Page 81 of The Perfect Son
It happens all at once. The crunch of feet on gravel and my mind blanking—the shopping list gone. I drop the towel and turn toward the house and there he is—the man—walking, no, striding toward me.
I gasp.
Fear presses down so fast and so hard that my legs buckle and I almost fall. I right myself at the last second and scramble back,thankful Jamie is playing up in his room and not in the tree house. The man is in different clothes today—a white short-sleeved shirt and suit trousers—but he is still the person with pale sagging skin and thin greasy hair who chased me on the cobbled street, the same man I saw on the lane waiting for me.
“Mrs. Clarke?” he says.
“What... what do you want?” My chest hitches so my words come out in a whispered inhale.
Color seems to drain from his face and his skin is now almost translucent in the sunshine. “I wanted to talk to you.”
I sidestep around the washing line, adding a barrier between us, even if it is just a few towels.
Fight or flight? Flight. I could make a run for it, along the side of the house and around to the garage and the driveway, get to the lane, get help. Except he’d simply go back the way he came and get there first, and who’s to say there would be help coming anyway.
The side door is open and my phone is in the kitchen. Even if I ran and made it, he could go right inside and grab Jamie.
Fight. My eyes drop to the lawn, searching for a spade or a trowel, anything in fact that I can use as a weapon, but there’s nothing.
“Mrs. Clarke? Tess, can I call you that?”
“I told you on the phone, I don’t know what Mark was working on. I don’t have whatever it is you want.”
He frowns and rubs a hand against his cheek. “Sorry. I don’t understand. We’ve never spoken on the phone.”
“Yes we have. You left that vile message on my answerphone and we... we spoke last week, or the week before.” I can’t remember the day now, only the fear. Why is he pretending not to know?
The muscles in my shoulders pull taut, my hands bunch into two tight fists. Fight.
“Leave,” I screech. “Get away from me. I’m going to call the police.” The anger erupts—hot lava into my blood. I grit my teeth and feel the heat flood my body. “LEAVE,” I scream again.
“I can’t do that,” he says, shaking his head and causing two lines of tears to fall from his eyes. “I’m sorry, but I have to talk to you.”
There’s a pause. Me hunched forward, panting, ready to fight for my life and Jamie’s too, and him, shoulders heaving up and down as more tears break free.
“What do you want?” I ask again, the anger fizzling just a touch, just enough for his mumbled Birmingham accent to register in my thoughts.
I am absolutely certain that this man in my garden followed me in Manningtree. I am absolutely certain that this is the same man I saw standing on the lane waiting for me. But all of a sudden I’m not so sure he is the same person on the phone who called me Tessie.
The man seems to crumble then as if his bones have disintegrated inside and there is nothing to keep him upright. He drops forward, hands on knees, crying loudly. I could run right past him and into the house, lock the door, call the police, and I don’t think he’d notice.
But I can’t keep running from him, from everything, or it will never stop.
“What’s your name?” I ask, taking a step closer.
“Richard Welkin,” he says, drawing in a shuddering breath. He looks up and seems to realize he’s sitting on the ground. “I’m so sorry, I... I work at the airline.” He swallows, his Adam’s apple jutting out.
“Oh.” This doesn’t make any sense.
“Could I speak to you for a moment, please?”
“Out here,” I say. “You have to stay right where you are. I’m going to go into the kitchen and get my phone. I’m going to dial 999, and if you move or say anything I don’t like, I’m going to press send.”
He nods and something like relief seems to settle on his face.
I wait another moment and then I run toward the house, keeping my distance as I go past him, just in case this is all a trick, a way to lure me close enough to grab. He doesn’t move though, and when I reach the nook, I slam the side door closed behind me and bolt the door.
The smell of burned chocolate fills the air and I remember the cakes. I pull them out and rest them on the hob. There’s a dusting of black on the top of the sponge and they’re both slanting where they’ve risen wonky in the oven. But I think they’ll be salvageable if I trim off the tops.
