now I found that it was like looking directly into a very bright, blinding light; a light so strong that even just to glance at it would be to bruise your eyes. And so until then, until I was ready, I decided it best to keep looking off to the side, into the corners, where that same light did nothing more than flare and shadow on the walls.

I arrived back at the office just before eleven. Planning to use the time between now and the pitch to check in with my team and give the presentation one last going over, I pushed through the swing-doors, ready to get everyone keyed up for the day ahead. But, apart from Hayley in reception, the place was a ghost town. For a moment, I considered the possibility a practice fire alarm was in progress and that everyone was outside, on the grassy square next to the building. Then I saw them.

Sitting around the boardroom’s large oval table, the sales team were turned to face Yvonne and Nick, who were standing either side of the plasma screen, pointing at what looked like the third page of my presentation. Wearing a purple and white zebra-print wrap dress that pulled at her bust, Yvonne had moussed her short, hennaed hair close to her head.

I thought that maybe they were doing a rehearsal of some kind, but then I saw the three people at the opposite end of the table. Two men and a woman. Surrounded by the lion’s share of coffee, pastries and flowers. The buyers. The Griffiths account. The pitch was already in progress?

Panic rising in my throat, I tried to rationalise the reasons behind what I was seeing. The meeting had been in my diary for nearly a month. Had I somehow got the time wrong?

Hoping I hadn’t missed too much, I was on my way to the boardroom when Hayley bolted from her desk and ran ahead of me.

‘Um, you’re not to go in,’ she said, blocking my way.

‘Why on earth not?’ I said, unable to take my eyes off the scene in the boardroom. I tried to move past, but Hayley sidestepped to the right, once more placing herself in front of me.

‘Yvonne said you’re to wait out here until they’re done.’

‘The meeting wasn’t till this afternoon.’

‘They called first thing,’ she said. ‘They’ve had some crisis at Head Office. They were going to cancel completely, but then Yvonne persuaded them to bring the pitch forward.’

I watched as Yvonne reached down to the laptop and pressed a button, bringing the next slide onto the screen. As she came back up to standing I caught her eye. She shook her head, a tiny warning shake, and then, without drawing breath, she continued to address the room.

I watched the remainder of the pitch play out from my desk. I knew every beat of the presentation, and through a combination of lip-reading and mime I found I could anticipate almost exactly which point they’d reach next. Yvonne and Nick seemed to have decided to do the whole thing as a two-hander. Laughing in all the right places, they made sure to offer each other perfectly timed supportive nods and eye contact. They made a good team.

The PowerPoint complete, they took questions and, after a brief discussion, the three-strong Griffiths contingent looked at their watches, smiled their thanks and got to their feet. It was all over.

I stayed where I was until Yvonne and Nick had seen them out and then I went over to where they and the rest of the team stood by reception. Shouty laughter and jittery backslapping filled the air.

Ignoring the hush that fell as soon as I got near, I prodded Nick on the shoulder.

‘I knew you were ambitious,’ I said, loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘But I never thought you’d stoop this low.’

Nick looked to the floor.

I turned to Yvonne.

‘Did he tell you I was in here first thing? Did he tell you I’d nipped home to get something for this, for
my
presentation?’

I prodded Nick again.

‘At least have the balls to look at me.’

He lifted his head, a pained expression on his face. He opened his mouth, about to say something, but Yvonne raised a manicured index finger, silencing him.

‘If you must know,’ she said. ‘Nick begged me to call you. He said you’d worked hard on this pitch and that you should be the one to deliver it.’ She smoothed a palm over her stiff hair. ‘But I wouldn’t let him.’

I looked at Nick, trying to understand.

‘I’m not going to ask why you weren’t here,’ continued Yvonne. ‘I’m not interested in any more of your excuses.’

‘But I was here,’ I said. ‘I was the first one in.’

‘Clear your desk.’

My throat tightened.

‘What?’

‘You heard me. You’re finished.’

My throat grew even tighter. I tried to speak, to argue my case, but no words would come. Tears blurred my vision. I took a step back towards the exit and knocked into the water-cooler. Nick put out his hand to steady me and then I was on my way, the swing-doors swooshing shut, the sun at the end of the corridor guiding me out to the car park beyond.