The Secret Mother(25)

There’s something red on the covers next to my leg. A brick. A brick! I swing my legs out of bed and stand up, crying out as a sharp pain shoots through my foot. I glance down. Glass – glass everywhere. As I gradually recover my senses, I realise that someone has chucked a brick through my bedroom window.

A glance at my alarm clock shows it’s almost 4 a.m. Heedless of the glass strewn across the carpet, I peer out through the jagged hole in the window, the icy air making me catch my breath and shiver. The journalists are still out there, staring up at me. Some are pointing down the road. Did they see who did it? They must have. But I don’t dare go out to ask them.

House lights start coming on across the street. Bleary faces appear at bedroom windows. They must have heard the crash of glass. I wonder if any of the neighbours will come to see if I’m okay. Somehow I doubt it.

I stare down at my left foot. There’s blood on the carpet. My whole body shakes; my teeth begin to chatter. It’s just the cold, I tell myself, from the night air streaming in. And then I do something I know I shouldn’t: I blame it on the shock, on the fact that I’m still half-asleep. I grab my mobile from the nightstand and call Scott.

His voice is thick with sleep. ‘Tessa?’

‘They threw a brick through my window,’ I say. ‘Please, can you come over?’

‘Who did? A brick? It’s probably just some idiot who’s seen the news,’ he says sleepily. ‘They’ll have run away by now. You need to call the police.’

‘Can’t you come over, Scott? Please,’ I beg. ‘Our bedroom window’s smashed. There’s glass everywhere. It’s freezing.’ I can’t control the tremor in my voice. ‘I… I don’t know what to do.’

‘Just call the police, Tessa. They’ll sort you out. I’m sorry, but Ellie needs me here. We’ve had the press outside our house all day too. The stress isn’t good for her and the baby. Actually, it’s been bloody awful. I couldn’t even go in to work today.’

I shake my head and end the call without saying another word. Suddenly wide awake, I realise Scott will no longer be there for me. Not any more. I should never have called him.

My initial fear and confusion morph into something harder as I dial 999.





Chapter Eleven





While I’m waiting for the police to arrive, I sit in the kitchen picking fragments of broken glass from my foot. Once I’m sure I have all the tiny pieces out, I wash and bandage it up, barely registering the pain. In fact, it’s almost a welcome distraction. Why would someone throw a brick through my window? Why is all this crap happening to me? I know why. This is trial by media: I’m guilty until proven innocent. To the general public I’m a child snatcher, regardless of what I have or haven’t done.

The doorbell rings. Is it my imagination, or does it sound louder than usual? The echoing chime reverberates through my body, setting my teeth on edge. I limp down the hallway to the front door, hesitating. What if it’s not the police?

‘Hello?’ A male voice from outside. ‘Tessa Markham? It’s the police. You called us earlier.’

I open the door to two uniformed officers. I thought they might have sent Chibuzo and Marshall. I don’t recognise these guys. They’re young. Younger than me. Behind them, on the pavement, the press are almost well-behaved. There are fewer of them at this time of night, or should I say, morning. No jostling and shouting out to me while the police are here. A few flashes from their cameras and that’s it.

‘Thanks for coming,’ I say to the officers, pulling my dressing gown more tightly around my body. ‘Come in.’

They step inside and I lead them to the kitchen, where they take my statement. Once they’ve heard what happened, they ask to see the bedroom window, so we go upstairs.

‘The journalists out there,’ I say. ‘Did they see anything?’

The dark-haired officer replies. ‘According to them, a person on a motorbike rode past, slowed down and threw the brick, then sped up and rode off.’

‘Did they get a licence number?’

The officer shakes his head. ‘Sounds like the plates were purposely smeared with dirt. A couple of the photographers got off some shots, but they were all out of focus. Too busy watching your house.’

Typical – a bunch of press hounds camped outside, hoping to get a shot of an innocent woman, and when the real crime happens, they’re too slow to react.

‘We’ve got an alert out for the vehicle,’ he continues. ‘And we’ll take full statements from everyone out there after we’ve made sure you’re okay.’

Stepping into the chilly room with its flapping curtains, glass everywhere and that cold red brick on the bed, I feel violated, even worse than when it actually happened. Maybe because I was half-asleep before. Maybe because I’ve now had time for it to properly sink in.

‘Do you have any idea who it might have been?’ the fair-haired officer asks.

‘No.’

‘Anyone you’ve been in an argument with recently? Or someone who might have a grudge against you?’

The other officer nudges his colleague, but the fair-haired officer doesn’t seem to know who I am. Maybe he doesn’t watch the news.

‘The media have decided I’m some kind of child abductor,’ I say. ‘Whoever sent this brick obviously agrees with them.’