The new son, p.17
The New Son, page 17
But something stops me, a sense that the time for confession has already passed. I needed to do it on the night, or the next morning, at the latest. The police would ask, if I had been threatened with death, why I did not simply run out of the house at the first opportunity. The neighbours will say I’ve been seen coming and going as and when I wanted. My call now, days after the murder, will see me spend so many years in prison. Longer than it would have been had I done the right thing at the time.
I should kill Liam for what he has done. I do not doubt that Alex, my beautiful boy, had a heart-breaking life and spent many years in care. Liam drew him in and learned his story. Then they left the home together. Liam killed and buried Alex and stole his identity, coming here for my money. Whether I can prove that without involving the police, I don’t know. I doubt it.
I imagine, as I accelerate steadily up to seventy miles an hour, a revenge killing. Me taking Liam’s life. An eye for an eye. I could wait in my car somewhere until it is late, into the early hours, when he will be asleep in bed. Waking up as he feels me sitting astride his body, the blade of the whittling knife or a bigger, sharper kitchen knife pressed against his throat, cutting into his flesh. “Tell me what happened,” I’d demand. “Tell me the truth about Alex … or else I’ll kill you.”
But I know in my heart, I could not kill anyone in cold blood, even Liam, the murderer of my son. I could defend myself if I were attacked, maybe even stabbing or slashing with a knife. In self-defence. But not premeditated murder. If I held a knife to his throat, it would be a bluff. I don’t know what I’d do if – when – he refused to answer. I’d hesitate, and he’d push back, wrestling the knife from me and holding it to my own throat. He’s killed before. Twice. He’d kill again. Then disappear into the night.
I reach the Copdock interchange and turn on to the A14, taking me to Felixstowe. Just fifteen minutes or so from home now.
I have to finally decide what I am going to do, something in between the two extremes of going to the police and killing Liam. Neither, truth be told, are realistic possibilities.
I have to take charge of what is happening, though, being active rather than reactive. I must set out a course of action and follow through.
I want to know all about my darling boy, Alex. How he looked. The cleaning lady called Alex and Liam twins. What he liked and disliked. Did we share anything in common? What he was good at and not so good at? Did he take after me or Ryan – or both of us? How did he end up in the home? It would break my heart, knowing that. But the only way I can uncover the truth is to say to Liam that I know he is not Alex. And then what would he do?
And I want to move Gary’s body somewhere far away, where it will never be found. That might bring some sort of peace. Liam will eventually leave, perhaps after he has taken some money from me. And I can begin rebuilding my life. I have always yearned for two things: a loving husband and children. At heart, I am an old-fashioned woman. Nothing wrong with that. It’s what makes me happy. I am not ashamed of it. I think I still have a chance of that happy-ever-after.
Perhaps with Ryan, my first love. The man I have dreamed of – along with Alex – all of my life. I suspect my dream is some way from reality; he has never come for me riding a white charger over the years. And it nags at me that his ex-wife and daughters will be more important to him than I could ever be. Even if he is more interested in Liam, he can still have thoughts for me. I would like to try to see what might happen between us. It might be my last chance of happiness.
As I come off at the Trimley St Martin – Trimley St Mary roundabout, my mind is made up. I’ll hold my tongue for now and see what happens.
Move Gary’s body. Wait for Liam to leave, perhaps at the end of summer, if I give him some money. Then encourage Ryan and see where that goes. I also have to know about Alex, somehow. That troubles me more than I can say. I will bide my time with that. What else can I do?
I pull off the road, turning into the estate and then finally the close and my home. I look up, slamming on my brakes, horrified by what I see.
The whole house is lit up, lights shining from every window. I can hear music, some sort of trance music, thumping through the wide-open front door. Boom. Boom. Boom.
Liam stands there, his body blocking the entrance, his arms and legs pressed against the door frame as though he is guarding it. Gemma and Chloe are on the doorstep, shouting at him. Like ‘two fishwives’, as my mother would have put it.
Gemma’s car is on the driveway, one door open, the headlights on full beam and aimed at Liam. Beyond that, neighbours are watching at windows. The creepy man has his window open, a premium view in the front row of the dress circle at the theatre. Tony and James from next door take turns peeking through a crack in their curtains. I imagine other curtains are twitching as well.
I park my car a little way along the close, pick up my handbag, and walk with as much dignity as I can muster towards my house.
The creepy man calls out to me. Some ribald remark. I can’t quite hear his words. I ignore him anyway, and everyone else, too.
As I walk up the path, Liam glances and sees me approaching. He looks fearful and relieved, too. Gemma and Chloe follow his gaze, turning towards me.
“Where’s Gary?” Gemma demands. She looks blazing mad. She gestures towards the ill-at-ease Liam and adds, “He says he’s left you. That right?” A sudden smirk.
Both Gemma and Chloe move forward, towards Liam, obviously expecting to be allowed into the house to discuss the matter now that I have arrived. That’s not happening.
I stand tall, on the driveway, suddenly full of strength. I can do without this. “He’s gone. His van was repossessed. Then he went … he’s left me for someone else.” I almost add a less decisive ‘I think’, but stop myself.
Gemma shakes her head, nonplussed. “I don’t believe it,” she says, not in an I don’t believe what you are saying kind of way – more as I don’t believe this is happening. Then she thrusts a handful of opened envelopes and folded-over letters at me and adds, “More of these fucking things. Give them to him … there’s one from the taxman … they actually came to my house … he owes thousands … and tell him he owes me money for Chloe’s keep first.”
I don’t take the envelopes and letters, keeping my hands by my sides. She jabs them at me again. Still I refuse to take them. She looks as though she is going to hit me.
“He’s gone, I told you. I don’t want them,” I reply, turning to Liam. He swallows and looks guilty. I wonder what he said to them before I arrived. Something contradictory maybe.
“Who’s he anyway? Mr High-And-Fucking-Mighty?” Gemma asks. We answer at the same time.
“Lodger,” Liam says.
“Cousin,” I reply.
Gemma looks from Liam to me and laughs nastily. “Make your fucking minds up.”
There is a moment’s pause. None of us seem to know what to say or do next.
Then Gemma presses on. “Chloe needs some things … from her bedroom.” She points to Liam. “Shit-For-Brains won’t let her in. She fucking lives here.”
Chloe steps forward, towards Liam, expecting him to move to one side. He does not. “Well …?” she says, almost squaring up to Liam. He seems nervous, glancing again at me, not sure what to do.
I nod, and he steps aside so Chloe can push by, spitting the c-word obscenity at him. I hate these people. The hostility. The swearing. The aggression. I incline my head, indicating to Liam that he should follow her upstairs, just in case. He does.
Gemma then turns towards me, so we are standing face-to-face. I imagine her lunging forwards, digging her claws into my cheeks, knocking me over, brawling for all to see. I stare her down, ignoring the creepy man shouting out more words of encouragement, mostly lost in the wind. He thinks it’s funny.
“I’m not surprised he left you.” She looks me up and down. “I don’t know what he saw in you in the first place.”
I don’t take the bait. I know I’m no great beauty. Neither is she. Beneath the cemented-on make-up, she has a hard face. She looks like a horse, all pink gums and tombstone teeth. A knackered old nag.
“Free board and lodgings, I suppose,” she carries on. “And he likes his home comforts.” She looks pointedly at my lower half. She knows I lost my baby. I wait for her to make a vicious dig. I will fight the urge to react. But she seems to pull back suddenly, eventually just saying, “He’ll come crawling when he’s had his fill elsewhere. He has before, not that I let him back in my bed.”
I think she is about to add something else, perhaps even placatory, as though we are two women both wronged by the same unfaithful, good-for-nothing man. But she falls silent. As do I. And we wait for Chloe to come back down and leave. I am close to breathing a sigh of relief. I’ve got away with it.
But then there is a commotion upstairs. Sounds of an argument. I hear Chloe shouting, louder than she needs to, wanting to be heard. “Get off me! Don’t touch me! Fuck off, leave me alone.” And she is hurrying downstairs, a bag full of clothes and other belongings over her shoulder. Liam is following her, a few steps behind.
She stares at me, full of teenage fury. “Who the fuck does he think he is … fucking bodyguard.” She looks back up the stairs where Liam is standing, making sure he has heard her.
Then she stares around the close, looking at the creepy man and two or three other neighbours watching from between curtains at various houses over the way. I think she is going to shout at them. Instead, she raises the middle finger of her right hand and holds it up towards them.
I do not respond to any of this teenage angst, knowing I am so close to the two of them going, the whole ‘what-happened-to-Gary’ issue believed and resolved. And, as a bonus, Chloe is clearly now going to stay with Gemma permanently.
But then everything turns, with Chloe’s next words to me. “You said his van was repossessed and he left.” She laughs sourly. “How did he leave with all his things without his van?”
I hesitate, not sure what to say, beyond a shrug and a shake of my head. I am formulating an answer about a young woman picking him up in a sports car, but Chloe continues.
“And he hasn’t texted me at all. At all,” she repeats for emphasis. “Not since Thursday … and we text all the time. And I’ve called him over the weekend, and his phone goes straight to voicemail. And I texted him today with my birthday list, and he’s not replied to that.” She hesitates and adds, almost plaintively, “He wouldn’t just ignore me. Not my dad.”
And. And. And. And. And. I don’t know what to say, nor how to answer her questions. I stand here, Chloe and Gemma both watching me, unable to speak. Then, as Chloe turns to storm off and Gemma follows, she says the fateful words: “Something’s happened to him. I’m calling the police.”
Liam and I now stand, a few minutes later, in the living room, looking at each other, neither of us knowing what to say. We are both stunned by Chloe’s final words.
“I didn’t want to let them in,” Liam says eventually. “In case … you know … I shouldn’t have answered the door. But …”
“Chloe has a key,” I interrupt. “She could have just come in any time she wanted.”
“She said she’d left it at home … at her mother’s.”
I nod, wondering how we can be having such a pointless conversation when the police could be on their way at any moment. “What do we do now? The police?” I ask as he turns and walks to the kitchen, taking a glass tumbler from the draining board and filling it with water. I go into the kitchen, watching him drinking, waiting to hear what he has to say. He thinks for simply ages.
“Nothing,” he replies at last, then rinses the tumbler under the tap and puts it back on the draining board. “Just keep to what we agreed to say.”
He looks at me, seeing the expression of disbelief on my face. I cannot now bear the idea of sitting here waiting for the police to arrive and uncover everything. It was always a possibility. Now it is a reality.
He carries on: “If we move the body tonight, or try to, we’ll be seen. The neighbours are all awake and watching. It’s too risky in daylight … carrying the body from the back gate to the car. It was a real struggle to move him last time, and someone’s bound to see. There are always people about. That cut-through to the field for dog-walkers.”
I swallow, imagining the creepy man and his dog seeing us. But I am far from convinced that leaving the body – Gary, I must think of him as Gary – where he is can be the best thing to do. But what Liam says about tonight and tomorrow is true. Besides, I cannot bear the thought of digging him up.
Liam then says, “Even if she reports him missing, it’s not going to be a priority, is it? He’s not a child. Or a vulnerable teenager. Or someone with mental health issues. Or a celebrity. He’s just a middle-aged man having a mid-life crisis who’s run off with someone else.”
I nod, agreeing with what Liam is saying. At most, the police will send a couple of community officers round to ask a few questions. We just stick to the story. It will get put on file somewhere and soon be forgotten.
Liam’s next words echo my thoughts. “She’ll fill out a form online. It will get read in a week, and someone will visit her a week later. By the time anyone comes here … if they do … it will just be a routine matter.”
I smile as best I can, clicking on the kettle to make a mug of tea before we go to bed. Liam seems matter-of-fact about it all, as ever. I gesture towards the kettle but he shakes his head. “Must be going up.”
Then, in an extraordinary, unexpected moment, he leans towards me and hugs me. I let him, but then turn my head away in case he goes to kiss me, fussing about as if mugs and tea bags and sweeteners and milk are oh so important.
And then he is gone, taking the stairs two at a time, going into the bathroom, running the tap to clean his teeth and then standing by the toilet, lifting the lid up to pee into it. For some reason, distracted, I stand and listen to him from the kitchen.
I make my mug of tea, taking it through into the living room. I pull back the curtains. The creepy man is no longer by his window. But dog-walkers, an old man and an old woman both wearing Panama hats, go by with a wire terrier off its lead, and they glance across as I pull the curtains together. I feel like an animal in a zoo.
I sit here, trapped and waiting. One day soon, police officers will come, and I, and Liam if he is still here, will say what happened. Our made-up story. They may or may not have picked up on the cash withdrawal or discovered the phone in the layby. I don’t know what to say about those anyway, if they have.
And they will, before they leave, almost certainly say, ‘Mind if we take a look around?’ There are those suitcases upstairs. And the things in the garage. I can weave them into the fictionalised account of what took place. But the blood-soaked carpet in the bedroom will be the giveaway. We must do something with it, and quickly, first thing in the morning before anyone arrives.
Even then, in my heart, I know I am doomed eventually. Chloe is correct. Gary would not simply go off and vanish without trace, never contacting her again. She will report him missing. And chase the police. Go to the local newspapers and radio and online news sources. It will be all over everywhere. And she will never give up until she has found him. One day, when all the other options are exhausted, and there is only one possibility left, she’ll stand in front of me and yell, “Oh. My. God. You killed my dad, didn’t you?”
A few minutes later, I am standing by the box room door, listening. I want to knock, getting Liam up and out and helping me to do something with the carpet straightaway.
We will cut out the bloodied part of the carpet and underlay. That will have to be burned somehow in the garden in the morning. The rest can be rolled up and taken to the dump. I’ll then get new carpet and underlay fitted by a local shop this week.
I knock on the box room door, calling softly, “Liam. Liam?” I wait a moment or two, wondering if he could be asleep. I can see a faint light under the door and suspect he’s on his phone, tapping and texting away. I wait, hesitating for such a while. Then finally, reluctantly, I go to bed to snatch a few hours’ troubled sleep.
I am in the attic of a Victorian mansion, old and abandoned, with moonlight streaming through holes in the roof, casting shadows into the corners of this long, thin room.
I stand still, surrounded by creaking floorboards and dust hanging like a fog in the air. Then I turn around. Facing the other way. Then turn back. Facing the way I was.
Whichever way I go, there is always something behind me, just out of sight, in the corner of my eye. It is watching and waiting, expecting me to run. And I want to run fast, getting out of here. But it will chase and kill me the moment I move.
And then I am somehow creeping, step by step, down an old wooden staircase, going round and round, as though this is a lighthouse. The light above me is getting brighter.
I have escaped from whatever it is up in the attic. I sense, somehow, that I am safe, that it will stay there, whatever it is, just as long as I don’t go back or even look upwards. Even so, there is something down below, too.
As my weight goes onto each step, it groans, alerting whatever it is downstairs that I am coming. I cannot turn round, so I have to keep going.
I am now on the ground floor of the Victorian mansion, with all the walls of the rooms rotting away, leaving just the doors intact. I have to go through one of them to be safe. I don’t know which.
Again, the floor is full of dust and shadows, with light streaming through from the roof and somehow shining on the doors.
I walk slowly to each, in turn, listening carefully to what’s on the other side. I hear scratchings on the wood at every one. I recoil, knowing I am trapped as the clawing grows ever louder.
Then I am running, in fear and panic and hope, along the corridor, unopened doors to either side, towards the front door, which is ever so slightly open. I see the brightest light there, on the other side.
