“Helping Jason, spending time with him . . .” Craig stops pacing and turns to look at me. “No, it was never about getting one over on Nathan. I did despise him, though. And I felt sorry for his son. I know what it’s like to have a father who’s hardly ever there. And who talks with his fists when he is.”
“Ah.” So I was right. “You’ve never told me that.” I try not to sound accusing, but I feel a little resentful that while I’ve told Craig everything about my own family, and Alex, he kept something so enormous to himself the whole time we were married.
“Because it’s in the past. Buried.”
“I’m not sure that’s how it works, Craig. If you bury bad stuff, it only festers. You have to let it out, you know? Share it. Otherwise you end up just putting on a false front.”
“I prefer to think of it as choosing what kind of person I want to be.”
“Putting on a mask, you mean. Fine, go ahead,” I snip, exasperated that, once again, he’s shutting me out. “Act like the person you wish you were. But it is acting, isn’t it? So how is anyone supposed to know the real you?”
Suddenly I think of Katie. I knew her marriage was struggling; I had no idea Nathan hit her—that he hit Jason. If she hadn’t tried so hard to maintain her perfect image at all costs, sugarcoating the truth even to me, her best friend, I would never have misjudged her—and I might have understood sooner why Jason behaved as he did toward Nick.
“This is the real me, Isobel. It’s not an act. But we all play different roles in life, don’t we? I wanted to be a husband. A father. I was happiest being that Craig Brookes.”
“I get that there are different parts to your personality, Craig. I just feel like you’ve never trusted me enough to be completely yourself.”
“I don’t trust myself. That’s the point. The stuff I’ve buried. It’s bad. You have no idea. I thought if I let it out . . .”
He leans on the back of the sofa, fists clenched, seeming to battle his emotions for a moment, and sudden alarm prickles across my scalp as I remember Katie referring to Craig’s hidden depths. I think of his angry declaration that he would make whoever hurt Nick wish they’d never been born, and it occurs to me that having experienced violence himself, Craig’s own aggression might sit closer to the surface than I’ve ever realized, ready to burst out with even greater force after being repressed for so long.
“That sounds so . . . exhausting.” I glance anxiously at Nick’s bedroom door, wishing Craig would leave now, so I can shut myself in with my son—shut the world and my too-complicated ex-husband out, go to sleep, and wake up when this whole nightmare is over.
“Tell me about it. This place . . .” He looks around almost wistfully. “It’s been a haven of peace for me. I’m sorry I let you think it was just an investment. It’s been so much more.”
“I wish you had told me. I wish you’d believed enough in our marriage to . . . Oh, I don’t know. Dance to your own tune, as Nick’s teacher would say.” I’m so proud of my son for holding true to the things he loves—and the things he doesn’t. I wish Craig had been honest enough to paint mermaids in our bathroom at home. But it’s too late now.
“I don’t dance, Isobel. I leave that to Nick.” He straightens up, looking me in the eye now. “It’s what I’ve always loved about him—his lack of inhibition. The way he really is just completely . . . himself.”
“Is that why you asked me to marry you? Because of my son—being a dad to Nick?” I’m hurt, but I can’t blame Craig for doing what I did myself: I agreed to marry him because I wanted a stepfather for Nick; it sounds very much like Craig proposed for a similar reason.
“I always told myself I’d never have a family,” he says after a long pause. “I didn’t want to end up like my father. I got to thirty-seven managing to avoid it all. Marriage. Kids. I threw myself into work, but I got lonely. I wanted children, only I wasn’t sure I could handle fatherhood. And when I met you, I thought . . . I naively thought being a stepdad might be easier. No blood tie. Not quite the same paternal . . . pull.”
I remember pondering the same thing: if Craig was able to detach himself more easily, because Nick wasn’t his own flesh and blood. “And is that how it was?”
“Not a bit.” His laugh is a humorless bark. “I loved—love—Nick like he’s mine. I’ve only ever wanted to protect him. I was angry last year because I thought you were stopping me from doing that. I didn’t want him to walk to school by himself. I couldn’t believe you let him. But that’s not the reason I left. It just felt like you were determined to make the point that he was your son. Like not changing his name.”
“No.” I shake my head. “That’s absolutely not what I was doing. And you were the one who said you didn’t want to legally adopt him,” I point out.
“Because I wanted him to make that decision for himself, when he was older. Whatever, this isn’t about us. It’s about Nick. What’s right for him,” Craig cajoles. “Isn’t it?”
I look at his familiar handsome face, with its uncharacteristically plaintive expression, and I can’t shake off the sudden thought that this really is all an act, after all, and that somehow, for some reason, I’m being played. Craig has an agenda; I feel sure of it. I just don’t know what it is. But if it involves my son, I’m shutting it down right now.
“And you still think you know best, don’t you?” I stand up, too, eyeing Craig defiantly. “That’s why we’re really here, isn’t it? Your house. Your rules.”
He crosses the room in two strides. His face is tense, but his hands are gentle as he rests them lightly on my shoulders. “Please, Isobel. Please stop being so angry with me. I told you. I’m sorry. I still love you. I love Nick. And I’ll do whatever it takes to be his dad again.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“Houston, we have contact.” I leap on my phone as two precious bars on the screen indicate a faint but viable reception. My hands are shaking, and my body aches with exhaustion. I sink down onto an armchair to make the call I’ve been waiting all night to make.
I hardly slept a wink after Craig ended our almost-row by letting himself out of the cottage, promising he would return in the morning so we could talk some more. I don’t want to talk to him again. I didn’t even want to stay here, but Nick is too weak for me to move by myself, and with no landline, Internet reception, or cell signal, I had no option but to spend a restless night replaying Craig’s parting words, wondering exactly what he meant by them.
Whatever it takes to be Nick’s dad again. I can’t decide if it was a challenge to my parenthood or a promise to woo me back. Neither option fills me with joy, and I’ve never been so happy to see the sun rise. I crept out of bed just as pale fingers of light began to steal through the bedroom curtains, letting Nick sleep on while I packed our things.
Now my phone is finally picking up a signal, I’m going to call DCI Maxwell and ask him to send someone to collect us. I don’t care where we go. A hotel. Or maybe Beth’s house. Katie is away, and in any case, I don’t want to put her to any trouble. Or see Nathan. I sympathize with his grief, but I don’t like him, and I can’t fake it. Wherever Nick and I go, I just want to get away from here—where Craig clearly intends to come and go as he pleases.
I glance out of the window for the hundredth time, frowning as I still see no sign of Sergeant Rogers. Nor can I find the card he gave me. I was sure I put it on the rattan coffee table while Craig and I had our coffee, but it’s not there now. At least I have DCI Maxwell’s number stored in my phone. It pings repeatedly as I turn it on, and I wait impatiently as messages flood in: a quick one from Katie saying she was glad we talked, a panicky one I can’t make head nor tail of from Beth, and a request from Jo Peters to call her.
There are no messages from Sean Newton returning the ones I left thanking him for his help, and when I listen to the final voice mail, from DCI Maxwell, I realize why. I need to call him back. And speak to Beth. Probably Ayesha, too. But first I have to talk to my best friend . . .
There’s no answer from her cell, so I call her landline instead, about to hang up when she finally answers with a breathless “Hello?”
“Katie. It’s me. Izzy.” I take slow, deep breaths, fighting to stay calm.
“Where are you? There’s a dreadful echo on the line.”
“Sorry, the signal’s awful. I’m . . . Never mind.” I can’t bring myself to tell her that I’m a few hundred meters from where her son lost his life. “Are you OK? Are you home?”
“Just this moment. Well, I am. Nathan’s gone AWOL as usual. Anyway, what’s up?”
I can tell that, typically, she’s trying her best to act brave, appear strong, hide her grief. I can imagine her true feelings; I’m also certain she wouldn’t be this calm if DCI Maxwell had already spoken to her. “I’m guessing you haven’t heard the news.”
“News?”
“DCI Maxwell didn’t call you?”
“Hang on. Let me check.” Her voice drifts away, and I hear rustling noises. “I left my cell at home while we were away,” she says, returning after a moment. “I needed some time out, you know? Just walking by the sea. Not thinking about anything. Or trying not to, at least. Why? Has something happened? Nick—”
“Is doing OK. It is about him, though. All the boys, in fact. But first I want to say sorry again, Katie. About Jason. Not realizing exactly how upset he was last Saturday. You said he was terrified. You thought he was holding something back. You were right. I know what it was now. Adrian Atkins has made a statement to the police. I know DCI Maxwell wanted to tell you himself, though, so—”
“Oh, screw that. Tell me, Iz. You’re worrying me. What is it?”
“It’s about their teacher: Mr. Newton.” I take a deep breath. “He’s been arrested.”
* * *
I lay out jeans and a sweatshirt for Nick on his bed, then unzip his toiletry bag to check he has everything he needs. As my fingers touch a small bottle of cologne, I feel sick. Rushing to the bathroom, I snap the cap off the aftershave and pour it down the sink.
“Bastard. Deceitful, sneaky bastard.” I watch the pungent liquid disappear down the plug hole. If only I could get his face out of my mind so easily, but I know I’ll be seeing Sean Newton’s bright blue eyes and floppy blond bangs in my nightmares until my dying day.
I remember the aftershave I smelled on him when he came to see me; it reminded me of Nick. No wonder. To think that his teacher sat in my living room, pleading how desperate he was to help. With every calculated word out of his mouth, he was setting up his alibi. And all the time he knew where Nick was, and that the longer everyone was chasing around looking in all the wrong places, the less chance there was of finding him alive.
“No!” I lean over the tub, feeling like I’m going to wretch.
“Mum? Are you all right?”
I turn to see Nick in the bathroom doorway. Still dressed in his pajamas, he looks so young. Innocent. Defenseless. All the boys were, I think bitterly. And Sean took advantage of that. The so-called initiation trial was a total fabrication, but Nick believed every word. Only it wasn’t real; there was no dare. That was just a ready-made excuse prepared in advance for the boys by their teacher. The truth was that he had instructed them to send my son into the woods as a cautionary punishment—because Nick had been threatening to blow the whistle on Sean, who had slowly but surely been grooming the boys through the book group.
“Nick, love, come and sit down.” I draw him into the living room, urging him onto the sofa and pulling a blanket over him. “How are you feeling?”
“I’ve got a headache.”
“You need your medicine.” I stroke his hair. “Can I get you something to eat, too?”
“In a bit. Where are we?” He looks around curiously, eyes wide.
“Craig’s cottage. Don’t you remember?” I worry that he’s not only struggling to recall the past, but that his capacity to hold on to new memories might have been damaged.
I need to take him back to see Dr. Lynch, I decide—probably even before he speaks to the police. DCI Maxwell has been desperate to interview Nick since he woke up, and he made it clear in his message that, following Adrian’s statement, he needs to do so as a priority. But now that Sean Newton is in custody, the weight of fear has lifted: I know Nick needs to speak to the police, but his health comes first. As soon as we can get out of here, I’m taking him home—via the hospital.
“Cottage? Oh yeah. I remember.” Nick hunches his legs up, hugging them.
“Have you, um, remembered anything else yet?” I ask gently.
“Bits.”
“That’s good. Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not now, Mum. I’m tired.” He closes his eyes, soft brows drawing into a frown.
“OK. I understand.” I swallow frustration, but I don’t want to upset him by pushing too hard. “I just want you to know that you’re safe now, darling. Mr. Newton has been arrested. Adrian told his mum everything. You were so brave to want to speak out. And to encourage your new friends to do the same.”
“Mr. Newton has been arrested?” Nick’s eyes snap open.
“Yes, love. I’m so sorry. I could tell you’ve had something on your mind these last few weeks. I should have asked what. I thought it was . . .” Guilt floods through me once again at how I suspected Jason. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve let you down, that’s all. And messed everything up. Again.” I rest my head against his.
“Mum. It’s OK. It’s not your fault.” He sits up straight, pushing the blanket off.
“It’s my job to keep you safe.” Not Craig’s, I decide, as my phone vibrates in my pocket and I see his name on the screen. I’m glad he’s finally opened up about his past. It explains some things, but it doesn’t change everything. I open his text: I’m coming over.
“It’s not always easy knowing who to trust.” Nick tucks his head into my shoulder.
“You’re absolutely right.” I stare at the text a moment longer, then press delete. “I remember you said as much in your—” I break off, not wanting to bring up his video diaries just yet. I’m desperate to understand everything Nick said in them; I want him to know that while diaries are private, there are some things it’s better to tell. But all in good time. My biggest fear, however, can’t wait. “Mr. Newton . . . Did he ever . . . touch you?”
Nick’s eyes widen until the pupils shrink into pinpricks. “Touch me? What?”
“It’s OK, darling.” It’s obvious he has no idea what I’m talking about, and I don’t want to push him into remembering horrible things. Not until he’s feeling a lot stronger.
“What do you mean, Mum?” His fingers dig into my arm.
“Don’t worry,” I say quickly, concerned at the slight wheeze in his voice. “Dr. Lynch said your memory will be fuzzy for a while. But just so you know, Adrian has told the police everything. He’s a very brave boy. And so are you.” I give him a hug, shocked to feel how much weight he’s lost. He was always skinny; now he feels like if I squeeze too hard he might snap. “But you’re both safe now.”
I give Nick his medicine, then help him back to bed. It will be good for him to rest while I make final preparations for us to leave. Hopefully very soon. I would book a taxi to meet us on the other side of the bridge, except DS Clarke gave me strict instructions not to go anywhere without a police escort. I’ve left both her and DCI Maxwell two voice mails now, frustrated not to be able to get hold of them but realizing they’ll have their hands full interviewing Sean Newton.
The detective said in his message that they’re also questioning the teacher about his movements at the time my house and car were vandalized. They haven’t ruled out the possibility that he was responsible for that, too—as a malicious postscript to his attack on Nick. I’m mightily glad the investigation finally seems to be coming to a satisfactory end, but I feel a little abandoned here on the island. Like sitting ducks, I recall saying to Craig. Except that Suspect A is now safely behind bars, I remind myself firmly.
I’m just settling down on the sofa, drifting off into a daydream of Nick getting better, maybe the two of us even moving and starting life afresh somewhere, when I’m jolted out of my thoughts by a weird, almost unearthly yowl. Hurrying to the sliding glass doors, I peer out toward the river. I can’t see anything, but as I hear the noise again, I realize it’s coming from the front of the house. Making my way quickly through into the kitchen, I peer out of that window instead, seeing nothing but trees swaying in the wind.
I grab the keys from my bag and head into the hall, then find myself hesitating. Even though I know we’re safe now, I’m not keen on venturing outside. Maybe I’ll just open the front door and take a quick peek . . .
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
“Adrian! You gave me a fright.” His was the last face I expected to see as I finally unlocked the top half of the stable door. But no twelve-year-old boy made that weird sound; I look over his shoulder, waiting to see if it comes again. “I thought I heard a strange noise. Did you . . . ? Never mind. I must have imagined it. What are you doing here?” I glance around to see if he’s alone. “How did you even find us?”
“Nick texted me. I wasn’t sure I’d got the right house.” He pulls a face. “This place is Creepsville. Can I see him?”
“Nick texted you? Right. I see. That’s nice.” It’s a small sign of Nick returning to some kind of normality, and I’m thankful for that, even though I don’t want him to get sucked into texting again. All the messages have been wiped from his phone now, but I haven’t forgotten the last one Jason sent; I still have no idea what it really meant. “But to tell you the truth, Nick’s wiped out. He’s actually asleep right now.”
“I can wait,” Adrian persists. “I’ll be quiet. Honest.”
“Well . . . Hang on. Did you hear that?” I strain my ears, trying to identify another odd noise, slightly softer than last time, but I definitely didn’t imagine it.
The Sleepover Page 22
