Witness - [31]

She was waiting for the colour to take when Owen got in.

‘Can you do mine?’ he asked her.

‘Have you got a kit?’

He groaned. ‘Didn’t you get one?’

‘No. It doesn’t seem five minutes since last time.’

‘The brown’s showing.’

‘Well, go and buy a kit and I’ll help you. They’ll still be open.’

He didn’t reply but slumped noisily into the kitchen while she went upstairs to rinse the mixture off. She left it down and let it dry naturally while she started tea. Owen loved curry so she’d bought some lamb at the butcher’s and a huge bunch of fresh coriander from the Asian grocer’s. She sealed the lamb and fried the onions and spices, added tomatoes and lemon juice and put the dish in the oven to cook slowly. It was dark by six when she drew the curtains and set the table.

Owen appreciated the meal, cleared his plate of seconds, grunted his thanks and left.

‘Dishwasher,’ she reminded him on his way out of the room.

‘I know!’ he shot back at her.

* * *

After walking the dog, she watched a film. She woke feeling disoriented, befuddled. It was eleven thirty, the house was quiet. Owen must be in bed. He never came in to kiss her goodnight any more. She missed that, the physical connection, however brief. She knew he had to grow up, grow apart from her, but hadn’t anticipated how much it would hurt. She was lonely. Lonely for love and physical affection. Aware of the sentiment of self-pity she scolded herself – she’d somuch to be thankful for: a healthy son, good friends, the house. The money she’d inherited from her parents together with a contribution from Jeff, by way of payment towards Owen’s upkeep, meant she’d paid off the mortgage years ago. Since then they had managed on her modest income.

Fiona wondered if she should push Owen to get in touch with Jeff again. Maybe reviving his relationship with his dad would help him in the messy business of growing up. Contact between father and son had dwindled over time. Jeff had a second family now, much younger, and lived in Jersey. Jeff was punctilious about birthday and Christmas presents. He and Owen had exchanged emails regularly at first but that had trailed off. By the time he was twelve Owen was refusing invitations to spend the holidays with Jeff. But it would be so much easier, she thought, to be sharing all this, the animosity and teenage tantrums, with another parent.

In the bathroom there were dark splashes on the sink and the clothes basket and the floor by the toilet. Fiona reeled, grabbed the sink and felt the blood pound in her neck. Owen was hurt, blood everywhere, what had he done?! Cut himself, slit his wrists?! Blink, his blood on her hands, blink, his eyes rolling back, blink, the spasm that shook him. No! She remembered Hazel. Took a slow breath, took it deep. Stared at the black stains and smears and realized it was hair dye not blood. He must have done it himself while she was watching TV. She shuddered with relief. She rubbed the blot from the sink but the marks on the basket and the floor were permanent. Still shaken, but hugely relieved she hadn’t had a full-blown attack, she didn’t trust herself to tackle her son about it yet. Tomorrow would be better.

She showered quickly, towelled herself dry, brushed her teeth. Her hair was shiny, the shade a rich brown. Like chestnuts. If she bought some to roast would Owen eat them? Probably not, with adolescence had come the same finicky appetite as toddlerhood. Junk food and sugary snacks were high on the list of favourites.

She lay in the dark but sleep wouldn’t come, her nerves alive and singing, muscles clenched, her mind darting here and there. She pulled on some clothes and went downstairs. The house was cooler already, made her shiver. She practised her CBT exercises then tried to read. At four in the morning, swaddled in blankets, she took out the folder, Danny’s folder, with all the clippings she had kept. There had been nothing in the papers for weeks now. Four months on and no one had been arrested. She traced a finger round the boy’s photograph, gazed at his smile, at the expression in his eyes. Waiting for dawn.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Mike

They had a break-in. Opportunistic. Mike had left the lounge window open. He’d simply not noticed. Set off to pick Megan up from school, rain pissing down and the sky dark as slate. It had rained all day, all week. Patches of water standing on the bit of lawn in their back yard. Their coats steaming on the radiators every night. They only put the heating on for a couple of hours, trying to make savings. Later they sat watching telly with their warmest clothes on, sharing a fleece throw for a blanket.

Mike had done a load of washing that day and had put the heating on early to dry it. The window was open to get rid of some of the moisture in the air, though given the outside was like a hundred degrees humidity anyway who knows if it helped. They’d already spots of black mould in the corners of the kitchen.

The burglars had been in and out in the half-hour Mike had been gone. He didn’t notice at first, came in with Megan, her chattering still, unbuttoned her coat, then his own. Took her through to make her some toast and on his way saw the gap where the telly had been, the aerial cable dangling, DVD player gone, DVDs scattered on the carpet.