A. Bird - Don’t Say a Word - A gripping psychological thriller from the author of The Good Mother

Lunch finally comes and I sneak out via the staircase, avoiding Lucy’s desk. I’m nearly done with those forms but my stomach’s needs are greater. And my brain’s. When you need a walk, you need a walk. I used to tell them that, back when I was a teenager. They didn’t get it, or pretended not to, stupid sods. ‘She’s gone AWOL again’, they said. ‘Fuck you,’ I said, when I finally returned. Another black mark. Another step further from adoption.

Outside the air is – well, it’s Luton (Lu’on) isn’t it? So the air is a mix of traffic, plane, and curry fumes. An aircraft roars overhead, a call to prayer summons from a mosque, and the buses honk like the drivers don’t actually want to run over pedestrians.

The great big pink M of the shopping mall is what draws me, though. Infinite choice, self-creation. I don’t buy any of it. Money is still tight. I don’t get anything, over and above the job. You’d think I would, but I don’t. I can still look though, right? Have a bit of a break? Try to get Jen back on track?

I browse in the window of Oasis. I’m only twenty-nine. I can still do High Street. Remember Chloe ‘doing’ the high street all those years ago – brazenly picking up what she fancied then walking out the shop. Without paying. No prosecutions, once the tales of the ‘difficult history’ got out; she just couldn’t go back to that shop. Sometimes she got to keep the clothes, though. Should have been shopping with Mum instead. Hah.

Now, the pinks and lilacs waft in a window fan, part of an elaborate window display designed to make you feel like the most stylish, most feminine of women. I could be that person. Maybe I am that person. Just without those clothes. My eye strays to some kids’ clothes in the next-door window. There’s a cute beanie hat that would suit Josh completely. It can’t be too expensive – I should pop in and get it.

Then I realize I am not the only one looking in the window.

There’s a woman. But not just any woman. She has wild curly black hair. Chloe hair.

Instantly I go small. You know – shoulders and upper arms clench in, head goes down. Feet wriggle closer together, but ready to make a run if need be.

Stupid, Jen. It’s just a woman, looking in the window of a shop. In a busy lunch hour. Over-ride the instinct. Be New Jen.

So I flick my eyes back to the window reflection.

And the woman is gone.

I’m seeing ghosts. It’s just me.

Or fucking hell, poltergeists, the amount of a flying shitstorm there’d be if –

If anything that went on in my paranoid world was real.

I give myself a moment. Breathe. Think of Josh. Then I abandon Oasis. Rush to Boots, buy one of their meal deal things, then back to the office. I can eat at my desk with BBC News. Today is obviously a day to be inside. I know it’s a safe zone at work. Even Lucy, bitch that she is, doesn’t pose any real danger. Fuck it, Luton is a safe zone (if you steer clear of the estates, and those crazy pro/anti burqa rallies).

But I can’t help looking over my shoulder as I scurry back to the office. I haven’t sensed danger for months. So why now?

Chapter 4

I eat lunch over the BBC website. No, not catching up on Strictly or some reality shit nonsense (not shit, Jen – just reality nonsense. Come on, Jen. Think nicely; speak nicely). I’m all about the news. When something like that happens, when I’m spooked. If I’m sure as I’ll ever be there’s no one hovering behind me, I’ll flick onto the Doncaster Star site for some news from my old locale. Just in case, you know. In case there’s something about me. Or something about her. About Chloe.

But of course there’s nothing on the news. On the BBC, it’s the usual ‘delete as applicable’ news story. The pound is weak/strong/middling. Europe is in crisis/celebration/despair. Unemployment is up/down/static. A life is over/lost/saved. Refugees fleeing from a brutal regime/a natural disaster/economic meltdown are welcome/unwelcome/feared. Or from the local news special, the ladies are getting drunk at the races again. That’s the problem with Donnie. Too much glitz and glamour. About as much as Luton.

Nothing doing. I am not the centre of the universe. The websites don’t, in fact, contain any headlines pertinent to me, or anything about Chloe. Which is good, right?

I still gag on my tuna sandwiches, though. What was I thinking when I chose these?

See, Jen, this is the real-world impact of your crazy single mum paranoia. Dodgy lunch and fishy breath. Josh is going to love that kiss on the cheek later.

I chuck the sandwich, half-eaten, in the bin, and minimize the websites. Time to be intellectually curious about the work I’m actually meant to do. That’s how I got the job. ‘She’s bright,’ Bill was told. Which is basically code for ‘She knows fuck all, but she’s had a tough time, and she can string a sentence together, so cut her some slack.’

She knows nowt, not ‘fuck all.’ Cut the swearing, even in your mind, Jen – what you don’t think, you won’t say; give the game away. Crap, but ‘nowt’s’ wrong too. Too Yorkshire. ‘She knows nothing.’ Finally.

Except I do. I know stuff. I know more stuff about their fucking legal system, the wrong side of it, than all the ones who’ve grown up in suits. The stuff you can’t learn from books. So don’t put me on fucking conveyancing files … Christ, what a waste. Yeah, I looked at property law in my diploma but, I’m sorry, it’s puddle dull, and anyone with a printer, some coloured pens, and the one brain cell you need to fill out a form can do it. Yes, that means you, Lucy.

For those of us with a bit of life experience – family and criminal law. They’re what make sense. They’re what matter. If you’re working for the defence of course. Or the mothers. Some of them are fucking toerags. But I tell you – nine times out of ten they are not as bad as the fathers.

Unless the crack’s got them. Or worse, heroin.

But anyway, it’s better than some rich twat who’s got sick of one house and wants another one, just down the road.

Not stuck in a flat spitting distance from Marsh Farm estate with no real hope of moving away from the spectre of your son getting caught up in the same type of gang that got us there in the first place. Whether they’re boys or men or desexed junkies they’re all the same, wherever you go. And they beat their women. No fucking doubt. And no one gives a shit.

So. Yeah. Maybe with Tim’s case I can help someone.

I can’t fill in this form so angry. I’ll do voicemail instead. I stick the Bluetooth headset on and tap some buttons.

Yes, there’s Lucy, from earlier: ‘Oh, my form, oh it’s so urgent – oh, oh, oh.’

Delete.

Another one. Bill. OK. Take that one more seriously. Wants me to come with him to a meeting at 3 p.m. to make a note. My stomach tightens slightly. Then it relaxes – Bill says he knows it’s close to school pick-up time, but he promises it will be short. Lovely Bill. I’m lucky to have a boss like him. I sit up straighter in my chair. This is what it’s about, Jen. Not Lucy. It’s about doing well for Bill, and getting out on time for Josh. So behave.

Next new message.

Oh. Wow. Now that’s something I didn’t expect.

Daniel.

‘Hey … Jen. Um, yeah I was hoping not to get voicemail … So Tim tells me you’re working on this case. Give me a call. I’m around, unless the clerks chuck a bail hearing at me last minute. Would be good to speak. OK, well, hopefully chat later. Bye.’

You wouldn’t think this guy earns his money from standing on his feet, wooing judges. Was that a hint of a stutter?

I replay the message. Obviously just to check for stuttering. Not because I want to check his voice again or analyse the tone.