‘Did you pull the door to properly, and shut the gate?’
‘Yeah, I did. What’s the big deal with the gate? You never used to bother shutting it, before.’ I take my eyes from the road to observe his almost defiant eyes. ‘Anyway, Allan’s bound to leave it open when he drops the post, so what’s the point?’
I have no right to challenge him. ‘I know, just feel better with it closed.’ I notice his tensed fists. ‘You’re right, no big deal.’
The mood instantly changes in the car, away from light, normal school-run banter to a feeling of something heavier. But then what did I expect, given the recent revelations? I don’t know how to tell Jack about last night, but I’m going to have to, later maybe. In the end, I stuffed the second envelope into the wooden chest in the kitchen. Why didn’t I set it alight on the fire instead? I remained awake for most of the night, moving between moments of sheer fear to red-hot anger; then an overwhelming sadness. When are Jack and I going to be allowed to move on?
‘You okay?’ I squint at him.
‘Yeah, think so.’ He looks straight ahead. ‘Are you?’
‘Yes, of course I am.’ I feel his eyes on me, looking for clues. ‘It’s going to be okay, Jack. Everything will be okay.’ Who am I trying to convince?
I can tell he’s psyching himself up, as he used to as a small child. ‘Will it, though, Mum?’
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ What a stupid question – what is wrong with me?
‘You know why. I’m not stupid, you know.’
‘I know you’re not. Anything but.’ He looks out of the window as I reach for his clenched fist. ‘We’ve talked about this. We just need to be vigilant, you know, be sensible. That’s all.’
‘Right, so that’s normal, isn’t it?’
‘What? Being sensible?’
‘No, having to be vigilant. I’m fourteen, but I can’t go anywhere alone. We live in Cornwall – it’s supposed to be safe, you said. All my friends will think I’m a freak! No, sorry, Seb, can’t meet you at the beach, because Mum isn’t here to hold my hand and walk me down. No, sorry, Jake, can’t meet you in Truro because it would mean walking to the bus stop alone, then travelling on a bus alone! Yeah, that’s not weird at all!’ He sighs loudly. The pain in his eyes does not go unnoticed.
‘I know, Jack, I know. I’m sorry. But it’s only for the time being. Just until—’
‘For the time being, okay, so how long is that going to be? And then what? What’s he going to do? What are we going to do? Shouldn’t we talk to the police? Isn’t this what normal people would do?’
‘No, Jack. No, we can’t do that, not yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘First of all, we’ve nothing to go on.’ I think about this, as it’s not quite true: I have the certificates and the other envelope; not to mention the other stuff. But it still doesn’t prove unquestionably they were from him. I don’t have any proof he’s been stalking us. To the police, he hasn’t actually done anything wrong. Yet. ‘Look, it’s not that simple, take it from me. Going on past experience, the police only want to know if you’ve hard evidence. Suspicion and observations are simply not enough, Jack. It’s wrong, I know, but they only get involved once a crime has been committed.’
‘Smart, so he has to kill us first. Great!’
‘Jack, don’t say that! It’s not what I meant. That’s not going to happen. Don’t say such horrible things.’ My stomach flips. He’s right, though. How can it be that my child is even having to think in this manner? It’s happening again, the feeling of not being able to protect him, against all my most basic instincts.
‘Come on, Mum, we both know what he’s capable of. Or have you forgotten?’
I’m a little taken aback, as Jack doesn’t know the half of your behaviour. He was too young, yet his words tell me otherwise. Could he have been digging, researching? I’ve blatantly avoided doing the same. Stuck my head in the proverbial sand, pretending ignorance is bliss. Perhaps Jack now understands more than I do. His mobile bleeps; he turns it over to read the screen. Like a paranoid mother, I instinctively lean over to take a look.
He moves the mobile out of view. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Who is it?’
‘What?’
‘The message, who’s it from?’ What am I doing? Invading his privacy, like some kind of controlling mother.
‘What’s wrong with you? It’s just a Snapchat. Why do you want to know? Jesus!’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be nosey. I’m just worried about you. You’d tell me, wouldn’t you… you know, if you knew anything?’
He nods and turns to look out of the window.
The car fills with an uncomfortable silence. This is how you get under our skin. You’re not even here, yet still creating tension. Don’t let him in, Eve; you’re better than this.
I take Jack’s white-knuckled fist and squeeze. ‘Unclench your hand, Jack.’
‘What?’
‘Unclench your hand. It’s bad for you.’ He straightens out his hand without argument but returns to look out of the window. ‘I’m sorry. We’ll sort this out, just give me some time to think about how best to handle it.’
‘Okay.’ He nods. A mishmash of love and hatred burns through my gut. Someone give me a knife, a chance to stab you slowly over and over.
Half an hour later, I make my way to the multistorey car park in Truro, having dropped Jack off at school. Right on cue, as I leave the concrete blot, it begins to spit. A glance upwards informs me it’s a passing shower; I scurry into the small coffee shop for a shot of caffeine and wait. I place myself in the window, cradling a double black Espresso, to watch the world go by.
I don’t feel like clinic today – too much buzzing in my mind – except I’m booked up, including a trip to see Milly again. She’s just eleven years old. Her mum’s boyfriend is the local pot dealer, by all accounts. Recruiting children as young as and including Milly to sell his wares. Offering her freebies as payment. What initially gave her an enormous high sent her crashing, stretching her right-brain imagination into the frightening land of paranoia. Her way to escape was to descend into the dark world of self-harm. With a little help from the world of elusive hashtags and manipulative emojis.
I wince further at the recall of the certificates I received last night. You haven’t changed; I sense you feeling hard done by. Betrayed and forsaken by your son and wife. You blame me. You will never grasp the truth, an even further distortion of the imagination, this time held captive by the left-side dictator. You are dangerous.
A deep Cornish voice breaks my thought. ‘A penny for them!’ he says, tapping my shoulder as he shuffles by with his stick. You wouldn’t want to know, really. I smile back at him. The rain begins to ease so I prepare to make a run for clinic. But I’m momentarily stalled in the doorway as I spot the familiar figure, casually strolling in the fading shower, running his hands through damp hair. Before turning to deliberate the steps, one by one, missing the first. William Adams? Yes, I’m sure it is; I’ve his image implanted in my mind’s eye. Why is he going in there? The Truro counselling place? How strange.