Margaret is on a swing when we arrive at the play park, swaying back and forth, feet scuffing the ground.
She’s dressed young for a sixty-something woman, in a long, blue crepe dress that swills around her white sequin-covered plimsolls, but she carries it off. Some people can wear teenage clothing just the right way, no matter what their age.
This forever youthfulness reminds me of Olly.
Margaret is chatting to a grey-haired man who’s leaning against the swing post. She is a very friendly person, Margaret. The sort who could strike up a conversation with anyone.
‘Tom! My little Tom!’ Margaret’s face explodes with smiles when she sees us. She comes bounding over. ‘How’s my grandson? I’ve missed you.’
The play park is the sort you see all over London: a tangle of wood logs connected to a wobbly bridge; a nest swing of children’s limbs; a zip line whooshing back and forth.
I don’t feel safe here, but then again, I don’t feel safe anywhere.
‘All right?’ Margaret waves at me.
‘Hello, Margaret,’ I say, managing a smile. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine, love,’ says Margaret. ‘All the better for seeing you two.’
Tom is all smiles – a rarity since he started his new school. ‘Hi, Granny!’
‘Come and give your granny a cuddle then,’ says Margaret, spreading her arms wide. Happily, Tom accepts the hug. ‘I’ve got all sorts of things for you in my bag, Tom,’ says Margaret, pulling Tom back, eyes darting over his face. ‘How are you feeling? You look a bit peaky.’
‘Tired,’ Tom admits, confirming this with a yawn.
‘Has your mum been keeping you up?’
Tom laughs.
‘Well, a bit of fresh air will do you good,’ Margaret decides. ‘Shall we go on the roundabout?’
Tom considers this for a moment, then says, ‘Yeah, all right!’
‘Good boy. Come on then.’ Margaret puts an arm around his shoulder and leads him to the roundabout, where she pretends to be a bus driver and asks to see his ticket.
I hang back, watching Tom and Margaret play. I suppose, from the outside, you’d think we were a happy family.
If only people knew our history.
I keep my head down for the next half an hour, pretending to play with my phone, heart racing.
Time passes slowly. It’s a great relief when I can finally call out, ‘Tom. Time to go now, love.’
‘Oh, can’t he stay a bit longer?’ Margaret asks. ‘We’re having so much fun.’
‘Sorry,’ I say, grabbing Tom’s hand.
Around me, children run around shrieking with laughter and parents watch on, smiling adoringly. They are safe. Happy. They can’t see that right beside them is a woman who lives in daily terror of her ex-husband finding her.
‘Hang on a sec!’ Margaret calls. ‘Can’t I even say goodbye?’
Tom says, ‘Mum. I don’t feel well.’
I look at his pale face. There’s sweat on his forehead and his hands are cold too. Too cold.
Suddenly Tom is unsteady on his feet, his legs bending like rubber, eyelids fluttering.
‘Tom!’ I cry, catching him in my arms.
He is out cold, eyes rolled back in his head.
‘Call an ambulance,’ I scream, laying Tom on the bark shavings.