Chapters (87)
- Cover
- Praise
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Seventy-One
- Seventy-Two
- Seventy-Three
- Seventy-Four
- Seventy-Five
- Seventy-Six
- Seventy-Seven
- Seventy-Eight
- Seventy-Nine
- Eighty
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgements
- Extract from To Keep You Safe
- About the Author
I started driving – anywhere and everywhere, simply taking turns without seeing them, just thinking, thinking. My son had always been scrupulously neat – not with his appearance, but with his belongings. Perhaps the only thing we shared was that we were, by nature, fastidious in our housework. We’d clashed when he was a teenager over just about everything, but we’d never had arguments about the state of his room, because, like me, he was almost neurotically tidy. So, why was he living in a mess now? Not just a mess, I corrected myself, he was living in filth. It just didn’t make sense. I glanced up in the rear-view, where Jack was dozing off. ‘Is Daddy always that untidy?’ I asked before I could stop myself.
Jack’s eyelids fluttered. ‘Mmmm?’
‘Daddy’s flat was very messy. Is it always like that when you visit?’
‘No.’ No stutter I noticed.
I had to know. ‘The poo . . .?’
‘D-d-d-d-d –’ He paused, silently blocking, then tried again. ‘D-d-d-d-d –’ Again he tried: ‘Da-da-da-da-d-d –’ but then his face crumpled to tears.
‘Don’t worry, Jack! You’re so tired. Let’s get you a treat!’ Feeling terrible, I drove him to the nearest McDonald’s drive-thru and bought him a Happy Meal, which placated him much too easily. I watched him after, when he was asleep, wondering if he would speak more about his experiences when he was fresher – his stutter was always worse for being tired.
I was exhausted too. Unsure of what else to do, I drove out of town to a Travelodge and checked us both in for the night, to give me time to think of my next move.
I tucked Jack into the double with Bunny, before I sat up in the tub chair, thinking. I wanted to make plans, to look forward, but all I could do was look back. The state of the flat and the feeling that he was lurking behind the door disturbed me.
My son had always been disturbing. Even from the start, it had gone wrong.
The sickness had been terrible. It’d hit hard before I’d even known I was pregnant. Nothing would shift it; sometimes, I couldn’t even keep a sip of water down. Looking back, it was hard to appreciate just how bad it was, but I know at the time I actually wanted to die. I felt we were dying anyway, both of us, slowly failing together. Nobody could help us; the doctors admitted that because the anti-nausea drugs didn’t work, all they could do was take me into hospital and put me on a drip. It was – without doubt – the worst time of my life. But despite it, as I withered, he grew strong.