Page 85 of The Perfect Son
I am alone once more.
I dash through the house and dive under the covers of our bed. With the light from my phone, I scribble the date and time in my notebook. Then I write:Ian tries to get in. It was him in the house last time!!! I still don’t know who is threatening us or what he wants??? Denise wouldn’t speak to me. Why not? Is she scared?
CHAPTER 53
Transcript BETWEEN ELLIOT SADLER (ES) AND TERESA CLARKE (TC) (INPATIENT AT OAKLANDS HOSPITAL, HARTFIELD WARD), WEDNESDAY, APRIL 11. SESSION 2 (Cont.)
TC: Richard Welkin was the man I saw in Manningtree who chased me. Shelley tried to convince me it was in my head, but it wasn’t. He’d been watching me for weeks and phoning the house and hanging up. I thought it was the same man who’s been calling me with threats, but it isn’t. Richard worked for the airline and wanted to tell me that he thought the crash was his fault. That’s why he was following me and hanging around the house. He said he was too scared to knock on the door.
ES: Do you think it was Richard’s fault?
TC: Yes. I think it’s a bit Denise’s fault too. That’s Mark’s personal assistant. Have I mentioned her? She messed up Mark’s flights.
ES: Why do you think Richard was scared to knock? Was he following all the families of the victims from the crash?
TC: I wondered the same thing. He said I was the hardest person to talk to.
ES: Why?
TC: I don’t know. I guess he must’ve seen me and realized how much of a mess I was.
CHAPTER 54
Saturday, April 7
1 DAY TO JAMIE’S BIRTHDAY
The high street is busy; heaving, in fact. Solo shoppers, groups of teenagers, couples holding hands, children, parents, and pushchairs all weaving in and out of each other. There’s a sense of desperation in the air, like it’s one hour before closing time on Christmas Eve. The noise, the sheer chaos of it, is a jackhammer next to my head. I thought I wanted to get away from the stillness of the house and the village, but now I crave that silence.
We pass a busker—a teenage girl with a guitar and a nose ring. Her blond hair is dreadlocked and streaked with purple and blue. I expect something grungy when she opens her mouth but her voice as she launches into a Robbie Williams song is soft and angelic.
Jamie’s feet slow as he stands to listen, transfixed by the girl.
I stop too. Her voice isn’t just in my ears, it’s permeating my body, like she’s injecting her words, her thoughts, right into us.
My hand nudges Jamie’s back, urging him on and catching up with Shelley two paces ahead of us.
We reach the sandy-bricked town hall, standing grand among the discount shops. I jump at the sound of a voice shouting and spin toward the noise. It’s just a man with a stall of dried fruits heckling passersby.
In the pedestrianized square outside the town hall a group of older teenagers are sitting on the back of a bench with their feet resting on the seat. One of the boys has short, spiky hair and a tattoo of a gun on his neck. It’s an old-style pistol like something from the Wild West. I stare at the detail of the ink on his skin and feel an undiluted fear that threatens to cripple me.
I want to take Jamie home now before the boy with the tattoo pulls out a real gun and kills us, before a car turns into the pedestrian zone and mows us all down, before the wall of a shop front gives way and covers us in bricks. Or a bomb. A terrorist attack. A madman wielding a container of battery acid.
Shelley moves beside me and squeezes my arm as if she senses my discomfort. I need to get a grip. I’m being paranoid and jittery. It’s Ipswich high street, for God’s sake, not a war zone. Yet I can’t shake the vulnerability—an itchy wool jumper—covering my skin. I can’t shake the feeling that Jamie and I are in danger here, that something terrible is about to happen, and I need to take Jamie’s hand tight in my grasp and run far away from Shelley and all these people.
I’m sure Jamie feels it too. He didn’t say a single word on the drive into town. Just stared out of the window from the back of Shelley’s Mini and watched the world pass him by. He’ll be eight tomorrow, Mark. Our baby boy is turning eight. It doesn’t seem possible. He’s so grown-up now, and at the same time he’s so young.
Thoughts of Richard are still weighing on my mind and I’m desperate to tell Shelley about his confession, but Jamie hasn’t left my side since she arrived this morning and I don’t want him to hear.
“Mel,” Shelley shouts, releasing my arm and standing on her tiptoes. She waves across the shoppers.
A woman with shiny black hair dashes over to us, with a girl trailing behind.
“Hey.” Mel throws her arms around Shelley. “It’s been too long.”
Mel is wearing a white linen jacket and a pair of black skinny jeans that cling to her stick-thin legs. There’s a glamour to both her and Shelley. It’s in the heel of their boots and the cut of their jackets and the way their hair is sleek, their makeup subtle but there nonetheless. Suddenly I feel too hot and frumpy in my winter coat and foolish for blow-drying my curls and digging out a skirt and a pair of tights that didn’t have runs.
“Tess, this is my friend Mel. We met at a baby group when Indra crawled over and stole the train Dylan was playing with.” She laughs, and her eyes are bright and dancing. “Mel, this is Tess.” Shelley doesn’t expand on how we know each other, and I’m grateful for that.
