Page 78 of The Perfect Son
A hysteria grips my body, my mind blanks, my foot slams the accelerator. My little car gives a whining strain, lurching forward before picking up speed and flying along the road. The 4x4 is keeping pace just inches behind me, the full beams of his headlights blaring straight through my windscreen and lighting the road ahead better than my own could ever do.
I ignore the road sign warning me to slow down—sharp turn ahead—and take the corner into the village too quickly. My wheels skid on the wet road, sending me careering into the path of a car driving on the other side of the road. I brake hard, scrunching my eyes shut as my body yanks against the seat belt. The engine grinds, then stalls.
A horn blast fills the air, from the 4x4 or the car in front, I don’t know. I open my eyes and blink in the sudden darkness. I twist around and check on Jamie. He’s rubbing his eyes, stunned and sleepy but not hurt. I stare into the dark rearview window. The 4x4 is gone. The road behind me is empty.
The car in front reverses back a meter before maneuvering around me. As it draws level a woman buzzes down her window and I think she’s going to check that I’m OK but instead she shouts, “You stupid cow. You could’ve killed us both if I’d been five seconds further up the road.”
Tears are blurring my vision. I want to tell her about the monster trying to run me off the road, but my mouth is flailing silently and she pulls away with an angry shake of her head before I can find my voice.
“What happened, Mummy?” Jamie asks. His voice sounds young and sleepy and makes my chest ache.
“Nothing, baby. I gave myself a fright, that’s all. We’re in the village. We’ll be home in a minute,” I reply, restarting the car and driving slowly away.
—
Later, when the sand has been washed away and Jamie is absorbed in the PlayStation, I dial the 0800 number on your life insurance policy and tell them you’ve died.
What happened on the drive home was a warning.
If I can’t find whatever it is that the man wants, then maybe he’ll accept money instead. He can have it all. I have to keep Jamie safe.
I add the time and date to my notebook and write:Chased by 4x4. Land Rover?
I’m skimming back through the pages when a message buzzes on my phone. It’s Shelley:Did you get home OK?
My blood runs cold and I shiver. Five words. A concerned friend asking an innocent question, except where is the energy that seeps out of her usual texts in the same way it seeps out of her? The—Thanks for a great day, I’m shattered!
I picture Shelley’s face as she stared at Jamie and me on the beach. I thought it was sadness, I thought she was thinking of Dylan, but now that I’m looking back, could it have been jealousy?
I scrawl Shelley’s name down beside the wordsLand Roverand slowly connect the two with an arrow.
CHAPTER 49
IAN
I was having drinks with friends on Saturday the thirty-first. It was a birthday celebration. Like I said, I had no reason to want to scare Tess, and there are a lot of Land Rovers in this part of the world. I really think you need to be speaking to Shelley about this, not me.
SHELLEY
I really wish Tess had confided in me about the other things that were going on—the threats and the car chasing her. Maybe I’d have done something sooner and we wouldn’t be sitting here.
I knew something was wrong that day at the beach. I should’ve done something about it right then and there, but the storm came in so quick and then I think I convinced myself I was mistaken. I was going through a difficult time as well, which didn’t help. My marriage wasending and I wasn’t myself. The thing is—this is terrible—but I was jealous. I kept looking at the little magnet photo of Jamie and imagining it was Dylan, and I felt so connected to Jamie and to Tess, but I never meant for anyone to get hurt.
CHAPTER 50
Sunday, April 1
7 DAYS TO JAMIE’S BIRTHDAY
I’ve lost Jamie’s Liverpool F.C. shirt—the one we got him for Christmas that cost a fortune. He wore it for a week straight, remember? I had to sneak it out of his room after he’d fallen asleep and wash it overnight so he could wear it the next day.
And now I’ve lost it. It’s not in the wash basket. It’s not on the washing line. He’s not wearing it now.
I stare at his open wardrobe and riffle through his drawers but it’s not there.Maybe I’ve put it away with my clothes by accident,I think, heading to our bedroom and pulling open both doors of the wardrobe so I see not just my tops and the dresses I don’t wear anymore, but your things too. Your suits and shirts and the jumpers you like to hang up.
My feet feel suddenly rooted to the carpet as I gawp at your clothes. I’ll have to clear them out at some point, but not yet.
I keep staring, my eyes unable to pull away. Something isn’t right.There’s an empty space at the bottom of the wardrobe where you keep your walking boots, and an empty hanger too. I can’t see the gray Aran knitted jumper I bought you for your birthday in November.
