Page 70 of The Perfect Son
“I think I have to, Tess. I want to be a mother again, with or without Tim. We’ve been clinging on to our marriage as a way to remember Dylan. Maybe starting again would be healthier for both of us. I’m never going to forget Dylan.” She touches her locket, the smile gone, and for a moment I see a woman half destroyed by grief. For amoment I see myself in Shelley’s face. “But I think I want to find a way to move on a little bit.”
“You’re welcome to stay here anytime,” I say. “I will unearth the spare bed from the boxes one of these days.”
“Thank you.” She smiles then. “But Tim and I have been avoiding each other long enough. We need to sit down and talk properly. We won’t be able to iron things out one way or another if I—”
“Oh shit, the iron.” I leap up and dash into the living room.
I flick the switch off at the wall and yank the plug from the socket. The iron hisses a puff of steam. “Sorry,” I say, forcing a small laugh as Shelley follows me to the living room. “I forgot to turn it off earlier.”
Shelley flicks on the main light. I feel suddenly exposed, thinking of the man outside, but he’s gone now, I remind myself. Shelley’s eyes fall to the ironing board.
“You don’t need to be doing that now, Tess,” Shelley says, her voice slow and soft as if she’s speaking to a child.
I follow her eyes to one of your shirts resting on the pile, along with a few of my tops and the last of Jamie’s school shirts.
“Oh... no.” I shake my head. “This is the first time I’ve touched the ironing since Mark died. I wasn’t going to iron Mark’s shirts... I wasn’t going to...” My voice trails off.
“OK.” Shelley nods but I can tell she’s not sure.
“I haven’t ironed anything for weeks. I haven’t felt up to it. But I did tonight. It was nice.” I think of Jamie’s laughter filling the living room.
“Yes, but Tess, are you sure you’re OK?” Shelley touches my arm.
“Apart from seeing a man in the garden, I’m absolutely fine.” I try to smile.
“I’ll make the hot chocolates then,” she says.
I realize then that I haven’t told Shelley about the plate Jamie threw at me. I could tell her now, but something stops me. Hearing about Shelley’s argument with her husband has distanced my own fight with Jamie, and I don’t want to dredge it up again. I feel the same about the phone call last night. I’ll wait for the police to arrive. They need to know too. I can’t carry on like this for much longer, Mark.
—
The hot chocolate Shelley made warms my stomach and coats my thoughts in a sickly treacle. It’s hard to think straight. Exhaustion is weighing down my limbs. I’m so tired. There was someone in my garden, I tell myself over and over, but the memory of it seems more like an obscure notion than reality.
When the police arrive I try to concentrate on what I’m saying, but my thoughts are muddled and my words don’t come out right. The two policemen ask question after question and I struggle to understand, let alone answer. “Where were you standing when you saw someone in your garden? Did you notice what the person was wearing? Has anything like this happened before?”
I want to tell them about the phone call last night—the man and his threats—but my tongue is suddenly too big in my mouth and my thoughts are jumbled, like one of Jamie’s plastic puzzles with the sliding tiles all in the wrong place. I know what the picture should be, the words I want to use, but I can’t figure out how to move the pieces in the right way.
“You mentioned your son is in the house, Mrs. Clarke?”
My eyelids are heavy and the fog is pulling me away from the living room.
Shelley is saying something about Jamie, but her voice is muffled.We traipse upstairs—the two policemen, Shelley and I—and poke our heads into Jamie’s room. The nightlight is on and Jamie is twisted in a ball in his covers, his head halfway down the bed.
One of the policemen asks a question about Mark but I’m too busy trying to shut Jamie’s door and shush them to listen properly.
My memory is hazy after that. The police leave and then Shelley guides me to bed, promising to check on Jamie one last time before she goes. At least, I think that’s what happened. I can’t remember. I can’t be sure.
CHAPTER 41
Sunday, March 25
14 DAYS TO JAMIE’S BIRTHDAY
It’s only the next afternoon, when I shake off the pillow smothering my thoughts, that I think about Shelley’s visit and how quickly she arrived last night.
The phone call to the police operator seemed to take a long time, but it can’t have been more than ten minutes. Ten minutes from when I hung up the phone with Shelley and dialed 999. It would take me longer than that to find my car keys and put my boots on.
She said she was just leaving the swimming pool, but even if the A12 was empty, which it never is, it would’ve taken longer than ten minutes.
