Читать книгу The Escape: The gripping, twisty thriller from the #1 bestseller - C.L. Taylor, C.L. Taylor, C. L. Taylor - Страница 20

Mum is making lunch, bustling around her small kitchen in her worn-down slippers and Cath Kidston apron, filling the table with bowls of salad, bread, crisps and a quiche, fresh from the oven. I told her to let me make dinner but she wouldn’t hear of it. So, while Elise ‘helped’ Mum in the kitchen, I sat with Dad and watched a quiz show with him on the small TV in the corner of his bedroom. He fell asleep partway through and I’ve been sitting here ever since, listening to the dry wheeze of his breathing and watching the laboured rise and fall of his chest.

We arrived an hour ago. There was no sign of Max when Elise and I got up, just a crumpled blanket on the sofa and a half-empty glass of water on the coffee table. There was no note, nothing. After our conversation about Paula, and Max’s apology, I couldn’t bring myself to discuss a separation so we spent the rest of the evening silently drinking wine as we watched a sci-fi/horror thing on Film4. I was grateful for his company – there’s no way I would have stayed in the house alone – but an apology wasn’t magically going to put right everything that was wrong with our relationship. It was too little too late. Or was it? Should I fight harder to save our marriage? It would make Max and Elise happy but what about me? I went to bed early, just to get a bit of time to myself. If Max was upset he didn’t complain.

This morning I didn’t feel safe, being left alone in the house, and I couldn’t face going to work, so I rang Diane and told her my back was playing up again then I texted Max to tell him I was going up to Mum and Dad’s for the weekend and I’d speak to him soon. He’ll be gutted that he won’t get to see Elise for a couple of days and I know I’m running away from talking to him about our marriage but I need to think. I don’t want to make a hasty decision I regret.

‘Will you come and have your lunch, Joanne?’ Mum calls from the kitchen.

Dad doesn’t stir. I kiss his rough cheek and creep from the room, gently pulling the door closed behind me. As I do, my phone vibrates in my pocket and a tinny tune fills the air.

I don’t recognise the number that flashes up on the screen but it’s got a Bristol code. My heart quickens. It must be the police with an update on the drugs investigation. I didn’t expect them to get back to me this quickly.

‘Hello?’ I press my mobile to my ear. ‘Jo Blackmore speaking.’

‘Hello, Jo,’ says a friendly-sounding female voice. ‘My name is Lorraine Hooper. I’m a senior social worker in the Child Protection team in South Bristol and I was wondering if I could schedule a visit to—’

‘You’re a social worker?’

‘That’s right. I’m a senior social worker in the Child Protection—’

I feel myself sway and have to hold onto the door frame of Dad’s room to keep myself upright. ‘What’s this about?’

‘It’s nothing to worry about, Jo. I’d just like a little chat. Are you and Elise home this afternoon?’

I try to speak, to frame a coherent question in my mind, but I can’t. My brain is anaesthetised by fear. I can hear Mum shouting that the quiche is getting cold but the sound is distant and echoey, as though it’s being shouted from the base of a deep well. The police must have informed Social Services about the drugs bust. And now they think I’m an unfit mother.

‘There’s no need to worry. I’ll explain more when we meet,’ Lorraine says. ‘Is this afternoon any good for you? I have a free appointment at 3 p.m. You’re number 37, Brecknock Road. That’s right, isn’t it?’

‘I … I’m not there. I’m at my Mum and Dad’s house in Chester.’

‘With your daughter Elise?’

‘Yes.’

‘And when were you thinking about coming back?’

‘In a couple of days. Sunday. In the afternoon. I haven’t decided for sure.’

I don’t ever want to go back to our house but I can’t tell Lorraine Hooper that. Or can I? If I tell her what’s happened maybe she’ll understand. All I’ve done is protect my child from someone who threatened her. I haven’t done anything wrong. None of this is my fault.

‘I have an appointment for the same time on Monday,’ Lorraine says.

‘Do you need my husband to be there too? We’re currently separated but I could ask him to come home if he needs to be there.’

‘Yes, we do legally have to include both parents.’ I hear the sound of paper rustling on the other end of the line.

‘OK. I’ll tell Max to be there too. He’ll have to get time off work but that should be OK.’

‘Great, so 3 p.m. on Monday?’

‘That’s fine.’

‘OK, I’ll see you then, Jo. Take care.’

The line goes dead. I stare at the phone as it quivers in my palm. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m a good mother. So why this feeling of dread?

It’s Monday afternoon and my nerves have been building the whole way back to Bristol. Elise distracted me for the first hour, demanding her iPad, a snack or her Frozen CD, then insisted that I sing ‘The Wheels on the Bus’ over and over again until I’d covered windscreen wipers, doors, horn, children, mummies, daddies and the driver on the bus saying, ‘Move on back.’ Finally she fell asleep. But with the silence came fear. I spent last night Googling different permutations of the words ‘drugs’, ‘drug use’, ‘drug possession’, ‘social services’, ‘children’ and ‘care’. I found a lot of posts in forums, mostly from women whose partners used drugs and were worried that their children would be taken into care, but I couldn’t find anyone who was in the same situation as me. I did find a website that said that if someone had alerted Social Services to potential drug abuse, then a social worker would carry out a basic assessment to decide if there needed to be a more detailed investigation. I barely slept for worrying.

Mum could tell that something was wrong when I joined her and Elise for lunch when I got off the phone, but I distracted her with questions about Dad and his consultant, then I excused myself to the toilet and rang Max. I told him that Elise and I would be coming home today and that Social Services wanted to meet with us. He sounded so alarmed I burst into tears and it took him ten minutes to calm me down. He told me over and over again that no one was going to take Elise from us. They were just following protocol as a result of my drugs arrest and all we had to do was tell the truth and be co-operative and we could get back on with our lives.

I couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so gentle and caring. It was like having the old Max back, the one who’d come round to my house in the early days with hot soup and tissues when I had a grotty cold, and sent me flowers at work when he knew I was having a tough day. After Henry was born Max changed. He was supportive initially, in the hospital, on our return home and then at the funeral. Afterwards he closed down. He stopped talking to me. He stopped touching me. He stayed late at work or locked himself away in the study as I sobbed in front of the TV. I made excuses. I told myself that he’d shut down emotionally as a way of dealing with his grief. I waited for him to heal, to come back to me, to open up again, but he got worse. He started snapping at me about small things. Why had I left potato peelings in the sink? Why didn’t I answer the door to the postman? Why did I watch so much mindless reality TV? I felt like a burden. A lost cause in day-old pyjamas with dirty hair. He’d lost a son too but he was going to work every day to make sure we had food to eat and a roof over our heads. Why couldn’t I pull myself together, like he had – in appearance if nothing else? And then he threatened to leave me if I didn’t go and see a doctor. It took every ounce of strength to step out of the front door and get into his car but I did it. I nearly fainted twice in the waiting room. The doctor diagnosed me as suffering from agoraphobia and anxiety and she prescribed an SSRI and a course of CBT. The antidepressant made me feel sick and gave me blurred vision but slowly, slowly, with the help of my counsellor I started to feel better. I was able to leave the house if I knew exactly where I was going and if Max came with me. Eventually I was well enough to go back to work. Max seemed to have respect for me again. Fancied me even. And then Elise was conceived and I became scared and neurotic and my agoraphobia returned with a vengeance.

Guilt gnawed at my heart as Max asked me over the phone if I’d had any time to think about the three of us moving to Chester. He’s made mistakes and he’s acted selfishly but so have I. And now he wants to put things right. How can I possibly ask him for a divorce when he’s trying so hard? Maybe I shouldn’t go to Helen’s after the meeting. Maybe I should stay in Bristol and talk to Max?

I glance at the digital clock on the dashboard – 2.11 p.m. I’ve got 49 minutes to turn onto the M32 and get across Bristol. I’d planned on getting home by lunchtime so I could clean the house but Dad had a funny turn this morning and I could tell that Mum wanted me to stay and wait for the doctor with her. I could see the worry in her eyes as she told me that it was OK, that I should go if I was in a hurry.

Shit. The brake lights on the car in front flash red as it slows to a halt. A traffic jam. That’s all I need.

Elise is still groggy as I lift her out of the car and onto the pavement. She grizzles as I set her down on her feet; the last thing I want is for her to be crying when Lorraine turns up. I look in desperation toward Naija’s window, hoping that I can distract Elise by pointing at the twins, but there’s no light on behind the closed curtains. Of course, she told me they were due to go on holiday this afternoon.

‘Come on, sweetheart.’ I pick her up again and carry her to the front door. No point bringing in our bags. As soon as I’ve seen Lorraine we’ll be right back in the car and on our way to Helen’s. I need to talk to her. I’ve been going round and round in circles in my head, trying to decide what to do about Max, and I haven’t been able to reach a decision. Helen’s known me for years. She knows Max too – not as well, obviously, but well enough to give me advice. I just hope Max will understand when I tell him that I need a bit more time.

I fit the key into the lock, turn it and push at the door with my shoulder. It opens a few inches but there’s resistance, as though something, or someone, is behind it, pushing back. I push harder. I must have knocked a few of Elise’s jackets off the peg in my hurry to get out of the house and into the car when we left three days ago. The door opens wide enough for me to fit through, but I don’t take more than two steps into the hallway. The smell hits me first – faeces, off food and sour milk – and then I see it, a bin bag crammed behind the front door. It’s ripped and torn and there’s a trail of dirty nappies, wipes, food scraps, packets, screwed-up envelopes, tissues and tins from the hallway to the kitchen. It looks like someone’s attempted to take the rubbish out but the bag split en route.

‘Max!’ I lift Elise into my arms and step through the rubbish, leaving the front door open behind me. ‘Max, are you home?’

I gasp in horror as I glance into the living room. The plant in front of the fireplace has been tipped over and there’s soil all over the rug. One of Elise’s nappies is on the floor in front of the TV, open and dirty with a Peppa Pig doll face down in the poo. The coffee table is stacked with dirty plates and mugs and the wine bottle I shared with Max is lying on its side, the dregs staining the cream rug red. This isn’t how I left the house. What the hell’s happened?

‘Max?’ I tighten my grip on Elise and back out of the room. My voice rings through the house, but no one answers me.

In the kitchen clothes are spilling out of the washing machine and onto the floor. A tin lies on its side on the work surface, spilling orange beans, and a thick gloop sauce has dripped onto the cupboard below. There are coffee granules, sugar and bread crumbs covering the chopping board. Beyond the food preparation bar, on the kitchen table all the washing I neatly folded and placed into a washing basket has been tipped onto the floor and chairs.

Paula must have come back.

I back out of the kitchen and glance up the stairs. I stand very still, barely breathing. Is she still here, standing silently in my bedroom, waiting for me to make my next move? Where’s Max? He said he’d be here. What if he is? What if he was here when she broke in? A cold chill runs through my body and I jolt backwards. My heel catches on something, forcing me off balance, and I tip to the side. Elise screeches as I release one hand to steady myself against the wall. I have to get out of here.