Don't Say a Word

by A. L. Bird

  I take my arm away. ‘What do you mean?’

  Why would he think I was shitty to Mick? Christ, did I say something? Or did I just exude general guilt? Unfounded guilt. Because it was Chloe who was shitty to Mick. Not me. I escaped, thanks to her. And Mick was the shit. A violent shit.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. People are shitty to each other, aren’t they, sometimes? Look, forget it. I’m sorry. You don’t need this.’ He rubs his face with his hand. ‘Where were we? Home furnishings.’

  OK. We’re moving on, then.

  ‘You were telling me your ex should take credit for all this stuff,’ I say. ‘Even if you were shitty to each other.’

  ‘The shittiest thing we did was lose each other,’ he tells me. I think he’s slipping back again. Then he recovers himself. ‘But hey, loads of things in this flat are just about me,’ he says, his tone jokey, fake-defensive. ‘That study – which I know for a fact is “cool”, the posters in the living room, my bedroom …’ He breaks off, embarrassed.

  ‘Ah, the inner sanctum,’ I say. ‘The true story of Dan’s style. You’ll have to show me.’

  I wonder what I’m working myself up to.

  ‘Maybe a bit later,’ he tells me. ‘Unpack now. Have a lie-down. You must be tired.’

  He’s right. I am. But I also need to look after Josh. It’s not about me settling in now.

  ‘I’d better see how the young ’un is getting on,’ I say.

  ‘I can look after him,’ Dan says.

  ‘I know you can,’ I tell him. ‘But I want to.’

  Dan turns to leave the room.

  ‘Dan?’

  He turns back to me, just before we’re over the threshold.

  ‘Yes?’

  I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him softly on the lips.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He smiles at me, blushes.

  ‘You don’t have to … I’m not expecting …’

  ‘I know I don’t have to. But I want to.’

  I take his hand and squeeze it briefly. For everything. I kiss him again, and he kisses me back. Then we go and find Josh.

  ***

  We all sit drinking the tea Dan has made us. Dan and I are on the sofa, Josh on the floor, looking up at us. A similar scene from the hostel but my God, how different. Familial. Safe. Nice. No one spying on us.

  ‘When are we going to get all our stuff back?’ Josh asks me.

  Before I can answer, Dan says, ‘We’ll get it sorted for you as soon as possible, mate. In the meantime, it’s back to school for you on Monday, and back to work for your mum.’

  ‘Well, we haven’t quite worked out …’ I cut in. What I mean is, I haven’t quite worked out whether I should just sit in this flat with Josh, us each staring at each other, keeping the other safe. It will be like old times, before I gathered the courage to take him to school.

  ‘I’ve got to go to school, Mum,’ Josh says. ‘It’s Henry the Eighth day. I’m being when he was with Anne Boleyn.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ says Dan. ‘I always thought she was the hottest.’

  Josh looks at Dan like he’s mad. ‘She had her head cut off,’ Josh tells him.

  ‘Before that,’ Dan says.

  Josh shrugs. ‘Anyway, I’ll need some tights and some shorts and a doublet. OK?’

  Great. Situation normal. Don’t schools send notes home any more?

  ‘We’ll rustle something up,’ Dan tells him.

  Fine. If Dan wants to go tights shopping, that’s good with me.

  I rest my head on the back of the sofa and cradle my tea.

  ‘And I should go back to work, you reckon?’ I ask the room.

  Dan takes my hand. ‘Of course you should, Jen. You can’t let this get in the way of your life.’

  I take another sip of my tea. What is the ‘this’? Mick? My duty to look after my son? Is work even my life?

  I think of the office, with its bright overhead lighting, worn carpet tiles, and cheerful clatter of busyness. Yes, it is part of my life.

  ‘How’s the case going?’ I ask Dan.

  He wrinkles his nose. ‘As great as ever. Rhea needs all the help she can get.’

  ‘Want me to chase the CPS for that revised charge sheet?’

  ‘You are going into work, then!’

  I shrug. ‘I guess.’ Another sip of tea. ‘I’m not staying late though. Lucy can sod off with her land transfer forms.’

  ‘What about the child minder? Louise, wasn’t it?’

  Now it’s my turn to I look at Dan like he’s mad.

  ‘You’re kidding, right? I can’t leave Josh with a child minder after all this!’

  ‘I like Louise,’ Josh says. ‘She’s cool. She knows loads of stuff.’

  ‘It’s your call,’ Dan says. ‘But think about it, he’d be perfectly safe – Louise picking him up from school, bringing him back here, under strict instructions not to answer the door to anyone.’

  ‘Apart from me,’ I remind him.

  ‘I’ll get you a key.’

  I drain the dregs of my tea. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘It just doesn’t seem right.’

  Dan rubs my shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about it now. See how it goes.’

  I nod. From the original cosy feeling of being here, everything seems very difficult again. Everything is not cosy and OK. Josh and I don’t have a home. Someone basically threatened to kidnap him. Someone who isn’t Mick.

  Chloe, Chloe, what have you done? Why won’t you leave me alone?

  I shake my head. I can’t think about her. No reason for her to pop up now. Is there?

  ‘Now,’ says Dan. ‘It’s pushing six on a Saturday evening. You know what that calls for? A takeaway pizza and a Star Wars movie!’

  ‘Really?’ Josh looks like I might feel if I found out Mick was dead. Hopeful yet disbelieving. Guilt pricks me (like a lightsaber, I guess). I would never suggest anything so cool. That’s what Dads/Dans are for.

  ‘Really,’ says Dan. ‘Pick your favourite topping and I’ll make it happen.’

  So Josh picks his favourite topping – chicken and prawn, who knew? – and Dan, as promised, makes it happen. Pizza for all, a diet Coke for Josh, and a couple of Peronis for us. Dan presses play and the familiar Star Wars music starts. Josh’s space rocket dances along.

  A normal family evening, to anyone looking on.

  But I can’t concentrate. Staring at a false world of battles between an empire and a rebel alliance just makes me worry about my own world. Halfway through the film I excuse myself. I go and check the front door is definitely locked.

  Chapter 26

  Sunday morning, Dan wants to go for a walk.

  ‘It will be nice,’ he says. ‘We can get the papers, have some brunch.’

  I have never tried to have brunch. I do not see why I should start now, when less than forty-eight hours ago, I was threatened with the loss of my son.

  ‘My plan for the day was more to keep Josh in here, wrapped up in cotton wool,’ I tell Dan. I’m half joking, half not. In fact, I think those stats are skewed. Twenty per cent joking at the most.

  ‘Brunch, brunch, brunch!’ Josh chants.

  Dan shrugs at me, like he’s won. Like it’s a game.

  But I’ve been managing with Josh on my own for ten years. I don’t suddenly need Dan and his ‘hey, let’s go crazy’ maverick brunches to make it all OK. That’s not what parenting is.

  ‘I’ll have banana pancakes and syrup please!’ says Josh.

  On the other hand, maybe that is what parenting is.

  ‘I just don’t think it’s safe for us to go out and draw attention to ourselves, Josh,’ I tell him (or rather, Dan, but it sounds better said to a ten-year-old).

  ‘Ah, I’ve got a solution for that!’ Dan announces.

  ‘Of course you fucking have,’ I mutter, not quite under my breath.

  Dan cocks an eyebrow at me.

  ‘I’m tired,’ I t
ell him. ‘I want to stay in.’

  It’s true. I feel exhausted. Jaded. Like my brain is full of the cotton wool to wrap Josh in. Such a nice thought. Unravel my brain for a bit, help keep Josh secure while I’m at it.

  Josh goes over to the window. I want to pull him back, but it’s too neurotic. Who is it I think is watching?

  ‘It’s a beautiful day, Mum,’ says Josh. ‘Look!’

  It truly is. The air looks crisp; the sun shines through.

  Dan leaves the room. I go and stand at the window with Josh, while he points out routes we could take. I didn’t really notice the outside area of Dan’s place last night; I was so keen to get inside. Directly beneath us, there’s a gate to the secure car park. Maybe I should move the car to here? Or I could give Dan the keys; he could go and get it. Then across the street, there’s a hotchpotch of trendy-looking cafés. And a Pret. Of course. It would be a Pret, wouldn’t it?

  Pret, way back then. Me, standing outside, rifling (as inconspicuously as possible) through a bin outside to see if anyone had chucked out an unfinished sandwich. A voice behind me, ‘I hear the coffee is better inside, you know.’ Mick. Buying me a coffee. Hearing my story. Looking at my body. Taking me home. Trying to make me part of his business affairs.

  ‘Ta-da!’ Another voice behind me. I flinch, jump a little.

  I turn. Dan is holding sunglasses and a selection of hats. He must have seen my reaction to him though, because rather than proffering them, he’s letting them droop in front of him.

  ‘We don’t have to go out,’ he tells me. ‘If you want, I can pop out, get us the papers, some coffees from across the road.’

  I shake my head. ‘No.’ I can’t sit in here looking across the street at Pret all day. ‘You and Josh want to go out, so we’ll go out. Those are disguises, I take it?’

  Dan looks bashful. ‘More an attempt to go incognito than disguises but –’

  ‘Fine, we’ll put them on.’ If we’re doing this, we’re doing it. ‘Josh, pick a hat and some sunglasses.’

  A few minutes later, we’re out on the street. Josh is in a beanie and some red sunglasses, his parka zipped up to his chin. I’m in a peaked woollen cap, aviators, and Dan’s coat (I didn’t bring one) with the collar up. Dan is in a trilby and Ray-Bans. We are not incognito. But perhaps we look more like social rejects than people in hiding. Maybe that’s what we are. The woman rejected by her parents, the son estranged from his father, and the man separated from his ex. No one wants us. Or maybe some people want us too much.

  Josh tries to walk ahead of us, but there’s no way that’s happening. I pull him back, between me and Dan, and I take his hand.

  ‘Mum, I’m ten.’

  ‘I’m twenty-nine, big whoop de do – you’re never too old to hold hands,’ I tell him.

  He sighs.

  ‘Are you having whipped cream as well as syrup on your pancakes?’ Dan asks him.

  Josh brightens up again. So, Dan has learnt the parental art of bribery already. Maybe he’s a keeper. If I even have him at all.

  Dan darts off to buy The Sunday Times, then spots a café that does exactly what Josh wants. Josh picks a seat near the window. I move us to the back of the café.

  Josh tucks happily into his stack of pancakes, while Dan tackles an overly cream-cheesed smoked salmon bagel. The newspaper is laid out in between them. Josh has a tech supplement; Dan is engrossed in News Review. I slide a poached egg round my plate and watch the door.

  ‘Hey, look at this,’ Dan says. ‘The CPS have botched another case. “Failings around evidence gathering”. Bunch of clowns!’

  I nod. My fingernails are proving more tempting than the eggs, so I’ll stick with them.

  ‘Or, to be fair,’ Dan continues, ‘maybe it’s the police. Not saying I mind, good for the defence – but even so. We’re still taxpayers, right?’

  ‘Yup,’ I say. Don’t I know it. All the crappy paperwork we had to go through to get me on the PAYE tax system at work. Another good reason for never moving again.

  Dan looks up from his paper. ‘Are you OK, Jen? If you want to go back, I’m happy looking after Josh.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I half snap at him. As if I’d leave Josh sitting out here, an open target. ‘Sorry. Yes. I’m fine. Just a bit on edge, you know?’

  Dan nods. ‘I know. But there’s no need. You’re safe.’

  ‘Sure,’ I nod. I want to put my sunglasses back on. I feel I might cry. ‘How are the pancakes, Josh?’ I ask. Overbright. Maybe he notices, maybe not.

  He nods vigorously. ‘Great’ he says, mouth full. I see evidence of the greatness of the pancakes. I turn away. Maybe I should chide him for speaking with his mouth full. But then I think perhaps there are bigger things on our plate.

  ‘What do you want to do later?’ Dan asks.

  Oh shit, there’s a later? I thought once I’d endured this foolhardy brunch, we could scurry back home and hibernate.

  ‘I thought maybe we could do the Luton Hat Trail,’ Dan says.

  ‘The what?’ I ask him.

  ‘Itsh where you look at where they ushed to make hatsh,’ says Josh, still mid-pancake.

  ‘In English, please, Dan?’

  ‘Like the boy says. It’s sort of a heritage trail of Luton’s hat-making past.’

  Oh for pity’s sake. Really?

  ‘It’s nice,’ he tells me. ‘There are some quirky spots. It’s nice and secluded; you wouldn’t worry about people watching you all the time.’

  Yeah, of course, ‘secluded’ is what I’m after right now. Excellent for attempted kidnap or murder or whatever it is not-Mick has in mind.

  ‘Let’s just go to the park,’ I say.

  Dan shrugs. ‘Sure.’

  So we go to an adventure playground. Josh plays on some tyre swings. I watch him. He slides down a zip-wire. I’m there to catch him. He scrambles up some netting. Dan tries to talk to me, but I’m off, there to make sure Josh reaches the top.

  When it’s time to leave, I’m exhausted.

  ‘Go and soak in the bath, Jen,’ Dan tells me when we get back to his.

  So I do. Dan has a surprisingly good range of scented bubble bath. Most of it goes into the tub. I climb into the hot foam and I close my eyes.

  ***

  ‘You bitch!’ Slap. ‘You expect me to stop, do you?’ Kick. ‘You just make me so fucking angry, do you hear me?’ Punch. ‘All I’ve ever done is try to look after you, and you laze around here getting fat.’ Mick’s face, Dad’s voice, Mum’s face, Chloe’s voice.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘No, don’t do that!’

  We’re all on top of a climbing frame.

  Josh is scrambling up some netting to reach us. But the more he climbs, the further he has to go. And he is getting younger and younger and younger until he is just a baby, and I can feel him kick inside my tummy. Another punch. ‘No, Joshy! Come back!’ I’m going to lose him, I’m going to lose him, I’m going to –

  ***

  ‘Jen! Jen! Wake up! It’s OK!’

  My eyes flash open.

  I’m in a cold bath. I don’t know where.

  Someone’s standing there with a towel.

  Dan.

  Oh. OK. I’m here. It’s fine.

  Dan’s trying not to look at me (at the same time as trying to look at me). The foam has mostly gone. I’m revealed. All of me. All of Mick’s little mementos. Dan turns away.

  I leap out and grab the towel, and wrap myself up in it.

  ‘Josh OK?’ I ask Dan.

  ‘He’s fine,’ Dan mutters. He’s frowning, looking at where the scars are covered by a towel. ‘But how about you? You were shouting out.’

  I shrug. ‘Bad dream. What time is it?’

  I see Dan’s eyes move to the scars on my arms, my marks of the past. He doesn’t ask, but he registers them.

  ‘Almost time for dinner,’ he says. ‘I cooked us some chops. Josh is laying the table.’

 
‘You should have woken me,’ I tell Dan.

  ‘I did,’ he reminds me.

  ‘Sooner,’ I tell him. No one wants to wake from an anxiety dream in a cold bath.

  He touches my shoulder lightly. ‘Go and warm up. Put your pyjamas on or something. We’re not going out again tonight. And, Jen?’

  ‘Yes?’

  He’s frowning again, looking at where he saw the scars. He doesn’t seem to know the words for what he wants to say.

  ‘Nothing. It’s OK,’ he says, eventually. ‘Just chill out, for a bit, while you can. OK?’

  I nod. Good. Cosy times. Relax, maybe. Forget about Monday tomorrow (hah).

  And I do manage a bit. Wrapped up warm in my pyjamas and a borrowed dressing gown, I gobble up Dan’s meat and two veg supper. I look on as Dan produces a pair of tights, a pair of shorts, and a patterned waistcoat for Josh’s Henry the Eighth extravaganza tomorrow. I’d forgotten about it, but of course Josh hadn’t.

  ‘The tights should be red or green, really,’ Josh complains. ‘And I don’t think he wore beige shorts.’

  ‘I didn’t think anyone wore beige shorts,’ I joke. Dan mock-slaps me with the belt of the shorts. I flinch. Dan’s face falls.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think,’ he tells me.

  I shrug. ‘It’s OK.’ But I had to hear that too much from my mum to my dad, say it too much to Mick, for me to mean it now. I change the subject.

  ‘You’ll be the best Henry the Eighth ever tomorrow!’ I tell Josh.

  ‘Can I have seven wives then?’ he asks.

  ‘Only if you promise not to kill the first ones,’ I bargain.

  ‘OK, I’ll marry them all at once and have a harem.’

  The mind boggles. I let it go.

  Josh is early to bed that night, tired but happy, it seems, from his weekend adventures.

  ‘We’re staying here, aren’t we, Mum?’ he says. But it’s more like a statement than a question. A reaffirmation of his beliefs.

  ‘For a little while, sweetie, yes.’

  ‘We should stay for a long while. You should marry Dan. We can stay for ever.’

  ‘Whatever you say, poppet.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No, ’fraid not. Now come on, my little Tudor monarch. You get your rest. It’s school tomorrow.’