‘You’re my son. I like being with you.’
‘I know, but parents learn to give their kids space too.’
‘What for? Why do you need space from me?’
Dylan sighs and shakes his head. ‘I think it’s time I left,’ he replies, and dabs at his mouth with a napkin before rising to his feet.
‘Don’t go,’ I say quickly, and follow him into the hallway where he reaches for his coat. ‘I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.’
‘I have to go early anyway because I’m going out later.’
‘Who with?’
‘A friend.’
‘What friend? Why didn’t you mention it earlier?’
‘I’ll speak to you soon.’
And without giving me a peck on the cheek or so much as a goodbye, he closes the door quietly behind him.
CHAPTER 66
MAGGIE
Three weeks have passed since I last saw the man in the white car arrive at the house, then leave soon after. And in the back of my mind, I fear he’s not going to return. However, I haven’t let my doubts stop me from making preparations in case he enters the house again. My plan involves the bathtub screw, but instead of using it as a weapon, I’m using it as a tool.
Since the idea came to me, I’ve spent every morning waiting patiently by the window for Nina to leave the house for the library. And once she’s out of sight, I make my way down the staircase to the soundproofed partition wall and get to work.
I chose a section furthest away from where Nina might potentially catch sight of it, at the bottom, close to where the skirting board once was. It’s neither illuminated by the light coming through the reinforced glass of the Velux roof window nor the bulb at the top of the stairs. The other side of the partition wall is the closest spot to the dining room.
My screw has been galvanised to prevent it from rusting when in contact with water, making it strong. The tip is as sharp as a needle and will take some time to wear down. So I have been using it as leverage to prize away a small section of the wall. The cardboard egg box in that section came off easily, but underneath was a layer of board that had been glued to another board, and that had been attached to the existing plasterboard. From that first day, I knew it was going to be a challenge and I had to be patient. But Lord knows, I have the time and the motivation. I want to survive this lump and I can’t do that if I remain trapped up here.
I’ve been placing a towel under my workstation, collecting debris and rinsing it down the sink rather than trying to flush it away and have some remain at the bottom of the toilet pan. Then before Nina returns home each day, I stick the egg box to the wall with toothpaste and cover my tracks.
I never work when she is here, even at weekends, and only take breaks for lunch. It means that by the end of each day, my legs and arms ache from spending it on all fours, crouching and chipping away at the wall with such a tiny object. I hope it’ll be worth it.
My lump has been aching more than ever lately, and I don’t know if it’s because I have pulled a muscle while working or if something more sinister is happening. I don’t want to admit it to myself but I think it’s likely to be the latter. Because in the bath this morning, I found a second lump, this time under my left armpit. I am trying to remain calm about it because panicking won’t do me any good. But its discovery has given me an added determination to continue with my plan.
My daughter has made her position perfectly clear. She would rather watch me die a drawn-out excruciating death shackled to this house than help me. She is crueller, more spiteful and vengeful than I have given her credit for. And it brings to my surface a resentment of her that I didn’t think it possible to possess. If I want to get out of here, I must do it myself.
Now, I stand back and look at what I’ve accomplished. I’ve cut away less than a square inch. It’s hardly up to the excavation standards ofThe Great Escape, but I’m not senile enough to think I’m going to burrow my way out of here. No, my goal is to clear enough of the soundproofing that when her friend next comes to the house, he can hear me shouting for help through the gap I’ve etched away. My life is in the hands of a stranger who doesn’t yet know I exist.
CHAPTER 67
NINA
My skin is already cold to the touch and the falling drizzle isn’t helping. It sticks to my cheeks and mats my hair. But I don’t look for shelter. Instead I remain where I am. I just need a few more minutes. Then I’ll be ready.
The house ahead is located at the end of a horseshoe-shaped gravel driveway. I count half a dozen cars parked bumper to bumper in front of the three-storey property. I’m assuming it was once a manor house and at some point in its history, it was broken up into three separate homes. They’re still an enviable size.
I pull the hood of my coat up over my head. I want to feel warm again, and the inside of that home looks so inviting from out here in the darkness. From inside those thick stone walls I can hear the faint sound of music playing. I look at my phone. It’s only just gone 8 p.m. and the party sounds as if it’s in full swing already.
It’s a sixtieth birthday celebration and there are banners in colourful lettering hanging from the double entrance doors. Occasionally someone passes the window wearing a paper hat or carrying a drink. Headlights illuminate the garden and I move to one side as a vehicle parks on the grass verge. Three people leave the car; two adults and a boy. I have aSliding Doorsmoment and wonder, if things had been different, could they have been me, Jon and Dylan? To have had that life.
Once they’re a few feet ahead, I take a deep breath and follow them. My handbag hangs from my shoulder and I clutch a sparkly silver bag in the other. The scale of this party leaves me embarrassed by the bottle of supermarket Prosecco I’m bringing to it.
I can’t wait to go inside and see Dylan. ‘Dylan,’ I say aloud. I still enjoy how it sounds when it trips from my tongue. It warms me in the cold air. I’ve decided I’m not calling him Bobby any more, despite his requests. It’s not the name I gave him; it’s not the one on his birth certificate. I don’t care if he or the rest of the world refers to him by his nickname because the rest of the world didn’t give birth to him. And neither did the woman inside that house who calls herself his mother. I reserve the right to call him what I want because I am Dylan’s mum.
