The Sleepover

by Samantha King

  I press my face into the pillow to stifle a sob. Nick stirs, then rolls over onto his side. I notice his thumb make its way toward his mouth. He’s almost a teenager but still a little boy, I think. He truly is stuck in the middle, in every sense: caught somewhere between child and young adult; between vulnerability and independence; between wanting to impress new friends and becoming his own person. Between me and his stepdad?

  Staring into the darkness, my thoughts plummet back to the time Craig left me. To that dreadful day a year ago. Closing my eyes, I relive the sense that something had happened between Craig and Nick before he ran out of the house. I remember Nick being so edgy, uncharacteristically defiant; I remember Craig being unusually angry . . .

  * * *

  “What the hell were you thinking?”

  “Me? What was I thinking? How did this become my fault?” I glared at Craig as he slammed around the kitchen. “Look, let’s not take this out on each other. We’re both tired. It’s been a long day.” Thankfully, Nick was making a good recovery from the attack at the school gate: he had a nasty cut to the left side of his forehead, and he was being kept in the hospital overnight for any signs of concussion to be monitored. But he was going to be OK.

  “You don’t think you’re to blame? Our son’s been picked on every day at that school. So what do you do? You let him walk there alone. What kind of mother does that?”

  “I didn’t let him. I meant to stop him. But we do need to think about this. I can’t be walking Nick to school when he’s thirteen. We’re not doing him any favors by babying him.” I bit my lip, regretting my choice of words. “No, that’s not what I meant. Of course he’s still my baby.” I sat down at the kitchen table, the fight going out of me—and I wasn’t even sure why we were fighting.

  “Your baby. That’s the truth of it, isn’t it? He’s your son. Not mine. And you always do what you think is right for him. Doesn’t matter what I think. You’re his parent, and who am I? Nothing. Nobody. Some bloke you met through a dating column. I have no rights here. You haven’t even let him change his name, for God’s sake.”

  “Craig, that’s not what I think. And Nick’s the one who said changing his name would be confusing.”

  “That’s not what he said to me.”

  “Really?” I frowned. “Well, anyway, he does call himself Nick Brookes sometimes.”

  Craig tutted. “When you’re not around, perhaps?”

  “Is that what this is really about? Is that why you’re so angry? Because you feel I’m not acknowledging your role in this family? Because I do, Craig. Very much so.” I sighed, conscious of how many times I had deliberately deferred to his decisions, not wanting him to feel he didn’t have a say. He was being unfair, and his anger seemed out of all proportion.

  “No, you don’t. You’re his mum. I’m just the guy who pays the mortgage. Well, news flash. You can pay it yourself from now on. I’ve had enough. You want to make all the decisions? Go ahead. You’re an unfit mother, Isobel, and I want no part in it anymore. You’re on your own. Just the way you like it.”

  * * *

  I didn’t think he was serious; I genuinely believed that once Nick was home, Craig would calm down, come to his senses and realize he had overreacted. But he didn’t; he kept his distance, only making contact to set up visits every other week to see Nick. I went along with them because it was hard enough for Nick to wake up one morning to find that his stepdad was gone; it rocked the stability I had worked so hard to create for him.

  Part of me missed Craig, too. I’d thought we had a good marriage, and I was baffled when he returned to pack his bags; I was distraught when I turned to Katie and she said Craig “had a point.” And I was glad when he stood in my kitchen a week ago, saying he regretted his mistake and wanted to put it right.

  Only that was then. I’d been desperate to know where Nick was, half blaming myself for driving him away. The last few days have been a torrent of stress and activity; now, all the commotion around me has come to an abrupt standstill, but perversely my mind has gone into overdrive. I can’t stop wondering who hurt Nick—who tried to hurt me—and in truth I’m no longer completely sure who I can trust.

  “Shall we ask the man in the moon?” I whisper to Nick, remembering how he always used to say that when it was just the two of us. What shall we do, Nick? I would say, tucking him up at bedtime. Ask the man in the moon, he’d reply. I always told him it might be a mummy moon, and Nick would sneak his hand into mine, give me his crooked smile, and tell me the moon wouldn’t be there when he woke up. Nor would his daddy. But I was, always.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Branches scratch my face; footsteps pound behind me. I’m reaching out for Nick, grasping his cold hand to pull him with me. We have to get away . . . I hear children laughing and turn around, panicking as giggles turn to screams. Nick’s icy fingers slip through mine, and he’s falling, falling . . . I throw myself after him, trying to shout his name, only someone has their hand over my mouth, smothering me, whispering in my ear that your son belongs to me.

  My head bangs against something hard, jolting my already tender forehead with such pain that I wake up. I claw at the blanket tangled around my face, fighting terror as I stare around the dark room, until I remember where I am. The cottage is so quiet. All I can hear is my own heartbeat—and the sound of a key turning in a lock.

  Sidling through the cottage toward sudden clattering noises in the kitchen, my heart is in my mouth. “Oh God. It’s you.” My heart pounds painfully as adrenaline floods my body.

  “Sorry, I hope I didn’t scare you.” Craig turns to smile briefly at me, before continuing to unload groceries onto the kitchen counter. “I did send an email before I left my apartment. Internet reception here isn’t great, though. Wi-Fi signal has a rather teenage tendency toward mood swings,” he quips, bending to stash bottles of cleaning fluid under the sink.

  “So I gathered.” I lean shakily against the doorjamb, holding on to it until the jelly-like feeling in my legs subsides, and the last unsettling wisps of my bad dream finally evaporate.

  “I knocked a couple of times before I let myself in,” Craig adds, straightening up and watching me with a concerned frown. “You OK?”

  “Yes. I . . . You let yourself... Ah, spare keys.”

  “Yes. For emergencies, really.” He holds up a bottle of red wine. “This also comes in handy in a crisis.”

  “Right.” I half-smile, unsure if he’s joking. I’m not used to Craig being so relaxed. I’m not used to seeing him in jeans and a sweater, either. Or his usually clean-shaven face showing the beginnings of a beard. I have the slightly unnerving feeling that a stranger has just walked into the cottage—a secret bolt-hole I wasn’t even aware he used.

  “Are you sure you’re OK, Izzy?” Craig says gently, pausing in the act of stowing yet more provisions in the cupboards. “That was quite a tumble you took. Dr. Lynch did say to let her know if you have any headaches or confusion.”

  “I’m fine. Just a bit muzzy-headed. I think I crashed out,” I say, to excuse the edginess I don’t quite understand myself. “But I see you’ve been busy.” I nod at the grocery bags on the kitchen table. “We’ve got enough food now to see us through a siege.”

  “Ha. Well, you never know. Weather is set to turn. I’ve been snowed in here before.”

  “Really? I was hoping to get Nick home. As soon as he’s feeling better—and the police have caught whoever . . . Sorry. I’m feeling a bit overemotional,” I admit, as tears unexpectedly well up. “Relief, I suppose. Worry.” I draw in a breath. “Fear.”

  “You mean about the police investigation? Or . . . Are you still worrying about that graffiti?” Craig sighs. “Look, whoever chucked that brick was a nutcase. They’ll have seen you on the news, that’s all. You know how fired up with self-righteous indignation some people get.”

  “You’re next. That’s what they wrote, Craig. The police can’t rule out that whoever did it is the same person who hur
t Nick. They still have no idea who that is.”

  “Nick remembered anything yet?”

  “Nothing. At least, not that he’s telling me.”

  “Are you sure? He hasn’t said anything at all? It’s just you seem a bit edgy, and—”

  “Well, we are rather like sitting ducks here,” I say, only realizing as I speak the thought aloud that it’s exactly how I feel.

  “What? No, Isobel.” Craig moves swiftly toward me, resting his hands on my shoulders. “I wouldn’t have suggested you and Nick stay here if I didn’t believe it was safe.”

  “You can’t guarantee that, though, can you?”

  “There’s a detective outside, isn’t there?”

  “Yes. Yes, you’re right. Two, actually. Sergeant Rogers and another one. They’re alternating shifts. I saw the second officer just now.”

  “I didn’t see anyone.” Craig frowns. “Although I did come by boat.”

  “By boat? Oh, yes. I saw the mooring. Huh. A world away from the Jersey Road.”

  “Don’t get too excited. It’s a lot less glamorous than it sounds.” He smiles. “Little more than a dinghy, in fact. But with a small outboard motor. Useful for hopping back and forth across the river when I’ve got stuff to carry. That’s the one disadvantage of having no road access here.” He gives a small bow. “Your luggage arrived via the scenic route, m’lady.”

  “Nice. I didn’t know you were into boats.” I stare curiously at him, half expecting him to tell me he’s got a Harley-Davidson parked outside; right now, nothing would surprise me.

  “Well, I’m no Aristotle Onassis. But Lady Luck comes in pretty handy. Fortunately, I’ve just got her back from the boatyard.”

  Jason’s face flashes into my head, and for a moment I’m distracted, wondering if Jason ever visited here after his Sunday job, and how long it will be until the coroner returns a conclusive verdict on his cause of death. “Was there a problem?” I say at last.

  “No problem as such. Just needed a bit of TLC after the winter. Anyway, this officer you saw. What did he look like?”

  “Dark hair. Slim. Average height. Wearing a leather jacket, I think. Sort of like the one Sergeant Rogers wears. I guess it’s standard plainclothes uniform.”

  “Right.” Craig brushes past me, striding out of the kitchen toward the front door. Using his own keys, he unlocks and throws it open.

  “Oh, Marzipan! Come back, sweetheart.” I reach for her as she slinks around my legs and darts out of the cottage, disappearing down the path. Apart from worrying about her safety on the unfamiliar island, I wanted her to be here when Nick wakes up, curled up on his bed in the morning, as he always finds her at home.

  “Did he show you ID?” Craig persists, ignoring my efforts to summon Marzipan.

  “What? No. Of course not. I didn’t speak to him. But he arrived exactly when Sergeant Rogers said he would. Bang on eight thirty. I thought I should just let him get on with his patrol.”

  “Wait here. I’ll check it out.”

  For a few moments, Craig’s steady stare sifts the darkness, then he steps out to check all around the small front yard, finally leaning over the gate to look up and down the path. I picture it twisting into the distance, weaving between the other houses nestled behind tall hedges, with picket fences and wrought-iron gates creating a hundred hiding places. As Sergeant Rogers predicted, the temperature has plummeted. But it isn’t the cold that makes me tremble as Craig finally comes back inside, locking the door behind him.

  I can’t stop worrying that someone is out there. Watching. Waiting . . . The presence of police security offers some comfort, but I have no idea what kind of threat Sergeant Rogers and his colleague might have to face. DCI Maxwell talked about Suspect A playing a game of mental cruelty. I’m certainly going out of my mind waiting for their next move.

  “I think we’re good,” Craig says, snapping on lamps and settling down on the sofa, patting the cushion next to him. “Come. Sit. I’ve got some time. Let’s talk.”

  “Sure.” I sit down but leave a gap between us, still a little uncomfortable being alone with him; somehow it feels different than when we were at the hospital. The police presence there was a distraction; now it’s just the two of us—and the elephant in the room: our dead marriage. “I hope the police are making progress,” I say, to break the awkward silence.

  “I’ll check in with Maxwell first thing tomorrow. Last time we spoke he was still focusing on the online grooming angle.” Craig’s mouth twists. “The glories of the Internet age, hey?”

  “Indeed. I guess that remains the most likely scenario. That someone was following the boys’ posts about the sleepover. Don’t you think?”

  “Perhaps. That could be anyone, though.” Craig tuts. “Those boys effectively advertised themselves to every pervert with an Internet connection.”

  I think about the images I saw on social media while I was looking for photos of the sleepover. Some of them were eye-wateringly personal; inappropriate for public view, even. “I suppose, for some people, there’s a fine line between taking an interest in other people’s kids—and taking too much interest, if you know what I mean?”

  Craig gives me a direct look. “The rule is simple. You can look but don’t ever touch. Whoever did this to our son has crossed way over that line.”

  “But looking is OK?” I persist, frowning as I keep turning over images in my mind: Katie, Nathan, and Jason in their swimsuits on holiday; friends of friends that I’ve never even met displaying intimate moments for all the world to see. Romantic clinches with their partners; their children at bath time, splashing naked in clouds of bubbles.

  “Sorry?” Craig leans forward, frowning.

  “I was just thinking about social media. Parents like to show off about their kids, don’t they? And Instagram appears to have an epidemic of selfies. Kids posting videos of themselves doing silly things. Innocent stuff to their friends. Maybe not so to others.”

  “There’s a big difference between admiring someone’s holiday snaps and perving over their kids in swimsuits. I should know. I’ve taken dozens of photos of Nick. And other kids, come to that.”

  “Yes. I suppose you have.” I turn to look at Craig, startled by his sharp tone. He sounds angry. No, defensive. Hurt? I try to read the expression in his eyes, but lamplight catches the lenses in his glasses; all I can see is my own reflection in duplicate: two pale, worried faces frozen in miniature, trapped in square black frames.

  He leans closer. “I hope you’ve never thought—”

  “No! Never,” I say quickly, although suddenly I can’t stop myself picturing the dozens of photos of Nick in our house. Craig has taken almost every one of them, but I’ve never suspected him of getting any kind of kick out of it beyond that of a proud stepfather.

  “Good. Because anyone who takes advantage of children for their own gratification is sick.” He grips the arm of the sofa, his knuckles turning white. “And if the police find out that the bastard who hurt Nick—”

  “Craig, it’s fine.” I rest a hand on his knee, surprised to see him getting so worked up. “Both Dr. Lynch and DCI Maxwell were clear. Nick wasn’t sexually assaulted.” Thank God.

  “No. But he was battered and bruised. Terrorized and abandoned.” Craig stands up from the sofa and paces across the room in agitation. “And if I ever get my hands on whoever did that, I’ll make them wish they’d never been born.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  I make us both coffee, then curl up on the armchair opposite Craig, watching him. Even though I feel just as much rage toward whoever hurt my son, it strikes me that Craig’s uncharacteristic fury seems to be coming from a slightly different place. It feels almost personal, unconnected to Nick, and I have a sudden hunch about the man I was married to for three years yet am suddenly realizing I don’t know as well as I thought.

  “Craig,” I begin hesitantly, as he sips his coffee, eyes fixed on the dark window behind me. “Craig,” I repeat, when he doesn
’t respond.

  “Sorry, what?” He jerks out of his thoughts, setting his cup down on the rattan trunk and running his hands through his hair.

  “I was just wondering . . . Have I touched a nerve?” I dig my fingernails into my palms; it’s too late to backtrack now. “When you talked about kids being taken advantage of—you sounded like it might have reminded you of something. Or someone,” I say tentatively.

  “You mean Jason.”

  “Sorry?” I frown in confusion. “No. I was thinking more of—”

  “I’ve never laid a finger on him.”

  “Of course you haven’t!” I say, puzzled at the misunderstanding. Maybe I’m wide of the mark after all, and whatever secrets Craig may or may not be hiding have nothing to do with problems in his own childhood. “Poor Jason,” I say with a sigh. “His death must have hit you hard. Katie mentioned that you spent quite a bit of time with him after we separated.”

  “Yeah. I felt sorry for him. His dad’s a nutjob.”

  “Well, Nathan’s never been my favorite person. Although maybe spending so much time with his son wasn’t the best idea. Nathan’s always envied you. You know that.”

  “The man’s pathetic,” Craig spits. “Always trying to compete with me. Bragging about his medals. I knew it was all idiotic bravado. He was taken off active service ages ago. He had a desk job in the army. Did you know that? And now he hasn’t got a job at all.”

  I look at him in surprise, a penny dropping. “Is that what it was all about? Hanging out with Jason, I mean. You were using him to get at his dad?”

  “What? Of course not! I’m a grown man, Isobel,” Craig says sternly. “We’re not on the playground. Christ, you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  I sit back, stung by his sudden hostility, watching despondently as he stands up and starts pacing the living room floor. I can almost see him pulling the shutters back down, hiding his feelings, as he always used to. “Then why don’t you tell me?” I invite softly.