A happy child.

Every parent knows the world can be scary. Lawyer Jen Sutton knows it better than most. And she’ll go to any length to protect her son from what – and who – lies outside their front door.

A loving mother.

Some might say she’s being over-protective. But isn’t it a mother’s duty to protect her child from harm?

A family built on a lie.

Jen has kept her secrets safe. Until the postcard arrives, signed by the one person she hoped would never catch up with her… and her new case begins to feel a little too close to home.

One thing is clear: Jen has been found.

Now, she faces a choice. Run, and lose everything? Or fight – and risk her son discovering the truth.

Don’t Say a Word is the electrifying new psychological thriller from AL Bird, perfect for fans of CL Taylor and Sue Fortin.

Don’t Say a Word

A. L. Bird

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Epilogue

Copyright

A. L. BIRD

lives in London, where she divides her time between writing and working as a lawyer. In 2016, she released her major psychological thriller The Good Mother, and she returns to the genre with Don’t Say a Word. She has an MA in Creative Writing from Birkbeck, University of London, and is also an alumna of the Faber Academy ‘Writing a Novel’ course. Amy is a member of the Crime Writers’ Association. For updates on her writing follow her on Twitter, @ALBirdwriter.

I remain hugely grateful to everyone who has helped bring this novel – and those before it – into the world.

My long-time editor Clio Cornish, whose encouragement, honesty and insight gets those first drafts into shape; my stalwart agent Amanda Preston of LBA for those flashes of creative genius that can really draw a book together; my husband for tolerating all the late-night plot conundrums (and to both him and my son for providing the light outside the dark world of thrillers); to the bloggers and readers who cheered me on – who knew how much the occasional tweet could do for a writer’s day! – your support means so much to me. Thank you.

I’d also like to mention a couple of the many charities who do valuable and important work in the worlds where Jen finds herself: Centrepoint, who give homeless young people a future; and Refuge, who support women and children against domestic violence. This novel may impact readers’ minds – their work can save people’s lives.

Prologue

The doorbell rings. Josh runs towards it.

‘No, wait, sweetie, remember!’ I shout after him.

‘It’s fine, Mum, it’ll just be the postman!’

‘No, Josh, let me!’

I run up behind him. But he’s already taking off the chain, opening the door. Please let it be the postman.

Yes, it is. False alarm. I see the retreating uniform of a blue shirt and baseball cap. Stop, beating heart. Not every morning is a drama. I kiss Josh on the forehead.

‘OK, Josh, it was the postman. But next time it might not be, all right? So let me open the door.’

I lead us back to the kitchen to resume breakfast-making activities, musing at how, even in a situation like this one, ten-year-olds can find post so engrossing – no bills to pay, I guess.

But then I realize Josh isn’t following. I turn round.

His face is white.

‘You’ve got a postcard,’ he says. ‘From Chloe Brown.’

The peanut butter jar drops from my hand.

‘Josh, let me see.’

He hands me the postcard, wide-eyed.

Yes, there’s the name. Chloe Brown. Printed clearly, so there’s no mistaking it. The message just says: ‘See you soon.’

I turn over to the picture. It’s a small boy, on a bike. My stomach twists. I flip back to the name again. And that’s when I see. There’s a stamp, but no postmark. Where the postmark should be, it’s written: ‘By hand.’

‘Mum, I don’t think it was really the postman. I think it was …’ He trails off.

We both know who it was. And that Josh isn’t safe.

Chapter 1

TWO WEEKS EARLIER

This is me. I should probably stop telling myself this now. But those old habits, they’re tricky to shake, right?

Brush brush brush. This is me. Brush brush brush. Jen Sutton. Maybe I should focus on my teeth a bit more, less on the life reminders. Perhaps that would stop the hygienist telling me off – ‘You must brush near the gum, Ms Sutton. See how easily I can make your teeth bleed.’ If she knew how much trouble it had taken to register for that surgery, the time I had to wait, the rigmarole … Well, perhaps she wouldn’t be so gleeful when the blood oozes out. Just give me and Josh a sticker and get on with it.

‘Mum!’ There’s a yell from outside the bathroom. ‘Where’s my swimming stuff?’

Oh shit. Of course. Tuesday. Swimming.

Spit the toothpaste into the sink and jam my toothbrush into the jar next to Josh’s. Another win for the plaque.

‘I’ll just get it, sweetie!’

Quickly spritz on some scent. Then: swimming stuff, swimming stuff … I could berate Josh, tell him he should have reminded me, that he’s old enough now to sort it out for himself. But no. I’m not being that mother. Josh will feel secure and loved and nurtured always. And him being ten now, all it means is, ten years since … Well obviously. Then.

The woman I try not to think about.

Deep breath. It’s OK. She can’t get us here.

‘Mum! Are you coming?’

OK. Focus on the now. I think I washed the swim kit. Pretty sure I washed it.

‘Mum, you have got it, haven’t you? We’re going to be late. I’ve got to see Chris about the trains before the bell.’

‘It’s OK, I’ll give you a lift.’ Maybe he can explain what he means about trains when we’re in the car. Probably something else I’ve got to make. Sorry – help him make.

I take the opportunity to ruffle his hair as I come level with him – it looks so adorably curly this morning. Josh rolls his eyes at me and ducks slightly. ‘You always give me a lift. I don’t know why you pretend I might cycle there one day – on my own, shock horror!’

The search for the swimming trunks and towel (and oh, crap – goggles!) stops momentarily. Since when were ten-year-olds so wise? Does he see right through me? That every day there is some kind of excuse why I have to run him to school, not let him walk or ride the fifteen minutes with his friends?

But he doesn’t know why. It’s fine. That’s key. If he thinks I’m mad or overprotective or scatty, I’m OK with that. Normal boring-mum annoyance. Nothing more. And I love the routine. Every second spent with my son, at home, in the car. Why would I give that up? Even if spending time with him were the only factor.

I poke my head into Josh’s room, hoping (dreading) I might see a still-festering swim kit curled up on the floor.

Nope.

‘Mum, if I’m not there he’ll give the trains to someone else! Come on!’

Ah, sounds like I don’t need to make the trains then. Good.

‘It’s all right, Josh. Don’t panic.’

Living room/kitchen – sorry, studio area. No sign of towels or trunks.

Oh, hold on – there. What’s that on the radiator behind the sofa?

Trunks. Half off the radiator. Half dry. And therefore half wet. Damn it.

‘Right, here we go, Josh; there are your trunks. Let’s find the rest.’

‘But they’re wet!’

‘And so will you be when you get into the pool. Try not to worry. Three, two, one – goggles search!’

And we run round the flat waving our arms above our heads shouting, ‘Goggles, goggles, goggles!’ I’ve taught him that the best way to look for something that’s hiding in plain sight is just to shout as loud as you can. It’s sure to lure it out. Plus we have fun.

It works. A giggling Josh returns with goggles. I find a bag and a slightly damp towel hanging off the bike in the hall. Not perfect, but it will do.

We’re out the door, into the car, on our way. Josh gushes about why getting the spare Lego train that his friend has will be so life-changing. I didn’t even know spare Lego was a thing. But then, Josh at ten is so different from me at ten. Thank God. As often as I dare, I flick a glance at him in the rear-view mirror. His face is so beautiful. The cutest little freckle – just one – on his cheek. And how did his eyes get so brown? Like two lovely shiny conkers, when he’s happy. Which is most of the time.

I give what I hope is an imperceptible sigh of relief. I’ve done it for another morning. I’ve created an environment where the biggest crisis is some damp trunks, and I’m now ferrying him to a safe place where he has friends. With spare Lego. It must be within me, this mothering. Because I sure as hell didn’t get a good example. Examples. All those ‘mothers’. Just not the one I needed.

Anyway, look – school gates.

‘Look, look, there’s Chris, and he’s got the train!’

‘Have a nice day, Joshy!’

‘Mum, it’s Josh at school, OK – I’m ten, you know!’

But he returns my kiss before he jumps out of the car. I watch him as he runs up to a similarly aged boy, and they stand in serious, private conversation, like a couple of dealers. The goods swap hands. Someone honks a horn behind me. I’m double-parked again. But let them honk. If they knew, they would understand.

And now, to work. Again, a blessing. Because really, who’d have thought it?

Chapter 2

There’s a little car park in the courtyard behind our office. I was so pleased when I found that out. I didn’t know, when I came to interview. I had to get the bus. I couldn’t stand it. Waiting at the bus stop, I felt so vulnerable. Had I really left Chloe behind? What if one of Mick’s men spotted me?

Once the bus arrived, I would head straight for the back so that no one could sit behind me. Then I’d worry it would mean I couldn’t get off the bus quickly if someone saw me (proper me). So I’d dart from seat to seat. Bus driver must have thought I was mad. I thought I was mad. That it was all too much. They did tell me, when it all started, ‘You might find this a struggle.’ Masters of understatement.

So, yeah, it’s good there’s a car park. Good I was able to negotiate a car (not from work, from the other lot).

I check my make-up in the flip-down mirror. Good. Professional not-quite-lawyer. Haven’t achieved eye liner. Don’t think I ever have since Josh was born. Really wasn’t a priority early on – you reassess. Besides. I think I used a lifetime of it back then. Me at ten – vamping it up in a park with some White Lightning. Josh – well, you know, you saw him. He thinks parks are for feeding ducks and sliding on zip-wires.

Fluff my hair up – rocking the sharp blonde bob, if I do say so myself. Should probably take the sunglasses off the top of it for the office though, cool as they look. The usual earrings, silver more tarnished than sparkling. I should upgrade them. But they were from Mum. They’ve survived enough attempts at being torn out in anger, over the years. Now, they’re staying. Even though I had to go.

Oh, but look! Toothpaste on my jacket. Shit. I spit on my finger and rub at the stain. It gets worse. Bugger. Right, let’s hope no one wants to meet with me today – the jacket’s coming off. It’s not the Eighties, anyway. As much as I like the armour, I don’t have to power dress every day: Luton’s best legal executive doesn’t need shoulder pads. Sorry. Lu’on’s best. Drop the t. Do the glottal stop. It means fewer questions. Don’t need to do the whole ‘We lived in Leeds’ routine. Again.

I ditch my jacket. It exposes the fragile cotton threads of the friendship bracelet Josh made for me when he was seven. Blue, white, and red. I’ve safeguarded it like the most expensive Rolex – and for me, it’s as much of a status symbol. If anyone wants to mock it, let them. I grab my bag and jump out of the car.

I run straight into Tim, the firm’s newest partner.

‘Jen!’

‘Sorry, Tim. Sorry. I didn’t see you.’

‘Ah, I move silently – appear when you least expect it.’

Something about the way he says that gives me a little shiver. I wish I had my jacket with me again.

But the moment goes, because he carries on talking.

‘I wanted to see you, actually, Jen. New case I need you to help me on. If you’ve got capacity?’

‘Great! Yeah, of course.’

‘Excellent. Let’s speak later. It’s almost made for you.’

I nod. ‘Perfect.’ Of course it’s made for me. Because it’s bound to involve some crappy admin running around, which is what they all think is made for me. Even new hires, like Tim. Perfect. Thanks so much …

He holds the back door open and gestures for me to go inside.

I half-curtsey a ‘thanks’ and duck into the building.

One of my safe havens.

It has been, for the last four years. Thanks to Bill, the head of the firm. He knows, of course. Some of it, anyway. Trustworthy lawyer. They thought it was fine to tell him. Said he wouldn’t tell anyone else. I was against it (of course). I didn’t like that when I looked into his eyes he was seeing two of me. And judging me, probably. Thinking I’d done things that I hadn’t. But. I didn’t have any other choices, did I? If I wanted to do something with the college diploma I’d clawed to achieve. Even if ninety-nine per cent of the time it is the less-than-perfect crummy admin jobs none of the ‘real’ lawyers want to do.

Sheila – Bill and Tim’s PA – waves good morning to me. ‘All right, love?’

I wave back. ‘Good thanks. You want a coffee?’

She gives me a thumbs-up. ‘You’re a star!’

So I move to dump my bag at my desk. But then Tim speaks again. I jump. I didn’t realize he was still there.

‘Another thing, Jen,’ he says. His voice is low. ‘Keep this new matter between us, OK? Very confidential. I’ll explain why later.’ I nod. Of course. I feel a little thrill. Lawyers are always obsessed by confidentiality, so for it to be extra confidential – well, that’s got to mean it’s exciting. And it’s good to be trusted. ‘If you need to speak to someone, you can talk to Daniel Farley. I’ve instructed him.’ Tim winks and walks to his office.

I go to my desk, head down. Can anyone see the colour that must be rising in my cheeks? Tim winked – he’s new, but does he know about the Daniel incident? He can’t do, surely. The firm always instructs Daniel when it needs a barrister, at least since I’ve been here. The wink wasn’t a reference to any incident, it was just … A wink.

Not that there was an incident. Not really. Just a crush. Which might be mutual. We almost went for a drink. Until I stood him up. But it’s the nearest I’ve had to a date since the man we don’t mention.

Chapter 3

Two spoons coffee, no sugar, for Bill. One teabag, dash of sweetener for –

‘Jen.’

That voice! I start, and the whole sweetener pack goes in Sheila’s tea.

The one downside of working here: Lucy Caxton.

Applying my smile, I turn round.

‘Morning, Lucy.’

‘Getting straight to the important jobs I see,’ she says, gesturing to the cups in front of me. ‘I left you a voice message. Didn’t you see the flashing light?’ She puts down her own cup. Yeah, that figures. She’s allowed time to make tea. One rule for her, another for me. I know that type well.

‘Sorry, Lucy.’ If there’s one thing I’ve learnt, you don’t answer back. You can shout and rail internally. But it doesn’t help anyone to be mouthy. ‘The team needed their caffeine, but I’ll get right on it.’

‘OK, well it’s urgent, so maybe get that kettle boiling.’

It’s literally just about to boil. She can hear it. Unless that’s just the steam mounting in my head? Nope, nope, there’s the click. The pressure’s off. Allegedly.

‘Ah, there we are,’ I say. Forced jollity. Turning the old trick. So they won’t know what’s underneath.

‘Well then, mine’s a tea, white, none. Call me when you get to your desk.’

And she leaves me her cup. Christ, she’s led a sheltered life. If you’ve had all kind of shit – yes, actually, shit – mixed in your drinks over the years (ha, ha, yeah, really funny, now fuck off) then you wouldn’t be Miss Prissy Bitch to someone then expect a standard cuppa. But then that’s her whole fucking problem. No compassion. One of those people – walks past on the other side, says the State should help and then goes into Starbucks for her frappe-latta-cappa, then complains about being overcharged. Fucking hell.

I need to boil more water.

Come on. New Jen. New Jen doesn’t stand in kitchens grasping cups so hard they might crack. She doesn’t rail against well-dressed women in authority. She smiles; she makes tea; she gets to her desk. She does not swear. The day does its thing; she does hers. And Josh gets safely collected at the end of it.

So I dispatch the tea. I almost bow when I drop off Lucy’s (better than pouring it on her, I guess). ‘I’ll be right with you, as soon as I’ve listened to that message.’

‘What, Jen, you haven’t done that yet? Oh, don’t bother. I might as well just tell you. Sit here.’

And she pulls her pashmina-covered oversized handbag from the chair by her desk.

I don’t have a notebook. I am carrying coffee (for myself and one other). The obvious thing to do is to ask her to give me a minute.

‘Lucy, could I possibly …’

‘Jen, what’s with you today? You’re unfocused. Do I need to talk to Bill?’

No, of course not. Of course she doesn’t need to speak to Bill. Of course, I will sit here.

I wish there was a room I could slam upstairs to. Refuse to come down. Until I’m shipped off somewhere else.

But I don’t have that luxury.

So I sit.

‘I need two land transfer forms this morning. One …’

And on we go. Minus pen and paper, I work hard to remember the details. Which I can do. It’s details I’ve always been good on. That’s how I got where I am. And he got – where he is.

***

Finally, mid-morning, I reach my own desk. The light on my phone still flashes. If that light thinks it’s going to annoy me into listening to Lucy’s recorded voice, it’s very wrong. I sip my cold coffee. Not ideal but I’ll tough it out. Hah! Emails, forms, emails, forms. The day goes on. Roll on Tim’s new case. I can’t be Ms Motivation every day.

Lunch finally comes and I sneak out via the staircase, avoiding Lucy’s desk. I’m nearly done with those forms but my stomach’s needs are greater. And my brain’s. When you need a walk, you need a walk. I used to tell them that, back when I was a teenager. They didn’t get it, or pretended not to, stupid sods. ‘She’s gone AWOL again’, they said. ‘Fuck you,’ I said, when I finally returned. Another black mark. Another step further from adoption.

Outside the air is – well, it’s Luton (Lu’on) isn’t it? So the air is a mix of traffic, plane, and curry fumes. An aircraft roars overhead, a call to prayer summons from a mosque, and the buses honk like the drivers don’t actually want to run over pedestrians.

The great big pink M of the shopping mall is what draws me, though. Infinite choice, self-creation. I don’t buy any of it. Money is still tight. I don’t get anything, over and above the job. You’d think I would, but I don’t. I can still look though, right? Have a bit of a break? Try to get Jen back on track?

I browse in the window of Oasis. I’m only twenty-nine. I can still do High Street. Remember Chloe ‘doing’ the high street all those years ago – brazenly picking up what she fancied then walking out the shop. Without paying. No prosecutions, once the tales of the ‘difficult history’ got out; she just couldn’t go back to that shop. Sometimes she got to keep the clothes, though. Should have been shopping with Mum instead. Hah.

Now, the pinks and lilacs waft in a window fan, part of an elaborate window display designed to make you feel like the most stylish, most feminine of women. I could be that person. Maybe I am that person. Just without those clothes. My eye strays to some kids’ clothes in the next-door window. There’s a cute beanie hat that would suit Josh completely. It can’t be too expensive – I should pop in and get it.

Then I realize I am not the only one looking in the window.

There’s a woman. But not just any woman. She has wild curly black hair. Chloe hair.

Instantly I go small. You know – shoulders and upper arms clench in, head goes down. Feet wriggle closer together, but ready to make a run if need be.

Stupid, Jen. It’s just a woman, looking in the window of a shop. In a busy lunch hour. Over-ride the instinct. Be New Jen.

So I flick my eyes back to the window reflection.

And the woman is gone.

I’m seeing ghosts. It’s just me.

Or fucking hell, poltergeists, the amount of a flying shitstorm there’d be if –

If anything that went on in my paranoid world was real.

I give myself a moment. Breathe. Think of Josh. Then I abandon Oasis. Rush to Boots, buy one of their meal deal things, then back to the office. I can eat at my desk with BBC News. Today is obviously a day to be inside. I know it’s a safe zone at work. Even Lucy, bitch that she is, doesn’t pose any real danger. Fuck it, Luton is a safe zone (if you steer clear of the estates, and those crazy pro/anti burqa rallies).

But I can’t help looking over my shoulder as I scurry back to the office. I haven’t sensed danger for months. So why now?

Chapter 4

I eat lunch over the BBC website. No, not catching up on Strictly or some reality shit nonsense (not shit, Jen – just reality nonsense. Come on, Jen. Think nicely; speak nicely). I’m all about the news. When something like that happens, when I’m spooked. If I’m sure as I’ll ever be there’s no one hovering behind me, I’ll flick onto the Doncaster Star site for some news from my old locale. Just in case, you know. In case there’s something about me. Or something about her. About Chloe.

But of course there’s nothing on the news. On the BBC, it’s the usual ‘delete as applicable’ news story. The pound is weak/strong/middling. Europe is in crisis/celebration/despair. Unemployment is up/down/static. A life is over/lost/saved. Refugees fleeing from a brutal regime/a natural disaster/economic meltdown are welcome/unwelcome/feared. Or from the local news special, the ladies are getting drunk at the races again. That’s the problem with Donnie. Too much glitz and glamour. About as much as Luton.

Nothing doing. I am not the centre of the universe. The websites don’t, in fact, contain any headlines pertinent to me, or anything about Chloe. Which is good, right?

I still gag on my tuna sandwiches, though. What was I thinking when I chose these?

See, Jen, this is the real-world impact of your crazy single mum paranoia. Dodgy lunch and fishy breath. Josh is going to love that kiss on the cheek later.

I chuck the sandwich, half-eaten, in the bin, and minimize the websites. Time to be intellectually curious about the work I’m actually meant to do. That’s how I got the job. ‘She’s bright,’ Bill was told. Which is basically code for ‘She knows fuck all, but she’s had a tough time, and she can string a sentence together, so cut her some slack.’

She knows nowt, not ‘fuck all.’ Cut the swearing, even in your mind, Jen – what you don’t think, you won’t say; give the game away. Crap, but ‘nowt’s’ wrong too. Too Yorkshire. ‘She knows nothing.’ Finally.

Except I do. I know stuff. I know more stuff about their fucking legal system, the wrong side of it, than all the ones who’ve grown up in suits. The stuff you can’t learn from books. So don’t put me on fucking conveyancing files … Christ, what a waste. Yeah, I looked at property law in my diploma but, I’m sorry, it’s puddle dull, and anyone with a printer, some coloured pens, and the one brain cell you need to fill out a form can do it. Yes, that means you, Lucy.

For those of us with a bit of life experience – family and criminal law. They’re what make sense. They’re what matter. If you’re working for the defence of course. Or the mothers. Some of them are fucking toerags. But I tell you – nine times out of ten they are not as bad as the fathers.

Unless the crack’s got them. Or worse, heroin.

But anyway, it’s better than some rich twat who’s got sick of one house and wants another one, just down the road.

Not stuck in a flat spitting distance from Marsh Farm estate with no real hope of moving away from the spectre of your son getting caught up in the same type of gang that got us there in the first place. Whether they’re boys or men or desexed junkies they’re all the same, wherever you go. And they beat their women. No fucking doubt. And no one gives a shit.

So. Yeah. Maybe with Tim’s case I can help someone.

I can’t fill in this form so angry. I’ll do voicemail instead. I stick the Bluetooth headset on and tap some buttons.

Yes, there’s Lucy, from earlier: ‘Oh, my form, oh it’s so urgent – oh, oh, oh.’

Delete.

Another one. Bill. OK. Take that one more seriously. Wants me to come with him to a meeting at 3 p.m. to make a note. My stomach tightens slightly. Then it relaxes – Bill says he knows it’s close to school pick-up time, but he promises it will be short. Lovely Bill. I’m lucky to have a boss like him. I sit up straighter in my chair. This is what it’s about, Jen. Not Lucy. It’s about doing well for Bill, and getting out on time for Josh. So behave.

Next new message.

Oh. Wow. Now that’s something I didn’t expect.

Daniel.

‘Hey … Jen. Um, yeah I was hoping not to get voicemail … So Tim tells me you’re working on this case. Give me a call. I’m around, unless the clerks chuck a bail hearing at me last minute. Would be good to speak. OK, well, hopefully chat later. Bye.’

You wouldn’t think this guy earns his money from standing on his feet, wooing judges. Was that a hint of a stutter?

I replay the message. Obviously just to check for stuttering. Not because I want to check his voice again or analyse the tone.

Oh, lovely Daniel. I can picture him now. In fact yes, I can – I pull up his profile shot on his chambers’ website.

He’s younger then – when he first got called to the bar, I bet. Clean-shaven still, not yet the confident permissive stubble of a man who’s made it. No empathy lines round the eyes yet, or mouth. But all the good signs in that smile and frank gaze that they will appear. Brown hair that is just brown – no coppers or goldens or anything fancy like that. Not a posh twat, Daniel. Lawyerly, yes. Decent, polite, yes. Well spoken, true – doesn’t drop the ‘t’ in Luton. But he went to his local comp like the rest of us. He mentions that, on the site. No names, but we get the message: normality. Not some private-school tosser.

But why is he calling? The case, yes, but I haven’t even had a briefing from Tim yet.

Could it be personal?

I should call him. Or is that going to be too awkward? Damn it. Bloody Tim not telling me more about the case – or I could fall back on that. Maybe I should wait until I’ve spoken to Tim?

But it would be good, wouldn’t it, after the window scare of lunchtime to hear a safe voice. An almost-friend voice? The voice of someone to whom I came very close to disclosing some of my shit. Too close. I had to rein it back.

I listen to the message again, then hit ‘call this sender’ before I can rethink it.

‘Earl Court Chambers?’ says a voice.

Oh. Of course. The clerks, not a direct dial.

‘Hi. It’s Jen Sutton from Rotham Wyatt. Is Daniel Farley around?’

‘Jen, good to hear from you. Dan’s been missing you!’

Oh good, so there’s clerks’ room gossip about us. Over nothing. How nice.

‘Ha, yes, well, the feeling’s mutual.’ Can’t explain it’s because of the case, I guess, if it’s so secret.

‘Let me put you through to Dan.’

There’s a silence, out of which emerges some Mozarty stuff. Then a voice.

‘Jen, hi!’

‘Hi, Daniel.’

Silence.

‘So I got your –’

‘I left you a –’

Over-keen laughter as we each start then stop sentences simultaneously. I can see that happening for the whole phone call.

‘You go,’ I tell Daniel. ‘You know why you were calling.’

‘Sure, fine,’ he says. He doesn’t sound fine. He sounds strangled, choked. Then he lets a bit of breath out. ‘Listen, Jen – I just wanted to say, really looking forward to working with you again. I know there was a bit of …’

He stumbles. I catch him.

‘Stuff?’ I say.

‘OK, yeah. Stuff. There was a bit of “stuff” last time but don’t worry about it, OK. I’m genuinely looking forward to working with you again.’

Me too, I think. But I don’t fill the silence, in case there are more words to come.

More silence.

‘OK, well anyway,’ he continues, ‘this case looks like a really intense one. I don’t know if you’ve seen the exhibits file yet. It’s –’

‘I’m looking forward to working with you, too, Daniel.’

There’s another pause. A baby pause.

‘Thanks, Jen.’ His voice is softer now. Less manic. ‘I’m glad.’

‘We’ll speak soon, OK? On the case.’

‘Yes, on the case.’

I want to say: ‘And on more “stuff” too.’ But I don’t.

‘Bye, then,’ I say instead.

‘Bye.’

We hang up.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. It’s times like this I wish it wasn’t so tricky being me. That I could simply have ended the call by suggesting a drink. It’s not just the childcare angle. It’s the caring for my child. The guard goes down slowly, slowly, slowly. Otherwise how do you know who you can trust?

Chapter 5

‘This is for you.’

With a thud, something lands on my desk.

I look up. A file. The cover is blank. Above the file, Tim.

This must be what Daniel was talking about.

I open the file up, and just get to see a sheet saying ‘The Crown v Rhea Stevens. Exhibits’, before Tim closes the cover again.

‘Have a flick through this,’ Tim tells me, his voice quiet, low. There’s no one around my desk (he’s chosen his moment well, if he’s that fussed about secrecy) but he’s still cautious. ‘Good to go in cold, before I’ve given you the background. Then when we chat you can tell me what you make of it. What you think it’s best to do. I’d really value your opinion – fresh pair of eyes, and all that.’

‘Sure, thanks,’ I say. I stroke the cover. Daniel is reading this too.

Snap out if it, you daft girl. You’ve not even kissed him; you can’t go soppy for him. Focus on the professional side. Someone giving a damn about my opinion for a change, not just looking at me with a sad face like Bill – give the girl a chance, but no proper work.

‘Watch out for the photo at page 5,’ he mutters. ‘It’s a shocker. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

He walks off.

I can’t not open the file now.

And there it is. Straight away.

The old world.

A single wrap of cocaine on a dusty floor.

I slam the file shut.

I close my eyes.

I try to dispel the image.

But I can’t. Because that’s all it took, that time. Well, almost all. That and another nineteen wraps like it.

And the promise of more.

I need some, oh what do I need – air. That’s it. Some air.

I push back my chair and head for the door.

I walk straight into Bill.

‘Oh, good. You’re ready for the meeting,’ he says.

Meeting? Oh. Of course. Note-taking. I dart back to my desk and grab my notebook.

‘Forgot this!’ I say, holding up my notebook. ‘Silly!’

I don’t think I can manage any more words without cracking in two.

Bill looks at me closely.

‘You all right, Jen? You’re a little pale.’

‘New face powder,’ I say. An old line, like they used to use. When it wasn’t the wraps.

‘Ah, fine – well, maybe back to the old one, hey? Golden Jen works best!’ He does an embarrassed laugh. Maybe he thinks I’m going to start talking about feminine hygiene products next.

We go into the meeting room. I slip into a seat next to Bill. He is nice and big and comforting. Like a dad. Not my dad, obviously. Even when he was alive. But Mr Typical Dad. A sturdy shoulder to cry on. To fly you up into the air in his strong arms and make you feel like you can defy gravity.

Perhaps I should just tell him. Perhaps I should have a quiet word and say: look, I can’t get involved in Tim’s case. I don’t know what it’s about but I looked at one picture and now it’s all I can do to stop my brain flashing back there. Back to her. Back to him.

But then, even Bill wouldn’t understand the reaction to that single wrap. Nobody could. Except me and my conscience. Not that I did anything wrong. You’d have done the same in my situation. Or at least, you should have done, if you didn’t want to end up dead.

So, no. We don’t tell Bill. We hold our pen nicely and we mechanically take some notes. And we – from the corner of one eye – look at the clock while it ticks all the way round to when I can go collect Josh. He’ll make everything better. He always does.

The clock is ticking too fast, though. They’re still in mid-meeting flow, and it’s already 3.30. I have to leave 3.40 to get there for 4 if I want a parking space, 3.45 if I just want to double-park and grab. Later than that, and he’s hanging around the school gates, thinking something is more important to me than him. Or ready for someone else to grab.

I start shifting around in my seat. Then a flick of the wrist to look at my watch: 3.31. If only I were more important to these men. Then I could say, ‘OK, let’s be wrapping up now.’

Oh. Unfortunate language.

Come on, Bill.

Still they drone on. Bank transfer, signature, guarantor. Yadda yadda yadda. I need to pick up my son. Is this what it’s like for every mother, or is it just me, with my special considerations?

Can I just go? Can I simply duck out of the room and hope Bill will remember why? That he’ll start to write his own notes? He knows why I have to be at those gates. He knows why I can’t leave Josh waiting. He knows there’s a just in case to end all just in cases. All the fear: Chloe fear; Mick fear; unnamed accomplice fear.

Then, rescue.

In the form of Lucy. Bizarrely.

She’s sticking her head round the door of the meeting room.

‘Sorry to interrupt, Bill. May I borrow Jen? It’s rather urgent.’

Is it? Has she shown sudden compassion and memory about my pick-up times?

Oh fuck.

The Land Transfer forms.

Lucy gets Bill’s best subtle unimpressed look. I’m allowed to share in it. Crap. Crap crap crap.

‘Yes, of course, Lucy. Send in Sheila, will you? She can carry on note-taking.’

I leave the room with as much dignity as I can muster. I know I’m in for a major bollocking now. Well stuff it. She’ll just have to have her forms tomorrow. It’s 3.35 at least by now.

When I’m out of the room, Lucy strides ahead of me until we’re out of earshot of the meeting room. Then it’s blast-off.

‘Well, Jen, where are the forms? I’m assuming you’ve done them? You know I have to send them over by 4 p.m.?’

Silence as I try to rally my brain. With the lunchtime window scare, the Dan call, the drugs picture – I just forgot. I clean forgot.

‘I’m waiting, Jen.’

She’s actually tapping her foot. Oh God this takes me back to all those kitchens, hallways, lobbies – holding chambers for frustration of adults at fucked-up children.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

I wait for the response.

‘Sorry isn’t good enough.’

Yep, there it is.

I give a little shrug.

‘Have you done anything on the forms at all?’

‘I’ve started, but –’

‘Well finish now then!’

That is a shout. She is definitely shouting.

I look at my watch.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Jen, do you have to be somewhere?’

‘I have to collect my son,’ I tell her.

‘You should have thought about that before,’ she tells me.

Yep, yep, I should have thought about that before. Before I swore at my new foster dad (then wanted to stay). Before I threw the key of my new children’s-home room into the River Don (then wanted to get my phone). Before I grabbed my bags and told them all I was leaving (but didn’t have any money).

But now I’m a grown-up. Now I get a say.

‘Look, Lucy. It’s nearly 4 p.m. now. You won’t get the forms over before then, even if I stay. This transaction’s been going on for months. Why don’t you call the other side and explain it’s being pushed back one more day? I need to collect my son.’

I make to walk to my desk.

Lucy grabs my arm.

I recoil immediately.

‘Jennifer Sutton, don’t you dare speak to me like that! Put back my transaction I’ve been working on for months because you couldn’t be bothered to do your work? Your son can wait at the gates like everyone else. Or get his dad to pick him up. Or a friend or something?’

‘His father doesn’t pick him up,’ I say. I could say so much more. But that means enough in itself.

‘Look, don’t bother me with your domestic arrangements. You get to that desk, you do your work, or I’m taking you straight back into that meeting room and getting you fired this instant.’

Suddenly a male voice chips in.

‘Lucy, a word?’ It’s Tim.

Lucy wheels round to face him. ‘What?’ she snaps.

If it occurs to Lucy she needs to adjust her tone to speak to a fellow partner, she doesn’t show it. If anything, her eyes narrow.

‘Thought I ought to mention it’s entirely my fault Jen hasn’t done those forms. She was working on something for me, which I asked her to prioritize. She’s just too polite to mention it. Isn’t that right, Jen?’ I nod, mutely. Tim is dignified, reassuring. Lucy is even redder than she was.

‘You asked her to prioritize, without speaking to me?’

Tim lays out his hands and shrugs. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Lucy. Perhaps I haven’t quite worked out the etiquette here. But look, I couldn’t help overhear that Jen needs to pick up her son. Perhaps she could do your work tomorrow?’

‘I do need to pick up my son, Lucy,’ I add.

‘Right, come on then – in to see Bill. Then see what happens about your precious son.’

She’s right. I need this job. I need the money for some decent clothes for Josh. The Lego. The security, the food, the role model. I cannot sit at home on the dole. After all this, I cannot do that. To him. To me. I look at the clock: 3.50. Fuck.

She’s marching me closer to Bill’s meeting.

‘Wait, Lucy. Wait. I’ll stay. I’ll work fast – and accurately – and I’ll get it done. OK?’

I’ll be fifteen minutes late. He’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. Do not let paranoia destroy you.

Tim chips in again. ‘I’m sure she’ll manage it. Jen seems very diligent.’

I wrestle my arm free from Lucy’s and stand facing her a moment. She glares at me and Tim.

‘Fine. But I am not forgetting this, Jennifer. Do you hear me?’

‘I hear you.’

Back at my desk, I want to call the school, tell them to get him inside. But Lucy is watching me. Of course she is. And Tim has gone back to his office. I have to get on with it.

OK. Open up the form.

Right now, he’ll be packing up his bag. Thinking about seeing me.

Which of these stupid pull-down menus is it? Right, that one.

Now he’ll be dawdling on the school steps with his friends, reliving the day’s events.

Why can’t I just free-fill this little box? What do the xxxxs want me to type in that I’m not typing? Fuck.

Approaching the gate. Looking with casual certainty, knowing I’ll be there.

Have I even saved this? No, it’s still the template. Fuck.

And now he’s seeing I’m not there. Double-checking. Looking again.

I have never not been there.

Here we go, here we go, final box to fill. Oh shit, what’s the name of the transferee? Is it Suggs or Sugg?

So now he’s having that tightening feeling all over him – the signal from the brain that starts with the shoulder slump, goes to the dropped head, finally works its way to the straightening up again of the back with a defiant ‘OK, so I’m not wanted – I can deal with that.’ But he should never, never have to deal with that.

Here we go, done – email and print, email and print.

Besides which, there are people who want him. People/person, he/she, I don’t know. They shouldn’t be able to. But what if, what if, what if? What if I get there and it’s too late? It will be too late then for ever and ever and ever.

The cocking printer isn’t working! I will not lose my son because of the printer! Paper, it wants paper. Here we go then, have the bloody paper; fill your boots.

Race round to Lucy.

‘Here we are, Lucy. Sorry about that. I’ve checked them through. They’re fine. OK?’

I’m mentally searching my bag for the car keys. I can get them out then vroom, off to the school.

But Lucy is taking her time. She owns eternity. Come on!

‘I would have left a space here.’ She gestures to the form with her disgustingly lacquered nail. Do not make me redo it. ‘But I suppose it’s fine. Good. Right, you’d better go off to your lovely son. See you tomorrow!’

And now she’s beaming at me! She’s fucking beaming at me! Like an abusive fucking boyfriend she’s done her bit, had her fun, landed her metaphorical fist and now she’s all considerate again. Like those fucking social workers once they’ve struggled through your ‘chaos’ to find a ‘solution’ and think they’ve saved the world.

But fuck that; fuck them. At least Tim tried to help, but I’m still late. Run to the desk, grab the handbag, pull out the keys (yes, they’re where I thought they were) and race to the car. There’s some note under the wiper but I haven’t got time to look at it now. Get in, and drive.

It’s 4.25 by the time I get to the gates. And Josh isn’t there.

Chapter 6

Scenarios, words to scream, numbers to call, flash through my mind.

I ditch the car behind a car that’s just pulling off, tail lights all red. Is he in that car? Should I be running shouting after it? No. There’s a little blonde head bobbing about in the back of it. No sign of Josh’s dark curls.

Jumping out of the car, I scan around for a sign of Josh. His schoolbag, a discarded shoe maybe. You always see a discarded shoe in these cases don’t you?

Oh come on, Jen. You’re over-reacting. He may well be safe and sound inside. No reason to suspect otherwise. No real reason.

But still my heart clutches at my lungs.

Up the school steps and open the door. Or rather, grasp the handle. There’s a code. Of course there is. And of course I don’t remember it, because I never usually have to come in. It’s stored on my phone. Which I left in the car. Shit. I buzz the buzzer. No response. Run back to the car, grab my bag with my phone in.

Precious seconds flash away. If he’s gone, he’ll be even further away now. I look up the code on my phone and tap it in. I pull open the door and I’m into the lobby area. Quiet. Empty. A few discarded bits of Lego. Signs of a gone Josh? Fuck Lucy. Fuck her. Fuck me. What’s a job compared to looking after Josh? Why am I even doing this? I don’t have to. He’s the most precious thing and now I don’t even know where he is.

I open a door off the lobby.

And there we have it. Noise. Children.

My child.

Sitting on a bench reading a book. Engrossed.

I run to him.

‘Josh!’

He looks up. Smiles.

‘Hey, Mum,’ he says.

There’s no reprimand. No complaint. Just acceptance.

Still, I need to explain.

‘I’m sorry I’m late, sweetie. I had to finish something up at work.’

I ruffle his hair. I’d forgotten how lovely it is. Even since this morning.

He shrugs. ‘No worries. Chris only just left. And this book is good – have you read it?’

He holds up something about a spy.

‘No,’ I tell him.

‘You should,’ he says.

‘Are there no teachers about?’ I ask him.

‘Mrs Morgan is here, but she’s just popped out. She said to say she’d be back.’

So, someone could just walk in here and –

‘Mrs Sutton?’

‘Ms,’ I say. It’s instinctive.

‘Of course, yes. I’m sorry.’

She lowers her eyes a little. She doesn’t know, you see. She has the same story as Josh.

‘I arrived a little late, and there was no one around,’ I tell her. ‘Anyone could walk in.’

I should soften it, but I care more about my child than her feelings.

The woman flinches. She’s not one of the young trendy teachers. She’s a grey-haired lifer with a big bosom and a cardigan. Cares about the children, but only so much. Knows what to do with a reprimand.

She draws herself up. ‘Well, they’d have to know the code, wouldn’t they, love?’

It’s true. And it’s true there are signs up saying: ‘Don’t hold the door open for anyone you don’t know’ (the kids must love abusing that). And it’s true that they know most of the parents by sight. But she’s aware, isn’t she, this Mrs Morgan, that in the real world doors get propped open when it’s hot. That ‘kind’ parents hold the door open for other parenty-looking types. That some men – and women – are great blaggers.

‘Got held up at work, did you?’ she says to me, in my pointed silence.

And there we have it. The blame squarely pinned back on me.

‘I couldn’t help it,’ I say. ‘One of my bosses wanted me to work on.’

‘I like to say the child is always the boss. They dictate what needs to be done. That’s what I told my daughter when she was thinking about going back to work.’

I want to smack Mrs Morgan in the face, but I doubt that will help for Josh’s 11-plus prep.

‘Are you my boss, Josh?’ I ask, turning to him.

He has his head in a book again. He looks up. ‘What?’

‘Never mind,’ I tell him. Best he doesn’t hear my mockery. I’m not sure who I’m attacking – Mrs Morgan, or myself. Or whether it sounded like Josh.

‘For the future, just so you know, Ms Sutton, we bring them through here after 4.15. Usually we let Josh stand by the gates – we watch from the window obviously – but if you’d like we can just keep him in here as a matter of course.’

‘I won’t be late again.’

‘No, of course you won’t, but if you are …?’

‘I won’t be.’ And I won’t, will I? It was just this once. I was distracted. Bitched. Daniel’s face, the photos of the wraps of crack, and Lucy’s snarling face flit into my vision.

No, this is Josh’s time.

‘Come on Josh,’ I say loudly. ‘Let’s go. We can get an ice cream on the way home, OK?’

Ice cream brings his head out of the book. ‘Yay!’ he says. It’s like he’s seven again – perpetually delighted by everything.

All that afternoon into evening we play. Aside from ice cream, there is Lego, chess, burping competitions, collaborative homework. Josh gets the best of my best self. When it’s time for bed, we nestle up together on his Lego Movie duvet cover (‘Everything is Awesome’ – yeah, sure it is), and read page and page aloud of his book.

For all that my mother didn’t teach me, one thing she did: the value of books as an escape tool. Tonight, every night, I’m passing on that lore. When it’s time to sleep, tonight (as every night) I don’t want to leave him, or turn out his light. I sit there a little while, until he gently nudges me away with his leg.

‘Night, Mum,’ he mumbles. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you too,’ I tell him. ‘Sweet dreams, Josh.’ I give that beautiful hair/forehead cusp a long kiss. I don’t let him see the tears in my eyes. He doesn’t yet understand all the reasons for crying. And I don’t want him to.

Josh settled, I fetch my customary glass of red wine (there are worse poisons) and pull some leftover potato salad from the fridge. I curl up with it on the sofa, then flick on the TV, softly, so as not to wake Josh. There’s a Jennifer Aniston film halfway through so I settle for that.

Jennifer Aniston at a wedding. Jennifer Aniston looking pretty. Jennifer Aniston with a boy. Good old Jen, out and about. Is that how people live? Do they really flit gorgeously from scene to scene with the only continuity being their subconscious pursuit of an honourable bachelor?

Maybe. Maybe there are people who always pursue and never give up. Chloe, for instance. Unless she really is done. Is that what all this ‘normality’ is that I’m playing at? Waiting to see if Chloe has finally left us alone? And if she has, whether I’ll ever get over my remorse at leaving her?

I change the channel. Some mating insects. Lovely.

I flick off the TV and eat my potato salad in silence.

I’m not sure this is living, really. Is it?

Should I, at twenty-nine, spend my evenings sitting quietly on the sofa, my only pastime respecting my son’s sleep? Unless you count tight-roping between guilt and fear a pastime – I should be a circus act.

But not counting that, should I just be cloistered away here? Yes, I should. And no, I shouldn’t.

Imagine for a moment that a man lived here too. What would that be like? What would we do? Would we sit quietly on the sofa too? Would we murmur sweet nothings? Would we drink wine together, dare the odd loud laugh, even if Josh’s sleep pattern were momentarily disturbed? Would we go out, maybe? Get a babysitter?

Would we feel life had moved on from having a newborn?

I allow my mind to drift back to the man from whence the newborn came. And to her. The evenings spent together. We weren’t alone then. And we weren’t drinking red wine then.

But that wasn’t romance. I can see that now. I can see the fucked-up twisty captivity of it. Wanting a father figure. Wanting stability (ha!). Wanting a house where the only rule is: You don’t touch what’s not yours.

She was his, the other girl. I never was. I need to remember that. But it doesn’t mean I’m safe from her. She’ll come looking, from time to time. A return to chaos. A return to life on the run. Should I check the phone again? Not my regular phone. The other phone. The one I keep under the bed. Probably. Just in case there’s anything on there, about Chloe.

I pull myself up off the sofa, pad into my bedroom, take the phone out of the shoebox. The old, clunky Nokia. Switch it on, half hoping it will beep, half hoping it won’t.

BEEP BEEP.

New message.

It’s from her. Shit.

‘ONE DAY I’M GOING TO FIND YOU.’

I clamp a hand over my mouth, so I won’t cry out. Sent last night – 11.54 p.m. A late-night spear shooting through the dark. When will she give up? When will she let us be?

I know the answer.

Never.

I could reply. I could put an end to it now. Say she’ll never find me unless I go to her first. Which isn’t going to happen. Can’t happen. Because think of Josh. It wouldn’t be safe.

And besides, she might be able to do something clever, like track my location, if I reply. Who knows – desperate times and all that.

No. Just put the phone back in its box. Close the lid on all thoughts of Chloe. You have to be strong. Ignore her. Stop trembling, put away those tears.

Shit. This is why I both should and shouldn’t spend the night on the sofa. Josh needs to be safe but I need somewhere else to put my brain. I should call Daniel tomorrow. Try and get a life. Everything is fine. Everything is safe. I pull myself up, ditch my supper things in the kitchen area. I go and run myself a bath. That’s what this girl needs. A long, hot, soak, to scrub everything away. Maybe one day I’ll feel truly safe. Truly clean.

***

Chloe. Sitting on a sofa. Her hair a wild loose mane, frizzing out to the side of her head. Eyes bright and wide and dark, made darker by the liquid eye liner surrounding them. Knees hugged up to her chest. I’m sitting next to her. On the other side of her, my knees bunched up too, touching almost like mirror images of each other. My hair tied back, not wild at all. We’re holding hands.

‘We’ve got to do it; you know that,’ says Chloe.

‘How? No one will believe us.’

‘They will. We’ll make them. We’ll be safe then. As long as we never ever tell anyone. They won’t know who to blame then, will they?’

I pretend to shake her hand, like I’m making a pact. Except I find I’m not shaking her hand at all. I’m shaking Josh’s hand. He’s there, in a nappy (except he’s as old as he is now), sitting in between us. Chloe gradually fades away, disintegrates into the light.

‘Wait, Chloe! What will I do without you?’

She doesn’t answer. She pretends to be gone. But she’s not gone. I can feel her. I know she is still there, watching.

***

I wake up in cold water, shivering. What the …? Christ, I didn’t know life malaise had spread to day-to-day tiredness. My fingers are shrivelled, my hair is wet, and the flat has a too-quiet feel. I clamber out of the bath and, shivering, grab my bathrobe from the back of the door. Push the recurrent Chloe nightmares to the back of my mind (‘it will take a long time for your subconscious to move on’ I was told).

What’s happened while I was sleeping? Hugging myself, I pad along the dark corridor to Josh’s room, and put my head round the door. There he is, sleeping sweetly. Of course, what else?

I’ve left his curtains open, though. Silly. I must have been so engrossed in him that I forgot the more basic maternal requirements. Still Disney print – Mickey and Minnie Mouse are separated by glass (you get what you’re given; we haven’t replaced them yet, now I’m earning). I’m about to reunite them when I see the car outside. My car. But with the inside light on.

Odd. Why would I have done that?

Maybe when I was hunting round for my bag earlier?

Do I need to go down and turn it off?

I look down at my bare, soggy feet.

Surely not.

But if I don’t, the battery will be flat, we’ll need to call the AA, Josh will be late for important playground business deals again … Urgh. Bloody adulting.

I pull the curtains shut and Josh stirs slightly. At least these days I don’t need to ‘shh’ him to sleep and rub his back, like when he was little. Tiny. In that first place. Jesus, what were they thinking, placing us there …? And maybe the back-rubbing was more for me than for him. Clutching him, facing the door, ready to dodge a bullet at any moment. ‘It will all be OK, Jen.’ All very well for you, love. You’re not the one who’s done this to yourself – to you and your newborn. Had this done to you, rather. We were the victims.

Josh is really stirring now and I don’t want him to think I’m watching him in his sleep (again) so I pad out of the room. I slip on some jeans, a sweater, and some trainers, find the key and pull the door gently shut. Even now, even when he’s a big boy, I worry about leaving him in the flat alone. That’s why I put the rubbish out in the mornings when we’re together.

There was that case, once, about a woman who popped round to her neighbour’s house while her kids were playing inside. While she was out there was a freak gas explosion. The kids died. How do you live with that? At least if she’d been in the house, they’d all be dead together. If all you’ve got are your kids, what do you do if they’re gone?

Outside, I open the car and flick off the light. As I’m doing so, I see the slip of paper on the windscreen that I’d noticed earlier when I was rushing to pick up Joshua. Shutting the car door, I pick up the bit of paper and read what it says.

I inhale sharply.

Because on it is written: ‘WE KNOW YOUR SECRET.’

What? The paper shakes in my hands. Shit. First the text message. Now this. We need to move again. I should go up and grab Josh now, put him in the car. Flee.

Then I turn the paper over.

‘… Even if you don’t. We’ll find the secrets in your family tree and share them. Look www.secretancestor.com today!’

Oh for fuck’s sake. Jen, it’s fine. It’s an ad. ‘We know your secret’ is a marketing slogan. You’re safe. Josh is safe. For once and for all, get over yourself.

I stuff the paper in my pocket and let myself back into the block of flats.

‘Go to bed and get a life,’ I mumble to myself as I climb the stairs.

I almost don’t notice the package on the doormat.

Chapter 7

‘I don’t live here, I don’t live here!’

‘You do. You have to stay!’

‘I don’t want to be friends with you. I have other friends, back in the other home.’

‘No you don’t. I know. No friends, no friends, no friends.’

The chanting, from everywhere. No friends, no friends, no friends.

Then the spitting, then the kicking. The hair-dragging. The head held out of the window, the ground too far but also too close below.

No friends, no friends, no friends.

‘Stop it! Stop it! Let me go!’

‘You’re sure? You want us to let you go?’

Her voice. The ringleader. Her, who I’d seen at another home, once before. Back again to torture me.

‘What’s going on? Chloe, what’s happening?’

A loud voice, an adult voice.

‘Stop this at once!’

And so they stop. She stops. I fall to the floor. People peel away.

All is calm. The rest of my first evening passes without episode.

But then, when I go to bed, there it is. An envelope on my pillow. One of those jiffy bags. I open it, thinking it might be a settling present from the home. But no. It’s shit. Literally. The envelope is fully of shit. A little welcome present, from my new friends.

***

Josh is shaking me awake. I open my eyes to find myself sitting at the kitchen table with a half-built Lego spaceship in front of me.

‘Your package arrived,’ I tell him. Because it was addressed to him. Not to me. What I found outside our flat last night.

No shit in this one. Doesn’t stop the memories though. I hope he won’t notice my eyes are puffy. Christ, there was much worse stuff. But it’s those little cruel ones that stick in your dreams. Emotional torment scars just as deep as the physical stuff.

Josh looks at what appeared in his package.

‘What! You built my spaceship? Mum, you can’t do that – it was mine to build!’

Urgh. What was I thinking? Of course boys like to build their own Lego. I look at my effort. It’s not that worthy of thanks, but some would be nice. I started another cup of tea between the booster engine and the hatch door. I think I lost my place in the instructions; the hinges don’t quite work.

Unhinged. Hah.

‘Sorry, Josh. I wasn’t thinking. Why don’t you break it up and start again, OK?’ He tuts at me, but he does as I say. ‘I’m going to go and shower,’ I tell him. ‘Grab yourself some toast.’

I rustle off, leaving him fussing over the spaceship.

I’m such an idiot. Why did I spend all night in a fitful half-dream, half-wake, full-of-hatred place just because my kid ordered a toy? Him and his mates, they’re members of some ‘Activity envelope’ club – you (I) pay a monthly subscription and some toy turns up. Usually they’re crappy bouncy balls or Airfix model aeroplanes. But Lego is cool.

Apart from when it gives you nightmares. Stupid. A neighbour must have received it for us earlier then left it on the mat outside our flat when I popped out. And I chose to spend the night sobbing into the kitchen table because of some stupid incident way back in another lifetime. When Chloe was still around.

But she’s gone. And she’s not coming back. Whatever those texts say, I won’t allow it. I think about it under my bed. I should check it again, shouldn’t I? No, not now. Focus. Jump in the shower, wham on some concealer, stick on a pretty dress and try not to lose my job through having cotton wool for a brain.

And get a life. Stop sitting on the sofa every evening, brooding. Move on.

Josh has finished the spaceship by the time I’m back from the shower.

‘Right, let’s fly to the moon!’ I tell him.

‘I need to get to school, not outer space,’ he chides me. I see his eyes flick to the clock. That child is a punctuality addict.

‘That’s what I meant, kiddo. Let’s go.’

‘No coffee?’ he asks.

‘You’re enough of a wake-up call for me, my love!’ I don’t tell him I was up half the night drinking caffeine.

‘Uh-oh! Don’t crash the car!’

‘Hah, hah. Come on, get your blazer.’

I manage not to crash the car either on the way to school or to the office.

In the car park I notice that no one else has a bit of paper on their windscreen claiming to know their secrets. But then, like me, I guess that everyone else has been home and removed it. Probably not after falling asleep in the bath and before having a panic attack but – hey! – that’s Jen Sutton for you. Full of surprises.

‘Pretty dress, Jen!’ Sheila calls out when I walk in.

‘Thank you! Coffee in a mo!’ I shout back.

Before I can even think about cleaning the cups, Bill is at my shoulder.

‘Ah, Jen. Can I have a word, please?’

He looks grave.

‘Sure, what’s up?’

‘In my office?’

‘Oh, of course. Sorry.’

I troop behind him. He shuts the door behind me. He offers me a chair and I sit across the desk from him.

‘Look, Jen,’ he starts. Fuck it. Conversations that start that way never end well. I smooth down my dress and try not to panic.

‘I know you’ve got, well, special circumstances.’ Bless him. He always speaks like we’ve been bugged. ‘But other people, they don’t know that. They’re not going to make allowances. Lucy, for instance.’

Oh shit. Lucy. In all my internal melodramas I’d forgotten about Lucy and her stupid forms.

‘Now, don’t worry, I’ve talked to her for now. She calmed down. Didn’t explain any, um, history, just explained that you don’t have anyone to help with the childcare and all that. Can’t help it if you need to rush away.’

‘Thanks, Bill. I appreciate it.’

‘Don’t worry, don’t worry. The thing is, though, there will sometimes be deadlines and we need to be able to count on you or … someone … to meet them. Or just be extra-efficient during the day. You understand?’

‘Yes, Bill. I do, but –’

‘Yes, I know, I know the buts. Listen, I get it, I really do. And I’d have a heck of a job explaining letting you go to – well, you know who. But I’m not running an outreach service. I’m running a law firm. OK?’

‘OK.’

I nod. I look earnestly into his eyes. I do the ‘you can count on me’ sincere smile.

And then I go into the bathroom and I cry.

He doesn’t fucking get it all. He doesn’t get that there’s only one of me. He doesn’t get how fucking hard I’m trying and how difficult, how fucking fucking difficult it is going around with ‘my secret’. How much I want to just be like everyone else, but it’s not my bloody fault – it’s not – I had to do it; I had to get out and you’d think, ten years on, that you might somehow have managed to escape that and that you could live like an ordinary person and that your boss who knows all (or some, a bit) of the baggage, would understand why I can’t just leave my son wafting around after school for anyone to collect. Fucking bitch Lucy. Fucking bastard Bill. Why can’t they be more like Tim?

But even as I rant I know; I know that he’s right. Of course I’ve got to do my work, like anybody else. Of course I have to balance my childcare responsibilities with my work. It’s the real fucking world. It’s what everyone complains about. I can’t hide in my shadow world. I’ve got to get real. I’ve got to find a way to keep a job, a child, a life going at the same time.

Yeah, sure, the State will pay me if I sit on my arse at home (a luxury, I wouldn’t even have to prove I was looking for work). Or even if I’d gone ahead and home-schooled him (at first it seemed like the only option – I couldn’t think about leaving him at school). But it wouldn’t be enough. It wouldn’t pay for monthly toy boxes. And it wouldn’t get me off that fucking sofa. Thinking. Brooding.

So. Calm down. Deep breaths. Be professional. At work, focus on work. Do something proactive. Show Bill he can count on you. Be indispensible. Dry your eyes. Go and see Tim about that case. Thank him for trying to smooth things over with Lucy yesterday.

I wait until I’m sure there’s no one around then I emerge from my cubicle.

Hah. Wasted effort with that mascara then.

I wipe away the black lines from under my eyes. Unfortunately much of the concealer comes off with it. So I look tired, but not like a tired panda. Which is probably for the best.

Jen, you can do this. You must do this. Forget the coffee for once. Go straight to Tim.

‘Oh, hi, Jen,’ says Tim when I knock on the door of his office.

‘Hey,’ I say. ‘Listen, thanks for yesterday.’

He looks surprised. ‘Oh, with Lucy? Don’t mention it. She was being a little … intense right?’

‘Right.’

‘She should maybe talk to someone about her stress levels, not make it your problem.’

‘But you didn’t have to do that,’ I tell him. ‘I appreciate it.’ I hear my voice waver. Oh, shit. Don’t be a wimp. What would Chloe have said if you began blubbing away at a simple act of kindness? Not that kindness and Chloe ever had much to do with each other.

‘Look, don’t worry about it,’ Tim says gently. Calm, soothing. Like I imagine a good dad would be. Not from personal experience, of course. ‘Besides, I couldn’t have her getting my new project member fired, could I? Just steer clear of her if you can. OK?’

‘OK.’

He looks back to his desk like he expects me to leave the room. When I don’t, he looks up again. ‘Anything else I can help you with?’

‘I just wondered if we could chat through the Rhea Stevens case, if you’ve got time?’ I ask. Deferential but enthusiastic. What a good adoptive daughter I would have made. If anyone had bothered with me.

‘Sure, why not, now you’re here.’

‘Thanks. I had a look through the exhibits file, but it would be good to get the wider background.’

I sit down. In my haste, I haven’t brought a notebook, so I prepare my brain for an onslaught.

‘Bit of a shocker, some of those photos in the exhibits file, hey?’ he asks me, sitting back at his desk.

It feels like a test. That I have to show my mettle, that I’m not too weak to handle the case.

‘It’s pretty tough to shock me,’ I tell him. I just hope he wasn’t there to see me go powder-white when I first opened that file. And that he won’t test me on the photos, because I couldn’t face looking at them all. Not because of what they are. But because of what they are to me.

‘Good, I thought I could count on you,’ Tim says, smiling. Then his smile fades. ‘Bit of a sad case, this one,’ he says. ‘For us, that is. Not much of a defence, even with Dan’s fine skills.’

‘OK, good start,’ I say. Doesn’t sound like I’m going to make myself a superstar in the firm’s eyes on this one, then.

‘The accused, Rhea Stevens, classic sort of drug slash prostitution background. String of offences stretching back over a decade. There was one real big one a while ago but the police couldn’t get her for it – the jury weren’t convinced – so it looks like the police are trying to pin everything else on her until they can finally get her.’

‘Did she do any of it?’

‘The police are satisfied she did. And they never get the wrong guy, do they?’

I squirm a little. I’m not used to these sorts of debates. Tim gives me a searching look then continues. ‘So we’re doing the usual sort of kicking dust in the jury’s eyes bit – were the witnesses credible, was it a dark night, was she under duress, all that sort of thing.’

‘OK,’ I tell him. ‘So, what, are we having a con with her?’

‘I already did that,’ he tells me. ‘The notes are on the full case file. First up: have a proper read in, now you know a bit of the background. I’ll see if I can tee something up with Dan for later today, seeing as you’re keen. I don’t think he’s in court.’

‘Great,’ I say. I try to push down the part of me that wants to shout, ‘It can’t be too late; I need to pick up Josh.’

‘You do school pick-up, don’t you?’ asks Tim. I nod. ‘I’ll be sure to work round that. When we get to trial it might be a bit tricky but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. OK?’

I nod. ‘Thanks, Tim. I appreciate it. Oh, and you don’t need to worry about the confidentiality. I get it,’ I tell him. I want him to know he can count on me. I certainly know how to keep secrets.

Tim smiles. ‘Good to hear, Jen. Look, you probably think I’m overdoing it. But I’ve seen these cases go wrong because someone who’s got a chum in the CPS drops a name over a beer. Has a laugh about a “no good” case. Lets slip a little strategy titbit because it’s all cosy-cosy, old pals’ chat. But then – wham! The old CPS mate happens to know exactly who is working on that case, exactly who’d like a tip-off and suddenly the other side have the inside track, and you might as well give up your case there and then.’

I nod. It makes sense. Maybe a bit paranoid, but it’s his case, not mine.

‘Normally, I wouldn’t care,’ he says. ‘But this case, this Rhea Stevens – it matters, OK? I want it to go right. Don’t want this girl robbed of any more life chances by careless talk.’

‘I understand,’ I tell him. And I do. It feels a lot like a lecture I had ten years ago about careless talk – that there are some things you don’t tell anyone. Ever. ‘I promise, I’ll keep it confidential.’

‘Good. I’d like to think my fellow partners here aren’t ones to gossip after a few drinks but I don’t know all of them that well yet, you know? And for God’s sake, don’t tell Lucy about it – I think after yesterday she’d happily blab just to get even with me.’

I nod again. Pleased to be working for one of the good guys at last, I pick up the file Tim indicated and take it back to my desk.

I flick through the file first to see what’s there. Lots of handwritten notes, clipped together with their typed-up counterparts. First witness meeting, copies of letters to the CPS, transcript of the committal hearing. Nothing about a court date yet, so far as I can see, and it doesn’t look like there’s been much from the CPS by way of advance disclosure.

A photo of Rhea. She’s beautiful. Her skin is the lightest caramel, with a smattering of darker caramel freckles across the bridge of her nose and her high cheekbones. Her eyes, sitting beneath perfectly arched eyebrows, are a deep brown, almost black. I’d like to say they shine. But they don’t. They are dulled by goodness knows what. I flick back to the beginning again and read the notes from the first witness meeting.

RS sitting hunched, mood bad. Try to do intros – no response. Explain here to help. Ask usual questions – how treated, remember police caution etc. No response. Thought might be crying. No sign of mistreatment.

Ask how she wants to plead.

Says: I didn’t do it.

Explain there isn’t an ‘it’, a string of offences.

Yeah, well how the shit am I to make the money without using this? Gestures to her body.

Tell her she seems bright and can do better. She snorts.

Says: Anyway, you know there’s an it. It’s the wraps, innit? I don’t do that crap.

Ask: So why did the police find it at your address?

Says: What ‘my address’? You think I’m like lady of the manor now, is it, with my own house and a big driveway? Shares with four other people.

Ask her about them, what they do.

She asks me what I think they do.

Ask her if they all work for the same person. She shrugs.

Ask her if one of her customers could have left something there. Says she doesn’t bring men back there. Uses cars, car parks etc.

Try different approach. Move on to her background. Why did you turn to this work?

Tells me it was the careers adviser at the children’s home. He gave her some practice an’ all.

I blink away tears.

Poor Rhea.

She could be so many of the girls I met along the way. I heard stories of hands where they shouldn’t be and yes, the worst. Rape. Don’t call it ‘serious sexual abuse’. It’s rape. It’s vulnerable young people torn and confused because the people they were told to trust have just helped themselves and yet they still have to pretend to trust them. Because there’s that whisper in the ear afterwards – if you tell anyone about this, you can forget about having a warm bed, you can forget about a future, because no one will believe a screwed-up kid from a shitty family over a man with a job like mine.

Or so I’ve heard.

And now there’s some lawyer guy, interrogating her. Tim hasn’t even explained, unless it was in the intros, that he was trying to help her. Why should she trust him, any more than anyone else who has fucked her up over the years?

I read on.

Ask: Have you ever seen any of your flatmates with drugs?

Says: They wouldn’t fucking dare.

Ask: Why’s that?

Says: Because I’d shove it right up them, probably where it came from, because I’m not having my daughter growing up like that.

Christ. She has a daughter.

Ask: But you’re willing for her to grow up knowing you’re a prostitute.

Fucking hell, Tim. Don’t say that. Say ‘How old is she?’ Or ‘What’s her name?’

Don’t preach hellfire.

RS doesn’t respond.

No shit.

***

‘Knock knock.’

Someone is banging on my desk. I look up. It’s Tim.

Tim, for whom I have a whole lot less respect than I did five minutes ago.

‘Hi, Tim. Just looking through the Rhea Stevens file.’

Tim looks around and puts a quick finger to his lips.

‘Best come into my office, Jen,’ he says, his voice low.

Grudgingly, I get up from my desk and follow him into his office. All these secrecy games don’t make up for how he’s treating Rhea.

Once we’re in his office, and he’s shut the door, he talks to me in his normal voice.

‘So. Bit of a fix we’re in, isn’t it?’ he says.

‘She says she didn’t do it.’

‘Yes, well she would, wouldn’t she?’

‘But what if she didn’t, Tim? Maybe she’s telling the truth – why would she put her kid in danger like that? Maybe we just need to treat her a bit more … respectfully.’

Tim looks at me thoughtfully. There’s a pause. It grows uncomfortable. Is it me that’s showing a lack of respect, now?

‘Sorry, Tim, I just thought …’

‘No, no – don’t apologize. That’s exactly the sort of fresh insight I was looking for. Listen, I’ve got a conference with Daniel set up for two. I’ve got lunch with another of the barristers over there, so I’ll see you at chambers. OK?’

‘Sure thing.’ I nod. How can you be worried about your lunch, when Rhea is perishing in a jail somewhere? I want to ask him. How can you be so cold? Or maybe he doesn’t get it. Maybe he doesn’t know how to listen between the words, hear the sounds of a chaotic world. A victim, not a culpable culprit.

‘If you wouldn’t mind bringing the files too, that would be great. Thanks, Jen.’

He ushers me out of his office, and away he goes.

***

I arrive early to Daniel’s chambers. In the mirror in the lift up to his floor I see how pale I am. I quickly slide on some lipstick. Too pink for my thoughts, but maybe that’s the point of make-up. I remember that delicious plum colour that Chloe used to wear. Made her look more inviting than she really was.

‘Jen!’ Daniel cries on seeing me, interrupting my reminiscing. He shakes my hand. I feel a frisson as our fingers meet. How lovely it is that there is an acceptable social way to touch each other immediately. He goes for a kiss on one cheek, and I feel his stubble impress itself on my skin. I pull away as he goes for the other cheek. Embarrassed, I lean in again, but I missed the moment. Things my mother never taught me #347.

‘Hey,’ I say. I search for small talk but can’t find any. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since that non-date and I’m struck by how much sexier he is in the flesh than in his photo. I’d forgotten that his thick brown hair is so wavy, that his cheekbones are so high. His eyes so piercing and alive. I’d like to take his hand again. Wouldn’t let him slip through my fingers another time.

I clear my throat, like he can hear my thoughts, and tap the case file. ‘Did you read the interview notes?’

‘From the first interview?’ Dan asks.

I nod.

He nods too.

‘Tough stuff,’ he says.

‘You didn’t think Tim was a bit …’ I trail off. There are many words I could use.

Dan finishes for me. ‘Blunt?’

I smile a little. ‘Yes, blunt. That’ll do.’

Dan nods. ‘Yep, I have a confession. I think that’s my fault.’

‘Your fault? How?’

‘I told him about how one of our QCs always talks to witnesses or defendants the first time proper bad-cop style, to see what they’ll be like under cross-examination. I suspect Tim was playing QCs but got it a bit wrong.’

‘You reckon?’

‘I do. And when I meet the poor girl, I’ll tell her so myself.’

‘You feel sorry for her, then?’ I ask Dan.

‘Don’t you?’ he counters.

I relax a little. The human race has come in first again – Dan has restored my confidence in it. I shrug a little and take a seat. He doesn’t need to know quite how sorry I feel for our Rhea.

When Tim appears a few moments later, he no longer seems like an ogre with no emotional intelligence. Just a wannabe who’s over-reached himself. Haven’t we all been there (maybe I still am)?

Dan and Tim greet each other. Not quite like old friends – it’s very cordial, but professional. I suppose Dan was just offered as the guy the firm always uses, perhaps not Tim’s first choice.

We get onto the meat of the conference.

‘What are her prospects, Dan?’ Tim asks.

Dan must have been expecting this question but he wriggles a bit. ‘Not great, I think. I can see why the CPS have chosen this case. It seems a bit mean, and you can’t help feeling sorry for her, with all that background of being in care but –’

‘Yes, but if the CPS didn’t prosecute then, they wouldn’t in half of all cases!’ says Tim.

I flinch. Dan looks at me quizzically. I pretend to be taking notes.

Dan resumes his point. ‘Sure. But what I mean is, there’s this string of circumstantial stuff – all one plus one plus one plus one, which they’re fervently hoping adds up to four, but we have to show it doesn’t. Our best chance is to ignore all the prostitution stuff and focus on disproving the drugs element.’

‘She swears blind she wasn’t a mule,’ Tim says.

‘Exactly.’

‘But how do we prove that?’ Tim asks.

‘Again, exactly.’ Dan runs one hand through his lovely hair. ‘Look – she was there when the stuff was there. That plus the incident years ago when they think she probably was there. Plus her kid’s dad with links to the ring – it’s slam-dunk to a jury.’

‘So what do we do?’ I ask. Or rather, whine. My voice is high, caught in my throat.

Tim and Dan look at me in surprise. Yes, I may be a junior woman, there to take notes, but I do have a voice.

‘Well, I guess the main thing apart from my job of telling the CPS guy they haven’t proved what they think they’ve proved is to get something human from her that will show us why she couldn’t possibly have done it,’ Dan says. ‘Something the jury will go for.’

Tim muses for a while. ‘What, like she would never be involved in drugs because her kid sister died from them you mean?’

My pen freezes. My brain freezes. I want to ask Tim to repeat the phrase. But I don’t have to. I’ve heard it before.

A decade ago. About Emma. Mick’s sister.

I look at Tim for any sign he knows the significance of what he’s said. There’s nothing. He’s talking freely to Dan. Dan is nodding soberly at something. I don’t know what. My ears have frozen over too.

Is this one of those situations they warn you about? That if you say or do the wrong thing, everything comes out? That I must be very careful how I act?

‘She did say she has a daughter who she wouldn’t let people do drugs in front of,’ I venture.

Tim looks at me kindly. ‘You’ll come to learn, Jen, that people saying drugs are banned in their home doesn’t mean they ban themselves from selling them on the street.’

Just as I thought I was defrosting, I refreeze again. Two lines from my past life. This is too much of a coincidence, isn’t it?

‘Ah, but Jen doesn’t know that seedy underbelly we frequent, Tim. She is but a novice in these parts!’ Dan’s tone is light.

‘Oh, don’t misjudge her, Dan. I’m sure Ms Sutton has done her share of racy deeds.’

Are they flirting? Or are they insinuating? Have I found myself in the lion’s den, or just a pit of everyday sexism?

‘Excuse me,’ I say. I push back my chair and leave the room.

I rush along the corridor to the ladies’ bathroom before they can follow me.

Once there, I splash some water on my face. The lipstick comes off again, revealing the true me – pale and paranoid as ever. But am I paranoid this time? A partner at a law firm where I work, the managing partner of which knows what he believes to be my full history, has just alluded to that secret. Is Bill a gossip? When all along I thought my secret was safe with him, has he been laughing with the other partners about my secret past? About Mick? About Chloe?

I shake my head. Surely not. Bill must know he’d be in no end of trouble if he was found to have given away my story. That’s why they chose him – trustworthy to a fault. Pillar of the local community. Committed to the role of law in rebuilding lives. All that worthy stuff.

So. Just harmful flirting, then. In which case, I need to go back.

I dry my face and return to the room.

Tim gets to his feet. His face is serious.

‘Jen, we didn’t offend you, did we? I’m sorry, I was just trying to lighten the tone in this unpleasant case.’

I stay mute, biding my time.

‘Look, let’s call it a day for now. Dan and I discussed some action points while you were out and –’

‘What action points?’ I ask. About me? A follow-up to the flirting?

‘About the case.’ Tim looks at me like I’m mad.

‘We decided that Tim is doing such a good job of building up Rhea’s trust that he’s going to go and speak to her again,’ Dan tells me. His voice is serious but his eyes are sparkling. Tim thinks he’s building up trust? Lawyers and their egos. Poor Rhea. But Dan’s invisible dig at Tim puts me at ease more than a stilted apology.

‘Yes, Dan read the transcripts and was kind to say I went about it like a proper QC!’ Tim says.

I don’t look at Dan in case my anxiety spills over into giddy laughter.

‘So I’ll go and visit her again,’ Tim says.

‘I can come if you like,’ I tell him. Poor Rhea. She needs someone who gets it. Someone to talk to her about her kid. Someone who’s been there.

Tim puts his head on one side. ‘Interesting idea for the future. But look, I’m getting somewhere with her. And besides, it will be too much admin with the prison passes and everything. Maybe later.’

I nod. ‘OK.’

‘Anyway, what I was going to say was – I think we’ve got what we need for today. Shall we adjourn to the pub?’

I flick a look at the clock. ‘I’d love to, Tim, but it’s getting on for school pick-up, and I’m driving, so …’

‘Oh, you’ve got time for a quick one, and I won’t let you get over the limit. Come on, live a little.’

I look at Dan. He shrugs behind Tim’s back in an ‘up to you’ gesture.

I look at the clock again. I have fifteen minutes, which means by the time we order I would have approximately one point five minutes to down my drink.

‘I’ll minesweep what you don’t finish,’ Dan offers, relieving my quandary.

‘It’s a deal, then,’ I tell him.

But as we cross the road to the pub, I’m not at ease with my choice. It’s not so much the timing. Or the drinking. It’s the morality. Because they’ve been shamed into thinking I minded them almost flirting with me, Rhea Stevens’s two best hopes of freedom have abandoned their posts to take me for a drink. If someone had done that to me all those years ago, where would I be now?

Chapter 8

The pub is crowded when we get there. Pinstriped suits jostle with polo shirts to be served by a too-relaxed barmaid. I almost turn round and leave then and there – we’ll never get a drink on time. I mustn’t be late for Josh again. But Tim waves us to a table ledge and says he’ll get us a drink in no time.

‘Vodka and Coke,’ I say. Tim raises an eyebrow at me. What, am I meant to be on the dry white wine here? Fuck that. ‘A single,’ I tell him. ‘I’m driving.’

I follow Dan to a trio of bar-stools. As we clamber up, our knees brush. I pull away, too quickly.

‘Are you OK?’ Dan asks me. I think for a moment he means the knee-brushing. But he doesn’t. It’s the meeting.

‘I’m fine,’ I say.

He looks at me closely. ‘If I offended you, I’m sorry.’ He pauses a moment. ‘But I don’t think I did, did I?’

I flick a glance at him. ‘No,’ I say.

‘I know it’s a serious case, Jen. I take it seriously, don’t worry. I’ll do my bit for Rhea.’

‘I’m glad,’ I tell him. If I need to pretend that’s what happened, fine. That upset me too. Just not as much as thinking Bill had blabbed, that I was in a room of people who Know.

Dan smiles at me and I can feel the warmth of our connection starting. Rebuilding.

Then Tim reappears with the drinks.

We clink our glasses, although I don’t know why.

‘To Rhea,’ says Dan.

Tim nods sagely. ‘Yes. To Rhea. Well said.’

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. What are your counsel doing now, Rhea? They are clinking glasses in an overcrowded pub. And what are you doing? Sitting in a cell wondering when you’re next going to see your daughter.

‘I should get going,’ I say.

‘Oh, already?’ cries Tim. As if I’ve made up my son, made up my caring responsibilities.

‘Minesweep for me, Dan?’ I ask him.

‘With pleasure,’ he returns. ‘See you soon. Take care.’ This time we both know that we’re going for a kiss on both cheeks. ‘I’ll call you,’ he says softly into my ear. I wonder if he means about the case.

‘Let me escort you out,’ Tim says.

‘There’s really no need,’ I tell him, but he’s already on his feet.

Outside, I’m ready to go, but Tim takes my elbow slightly and pulls me away from the doorway into the quiet side street.

‘Jen, I really am sorry about before. And look, about you having to leave early – it’s difficult for you. Lucy giving you a dressing-down the other day, you getting on with Dan just now but having to go … well, look, I don’t want to speak out of turn again. But I can recommend a very good child minder.’

‘I can’t afford a child minder, Tim.’

‘Well, you should be able to, Jen. Let me put in a word with Bill. Least I can do. And I’ll message you her details.’

‘OK, but I really think –’

‘Of course, of course, it’s up to you. Just think about it, OK? Keep your options open.’

‘Thanks, Tim. I appreciate it.’

‘Don’t worry about it. I don’t want us getting off on the wrong foot, you know. I’m looking forward to having your input on this case. We’ll catch up when I’ve spoken to Rhea again. And we can use that murky past of yours, yes?’

I feel a chill again. I laugh. He laughs back.

‘Good, you see – we can laugh about it now. I’m such a chump. Always misjudge situations. Look, I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good evening.’

‘Thanks, Tim. I’ll type up my notes of the con tomorrow.’

‘Good stuff. Say hello to the little one for me.’

And so we part.

I haven’t had enough vodka to feel a warm fondness for him. But I am grateful. Again. There was a glow with Dan. If I had a child minder – or even a babysitter – I could have stayed there a little while. And if he does call me (about me, not about the case) I could do something other than lunch or an invitation to read a bedtime story to a ten-year-old. So yes, I’ll think about it.

Back at the office, I put the Rhea Stevens file in the boot of my car. On a whim, I flick again to her photo. I stroke it with one finger. ‘We’ll help you,’ I say.

Tim, Dan, and I. We’ll make a good team. I know we will.

Chapter 9

That night, after Josh is in bed, I’m just dimming the lights and putting my feet up on the sofa when my mobile phone glows. You know, my proper mobile (not the one under the bed). A call in.

Oh. It’s that number.

I hate these calls. Like a pointless routine doctor’s appointment – a waste of everyone’s time.

I’d better answer, though.

‘Hi,’ I say, my voice hushed. Josh wouldn’t go to sleep until we’d read about a million chapters of The BFG together. The last thing I want is to wake him. I’ll need matchsticks under my eyes tomorrow as it is.

‘Ms Sutton?’ It’s the woman this time – Sarah.

‘Of course.’

‘Hi, Ms Sutton, it’s –’

‘I know who you are.’

A pause.

I can hear her think ‘Rude ungrateful bitch’ then regather her professionalism.

‘Well, Ms Sutton, I’m just checking in, to see everything’s OK.’

‘All fine,’ I say.

I don’t tell her about the shop windows, the notes on dashboards, the strange comments today at work.

‘Just the odd bit of paranoia,’ I say. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary.’

‘Do you need another medical referral?’ she asks.

‘No,’ I tell her. ‘I don’t.’

That’s how they coped with me in the first two years. Doped me up on Valium and Seroxat and God knows what else. Sang the old lullabies to get myself through, never mind the baby. Hush little baby, don’t say a word, Papa’s gonna buy … a hitman to come and kill us if he or his housemates ever find us. Postnatal depression my arse. Justified fear for your own life and the life of your child. Horrified at what desperation had driven me to – the fear not just of Mick, but also of having no future to offer my little baby. Hunched on the sofa, terrified that Chloe would turn up.

But do you know what? I fucking missed Chloe. I missed her every day. Even though the thought of her surfacing again, some time, scared the shit out of me. That’s what happens when you’re ripped away from someone, even when it’s for your own good. And Mum. Of course I missed Mum. After everything, I just wanted a hug from her.

‘Well, if there’s anything you do need, or if you think there’s anything unusual, let me know, won’t you?’ says Sarah.

‘I’m thinking of getting a child minder,’ I tell her.

A bit of a pause. Consulting the manual, maybe?

‘Right,’ she says. ‘Well, we can arrange that for you. Obviously, you can’t be placing any advertisements. You won’t get extra funding, I’m afraid.’

Of course. The deal didn’t come with ‘You can live your life’, just ‘You can live.’

‘I’ve got a recommendation from a colleague,’ I say. I don’t want some State-endorsed child minder in six months’ time. I want an easy route, a known person, soon.

‘We’ll have to vet them on the security files. You’ve still got the address haven’t you, to send information through? We’ll need their full details and –’

‘Forget it,’ I say. ‘It was just a thought.’

‘You’re sure?’ she asks.

‘I’m sure,’ I lie, crossing my fingers. I’ll rely on my own security vetting when I meet the child minder – my gut. After all, no one here in Luton would connect me with Chloe. Anyone who would want revenge for what she did is safely locked away in another part of the country. For the first time in my life, I’m safe, and so is Josh. We can get a fucking child minder.

‘Well, if you change your mind, Ms Sutton, please let me know. Better safe than sorry.’

‘Of course. Is there anything else?’

‘No, not at the present time, Ms Sutton. We’ll keep you posted if there are any developments.’

The same sign-off to every call. What developments would there be?

Well, obviously, one. But I don’t need to worry about that yet. Not for a good five years or so.

She rings off and I’m alone again.

Except not. The phone glows again. What, new developments already?

No.

Unknown number.

Is the woman calling me on a different line?

I accept the call, and let the caller do the talking.

‘Hey,’ says a voice.

Dan!

‘Hey,’ I say back.

‘So Tim is busy preparing his opening line to use on Rhea,’ Dan jokes.

‘Oh God, don’t,’ I respond, groaning. ‘If that’s him trying to build trust, imagine him trying to ask someone out.’

‘“You like to drink, don’t you – let’s mutually assess whether you’re an alcoholic at The King’s Head at 7.”’

‘“I hear you think you can dance. You can’t. I’ll train you if you come to Flame at 8 on Sunday.”’

‘Oh, come on, Jen, even Tim would know better than to ask a girl to a gay nightclub!’

‘He probably just thinks it’s the pretty rainbow-coloured bar outside the Magistrate’s Court.’

‘You don’t get to be a criminal litigator by being totally naïve,’ Dan tells me.

‘Ah, so you’ve been in Flame, then,’

‘I reserve my rights to have been there. Great night out, I hear.’

‘Hmm. So come on, you’ve dissed Tim’s opening lines, let’s have your best cringeworthy one.’

‘Are you asking me to ask you out, Jen Sutton?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Then how about a drink on Friday evening?’

‘That’s not cringeworthy, Dan. What a let-down.’

‘I’ll wear a rose between my teeth. Better?’

‘It’ll do.’ I laugh.

Then the real world hits. ‘Listen, I don’t know, Dan, I’ve got the little one; it’s difficult.’

There’s a slight pause. Shit, I think. Blown it again.

When Dan speaks he is sheepish. ‘Actually, Tim, um, told me he was giving you the contact details for a child minder. I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.’

Ah, so Tim is now running a dating agency.

‘Yes, but I can’t arrange a child minder by Friday. I don’t even know how I’d go about it.’

‘You interview them, I guess.’

‘I guess,’ I say. This is when a girl needs her mum. Or school-gate mum friends. Or friends.

Shit, I’ve been lazy over the last decade. Lazy or scared. Couldn’t find it within myself to return nods or hellos that could have led to friendship. You put down roots, right, when you move? Chloe would’ve. She’d be the most popular girl in the town. I can see her now, up in Donnie, being the life and soul. Or maybe that’s just a favourable image. Distance makes the heart grow fonder. Maybe she was sat in a corner, her eyes narrow, drink in hand, watching it all unfold, waiting to strike. Waiting to fuck everyone up.

Dan again: ‘Look, if it’s too much bother –’

‘It’s not too much bother, I just don’t know if I can get a child minder set up before Friday. I’ve never left Josh with anyone before. I have to be sure.’

‘I know. I was going to say: if it’s too much bother sorting out childcare, I’ll just come over to yours with some wine and Ribena. Or just Ribena.’

‘Oh, you know how to treat a girl! All that money you’re earning on Rhea Stevens?’

A pause. Have I offended him?

‘Actually, I’m doing the Rhea case pretty much pro bono.’

‘What? You’re doing it for free? How come?’

‘Goodness of my heart?’

‘But I don’t understand. Why aren’t you using Legal Aid – surely the firm is?’

‘Tim talked me into it,’ Dan tells me. ‘Joking aside, he can be pretty persuasive.’

‘Jesus. But it must take up your time. How can you afford it?’

‘By offering women Ribena,’ Dan counters. ‘Come on, how about it – if you have childcare we’ll go out, otherwise I’ll come to you.’

‘It’s a date.’

‘Finally.’

We both take a beat. Yes, finally.

‘OK, well I’ll see you then,’ I say. ‘Text me your mobile number; this one’s blocked.’

‘Will do,’ he says. ‘Just let me know what works for you.’

‘Great,’ I tell him.

We end the call.

Wow. So. A date. Have I ever even been on a bona fide date?

Mick didn’t count.

Mick picked me up from the trash.

Literally.

And I don’t count the ensuing cup of tea in the caff as a date. I certainly hadn’t shaved my legs.

But before that, I need to look into childcare. I’d rather not have to introduce Dan and Josh just yet. They do that later on, in the films, those yoga-fit airbrushed mums (yes, I’ve seen the Hollywood version of my life. Doesn’t it all just turn up roses?). Date five or something, you go to a picnic by a lake and everyone falls in and it’s really funny. You’re not meant to introduce your kids to every man you meet or they’re weighing them up as a potential dad. Which is particularly unfair when your kid doesn’t know his real dad. Thinks he’s dead.

I pull out my blackberry. I’m about to message Tim about the child minder details. But I see they’re already there.

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