No Place Like Home_a gripping psychological thriller

by Rebecca Muddiman

  ‘No, I…’ he said, that sweet, puzzled look on his face again. ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Jacob, what’s the matter with you? It was ten minutes ago. You’re just taking the piss now.’ I stood up and put my clothes back on. They were still warm, having just come off a few minutes earlier.

  Jacob watched me, his eyes darting about, worry creasing his face. ‘We didn’t…’

  I stormed into the bathroom. When I came back into the bedroom, I held the condom up to Jacob. He looked from me to the condom, sticky and full. He didn’t try to look any closer fortunately or else he’d have smelled the rose scented hand cream I’d dolloped inside.

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  I sighed and walked over to him, cupping his face. ‘Jacob, you need to see a doctor. There’s something really wrong. It’s like you’re blacking out or something.’

  He shook his head and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. ‘What’s wrong with me?’ he said, and started to cry. I stood over him for a second before going to him and holding him, pressing his head to my chest.

  ‘We’ll sort it out,’ I said. ‘It’s probably just stress. You’re still not over losing your mum. It’s normal, Jacob.’

  He looked up at me and said, ‘I don’t feel normal.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, and stroked his hair. ‘I know.’

  44

  I held Jacob all night, listening to him talk about his mum, about how everything had changed when his dad had died. I remembered asking my mum over and over why someone like Jacob could have a house like his when we had to live in a grotty flat. Even before my dad left, the house we’d had wasn’t as nice as Jacob’s. And his mum didn’t even work hard, not like mine.

  ‘Life isn’t fair,’ was all Mum used to say.

  ‘What did your dad do?’ I asked Jacob as he lay there in my arms, his tears damp on my sleeve.

  ‘He worked at British Steel,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what he did. I don’t remember much about him at all. I was only seven when he died.’

  I remembered Jacob being absent from Mrs Ray’s class just before the Christmas holidays. I’d seen the headmaster come in not long after register and whisper something to her, her hand coming up to her mouth, her eyes surveying the rest of the class. No one else seemed to be aware that anything was happening, but I’d seen it. I’d seen the sadness in my teacher’s eyes. We weren’t told, of course. That fell to our own parents after school. I didn’t know if the secretary had called them all while we had story hour or if the rumour had just circulated itself. But that afternoon when Mum picked me up, she was quieter than usual, held onto my hand a little tighter.

  When we got home, she told me that Jacob’s dad had died. A car accident, she said. She had tears in her eyes when she said it, and I wondered if she knew him. I remember Dad being there and them whispering in the kitchen, hugging in front of the oven, the smell of roast chicken drifting down the hall to where I was sitting, listening in.

  We’d put the Christmas tree up a couple of days before, and every day for the next week, Mum would come in, take one look at the decorations and start to cry, saying, ‘That poor boy. That poor family.’

  Jacob had always been the odd kid at school and always would be. But until his dad died, he’d been clean and mostly tidy apart from the odd spell of unbrushed hair or muddy trousers. But after the accident, bit by bit, things changed for Jacob and his mum. Much later, maybe when I was a teenager, Mum told me that Jacob’s mum had always been a bit scatty, a bit unreliable. She was a painter. She didn’t work, other than as a housewife and an artist. It’d been his dad who’d looked after things; sorting the bills, sorting Jacob. So, after he died, things fell apart. She did the best she could, Mum said, but her creative temperament alongside her grief made her batty. She stopped cleaning the house, barely cooked, left Jacob to his own devices. I wondered how this tallied up with the birthday party she threw for him, the sadness in her eyes when she realised what sort of kid her son was. Maybe she realised then how she’d failed him, how disappointed her dead husband would’ve been. People in the street looked down on them, they were one of those families. But they had the house. Jacob’s dad had been smart enough to pay off the mortgage on the beautiful house, and no one could take that away.

  So, they were the weird family with the nice house. And we were the respectable family with the crappy flat because my dad didn’t have the decency to die, he just left and ran off with some woman he’d met in the pub one night. There were days after he’d gone that I wished he’d died, not that he would’ve left us anything – he’d frittered away any inheritance, if there ever was any, in the pub. And me and Mum, who worked so hard, got stuck in a dump just because life was unfair. Because Jacob’s dad wasn’t my dad, and mine wasn’t his. A simple twist of fate.

  I woke before Jacob and left him on the bed, going downstairs to make some breakfast. I went to the corner shop, sneaking out, trying not to wake him, and bought some bacon and eggs.

  As I stood in front of the pan, watching the bacon sizzle, I thought about the night before and if I should send Jacob to the doctor. I’d been trying to keep our relationship under wraps, at first because I was embarrassed, but then because I’d thought the best way to do this was by keeping it as quiet as possible. But what if a little outsider help was what I needed?

  ‘Morning,’ he said, and I turned around, spatula in hand.

  ‘Did I wake you?’ I asked. He shook his head.

  ‘I could smell bacon,’ he said, and sat down at the table.

  ‘It’ll be a few minutes,’ I said. ‘I thought it’d be a nice treat.’ Jacob nodded and sat with his head in his hands. I left the fry-up cooking and went to the table. He looked up as I sat down. ‘How are you feeling?’ I asked.

  ‘Stupid.’

  I tilted my head and made a face. ‘You don’t need to feel stupid.’

  ‘Do you think I’m mental?’

  ‘No,’ I said, and reached for his hand. ‘But maybe you should go and see the doctor. If you’re worried. Maybe he can help.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  Jacob paused for a moment before nodding. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said, and got up to turn the hob off, dishing up a pile of bacon and eggs for Jacob, a smaller portion for myself. ‘I’ll call the surgery after breakfast, see if we can get you in today.’

  We sat and ate, Jacob stuffing it down like he’d never been fed, making it impossible to speak. Which was good because I didn’t want to talk, I wanted to think. I had to make sure I remembered all the occasions when Jacob forgot or mixed things up or was otherwise crazy. The doctor needed to know it all.

  We got an appointment that afternoon, and all the way there, Jacob asked me if it was a good idea. ‘What if they think I’m going mad?’ he asked, his voice loud in my ear, trying to be heard over the noise of the bus.

  ‘Then, they’ll help you,’ I said.

  ‘But what if they lock me up or something?’

  ‘Of course they won’t.’

  ‘But–’

  ‘Just tell him the truth, tell him what’s been happening. He’ll tell us what to do, what’s best for you. They don’t just lock people up these days.’

  I could tell Jacob was scared and wanted to keep asking, ‘but, but, but’ – but I didn’t want to talk about it anymore, so I changed the subject. ‘Did you think those tomatoes tasted odd?’ I asked.

  ‘What tomatoes?’

  I turned to Jacob, incredulous. ‘The ones we had for breakfast,’ I said. ‘They seemed funny to me.’

  ‘We didn’t have tomatoes,’ he said, and then, his voice wavered. ‘Did we?’ I did the head tilt again and squeezed his hand. ‘It’s happening again,’ he said, panic all over his face.

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ll sort it,’ I said.

  ‘And how long has this been going on?’ Doctor Turner asked, fiddling with his pen, not looking ve
ry interested at all. I’d started listing the incidents, all the times Jacob had acted strangely, but after three or four examples, the doctor put his hand up and stopped me, turning to Jacob instead, getting him to follow his finger with his eyes.

  ‘A few weeks,’ I said, and Turner looked from me to Jacob again.

  ‘Jacob?’ Turner asked, and he nodded.

  ‘Yes, a few weeks. I think.’

  ‘And you haven’t started drinking more than usual? Taking drugs?’

  ‘No,’ Jacob said.

  ‘You haven’t sustained a head injury of any sort?’ Jacob shook his head. ‘And when did your mum pass away?’

  ‘Three months ago,’ he said.

  Turner nodded and sighed. ‘I think it’s probably just stress. Losing a parent is hard. Very hard. Do you have any support?’

  Jacob started to shake his head but stopped when I said, ‘He has me.’

  Turner looked at me again, and I could feel his dislike of me, even though I was the one looking out for Jacob, even though I was the one who’d convinced him to see a doctor.

  ‘I meant more in the way of professional support. A social worker or–’

  ‘He doesn’t need a social worker,’ I said, thinking that was the last thing I needed, someone poking around our business, around the house. ‘He needs medical help, if there’s something wrong. Isn’t there some sort of test you can do?’

  Turner sighed again and dropped his pen on the desk. ‘We could do a scan, make sure there’s nothing physically wrong.’

  ‘Like what?’ Jacob asked.

  ‘Well, it could be a number of things, something in the brain.’

  ‘Like cancer?’ Jacob asked.

  Turner cleared his throat. ‘Well, that’s a possibility. But a very small possibility. But for your peace of mind and mine, we’ll get you in and make sure nothing’s going on up there.’ He swivelled his chair and tapped at his keyboard.

  I looked around the room as he did so, wondering if I’d made a mistake taking Jacob there. I’d hoped for a more sympathetic doctor, or someone who knew psychological disorders when they saw them. He didn’t seem to know what he was doing at all. And I’d forgotten just how hard it was to convince them of anything.

  There were posters on the magnolia-coloured walls. One about the risk of diabetes, another about the sexual health clinic. On the other wall, a graphic picture of a lung after thirty years of smoking stared out at me, alongside one for a helpline for abused women.

  ‘Okay,’ Turner said. ‘You should get a letter with an appointment at the hospital. Come back to see me after the scan, and we’ll take it from there.’

  Jacob stood up and thanked the doctor and headed for the door. I collected my things slowly, and when Jacob stepped outside the room, I told him I’d be just a second. I closed the door again and Doctor Turner looked annoyed that I hadn’t left.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ he asked.

  I moved closer to the doctor, lowering my voice. ‘I didn’t want to say this while Jacob was in the room,’ I said. ‘But I thought you should know, in case it’s relevant.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well,’ I said, bowing my head, biting my lip, acting like it was so hard to say. ‘Jacob hit me.’

  ‘Hit you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, and looked up. ‘It’s happened a few times. I mentioned it once, I was angry, asked how he could do it, but he didn’t know what I was talking about.’ I looked over my shoulder again, lowering my voice further. ‘I thought he was lying at first, covering himself. I thought this whole thing was made up, that he was just pretending to forget things so he wouldn’t have to do them.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘He seemed genuine. When I told him he’d hit me, he was upset. Really upset, crying and begging forgiveness. So, when it happened again, I couldn’t bear to tell him.’

  Turner frowned, looking concerned and more reasonable than he had five minutes earlier. ‘What’s your name, again?’

  ‘Polly,’ I said.

  ‘Polly. You’re his girlfriend, yes?’ I nodded. ‘How long have you been together?’

  I wanted to say a long time, but I knew I’d be caught in a lie, so had to stick to the truth. ‘A few months,’ I said. ‘But we’ve known each other all our lives. We went to school together.’

  ‘And has Jacob been violent before now?’ I took a deep breath. ‘Polly?’

  ‘He was in prison,’ I said. ‘He hurt someone. Badly.’ Turner’s eyes widened. ‘It was an accident though,’ I said quickly. ‘He’s not a violent person really.’

  ‘But he hits you.’

  ‘But not all the time,’ I said. ‘It’s just when he goes into these states, like a blackout or something. He doesn’t know what’s happened. He wouldn’t hit me any other time.’ Turner rubbed his forehead but didn’t speak, didn’t tell me this changed things, that Jacob would be committed at once.

  ‘Perhaps you should go to the police,’ Turner said.

  ‘No, no, I can’t,’ I said. ‘He didn’t mean it. I know he didn’t.’

  ‘This is an abusive relationship. Even if there is some medical or psychological explanation for Jacob’s behaviour, it’s not safe for you to be there. Is there somewhere else you can go?’

  ‘No,’ I said, and heaved my bag onto my shoulder. ‘I’m not leaving.’

  I heard him call to me as I walked out the door, but I didn’t turn around. I found Jacob in the waiting room, and he stood up as I came out. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, and pulled his arm, leading him outside. ‘Let’s go.’

  45

  I felt slightly uneasy after speaking to Doctor Turner, wondering what would happen next. Would Turner send the police around? Could he even do that? Or arrange a social worker to come and speak to Jacob. I was starting to wish I’d never taken Jacob, that maybe Turner would be more trouble than good.

  But Jacob was quiet all night, a welcome relief, and when we went up to bed, he told me he didn’t want to go for the scan, that he was scared of what would happen, scared of what he would find out.

  ‘But it might help,’ I said, not really caring one way or the other. I wasn’t sure if the scan would do me any good. It wasn’t going to show any illness, unless there actually was some problem, a tumour growing slowly that would kill him at any minute. But that wouldn’t do me any good at all. The house would be taken from me immediately. There’d be someone who came out of the woodwork, claiming they had more rights than me.

  On the other hand, if it showed nothing, if all it proved was Jacob’s problems were in his mind, then maybe when it came to it, the world would be on my side.

  ‘I don’t want to go,’ Jacob said, sounding like a spoilt child.

  I sighed. ‘Well, you’ll have to cancel the appointment, then,’ I said, and rolled onto my side, away from him. I didn’t care. The seeds were sown. Doctor Turner would’ve made notes saying not only was Jacob forgetting things and blacking out, he was also violent. As long as he didn’t send anyone round, it could work out. When the time came and I needed Jacob out, I could use that medical history, use Turner’s corroboration, to my advantage.

  ‘Night, Jacob,’ I said, and closed my eyes, knowing it was going to work out one way or another.

  Jacob cancelled his appointment for a scan, preferring not to know if there was something wrong with his brain. If Doctor Turner found out about it, he either didn’t care or didn’t have time to follow up and nothing more was done. I’d spent days waiting, expecting a phone call or a visit from someone. Some nosy social worker or a friendly police officer who’d been trained in dealing with abuse. But no one came. No one cared enough about Jacob, or me, to come knocking.

  I’d toned things down in the aftermath of our trip to the doctors, but as soon as the scan was cancelled and forgotten, Jacob went back to normal, seemingly unconcerned with anything except watching films and playing with his trains. He still refused to look at job ads and
rarely left the house.

  I knew I had to step things up again or else I’d be trapped in this hell forever. So, I started up with the old tricks of moving stuff around and making him think he’d forgotten things we’d talked about. But he seemed to care less and less, not really bothered anymore that he might be going mad.

  I started arguments about it, tried to provoke a reaction, wondered if he actually would hit me. But he’d just walk away and then apologise later. Even when I said things about his mum, about her paintings, about her neglecting him as a child. Even when I could see he was so angry with me that he was shaking, he never lifted a finger to me. He wouldn’t. He wasn’t a violent man. Not with me, anyway. He would never hurt me.

  He was driving me mad.

  46

  It was AJ who got it for me. AJ the temp. And even though I hadn’t liked the look of him from the moment he started, even though I knew he wasn’t a nice person, I knew he could be useful. I’d overheard him talking about drugs, about his crazy weekends, and knew that he’d be able to get me something. So, I followed him into the break room one afternoon. I took a pound coin out of my purse. ‘Did you drop this?’ I asked and held the coin out to him.

  He paused for a second and then smiled. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’ He took the money, and I could feel his hands were sweaty. I didn’t like him at all, but I needed him.

  ‘So, you’re a temp, right?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, and started making a cup of tea. ‘Want one?’ he asked and held up a mug. I nodded and waited until he came to the table to continue.

  ‘How are you liking it?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s a job, innit?’ He slurped his drink, and my toes curled. ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘A few years,’ I said.

  ‘Shit,’ he said, and I could tell he thought I was some loser who couldn’t do better. I wanted to throw my drink at him and tell him that I’d been offered a supervisory position but had turned it down and that I had a degree and that I was waiting to hear back from better jobs anyway. I wanted to say at least I wasn’t a temp doing a shitty job to support my drug addiction. But instead, I smiled at him and took a sip of tea.