Читать книгу Don’t Tell Teacher: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist, from the #1 bestselling author - Suzy Quinn K - Страница 16

Lizzie

‘So how was school?’

Tom is quiet, head down, kicking stones. I squeeze his hand in mine.

We’re walking home along the country path, me shielding my eyes against the low sun.

My little boy seems so small beside me today. It’s funny – when he started school in London, he grew up overnight. But now he seems young again. Vulnerable.

He hasn’t grown much this year, even though he’s nearly nine.

‘It was all right,’ says Tom. His school jumper is inside out, so he must have had sports today. He never has quite got the hang of dressing himself. ‘Were you okay at home?’

I laugh. ‘I was fine, Tom. You’re such a lovely boy for caring. High five?’

Tom slaps my fingers, but doesn’t smile.

‘Do you need me to carry your bag?’ I ask. ‘You look tired.’

He doesn’t reply.

‘Tommo?’

‘What?’ Tom turns to me, eyes dull. He looks … disorientated.

‘Are you okay?’

He nods.

‘You don’t look okay. What’s up, Tommo?’

‘Just tired.’

‘How was school?’

‘I don’t remember.’ Tom’s words are soft now – almost slurred.

My heart races, but I keep my questions calm. ‘Nothing? Not even what you had for lunch? Tom … you don’t look too well. Maybe you should have a lie-down on the sofa when we get home.’

‘Yeah.’ His feet trudge over stones.

I remember chatting with another mum in London once.

Usually, I kept my head down at the school gates, the quiet, downtrodden wife. But this mum sought me out. Forced me into a conversation.

She told me her son, Ewan, never remembered what happened at school. She said it was common.

I’d nodded, feigning agreement. But actually, Tom always remembered his school day. Our walk home was filled with chatter about reading books, school dinners and gold stars.

‘Okay, champ.’ I ruffle Tom’s hair, the words catching. ‘A little rest. And then I think a trip to the doctor’s would be a good idea.’

‘Yeah.’ Tom stumbles a little, his black school shoe turning under itself.

‘Tom?’ I take his arm.

He gives a languid blink. ‘Maybe … maybe I’m getting a cold. Everything looks blue today.’

I stiffen.

When things were especially bad between Olly and me, Tom became fixated on colours. How grass wasn’t really green, but green, yellow and brown. And the teacher’s skirt was ‘turquoise like Daddy’s sweatshirt’.

A sign of stress, the doctor said.

We approach our sleeping house, the curtains drawn. They’re made from thick, heavy velvet, and I hung them the very first day we moved.

Heavy curtains are a necessity for anyone running from someone.

‘Do you want something to eat?’ I unlock the front door. ‘I bought some biscuits. You can have a snack and I’ll take your temperature.’

‘I don’t want a snack,’ says Tom, heading straight through our messy living room and throwing his coat and bag over the bannisters. ‘Biscuits are too brown today.’

Too brown.

He hasn’t mentioned colours since we left London …

‘I just want to sleep,’ says Tom.

‘Can’t we just have a little chat?’

Out of the blue, Tom snaps: ‘Leave me alone! I hate the new school, okay? And I hate you.’

I stare at him, utterly stunned. He’s never talked to me like that. Ever.

‘Maybe you should go upstairs and rest,’ I say sharply.

‘That’s what I just said,’ he retorts.

Clump, clump, clump.

Tom stomps up the stairs, head bowed. Then his bedroom door slams.

I follow him upstairs and find him sitting on his bed, playing with his Clarks shoes. He pulls the Velcro back, then sticks it down. Rip, rip. Rip, rip.

‘Tom? Please let’s talk. I know this is hard.’

Tom looks up, and as he does his head begins to loll around.

Then my little boy slides to the floor, his body totally rigid, twisting, biting, drooling.

‘Tom!’ I stare, terrified, as he snaps his teeth at thin air. One hand is still locked to the Velcro on his trainer, his body a stiff crescent, fingers refusing to yield. ‘Tom!’

I see the whites of his eyes as he shouts, ‘School grey.’

‘I’m phoning an ambulance,’ I shout, dashing downstairs two steps at a time.

My fingers are shaking as I dial 999, my words rushed when the operator comes on the line. ‘Help, please,’ I sob. ‘My son is having some sort of fit. Please send an ambulance. Hurry!’