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

The chanting, from everywhere. No friends, no friends, no friends.

Then the spitting, then the kicking. The hair-dragging. The head held out of the window, the ground too far but also too close below.

No friends, no friends, no friends.

‘Stop it! Stop it! Let me go!’

‘You’re sure? You want us to let you go?’

Her voice. The ringleader. Her, who I’d seen at another home, once before. Back again to torture me.

‘What’s going on? Chloe, what’s happening?’

A loud voice, an adult voice.

‘Stop this at once!’

And so they stop. She stops. I fall to the floor. People peel away.

All is calm. The rest of my first evening passes without episode.

But then, when I go to bed, there it is. An envelope on my pillow. One of those jiffy bags. I open it, thinking it might be a settling present from the home. But no. It’s shit. Literally. The envelope is fully of shit. A little welcome present, from my new friends.

***

Josh is shaking me awake. I open my eyes to find myself sitting at the kitchen table with a half-built Lego spaceship in front of me.

‘Your package arrived,’ I tell him. Because it was addressed to him. Not to me. What I found outside our flat last night.

No shit in this one. Doesn’t stop the memories though. I hope he won’t notice my eyes are puffy. Christ, there was much worse stuff. But it’s those little cruel ones that stick in your dreams. Emotional torment scars just as deep as the physical stuff.

Josh looks at what appeared in his package.

‘What! You built my spaceship? Mum, you can’t do that – it was mine to build!’

Urgh. What was I thinking? Of course boys like to build their own Lego. I look at my effort. It’s not that worthy of thanks, but some would be nice. I started another cup of tea between the booster engine and the hatch door. I think I lost my place in the instructions; the hinges don’t quite work.

Unhinged. Hah.

‘Sorry, Josh. I wasn’t thinking. Why don’t you break it up and start again, OK?’ He tuts at me, but he does as I say. ‘I’m going to go and shower,’ I tell him. ‘Grab yourself some toast.’

I rustle off, leaving him fussing over the spaceship.

I’m such an idiot. Why did I spend all night in a fitful half-dream, half-wake, full-of-hatred place just because my kid ordered a toy? Him and his mates, they’re members of some ‘Activity envelope’ club – you (I) pay a monthly subscription and some toy turns up. Usually they’re crappy bouncy balls or Airfix model aeroplanes. But Lego is cool.

Apart from when it gives you nightmares. Stupid. A neighbour must have received it for us earlier then left it on the mat outside our flat when I popped out. And I chose to spend the night sobbing into the kitchen table because of some stupid incident way back in another lifetime. When Chloe was still around.

But she’s gone. And she’s not coming back. Whatever those texts say, I won’t allow it. I think about it under my bed. I should check it again, shouldn’t I? No, not now. Focus. Jump in the shower, wham on some concealer, stick on a pretty dress and try not to lose my job through having cotton wool for a brain.

And get a life. Stop sitting on the sofa every evening, brooding. Move on.

Josh has finished the spaceship by the time I’m back from the shower.

‘Right, let’s fly to the moon!’ I tell him.

‘I need to get to school, not outer space,’ he chides me. I see his eyes flick to the clock. That child is a punctuality addict.

‘That’s what I meant, kiddo. Let’s go.’

‘No coffee?’ he asks.

‘You’re enough of a wake-up call for me, my love!’ I don’t tell him I was up half the night drinking caffeine.

‘Uh-oh! Don’t crash the car!’

‘Hah, hah. Come on, get your blazer.’

I manage not to crash the car either on the way to school or to the office.

In the car park I notice that no one else has a bit of paper on their windscreen claiming to know their secrets. But then, like me, I guess that everyone else has been home and removed it. Probably not after falling asleep in the bath and before having a panic attack but – hey! – that’s Jen Sutton for you. Full of surprises.

‘Pretty dress, Jen!’ Sheila calls out when I walk in.

‘Thank you! Coffee in a mo!’ I shout back.

Before I can even think about cleaning the cups, Bill is at my shoulder.

‘Ah, Jen. Can I have a word, please?’

He looks grave.

‘Sure, what’s up?’

‘In my office?’

‘Oh, of course. Sorry.’

I troop behind him. He shuts the door behind me. He offers me a chair and I sit across the desk from him.

‘Look, Jen,’ he starts. Fuck it. Conversations that start that way never end well. I smooth down my dress and try not to panic.

‘I know you’ve got, well, special circumstances.’ Bless him. He always speaks like we’ve been bugged. ‘But other people, they don’t know that. They’re not going to make allowances. Lucy, for instance.’

Oh shit. Lucy. In all my internal melodramas I’d forgotten about Lucy and her stupid forms.

‘Now, don’t worry, I’ve talked to her for now. She calmed down. Didn’t explain any, um, history, just explained that you don’t have anyone to help with the childcare and all that. Can’t help it if you need to rush away.’

‘Thanks, Bill. I appreciate it.’