Page 5 of Wrong Place Wrong Time

Kelly’s shoulders are tense. He stares at her, black hair everywhere, eyes sad like a poet’s.

‘I have no fucking idea.’

Jen gazes out of the windscreen at a bush glistening with middle-of-the-night autumnal dew. After a few seconds, she puts the car in reverse and drives, because she doesn’t know what else to do.

The pumpkin greets them on the windowsill as she parks up. She must have left the candle burning. Forensics have already arrived in their white suits, standing on their driveway like ghosts by the police tape that flutters in the October wind. The puddle of blood has begun to dry at the edges.

They’re let in, to their own fucking house, and they sit downstairs, watching the uniformed teams out front, some on their hands and knees doing fingertip searches of the crime scene. They say nothing at all, just hold hands in the silence. Kelly keeps his coat on.

Eventually, when the scene of crime officers have gone, and the police have searched and taken Todd’s things, Jen shifts on the sofa so that she’s lying down, and stares up at the ceiling. And that’s when the tears come. Hot and fast and wet. The tears for the future. And the tears for yesterday, and what she didn’t see coming.

Day Minus One, 08:00

Jen opens her eyes.

She must have come up to bed. And she must have slept. She doesn’t feel like she did either, but she’s in her bedroom, not on the sofa, and it’s now light outside beyond their slatted blinds.

She rolls on to her side. Say it isn’t true.

She blinks, staring at the empty bed. She’s alone. Kelly will already be up, making calls, she very much hopes.

Her clothes litter the bedroom floor as if she evaporated out of them. She steps over them, pulling on jeans and a plain rollneck jumper which makes her look truly enormous but that she loves anyway.

She ventures out on to the hallway, standing outside Todd’s empty room.

Her son. Spent the night in a police cell. She can’t think about how many more might await him.

Right. She can sort this. Jen is an excellent rescuer, has spent all of her life doing just that, and now it’s time to help her son.

She can figure this out.

Why did he do it?

Why did he have a knife with him? Who was the victim, this grown man her son has probably killed? Suddenly Jen can see little clues in Todd in the recent weeks and months. Moodiness. Weight loss. Secrecy. Things she had put down to teenagehood. Just two days ago, he had taken a call, out in the garden. When Jen had asked who it was, he told her it was none of her business, then threw the phone on to the sofa. It had bounced, once, then fallen to the floor, where they’d both looked at it. He had passed it off as a joke, but it hadn’t been, that small temper tantrum.

Jen stares and stares at the door to her son’s bedroom. How had she come to raise a murderer? Teenage rage. Knife crime. Gangs. Antifa. Which is it? Which hand have they been dealt?

She can’t hear Kelly at all. Halfway down the stairs, she glances out of the picture window, the window that she stood at only hours ago, the moment everything changed. It is still foggy.

She is surprised to see the road below bears no stains – the rain and the mist must have washed the blood away. The police have moved on. The police tape has gone.

She glances up the street, the edges peppered with trees ablaze with crunchy autumn leaves. But something is strange about what she sees. She can’t work out what. It must just be the memories of last night. Rendering the view sinister, somehow. Slightly off.

She hurries downstairs, through their wooden-floored hallway and into the kitchen. It smells of last night in here, before anything happened. Food, candles. Normality.

She hears a voice, right above her, a deep male register. Kelly. She looks at the ceiling, confused. He must be in Todd’s room. Searching it, probably. She understands that impulse entirely. The urge to find what the police couldn’t.

‘Kell?’ she calls out, running back up the stairs, out of breath by the time she reaches the top. ‘We need to get on – which solicitor we should –’

‘Three score and Jen!’ a voice says. It comes from Todd’s room and is unmistakably her son’s. Jen takes a step back so massive it makes her stumble at the top of the stairs.

And she’s not imagining it: Todd emerges from the confines of his room, wearing a black T-shirt which says Science Guy on it, and jogging bottoms. He has clearly just woken, and squints down at her, his pale face the only light in the darkness. ‘We haven’t done that one yet,’ he says with a dimpled grin. ‘I even – I must confess – went on a pun website.’

Jen can only gape at him. Her son, the killer. There is no blood on his hands. No murderous expression on his face, and yet.

‘What?’ she says. ‘How are you here?’

‘Huh?’ He really does look just the same as he did. Even in her confusion, Jen is curious. Same blue eyes. Same tousled, black hair. Same tall, slim frame. But he’s committed an unforgivable act. Unforgivable to everyone, except maybe her.

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