Claire S. Duffy - The Stranger - Season 1

www.storytelpublishing.se Copyright © Storytel Original 2018 Copyright © Claire S. Duffy 2018 Senior editor: Kate Jones Cover idea and design: Cover Kitchen Company Ltd Published 2018 by Storytel Original. ISBN: 978-91-7991-338-0 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, store in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

‘No don’t like it!’ Alfie screeched. He shoved the porridge Fergus had cooked him across the table and burst into tears. The bowl skidded to the end of the table and promptly, inevitably, toppled over. It bounced, then clattered to a rest upside down and porridge globbed onto the linoleum floor. Alfie’s face was red as he sobbed.

Fergus was baffled. As far as he was aware, Alfie had eaten porridge every morning for breakfast since he started taking solids, including yesterday morning, their first as a full-time twosome, which had passed without incident. What could possibly have upset him so much today?

‘We’re gonna have to throw that porridge in the bin now, that’s a bit rubbish, isn’t it?’

‘My porridge, no throw it in bin!’ Alfie roared, beside himself with anguish.

‘But it’s been on the floor, you can’t eat it now.’

‘MY porridge.’

It took Fergus a moment to realise that what he was feeling was fear. Actual fear.

He’s expecting me to fix this, he thought with rising panic. I’m in charge here, I’m supposed to make it all better, but I don’t even know what’s happening.

He glanced at his watch. Tess had left for work not half an hour before. That meant at least eight hours until she returned. She had tried to talk to him that morning about Alfie’s fussy eating phase, but, high on the success of their first day Fergus had breezily cut her off. Which meant that ringing her for advice now was out of the question. He would manage. If all the Swedish men with their beards and their buggies could manage, then so could Fergus. When in Rome and all that...‘Men don’t have the same instincts we do,’ Tess’s mother had sniffed when Tess announced their plans. Fergus had been rooting around the fridge for the beer Tess’s dad insisted was there somewhere, and he froze when he heard their voices drifting through the open window from the terrace. ‘It’s very difficult being at home all day with a small child, men just can’t —’

‘ I can’t.’ Tess replied quietly, her voice tight. ‘I couldn’t, remember? Fergus has as much chance of managing it as I ever did.’

‘Darling, I know your generation like to believe that men and women are exactly the same, and can do everything just as well as each other, but you have to think about what is right for Alfie. He is more important than any —’ She paused, and Fergus could just imagine her waving vaguely, her nose in the air. ‘Principles.’

‘My child is important, you say? Let me just write that on my hand quickly so I don’t forget. Important. How are you spelling that?’

A cold, hard, knot formed in Fergus’s chest. He’d long ago learned that the bolshier Tess came across, the less sure of herself she actually was.

‘We’re doing this for Alfie.’ Fergus could hear the tension in Tess’s voice, knew she was fiddling with the edge of her napkin or piling up lumps of sugar like building blocks on her saucer as her mother watched with a disapproving eye. Sharp pin pricks of sweat formed on his forehead as he stood in front of the open fridge. He heard Tess say quietly, ‘according to just about every bloody Sunday supplement of the last few years, Sweden is supposed to be one of the best places in the world to raise a child. All that gender equality and, I don’t know, fresh air and pickled shit. Alfie will be fine with Fergus. Fergus is great with him. This job I’ve been offered is quite a big deal, as it happens.’

‘Yes, but what if Fergus...you know...again —?’

‘He won’t.’

The knot in Fergus’s chest hardened. Somewhere in the distance he heard Tess’s dad shouting that the second half was starting.

What if he?

He wouldn’t. Never again. Don’t look back.

‘Well,’ said Tess’s mum, and Fergus could just picture her pinched face as he heard the tea trickling into delicate bone china cups, the defiant plop of a sugar lump that was Tess’s tiny, pointless, revenge. ‘You’ll do what you think is best. You always do.’

Alfie stared up at Fergus now, tears streaming from the hazel eyes that were a mirror image of Fergus’s own. Alfie’s mop of fiery curls, present almost since birth, had left Fergus in no doubt of his paternity. ‘That’s what I get for procreating with a ginger.’ Tess had shaken her head with an exhausted grin as she was wheeled back into the maternity ward. ‘At least we won’t lose him on a dark night.’ Fergus had trailed behind, his heart thudding with terror at the unfathomable responsibility blinking up at him from the inexplicably ugly blanket Tess’s mum had crocheted.

Two and a half years later, the unfathomable responsibility had now been refusing, at high volume, to eat his breakfast for the best part of an hour and a headache was pounding behind Fergus’s temples.

‘Why don’t you eat a banana in that case, and then we’ll see —’

‘Not banana!’

‘But you love bananas. You have a banana every day.’

In response, Alfie wailed.

Fergus started opening kitchen cupboards. Alfie wouldn’t get ill if he skipped breakfast this one morning, he reassured himself slightly frantically. People skip meals all the time; but he’s only tiny, he’s growing. He needs to eat.

The flat that they had hastily rented had the potential to be grand, with its high ceilings, heavy wooden floors and curious, ornately tiled stove fireplaces in every room, but it clearly hadn’t been renovated in decades. It had a vaguely dusty feeling, and the kitchen was a celebration of Formica and linoleum. The rental agent, Magnus, a big cheerful man in an ill-fitting suit who always seemed slightly out of breath, explained that it was owned by a family who had rented it out for years. Thanks to the urgent shortage of rental properties in central Stockholm, it went like a hot cake every time it became available, so there was never any reason for effort or expense to do it up.

‘Toast?’ Fergus said, with a burst of inspiration. ‘Here’s some bread. Do you want some toast?’

‘No.’ The word was spoken firmly, but calmly. Alfie’s tears had receded as completely and mystifyingly as they had come. He giggled.

‘What’s so funny?’ Fergus asked, but Alfie just giggled again, pointing into the corner of the room.

In an apartment somewhere in the block, a baby started crying, again. Fergus closed his eyes. The baby had cried all day yesterday, and much of the night. Something about the crying made Fergus uneasy, though he couldn’t articulate exactly what. Babies cry, he knew that, but he was sure Alfie hadn’t cried quite so incessantly, quite so shrilly, not even back in what he and Tess referred to as the Dark Days when he was teething.

‘Tell you what. Why don’t we go out for breakfast, you and me? We’ll have a man date.’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s a plan, then.’ Fergus got up, held out a hand to help Alfie clamber down from his chair.

‘My toys.’

‘Listen wee man, you don’t need to bring all your toys. We’re only going for half an hour, and you’ll be busy eating breakfast the whole time —’

‘My toys!’ Alfie’s voice wobbled dangerously, tears sprang into his eyes.

‘Fine. We’ll bring your toys.’