Don’t Say a Word: A gripping psychological thriller from the author of The Good Mother. A. Bird L.
look, there’s Chris, and he’s got the train!’
‘Have a nice day, Joshy!’
‘Mum, it’s Josh at school, OK – I’m ten, you know!’
But he returns my kiss before he jumps out of the car. I watch him as he runs up to a similarly aged boy, and they stand in serious, private conversation, like a couple of dealers. The goods swap hands. Someone honks a horn behind me. I’m double-parked again. But let them honk. If they knew, they would understand.
And now, to work. Again, a blessing. Because really, who’d have thought it?
There’s a little car park in the courtyard behind our office. I was so pleased when I found that out. I didn’t know, when I came to interview. I had to get the bus. I couldn’t stand it. Waiting at the bus stop, I felt so vulnerable. Had I really left Chloe behind? What if one of Mick’s men spotted me?
Once the bus arrived, I would head straight for the back so that no one could sit behind me. Then I’d worry it would mean I couldn’t get off the bus quickly if someone saw me (proper me). So I’d dart from seat to seat. Bus driver must have thought I was mad. I thought I was mad. That it was all too much. They did tell me, when it all started, ‘You might find this a struggle.’ Masters of understatement.
So, yeah, it’s good there’s a car park. Good I was able to negotiate a car (not from work, from the other lot).
I check my make-up in the flip-down mirror. Good. Professional not-quite-lawyer. Haven’t achieved eye liner. Don’t think I ever have since Josh was born. Really wasn’t a priority early on – you reassess. Besides. I think I used a lifetime of it back then. Me at ten – vamping it up in a park with some White Lightning. Josh – well, you know, you saw him. He thinks parks are for feeding ducks and sliding on zip-wires.
Fluff my hair up – rocking the sharp blonde bob, if I do say so myself. Should probably take the sunglasses off the top of it for the office though, cool as they look. The usual earrings, silver more tarnished than sparkling. I should upgrade them. But they were from Mum. They’ve survived enough attempts at being torn out in anger, over the years. Now, they’re staying. Even though I had to go.
Oh, but look! Toothpaste on my jacket. Shit. I spit on my finger and rub at the stain. It gets worse. Bugger. Right, let’s hope no one wants to meet with me today – the jacket’s coming off. It’s not the Eighties, anyway. As much as I like the armour, I don’t have to power dress every day: Luton’s best legal executive doesn’t need shoulder pads. Sorry. Lu’on’s best. Drop the t. Do the glottal stop. It means fewer questions. Don’t need to do the whole ‘We lived in Leeds’ routine. Again.
I ditch my jacket. It exposes the fragile cotton threads of the friendship bracelet Josh made for me when he was seven. Blue, white, and red. I’ve safeguarded it like the most expensive Rolex – and for me, it’s as much of a status symbol. If anyone wants to mock it, let them. I grab my bag and jump out of the car.
I run straight into Tim, the firm’s newest partner.
‘Jen!’
‘Sorry, Tim. Sorry. I didn’t see you.’
‘Ah, I move silently – appear when you least expect it.’
Something about the way he says that gives me a little shiver. I wish I had my jacket with me again.
But the moment goes, because he carries on talking.
‘I wanted to see you, actually, Jen. New case I need you to help me on. If you’ve got capacity?’
‘Great! Yeah, of course.’
‘Excellent. Let’s speak later. It’s almost made for you.’
I nod. ‘Perfect.’ Of course it’s made for me. Because it’s bound to involve some crappy admin running around, which is what they all think is made for me. Even new hires, like Tim. Perfect. Thanks so much …
He holds the back door open and gestures for me to go inside.
I half-curtsey a ‘thanks’ and duck into the building.
One of my safe havens.
It has been, for the last four years. Thanks to Bill, the head of the firm. He knows, of course. Some of it, anyway. Trustworthy lawyer. They thought it was fine to tell him. Said he wouldn’t tell anyone else. I was against it (of course). I didn’t like that when I looked into his eyes he was seeing two of me. And judging me, probably. Thinking I’d done things that I hadn’t. But. I didn’t have any other choices, did I? If I wanted to do something with the college diploma I’d clawed to achieve. Even if ninety-nine per cent of the time it is the less-than-perfect crummy admin jobs none of the ‘real’ lawyers want to do.
Sheila – Bill and Tim’s PA – waves good morning to me. ‘All right, love?’
I wave back. ‘Good thanks. You want a coffee?’
She gives me a thumbs-up. ‘You’re a star!’
So I move to dump my bag at my desk. But then Tim speaks again. I jump. I didn’t realize he was still there.
‘Another thing, Jen,’ he says. His voice is low. ‘Keep this new matter between us, OK? Very confidential. I’ll explain why later.’ I nod. Of course. I feel a little thrill. Lawyers are always obsessed by confidentiality, so for it to be extra confidential – well, that’s got to mean it’s exciting. And it’s good to be trusted. ‘If you need to speak to someone, you can talk to Daniel Farley. I’ve instructed him.’ Tim winks and walks to his office.
I go to my desk, head down. Can anyone see the colour that must be rising in my cheeks? Tim winked – he’s new, but does he know about the Daniel incident? He can’t do, surely. The firm always instructs Daniel when it needs a barrister, at least since I’ve been here. The wink wasn’t a reference to any incident, it was just … A wink.
Not that there was an incident. Not really. Just a crush. Which might be mutual. We almost went for a drink. Until I stood him up. But it’s the nearest I’ve had to a date since the man we don’t mention.
Two spoons coffee, no sugar, for Bill. One teabag, dash of sweetener for –
‘Jen.’
That voice! I start, and the whole sweetener pack goes in Sheila’s tea.
The one downside of working here: Lucy Caxton.
Applying my smile, I turn round.
‘Morning, Lucy.’
‘Getting straight to the important jobs I see,’ she says, gesturing to the cups in front of me. ‘I left you a voice message. Didn’t you see the flashing light?’ She puts down her own cup. Yeah, that figures. She’s allowed time to make tea. One rule for her, another for me. I know that type well.
‘Sorry, Lucy.’ If there’s one thing I’ve learnt, you don’t answer back. You can shout and rail internally. But it doesn’t help anyone to be mouthy. ‘The team needed their caffeine, but I’ll get right on it.’
‘OK, well it’s urgent, so maybe get that kettle boiling.’
It’s literally just about to boil. She can hear it. Unless that’s just the steam mounting in my head? Nope, nope, there’s the click. The pressure’s off. Allegedly.
‘Ah, there we are,’ I say. Forced jollity. Turning the old trick. So they won’t know what’s underneath.
‘Well then, mine’s a tea, white, none. Call me when you get to your desk.’
And she leaves me her cup. Christ, she’s led a sheltered life. If you’ve