Page 1 of A Very Happy Halloween

One

“Mum, it hurts,” Alfie complained.

“I know, sweetie.” Why wasn’t Harry answering his phone? Usually, my eldest son was surgically attached to the bloody thing. “I’m sure the doctor won’t be long.”

“I need to pee.”

Lord, give me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the self-control not to toss a seven-year-old boy named Anvil de Witt off a balcony. Not that I knew anyone with a balcony, but I did have a second-floor window that would do the job in a pinch.

When I decided to move from Bristol back to Engleby, the quiet Somerset village where I’d grown up, I’d worried the boys might struggle to settle in, and my worst fears had been realised. They were both miserable. My own mother had tried to reassure me that it was just teething problems, that bickering between young boys was normal, but dealing with the doldrums day after day left me self-medicating with wine. Box wine, obviously. I couldn’t afford the good stuff anymore.

I’d hoped that things might get easier in the new school year, because wasn’t time meant to heal? Harry had moved up to the local comprehensive, and certainly Alfie had seemed happier over the summer holidays. But three weeks into the autumn term, disaster had kicked us in the backside once again.

Alfie had been crying when I picked him up from school, not only because his wrist hurt but because Anvil had pushed him over on purpose, and when he landed in the mud, everyone had laughed at him. I’d cleaned him up as best I could with the packet of wet wipes I kept in my handbag, but the other people in the waiting room had still kept giving us dirty looks. Did they think I wanted to be there? Of course I didn’t. Half an hour ago, a nurse had moved us from the waiting room to some kind of assessment area, but that didn’t help Alfie’s fidgeting or my frustration. Right now, I should have been at home, doing yet another load of laundry and trying to work out which version of “I don’t care” Harry wanted for dinner.

Plus I’d had to skip work. I’d been halfway through cutting Sieanne Pilling’s hair when the headteacher called with a plea to pick Alfie up immediately. At least I hadn’t started with the foils because that would have been a disaster, but now I owed Sieanne discounted highlights in addition to the thousand apologies I’d already offered.

“Mrs. Osman?”

I gritted my teeth at the sound of my name. Of his name. Logic said I should keep it because Osman was the boys’ surname too, but the way it made me feel… Urgh. I longed to be a Taylor again.

But I smiled brightly. Smiled dutifully.

“That’s me, and this is Alfie.”

The doctor crouched in front of us. Grey hair and glasses gave him a reassuring air of experience, but if he’d spent his life working in this place, he was probably more like thirty than fifty-five. My sister’s fiancé was a doctor, only twenty-six, but he was already starting to look a bit worn down.

“What seems to be the problem, son?”

“Anvil de Witt pushed me.”

“I see. Well, let’s take a look at you.”

“My wrist hurts.”

“We’re going to fix that. Have you ever been in a hospital before?”

“Yes, when I was born,” Alfie said earnestly. “And when I was two, I put peas up my nose, and when I was two and a half, popcorn got stuck in my ear, and when I was three?—”

My phone rang. Oh, thank goodness. Saved by technology, right before Alfie could tell everyone in A&E about the “black balls” incident, although perhaps the doctor already knew? Liam—Marissa’s fiancé—had spilled the details over dinner one night, practically crying with laughter, and he worked at a hospital two hours away. Of course, he didn’t realise that I was the “hysterical mother” who’d thought her three-year-old had some weird tropical disease when all he’d done was colour his testicles with a felt tip. In my defence, I’d never had any of that drama with Harry. Until the split, he’d always been the easy child.

I glanced at the phone screen, hoping for Harry but seeing Steven’s name flash up instead. About bloody time.

“I’m so sorry. It’s my husband.”

My husband. The words left a nasty taste in my mouth, but over the past few months, I’d realised just how much meaning they held. “My husband” meant you were a fine, upstanding member of the community. “Alfie’s dad” left people wondering why I was divorced or whether I hadn’t been good enough to marry in the first place. Folks didn’t say as much, of course, but I saw it in their eyes. And referring to my not-quite-ex as “the arsehole sperm donor” made them pass gin and tissues.

Today, I didn’t need judgment. I just needed Alfie’s arm fixed so I could go home and drink my own alcohol.

The doctor waved a hand. “No problem. Worried about young Alfie, is he?”

“He’s at work,” I said, as if that answered everything.

The doctor motioned to us to follow him, and I stabbed at the screen to answer the call as we headed for a set of double doors that led deeper into the hospital.

“What’s Alfie done this time?” was Steven’s opening line.

“He hasn’t done anything. A boy pushed him over in the playground, and now his wrist is sore and swollen.”

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