Don’t Say a Word: A gripping psychological thriller from the author of The Good Mother. A. Bird L.
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 haven’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.
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