The Stranger Within (28 page)

When I climb into bed, my phone beeps again and this time it is Rhys.
Meet me at the end of your road at 1.a.m. Please.
I delete it and roll over, hoping I will sleep right through until morning.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Over the next week, Rhys’ visits to the house become almost a daily occurrence. He doesn’t speak to me in a way that might raise flags for anyone listening, but I feel the heavy weight of his stare whenever we are in the same room. His presence is like a noose around my neck, which can be pulled tight at any moment.

              I have come to realise that Rhys is a far greater threat than Mrs Simmons, lying in her hospital bed. At least her claims, if she ever makes them, can be dismissed as the delusional ramblings of an elderly woman in a bad state of health. But when Rhys chooses to expose what we have done, everyone will listen. There will be little doubt as to the truth of his words. I am sure he will even be able to produce proof if necessary, describing things about my body only James would know.

              It is hard to make the most of time spent alone with James when the foundations of our marriage are about to crumble around me, and although I blame myself for starting something with Rhys, he
is now responsible for not walking away and accepting it for what it was.

On Tuesday I arrive home from a tutorial session in the West End, fully prepared to find Rhys in the kitchen. Or living room. Or wherever he has decided to make himself at home today. But I am greeted by silence. I know Luke has gone to Harry’s after school but James hasn’t said anything about Dillon not coming home.

              There are no shoes or bags sprawled under the coat rack so, deciding nobody is home, I slip off my shoes. I will have a soak in the bath before anyone gets home, anything to try and scrub away the stress of the last few weeks. It hasn’t helped that my tutor is worried I am falling behind. Ian is a tolerant man but his frustration at my lack of progress was palpable today. He smiled and nodded when I assured him I would catch up, but like everyone else, I am sure he has written me off. For a moment, as we stood outside the lecture room, everyone brushing past us in their rush to get home, I thought he was going to ask me if everything was okay. But he didn’t, and this is probably for the best.

              When I pass Dillon’s room I hear a thud, followed by silence. I freeze. He can’t be home because he never takes his shoes or bag upstairs; there is always some evidence of the boys downstairs. Then I hear giggling. A female voice. And then another thud. I throw open his door, having no idea what I will face on the other side.

              I stare at Dillon and Esme, sprawled on the bed, both of them naked. Esme’s legs are wrapped around Dillon but the second they notice me, Dillon scrambles to pull the duvet over them. Their limbs are splayed everywhere and I should turn away and give them a moment, but I am too stunned to move. Disentangling herself from Dillon, Esme lets out a scream, as if I am an intruder in their home. I do turn away then, rushing from the room without a word.

              In the kitchen, I sit at the table, listening to the whispers in the hallway. The front door opens and there is more talk, louder this time but not loud enough for me to hear, until finally the door clicks closed again. All of this gives me time to think about what I will say to Dillon. I am furious with him, of course, but without realising it, he has given me the upper hand. I now have something to hold over him, something that might put a stop to his behaviour towards me. I can’t help but smile.

              I already know, without asking, what James would say if he had been the one to find them. Easy-going as he usually is, he would not take an offence like this lightly. Dillon and Esme are both underage. This is his house and they have disrespected it and him. Dillon would get a lengthy lecture and probably be grounded for weeks, but that would be nothing compared to the shame and embarrassment of knowing the image of him and Esme would be permanently etched on his father’s brain. Their relationship would be irrevocably altered.

              Staring out into the garden, I realise I haven’t seen Jazzy all day. He wasn’t there when I fed him this morning and there is no sign of him now. But I am not too worried; I have heard that male cats often wander off.

              The kitchen door opens and Dillon peers in. He stands there for a moment but doesn’t come in. Perhaps he is waiting to hear what I will say before he decides what to do. I stay silent and watch him. Not knowing what to expect will freak him out.

              Soon enough he tentatively steps forward, sheepishly staring at the floor as he plods in with no shoes or socks. His t-shirt is inside out and I almost laugh. This is the first time he has willingly come to speak to me. He stands in the middle of the room, still keeping his usual distance between us, but looks up slightly. “Please don’t tell Dad.”

              That is it. Four words. That is all he can be bothered to offer. “So now you want a favour? You want me to help you out? Is that right?”

              His eyes widen. His nod is slow and cautious.

              “After the way you’ve treated me?”

              “He’ll hate me. He’ll be disappointed and say I’ve let him down.” He turns his stare from me and once more gazes at the floor.

              “Yeah, he will, won’t he? Maybe he’ll finally see the real Dillon.” I know I shouldn’t be talking to him like this; he is only fifteen, after all, but the more submissive he is, the greater my urge to continue. This is my chance to end this feud, or whatever it is.

              But then something changes, I can see it on his face before he speaks. His body straightens. “D’you know what? Fuck you! Tell him if you want, I’ll just say it’s lies like everything else that comes out of your mouth. Esme will back me up. She wasn’t even here today.” His mouth twists into a gloating smile, and I am right back to square one.

              I can’t let him see he is regaining control. “Okay, you do that. Tell him. He’ll be home at six.”

              “You’re such a bitch, I hate you! I wish you were dead!” Dillon screams his words at me then turns to leave. When he reaches the kitchen door he turns back, suddenly calm again. “By the way, good luck finding that manky cat.”

As soon as the door closes I rush outside to the shed, feeling the heavy weight of horror and emptiness, praying he was just trying to hurt me. I search the garden but there is no sign of Jazzy. His food and water bowls remain untouched.

I rush to the front of the house and walk up and down the street, looking in gardens as I call Jazzy’s name. He is nowhere to be seen. I try to convince myself that Dillon wouldn’t hurt him, but if his hatred towards me is this strong then how can I be sure? Either way, Jazzy has gone and Dillon is responsible. I picture the helpless creature letting Dillon pick him up, purring at the attention, an innocent party in all this, and my sadness turns to rage. He has crossed a line.

I storm back inside and run upstairs, screaming Dillon’s name. Without waiting for an invitation, I throw open his door.

Hours later, I am sitting at the computer, immersed in my assignment, when James gets home. All around me the house is quiet and I have managed to make a good start on it.

              James comes into the study and kisses my cheek. “You look busy,” he says. “How’s it going?”

“Not bad,” I lie, trying not to think about Jazzy. “How was work?”

He takes out his laptop and puts it on the desk. “Good. Tabby…” he trails off, remembering that I know. “Never mind. Where’s Dillon?”

I look up. “He went out a couple of hours ago. Sorry, he didn’t tell me where.”

James rolls his eyes. “So things aren’t any better? I’m getting sick of telling them.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I was just stuck up here. Maybe he didn’t want to disturb me?”

“He’s probably with Rhys. When he gets home I’ll have to lecture him about making sure one of us knows where he’s going.”

It is strange to hear James say Rhys’ name and I force down the lump in my throat to ask what he wants for dinner.

In the kitchen, I make spaghetti bolognese while James sits at the table with his laptop. “I’ll make enough for Dillon,” I say, “in case he hasn’t eaten. And Luke too, he might still be hungry when he gets home later. Harry’s mum is still dropping him back, isn’t she?”

James nods, but he is distracted, engrossed in his project. “The website’s doing well,” he says. “We’re getting a lot more online bookings.” As I watch him I know that whatever I have to go through for him, whatever I have to do, is all worth it.

We talk over dinner as if we are catching up after an absence, filling each other in on all the small things that time – or life – has prevented us from discussing recently. But behind it all are the huge things I cannot say to my husband. The stack of lies that is as fragile as a house of cards. I push this to the side and focus on James. It is rare to get him alone so I am determined to make the most of this time. It is a venomous thought, but it occurs to me how different our lives would be if he didn’t have children.

Even as we are enjoying each other’s company, I notice James glancing at his watch and I know he is wondering where Dillon is and why he hasn’t called. I can understand this. It is out of character for him not to let James know his whereabouts. I picture the shock on Dillon’s face as I stormed into his room, but quickly force away the image.

“I’m going upstairs to do a bit more work,” James announces, placing his knife and fork together. He has only eaten half the food on his plate. “If he’s not back in an hour I’m making some calls.”

I can’t let James call Dillon’s friends. Who knows what Rhys will say? And then there is Esme. If James speaks to her she will tell him I found them together, or at least that she was here. And then how will I explain why I didn’t mention something so important? I will offer to make the calls myself.

Just after seven o’clock, Harry’s mother drops Luke back. I wave to her from the door and beckon her over to see if she wants a cup of tea, but she gives a quick wave back and speeds off. Luke rushes upstairs and I hear him knock on Dillon’s door. I will leave it for James to tell him what’s going on.

I offer to call Dillon’s friends and James hands me Rhys’ number on a slip of paper. “It’s his home number. I don’t have his mobile. I don’t know any of his other friends’ numbers but Rhys should know them, shouldn’t he?”

“I’ll make the calls outside, I need some fresh air.”

He thanks me and I am weighed down by his gratitude.

I take the phone into the back garden and dial Rhys’ number, fully prepared for him to answer. But thankfully it is Mrs Marshall who picks up. I ask her if she’s seen Dillon, my self-hatred increasing, and she immediately becomes alert, shouting out to Rhys, who she tells me is in his bedroom. As I expect, Rhys has not seen him. Mrs Marshall says she will get the numbers from some of their other friends and text them to me as soon as she can. Thanking her, I hang up quickly, knowing that the hole I have dug is too deep to clamber out of now.

Once I receive her text, I make some more calls, secretly grateful Esme doesn’t pick up her phone, and report back to James that nobody has seen Dillon. He thanks me again for trying and checks his watch once more. “I’ll just do a bit more work, and then…I don’t know.”

I hug him then, I can’t bear to look at him, but I pull him close to my chest and offer him silent comfort.

I stare out at the garden, part of me expecting Jazzy to come creeping across the lawn at any moment. But I know he won’t. So I stay down here to keep myself from telling James that Dillon is probably doing this on purpose. It is best if I don’t say anything. Not about Jazzy, or my terrible fight with Dillon this afternoon. I don’t want to think about any of that, so I bury my head in my textbook, scribbling down notes to add to my assignment.

I am still perched on a kitchen stool when James comes in. I offer to make coffee but he shakes his head. “I just called Emma,” he says, “in case he decided to turn up there, but she hasn’t heard from him either. And Tabby’s still at the shop and said he hasn’t been by there.”

Glancing at the kitchen clock, I see it is nearly eight thirty. I can’t help but think James is only worrying so early because he doesn’t know his son. It would never cross his mind that Dillon could be punishing me. “Okay,” I say. “Shall we go out and look for him? Drive around or something?”

But he isn’t listening. “Callie, you saw him after school, didn’t you? Did he say anything? Anything…unusual?”

I shake my head, nausea sweeping through me because I am lying again. And now I am getting worried.

Something registers on James’ face and I’m sure it is mistrust. Is he thinking about the accident, about the time Luke was sick? Piecing things together that won’t quite make sense? “Right. I’m calling the police.” He goes out to the hall to grab the phone, leaving me feeling as if my legs will collapse beneath me.

              I wait until he has finished talking then join him in the hall. “They’re sending someone over,” he says. “As soon as they can.”

              “I’ll go out in the car,” I offer, and James smiles and squeezes my arm. Once again, his gesture of gratitude is almost more than I can bear.