There’s a cheery red Fiat outside our house – not a car I recognise. My grip on Tom’s hand tightens.
We’re on our way back from school. Tom’s been talking about the colour of the trees. Green holly and silver birch.
A sign of stress …
The Fiat’s engine isn’t running, but I see a shadow in the front seat – a woman. Kate. I’m relieved to see her, desperate to talk about my school concerns and the possibility of moving.
As we reach our front garden, the car door opens and she steps out, plain as ever in her trouser suit and black boots.
‘Miss Riley?’ Kate gives a wave and hurries to catch us.
I turn the key in the front door. ‘Hi. How are you? Would you like to come in?’
‘Yes, please. If I may.’
‘Of course.’ I push the door open.
‘You dyed your hair,’ Kate remarks.
I touch the bright-blonde tufts. ‘I fancied a change.’
Mercifully the house isn’t too messy. They spring visits on you, social services. I suppose to catch you in your natural habitat, chaotic and ill-prepared. Plenty of houses are a mess when no one is looking, I’m quite sure.
Suddenly, I realise I forgot to buy teabags earlier and feel my heart pound. Will Kate see this as a sign of a disorganised household?
‘I’m really sorry, we’re out of tea,’ I tell her, moving a pile of laundry from the kitchen counter. ‘I was at an interview today; I didn’t have time to shop.’
‘That’s fine.’ Kate kneels down to Tom. ‘How are you, Tom? Good day? What happened at school?’
‘I don’t remember,’ he says.
‘He never seems to remember much about this new school.’ I put an arm around his shoulders. ‘At his old school, he used to remember lots.’
Tom wriggles away, runs upstairs and slams his bedroom door.
‘And he’s always in his bedroom these days,’ I say. ‘Maybe he’s just growing up. I don’t know. But … I’m worried. Take a seat. Sorry about that blanket. Just move it to one side. I’ll put the kettle on. I’ve only got instant coffee. Sorry.’
Kate moves the crumpled blanket from the sofa and sits down.
I wonder if the neighbours know why Kate is here and if they do, what they think of me.
The kettle boils and clicks. I make two cups of instant coffee and carry them into the lounge, apologising again for the lack of tea.
‘It’s fine,’ says Kate. And then, clearly on a tight schedule, gets straight to the point. ‘Miss Riley, has Tom seen his father since my last visit?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I told you, I don’t let him see his father.’
My fingers grip my mug – a rainbow-coloured one I chose to bring cheer into the living room.
‘From a social services point of view,’ says Kate, ‘it’s important children have the widest circle of loving adults available to them.’
‘I think any parent with such serious issues revokes their right to be a parent.’
‘That’s not how the system sees it,’ says Kate. ‘A parent is still a parent, even if they’ve exhibited aggressive behaviour. Of course, they have to be managed. Supervised visits and so on. You’re quite certain Tom hasn’t seen his father since you moved?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’ I clear my throat. ‘He doesn’t want to see him. They asked him about that in court. Look, this is about more than just his visitation, isn’t it? I’m not stupid. Has Olly been in touch with you? Told you how evil I am for withholding his son?’
‘Not directly.’
‘Kate, Olly is dangerous.’ I hesitate, thoughts tumbling over themselves. ‘A very good manipulator. I’m even scared he might … God, this is going to sound ridiculous.’
‘What?’ Kate sits up tall.
I take a sip of coffee, wondering how best to phrase things. ‘I keep noticing holes in the school fence. Along the country path. What if Olly ... I mean, I know it sounds crazy …’
‘Tell me what you’re thinking,’ says Kate.
I feel hot coffee scald my leg and realise my hand is shaking. My eyes drift to the angry red splash mark on my bare knee. ‘What if Olly is getting into Tom’s school? Tom hasn’t been himself since we moved here. He’s withdrawn. Moody, sometimes. Aggressive, even. It’s like he’s hiding something. And Olly is clever. I was careful, but … that doesn’t mean he hasn’t found us.’
‘Do you really think that’s likely?’ says Kate. ‘I’m sure the school would notice someone sneaking in.’
I have a vision suddenly – a tall, scruffily dressed but handsome man, jogging across the school field. It only takes him a moment, and then he’s inside the school, sneaking down the corridors.
The teacher’s back is turned.
‘Tom. Tom – come and talk to me a sec.’
I shake the vision away, feeling sick.
‘The school is such a strange place,’ I insist. ‘It’s like they’re hiding something. The bars on the windows, two-way glass, a padlock on the school gate – what normal school has security like that?’
‘Yes, I did notice,’ says Kate.
‘It’s weird. And amid all that, there are holes. Big holes cut in the wire. Why? I don’t want to sound paranoid …’ I let the sentence trail away, aware I definitely do sound paranoid.
‘I can look into that,’ says Kate. ‘Do you have any idea where your ex-husband is living now?’
‘None.’
‘I heard he’s staying with his mother.’
‘Is he? No. She would have told me.’
‘I don’t suppose you happen to have contact details for her?’
‘Margaret lives in East London.’ I stand up. ‘My phone is somewhere in this mess. Let me find it for you.’
After five minutes of searching, I finally find my phone on the bookcase, resting on a selection of literary novels and cookbooks.
‘I have her address,’ I say, scrolling through my contacts. ‘I’m guessing she’s still at the same place.’
‘Thanks,’ says Kate, taking the details. ‘I’ll pay her a visit. And I’m going to visit the school tomorrow.’
She looks at me then, and for moment I wonder if she’s going to ask something else. Some really awful question.
But she doesn’t. Instead, she thanks me and leaves.
When she’s gone, I sit on the sofa, head in my hands.