The Perfect Son Read online

  She gives a swish of her hair and sits back in her chair. “Whatever you want. Some people find it’s useful to keep a diary. I knew one man who found writing a letter to his wife each night helped him grieve after she passed away, but it’s really for you to decide. Even little things become hard when you’re grieving. Use it to write a shopping list or a to-do list, if that helps.”

  “Thank you,” I say again.

  “You’re welcome. I give one to everyone I meet through my work with the charity.” Shelley pushes the cup of tea toward me and I wrap the warmth of it in my hands.

  “Do you want to talk about Jamie?” she asks.

  A fog creeps over my thoughts. It’s hard to concentrate, hard to put the words together, but I try. I tell Shelley about how shy he is. Painfully shy. Running off to his room or the tree house in the garden whenever someone knocks on the door. Even when it was just my mum in the house with us, Jamie spent most of his time in his bedroom. But how once he’s let you in, once he’s accepted you, he blooms and is bright and loving and cheeky.

  I tell her how much Jamie looks like you. The same nose, the same body, the same crooked smile. I tell her how he’s a typical boy. Football and PlayStation and reading Horrid Henry books. I tell her how well he has settled in to the village school, how even though I wasn’t sure I liked the house that much, or the village, and I missed my friends, seeing Jamie come out of his shell made it all worth it. I tell her how much we miss you.

  Picturing Jamie helps. The fog drifts away and I have the strange feeling of having just woken up. I blink quickly, aware of the silence in the kitchen and Shelley sitting opposite me.

  “Small steps, Tess,” Shelley says later as she walks out the side door. “Remember, try one thing each day, however small, OK?”

  I nod but don’t speak. The hand is gripping my throat again and I can’t find my voice. This woman knows how I feel, just like you always did, and there’s a relief to that. No one will ever know me the way you did, but Shelley understands more than most, I think.

  CHAPTER 7

  IAN CLARKE

  I really don’t know why I’m here. Shelley is the one you should be speaking to, not me. I was trying to help Tess. What you need to understand is that Tess was in a right state after the plane crash. She wasn’t coping, not at first anyway. I arranged all the funeral proceedings. I even spoke to the coroner in Essex and arranged the death certificate. I did everything she should’ve done. I’m not saying I minded, because I didn’t. Mark was my kid brother, of course I didn’t mind. I’m just saying, Tess wasn’t capable of doing much of anything. Someone had to step in.

  SHELLEY LANGE

  When I met Tess for the first time I could see she really needed help. I should’ve given Tess the number of the charity at the end of our first meeting, but I gave her my mobile number instead. I think it was the photo of Jamie on the fridge that drew me to Tess on that first visit. He looked so much like my Dylan in that photo. I knew I had to help right then and there. I felt a connection to Jamie and to Tess. All I wanted to do was help.

  CHAPTER 8

  It’s only when I wave off Shelley and her “Call me anytime” good-bye and lean against the huge front door that I think of the bath still waiting for me.

  I twist the gold taps and refill the tub until the water is burning hot to the point that for a second or two it feels icy. The skin on my legs prickles, turning a bright red, but I sink into the water anyway and close my eyes.

  Are you there, Mark?

  Remember the day we found out you were pregnant?

  I knew you’d bring that up. You always loved telling Jamie that story. I swear each time you told it I became a bit more crazy and you oh so heroic.

  I will admit I was worried. I knew I wanted a family with you, children of our own, but we’d only been dating for three months. I hadn’t even met your mother at that point. We weren’t living together. Plus the hormones.

  You said it would never work.

  And it wouldn’t have done. Us living apart. But you found us a family home. A perfect three-bed semidetached on a new estate in Chelmsford.

  Not too far from the station for my commute to London, and close to the park and the shops for you.

  Exactly. Lots of families, lots of friends. We gave Jamie the second bedroom, saving the box room for a second nursery, for the brother or sister I wanted so badly for Jamie to have.

  And I asked you to marry me, Tessie. That was the best part of the story. Don’t leave that bit out.

  Ah, yes. Sweeping me off my feet and all the way to the registry office in the basement of the council buildings in Chelmsford. What a hero! I wore that white maxi dress from H&M and jiggled Jamie on my hip the whole time we were saying our vows.

  Jamie had just started weaning, remember? He threw up orange gloop down your back just as we had our first kiss.

  I loved how we started our marriage laughing. It wasn’t grand or romantic, but it was us, our start, and we were happy. You always made me laugh. Even though we were complete opposites. Even if I was angry at you for being late home, or not picking up your clothes from the floor, or hiding yourself away with your computer and working on your secret project instead of spending time with Jamie, you always made me laugh.

  Another voice fills my head: “Can you tell me the whereabouts of your husband, please, Mrs. Clarke?” The policewoman with the brown hair in a neat ponytail. PC Gemma Greenwood, as if I’ll ever forget that name. Oh God, I don’t want to remember, but it’s too late.

  I was at the kitchen table. PC Gemma Greenwood was sitting opposite me, but the other officer, the one whose name I can’t remember, stayed by the sink. Her skin was the same gray as the bonfire smoke and her eyes were glassy with tears, as if it was she who loved you. As if it was her life that had been destroyed.

  “Mark?” I asked as if I had more than one husband. “He’s in Frankfurt today. The computer software company he works for has an office out there. He’ll be back tomorrow if you want to speak to him. Why?”

  “I’m afraid we have some bad news.”

  My eyes shoot open. Suddenly I need to hear the tap dripping and see what is real. I stare at my body. A month of grief has slimmed me down, but it’s not pleasant. My breasts are flaccid and sink toward my armpits. The skin around my belly button floats in the water. A half-empty sack, as if your death has removed a physical part of me.

  I twist the tap with my toe and add more hot.

  My thoughts pull to Ian’s visit. The grapes and chocolate, a subterfuge I mistook for kindness. He only wanted to ask about the money you borrowed from him.

  One hundred thousand pounds. The amount feels lodged somewhere in my mind as if I can’t quite process it, imagine it. It’s so much money, isn’t it?

  We never spoke about money. It’s the way you wanted it, Tessie. I would’ve told you if you’d asked, but you never did.

  Didn’t I?

  A memory surfaces. It was from early on, when I was pregnant. We’d just moved into the Chelmsford house and everything was new still, including us.

  “Good news,” you called as you walked through the front door.

  “What?” I shouted back from the kitchen. I was stirring a pot of chili on the hob and trying not to splash sauce on the bright white tiles of our new kitchen.

  “I’m moving into the sales team.” You came up beside me and kissed my cheek. I remember the mix of aftershave and London grit that clung to your clothes.

  “Sales?” I stopped stirring and leaned against the work surface, watching the excitement on your face and trying not to wince from Jamie’s foot wedging under my ribs. “But you’re a programmer. You program stuff.”

  I remember your laugh, deep and just a little strained, now that I come to think of it. “Your technical knowledge of my job is astounding,” you said, pulling open one of the doors of our Ameri
can-style fridge-freezer and retrieving a bottle of beer.

  “Ha-ha. You know what I mean.”

  “This is a great move. There’s a commission structure, which means more money—”

  “If you sell,” I said. I remember wondering how long you’d been planning the change of job, how long you’d been keeping it to yourself. I told myself we were still new at this; we hadn’t learned to share ourselves yet. It was later that I realized it was just your way. Keeping things bottled up, waiting until it was a done deal before telling me. I was the opposite, worrying about every little thing before it had happened.

  “Who better to sell the software than the person who created it?” you said, gulping back a long mouthful of beer straight from the bottle.

  “Oh God, is money an issue? I thought we’d be OK. I . . . I suppose I could put the baby into a nursery and go back full-time. If I have to—”

  “Relax,” you said, stepping close and running a hand over my belly.

  “Sorry. It’s just I hate talking about money and worrying about it all on top of everything else. I’m so nervous about the birth and . . .” And us, I wanted to say but didn’t because we didn’t ever talk about us and how we hadn’t known each other that long.

  “I don’t want you to worry about it again, OK? All you need to focus on is cooking that little monkey inside you and putting your feet up for the next four weeks. We’ve talked about your job before, and I meant what I said—you’re not going back to that sweatshop of a school ever, OK?”

  I remember the relief and the whispered knowledge that my offer hadn’t been real. How could I have gone back to St. Luke’s and be a mother? Teaching GCSE History had taken everything I had to give each week. St. Luke’s might have paid better than most teaching positions, but the school was a high performer. Part-time and job shares didn’t happen. The days were long and intense, and it had been hard to see how a baby would fit into that mold. Besides which, neither of us wanted Jamie to go into nursery full-time at such a young age.

  “Will it mean more traveling?” I asked, trying to sound positive, trying to be happy for you. I rested my hand over yours, rubbing the hard bulge of my belly, and fought back a wave of panic.

  “Maybe, but not a lot, I promise. This is good timing for us. The benefits are better. We all get private medical insurance and I get a company car and mobile phone. Plus it will take the pressure off our finances.” You smiled, pulling me into your arms.

  “OK.” I nodded, breathing in the smell and the warmth of you. I didn’t know we’d been under financial pressure to start with, but I didn’t say anything. I wanted to be happy for you.

  “It’s going to be fine. You don’t need to worry, Tessie,” you whispered, using Tessie instead of Tess, like you always did when it was just us.

  The memory drifts away and I sink deeper into the bath.

  Maybe you’re right, Mark. Maybe I didn’t want to know, but I would’ve listened. I never wanted you to lie to me.

  I never lied. I wouldn’t do that.

  Fine. You never lied. But you sugarcoated and you glossed over the details until it was your version of the truth. Did you think I couldn’t handle it? Was I really that much of a weakling?

  Tell me you loved me, Mark. Really loved me. Tell me our love wasn’t a lie.

  Oh, Tessie, you know I did.

  CHAPTER 9

  Transcript BETWEEN ELLIOT SADLER (ES) AND TERESA CLARKE (TC) (INPATIENT AT OAKLANDS HOSPITAL, HARTFIELD WARD), TUESDAY, APRIL 10. SESSION 1 (Cont.)

  ES: Are you feeling better now, Tess?

  TC: (nods)

  ES: That’s good. How are your pain levels?

  TC: Better. The nurse gave me something. Sorry about before. I . . . I just want to find Jamie.

  ES: We all do. That’s why we’re here—to find out what’s happened to Jamie.

  TC: Why are you talking to me then? Shouldn’t you be interviewing people or out looking for Shelley?

  ES: We’re doing everything we can, Tess. But I need more information from you.

  TC: I thought of something a minute ago, just as you came in. It might help.

  ES: Oh?

  TC: I don’t think Shelley was working alone. I think she had help from Ian, my brother-in-law. Maybe they were partners in this.

  ES: What makes you think that?

  TC: There were times . . . (sighs). A lot of things happened to me that she couldn’t have done alone. I keep thinking this is all about Jamie. I mean, it is, isn’t it? That’s why we’re sitting here, but maybe it’s about money too. Ian told me that he loaned Mark some money—a lot of money—and he needed it back. Is anyone checking my phone? I don’t have it. Someone might call for a ransom.

  ES: I’ll make a note. I’m sure that’s being taken care of.

  CHAPTER 10

  Wednesday, February 21

  46 DAYS TO JAMIE’S BIRTHDAY

  Iwake with a start and blink in the darkness. My heart is hammering in my chest and for a moment I think it’s the dregs of the nightmare shuddering through my body. Then I hear the sound again—the one that must have woken me—the crunch of gravel on the driveway. Footsteps.

  Fear grips my body. It’s the kind of fear that makes you realize that all those other times you thought you were scared, were just pretend.

  This is real. It’s the middle of the night. I’m alone in this giant bloody house, just me, and Jamie asleep down the hall, and there is someone walking around on my driveway.

  I gasp for air and hold it in my lungs as I try to listen over the sound of my heart pounding in my ears.

  Stop, Tessie. Stop worrying. It’s just cats.

  Cats? Come off it, Mark; since when do cats tread with the same force as footsteps? Human footsteps.

  Or foxes fighting. This is the countryside, Tessie.

  You don’t need to remind me. I only need to open my eyes to know I’m not on the estate in Chelmsford anymore. There is no orange glow from streetlights here, no car doors slamming and people walking by on their way to town. The only noise is the low hum of the A12 a mile away and the hoot of an owl somewhere nearby.

  I know I’m in the countryside, and I know what I heard.

  I listen again, waiting to prove you wrong, but the silence of the night is deafening.

  I told you—foxes.

  I’m up and by the window before I can stop myself, half-naked in just knickers and one of your T-shirts skirting the tops of my thighs. Fear pricks my skin as I peer through the gap in the curtains, primed for any movement, any sound, but there’s nothing but darkness.

  I pad along the hallway and check on Jamie. He’s cocooned inside his duvet, with only his mop of curls poking out the top. His hair looks almost white in the blue glow of the nightlight.

  The creak of the stairs seems too loud in the silence as I make my way to the front door and check that it’s bolted. Then to the nook and the side door. They are both locked. In the hallway I dither for a minute. What do I do now? There’ll be no more sleep for me tonight, but I can’t bear the thought of rattling around the house for five hours either, so I slump back into our bed for warmth as much as anything. I listen for any sound but all I hear is silence.

  I can’t even hear the wind in the fireplaces.

  See—it was just an animal. A wild deer looking for food.

  It was footsteps. I’m sure of it. Someone was walking on our driveway in the middle of the night.

  An image of the tulips by the side door floats through my thoughts. No cellophane. No note. I threw them in the bin before the school pickup. I couldn’t look at them, let alone put them in a vase, and I didn’t want Jamie to see them and ask who they were from.

  If Ian didn’t leave them, then who did? I know no one in this village. Who would leave flowers like that without a note? And by the side door too. The front
door is right there—dark oak, the centerpiece of the house, but we always use the small white painted door to the side that leads right into the nook and the kitchen. Who would know that?

  Who would be walking around on our driveway in the middle of the night?

  I close my eyes and feel my heartbeat slow. A deer, you say? Fine, a deer it is.

  Somewhere nearby an engine strains for a beat and roars into life.

  My eyes shoot open and the fear is back, pressing down like a force crushing my chest. There’s a flash of white light in the crack of the curtains. Headlights. A car. I want to jump out of bed and see the driver, but I can’t. The fear is a beast holding me down.

  Last time I checked, deer don’t drive cars, Mark.

  CHAPTER 11

  Thursday, February 22

  45 DAYS TO JAMIE’S BIRTHDAY

  Itook a tablet this morning.

  After lying awake half the night, listening to any and every sound and scaring myself silly with thoughts of someone breaking in and taking Jamie. After the milk bottle had dropped on the floor at breakfast and it had clattered and bounced on the tiles and spilled the last of the milk everywhere.

  After I screamed at Jamie at the top of my voice for being so bloody careless and he hadn’t flinched or told me not to swear. He just stared at me with steely blue eyes, prodding his tongue out against the tooth at the top that’s about to fall out. After I came back from the school drop-off and cried. Pitiful fat tears that dripped onto the kitchen tiles I was supposed to be cleaning, until I was half drowning in self-loathing and guilt.

  I took it quick. Like the time you ripped off the bandage above Jamie’s eye when he was three. Remember?

  Another hero moment. How could I forget?

  He bounced off the sofa and caught his face on the corner of the coffee table, and he was wailing and hiccuping and bleeding all over the place. I called you at work all screechy and panicked, dithering over whether to phone an ambulance.