Silent Child(59)

I winced as I put the injured foot on the floor to help push myself back up. I huffed and puffed as I struggled, and all the time my son stood and watched. By the time I was on my feet I was fuming.

“Get out of my sight,” I hissed.

That he obeyed. He scuttled down the hallway like a frightened spider. I shook my head. None of it made sense. Why wouldn’t Aiden help me? After the frightening conversation I’d had with Jake there was a part of me wondering about whether Aiden actually intended to hurt me. Or at least to watch me suffer. Why else would he ignore my one request for help? I threw the thought away. Surely if he wanted to hurt me he’d just missed a perfect opportunity. I’d been helpless. Yes, he stood and watched me struggling without attempting to help, but he hadn’t actively attempted to cause harm to my wellbeing.

I sighed. That sounded so messed up. I was actually pleased that my son hadn’t attempted to harm me while I was vulnerable. Was this what my life had come to? Gratitude for not being strangled to death while I struggled on the floor like an upturned beetle?

I limped into the bathroom and rinsed my foot in the bath before finding a plaster to apply to the cut. Thought I wasn’t a medical expert I felt fairly certain that it didn’t need stitches and hoped that the bleeding would stop when the plaster was affixed. Then I went downstairs to collect cleaning products to wash the carpet. I was alone with Aiden that day. With the media finally beginning to leave us alone, and the police more interested in the duke than Jake, the need for the family liaison officers being around us throughout the day wasn’t as great. I was glad of it, and I believed they probably were too.

When I went back upstairs, Aiden was in his room. I paused for a moment, but then I decided to pop my head in and see what he was doing.

Nothing.

That’s what he was doing. Nothing. Not watching a film on the small flat-screen TV we bought for him. Not drawing using the nice pens and pencils that cost me a fortune in the arts and crafts shop in the village. He certainly wasn’t reading any of the books Jake gave him, or even throwing the ball Rob had brought him. He was sitting and staring out of the window.

“What do you see out there, Aiden?” I asked. “Is it him? Is it the man who took you? Do you see him now? Tell me what he looks like. Tell me, please. Draw his face.” I limped into the room, picked up a drawing pad from his desk and grabbed a pencil. I hurried across the room to where Aiden sat and took hold of his hand, forcing his fingers out of their tight fist to make him hold the pencil. “Draw him. I know you can. Ten years, Aiden. Ten years. You know his face. You know who it is. Draw him.”

With a force I didn’t know he had, Aiden ripped the paper from my hand, and threw the pad and pencil down onto the carpet. Then, silently, he stood up and walked away from me.

*

It took a good hour on my knees to get the stains out of the carpet. Afterwards, I collected up the broken doll, as well as all the empty wrappers from the many packages for the new baby, and tidied up the nursery. It was perfect. We’d gone for striped yellow wallpaper with a border of farm animals. The cot was made of pine, and nestled inside was a tiny mattress and a soft white blanket. Above the cot hung a mobile of colourful stars made out of glittering metallic fabric. Before Aiden had returned, Jake and I had spent a fortune on matching the nursery curtains with the wallpaper and carpet, as well as setting up the perfect wardrobe and a high-quality changing table.

I stood in the same spot Aiden had watched me struggle to get up from the floor and I breathed a sigh of relief. It was done. The room was ready for the new arrival. I stroked my stomach and breathed in the smell of the new room. The cleaning product had lingered, but underneath I could smell the plastic scent of new furniture. It was a pleasant and fresh smell. The room was airy and bright with a large window letting in the sun. I closed the door and started on that night’s dinner. We’d been living on convenience food for the week: fish fingers and breaded chicken cooked from frozen, with oven chips and ketchup. Today I decided to make a stew with some beef Jake had brought home from the butcher’s the day before.

The air was fragrant with rich stock and bay leaves by the time Jake came home.

“Well, isn’t this a sight. My wife barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen,” he teased.

“Don’t get used to it,” I chastised, though it was nice to do something special for him for a change. I’d been so confused by Rob’s return to Bishoptown that it was nice to feel like a wife again. Though I would never conform to social stereotypes—especially not sexist ones—it was reassuring to have a role again. Wife. Better than ‘failed mother’.

“Did you get the nursery sorted?” he asked.

“Oh, Jake, it looks so pretty. I’d forgotten how beautiful the wallpaper was.”

“Yeah, and it should be. It cost a fortune! I’m going to nip up and have a look before tea’s ready.”

Like an excited puppy, Jake bounded out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I smiled to myself as his heavy footsteps hit each board. It was nice to see him excited about the baby again. There was a time I had worried that he’d changed his mind about having kids, especially when he became so freaked out about my pregnant body. But here he was, bouncing around, hardly able to wait to see the finished nursery. It was nice. It reminded me why I loved him.

“Emma!”

The urgency of his voice made me drop the wooden spoon into the stew. Beef gravy splattered across my chest.