The Good Samaritan
Page 71

My house was still empty when I returned home. Immaculate, but empty. Despite the number of open windows, plug-in air-fresheners and reed diffusers I’d placed in each room, the oily smell of fresh paint still hung thickly. The Polish decorators I’d employed had done a wonderful job of papering the walls and repainting the ceilings. Everything from the banisters to the skirting boards and door frames were now coated in a pure, glistening, Arctic white. It was like being inside an igloo.
I’d Pinterested, then replicated examples of rooms I’d seen in online interior design magazines. I used bright accent colours of yellows and greens for my new cushions, curtains and rugs. I had family photographs reprinted and framed to hang on the walls and arranged on the sideboard and windowsills. And I’d brought brand-new bedding and soft furnishings for the girls’ and Henry’s rooms. I’d done the same with Tony’s room, although once we were a family again, it wouldn’t be long before he returned to our bed.
The lighter evenings of spring held the darkness at bay, so I pulled open the reglazed bifold doors and sat on a patio chair to enjoy a cigarette. I’d need to give up the habit before Tony and I were reunited, as he loathed the smell of smoke. Around me, the bushes and lawns had been neatly trimmed, the girls’ tatty old trampoline dismantled and disposed of at the rubbish tip, the fence repaired, new turf laid and the flowerbeds dug over and replanted. Everything around me was a kaleidoscope of colours and freshness. A new start for everything and everyone.
I couldn’t help but smile when I thought about the future. Now there was no Ryan or Janine to interfere in our lives, there was nothing to prevent us from rekindling what we once had, apart from Tony’s stubbornness. He hadn’t taken me up on my offer to visit the house after the plaque unveiling and talk our problems through. In fact, he’d kept to his word that he didn’t want anything to do with me at all.
It was quite disheartening to begin with, but I realised it was my own stupid fault. I had pushed him too far too soon. Maybe a part of him really was grieving Janine’s death. I used to pride myself on my patience and there I was, trying to hurry him while he was processing it. And I’m trained to know that people say silly things they don’t mean when they’re in pain.
My mobile phone rang. I panicked and stubbed out my cigarette like a guilty schoolgirl, flicking the butt behind a watering can. The number was withheld and I hoped it was Effie or Tony calling. They’d recently changed their numbers, so I’d been forced to drive to their house after the legal papers petitioning me for a divorce arrived. However, to my surprise, they’d moved from their rented home. And when I’d visited Alice’s school to pick her up one teatime, her teacher told me she’d relocated to a private school in another county, but refused to tell me where. There was no trace of Effie on social media, and Tony had even taken a sabbatical from his own company.
My only means of communication with my husband was by email. I’d tried several times in the last week, informing him that Henry was poorly with a bad chest infection and that he really should visit. When he failed to reply, I wrote again and threw in a few medical terms and threats of a hospital stay for good measure. I also attached a picture of Henry asleep in his bed to lay the guilt on thicker.
‘Hello, is that Mrs Morris?’ It was a woman’s voice.
‘Yes. Who’s this?’
‘It’s Belinda from Kingsthorpe Residential Care Home.’
I clutched the phone tighter to my ear. ‘Is it Henry? Is he okay?’
‘Yes, he’s fine. He has a visitor here but I need your permission before I allow them in.’
‘Who is it?’
‘His father, Tony Morris.’
‘Yes!’ I replied quickly. ‘Yes! And ask him to wait with Henry. I’ll be there soon!’
I hung up, flustered and flushed with excitement. I knew Tony couldn’t remain angry with me forever, and once he thought our son was ill, of course he’d want to see him.
I was unsure of what to do first. I ran up the stairs two at a time and took a swig of mouthwash to rid myself of my smoky breath. I grabbed a casual outfit – skinny jeans, Converse trainers and a T-shirt that was just tight enough to show off my slim waist. I hurriedly reapplied my make-up and sprayed my neck and wrists with the Issey Miyake perfume that Tony loved.
Can’t wait to see you and Henry together, I typed. On my way now. xx. Then I grabbed my car keys and rehearsed what I was going to say to him when he learned I hadn’t been entirely honest about Henry’s poor health. He’d probably be irked at first, but once he saw his son and how devoted I was to him, his animosity towards me would come to an end and he’d forgive my little white lies.
I pulled up in the driveway of Henry’s care home, feeling sick to my stomach with nerves. I didn’t recognise the girl on reception wearing a ‘Trainee’ badge.
‘My son, Henry Morris, can you tell me where he is, please?’ I asked.
‘His dad took him out in his chair for a walk in the grounds,’ she replied. ‘Are you okay?’
I hadn’t realised my lips were pursed and my fists balled. I could barely get the word ‘yes’ out because I desperately wanted to cry happy tears.
It had been more than two and a half years since I’d last seen father and son together, and at times I’d worried if I might ever witness it again. Dusk was approaching, and I didn’t want to miss another minute, so I hurried outside and scanned the surroundings, anxious to catch my first glimpse of them together.
The building had been a stately home before the owner fell on hard times and was forced to sell. The extensive grounds were always neatly kept, with flowerbeds, sensory gardens and a play area, all surrounded by lush woodland. Finally, in the distance, I saw Tony kneeling by the side of Henry’s wheelchair. Their heads were turned as they looked down a slope and towards the lake below, watching a family of snow white swans gliding past. I clasped my hand to my mouth and my eyes moistened.
But as I grew closer, something was wrong with the perfect picture before me. I couldn’t put my finger on it until I saw Tony’s arm. He had a sleeve of tattoos starting at his left shoulder and going all the way down to his wrist, just above the watch strap. The man next to Henry did not.
My stomach flipped one hundred and eighty degrees as I ran hell for leather towards them.
‘Get away from my son!’ I screamed, and looked around for help but to no avail. ‘Leave him alone!’ The man turned his head to look at me and I stopped in my tracks.
My son was with a dead man. He was with Ryan.
CHAPTER THREE
JOHNNY
By the look on her face as she approached me, Laura thought she’d seen a ghost. I’d counted on it – I wanted to mess with that mad bitch’s head from the moment she first clapped eyes on me.
‘Get away from my son!’ she cried when she realised I wasn’t her husband. ‘Leave him alone!’ Her head turned quickly, desperately searching for someone to help her. But the area I’d chosen to take Henry to was secluded. The three of us were very much alone.
Her face collapsed when she got a better look at me. I’d cut my hair short like my brother’s, and shaved off my beard so I had his uneven stubble. I wore his favourite vintage Nirvana T-shirt and had swapped my glasses for contact lenses.
Her bewildered expression told me she wasn’t sure if her eyes were deceiving her. I lifted one hand from Henry’s wheelchair and made an action like I was going to let it slide down the slope and into the lake below.