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

There’s no reprimand. No complaint. Just acceptance.

Still, I need to explain.

‘I’m sorry I’m late, sweetie. I had to finish something up at work.’

I ruffle his hair. I’d forgotten how lovely it is. Even since this morning.

He shrugs. ‘No worries. Chris only just left. And this book is good – have you read it?’

He holds up something about a spy.

‘No,’ I tell him.

‘You should,’ he says.

‘Are there no teachers about?’ I ask him.

‘Mrs Morgan is here, but she’s just popped out. She said to say she’d be back.’

So, someone could just walk in here and –

‘Mrs Sutton?’

‘Ms,’ I say. It’s instinctive.

‘Of course, yes. I’m sorry.’

She lowers her eyes a little. She doesn’t know, you see. She has the same story as Josh.

‘I arrived a little late, and there was no one around,’ I tell her. ‘Anyone could walk in.’

I should soften it, but I care more about my child than her feelings.

The woman flinches. She’s not one of the young trendy teachers. She’s a grey-haired lifer with a big bosom and a cardigan. Cares about the children, but only so much. Knows what to do with a reprimand.

She draws herself up. ‘Well, they’d have to know the code, wouldn’t they, love?’

It’s true. And it’s true there are signs up saying: ‘Don’t hold the door open for anyone you don’t know’ (the kids must love abusing that). And it’s true that they know most of the parents by sight. But she’s aware, isn’t she, this Mrs Morgan, that in the real world doors get propped open when it’s hot. That ‘kind’ parents hold the door open for other parenty-looking types. That some men – and women – are great blaggers.

‘Got held up at work, did you?’ she says to me, in my pointed silence.

And there we have it. The blame squarely pinned back on me.

‘I couldn’t help it,’ I say. ‘One of my bosses wanted me to work on.’

‘I like to say the child is always the boss. They dictate what needs to be done. That’s what I told my daughter when she was thinking about going back to work.’

I want to smack Mrs Morgan in the face, but I doubt that will help for Josh’s 11-plus prep.

‘Are you my boss, Josh?’ I ask, turning to him.

He has his head in a book again. He looks up. ‘What?’

‘Never mind,’ I tell him. Best he doesn’t hear my mockery. I’m not sure who I’m attacking – Mrs Morgan, or myself. Or whether it sounded like Josh.

‘For the future, just so you know, Ms Sutton, we bring them through here after 4.15. Usually we let Josh stand by the gates – we watch from the window obviously – but if you’d like we can just keep him in here as a matter of course.’

‘I won’t be late again.’

‘No, of course you won’t, but if you are …?’

‘I won’t be.’ And I won’t, will I? It was just this once. I was distracted. Bitched. Daniel’s face, the photos of the wraps of crack, and Lucy’s snarling face flit into my vision.

No, this is Josh’s time.

‘Come on Josh,’ I say loudly. ‘Let’s go. We can get an ice cream on the way home, OK?’

Ice cream brings his head out of the book. ‘Yay!’ he says. It’s like he’s seven again – perpetually delighted by everything.

All that afternoon into evening we play. Aside from ice cream, there is Lego, chess, burping competitions, collaborative homework. Josh gets the best of my best self. When it’s time for bed, we nestle up together on his Lego Movie duvet cover (‘Everything is Awesome’ – yeah, sure it is), and read page and page aloud of his book.

For all that my mother didn’t teach me, one thing she did: the value of books as an escape tool. Tonight, every night, I’m passing on that lore. When it’s time to sleep, tonight (as every night) I don’t want to leave him, or turn out his light. I sit there a little while, until he gently nudges me away with his leg.

‘Night, Mum,’ he mumbles. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you too,’ I tell him. ‘Sweet dreams, Josh.’ I give that beautiful hair/forehead cusp a long kiss. I don’t let him see the tears in my eyes. He doesn’t yet understand all the reasons for crying. And I don’t want him to.

Josh settled, I fetch my customary glass of red wine (there are worse poisons) and pull some leftover potato salad from the fridge. I curl up with it on the sofa, then flick on the TV, softly, so as not to wake Josh. There’s a Jennifer Aniston film halfway through so I settle for that.

Jennifer Aniston at a wedding. Jennifer Aniston looking pretty. Jennifer Aniston with a boy. Good old Jen, out and about. Is that how people live? Do they really flit gorgeously from scene to scene with the only continuity being their subconscious pursuit of an honourable bachelor?

Maybe. Maybe there are people who always pursue and never give up. Chloe, for instance. Unless she really is done. Is that what all this ‘normality’ is that I’m playing at? Waiting to see if Chloe has finally left us alone? And if she has, whether I’ll ever get over my remorse at leaving her?

I change the channel. Some mating insects. Lovely.

I flick off the TV and eat my potato salad in silence.

I’m not sure this is living, really. Is it?

Should I, at twenty-nine, spend my evenings sitting quietly on the sofa, my only pastime respecting my son’s sleep? Unless you count tight-roping between guilt and fear a pastime – I should be a circus act.

But not counting that, should I just be cloistered away here? Yes, I should. And no, I shouldn’t.

Imagine for a moment that a man lived here too. What would that be like? What would we do? Would we sit quietly on the sofa too? Would we murmur sweet nothings? Would we drink wine together, dare the odd loud laugh, even if Josh’s sleep pattern were momentarily disturbed? Would we go out, maybe? Get a babysitter?

Would we feel life had moved on from having a newborn?

I allow my mind to drift back to the man from whence the newborn came. And to her. The evenings spent together. We weren’t alone then. And we weren’t drinking red wine then.