THE SECRET MOTHER
By
Shalini Boland
The
street lamps flicker, illuminating the grey
pavement mottled with patches of dirty snow and slick black ice. Slushy puddles
hug the kerb, cringing away from the
hissing, splashing car tyres. It takes
all my concentration to keep my balance. My hands would be warmer if I jammed
them into my coat pockets, but I need them free to steady myself on walls,
fences, tree trunks, lamp posts. I don’t want to fall. And yet would it really
be so terrible if I slipped on the ice? Wet jeans, a bruised bum. Not the end
of the world. There are worse things. Far worse things.
It’s
Sunday: the last exhale of the week. That uncomfortable pause before Monday,
when it all starts up again – this lonely pretence
at life. Sunday has become a black dot on the horizon for me, growing larger
each day. I’m relieved now it’s almost over and yet I’m already anticipating
the next one. The day when I visit the cemetery and stand above their graves,
staring at the grass and stone, talking to them both, wondering if they hear my
inane chatter or if I’m simply talking into the empty wind. In burning
sunlight, pouring rain, sub-zero temperatures
or thick fog I stand there. Every week. I’ve
never missed a Sunday yet.
Sleet
spatters my face. Icy needles that make me blink and gasp. Finally, I turn off
the high street into my narrow road, where it’s more sheltered and the wind
less violent. A rainbow assortment of overflowing bins lines my route, waiting
for collection tomorrow at some ungodly pre-dawn hour. I turn my face away from
the windows where Christmas tree lights wink and blink, reminding me of happier
Christmases. Before.
Almost
home.
My
little north London terraced house sits halfway along the road. Pushing open
the rusted gate, I turn my face away from the neglected front garden with its
discarded sweet wrappers and crisp packets blown in from the street, now wedged
among long tussocks of grass and overgrown bushes. I thrust my frozen fingers
into my bag until they finally close around a jagged set of keys. I’m glad to
be home, to get out of the cold, and yet my body sags when I open the door and
step into the dark silence of the hall, feeling the hollow of their absence.
At
least it’s warm in here. I shrug off my coat, kick off my boots, dump my bag on
the hall table and switch on the light, avoiding my sad reflection in the hall
mirror. A glass of wine would be welcome about now. I glance at my watch – only
5.20. No. I’ll be good and make a hot chocolate instead.
Strangely,
the door to the kitchen is closed. This strikes me as odd, as I always leave it
open. Perhaps a gust of wind slammed it shut when I came in. I trudge to the
end of the hall and stop. Through a gap in the bottom of the door I see that the light is on. Someone’s in
there. I catch my breath, feel the world slow down for a moment before it
speeds back up. Could I have a burglar in my house?
I
cock my ear. A sound filters through.
Humming. A child is humming a tune in my kitchen. But I don’t have a child. Not
any more.
Slowly
I pull down the handle and push the door, my body tensing. I hardly dare
breathe.
Here
before me sits a little boy with dark hair, wearing pale blue jeans and a green
cable-knit jumper. A little boy aged about five or six, perched on a chair at
my kitchen counter, humming a familiar tune. Head down, he is intent on his
drawing, colouring pencils spread out
around an A4 sheet of paper. A navy raincoat hangs neatly over the back of the
chair.
He
looks up as I enter the room, his chocolate-brown eyes wide. We stare at one
another for a moment.
‘Are
you my mummy?’ the little boy asks.
I
bite my bottom lip, feel the ground
shift. I grasp the counter top to steady myself. ‘Hello,’ I say, my heart
suddenly swelling. ‘Hello. And who might you be?’
‘You
know. I’m Harry,’ he replies. ‘Do you like my picture?’ He holds the sheet out
in front of him, showing me his drawing of a little boy and a woman standing
next to a train. ‘It’s not finished. I haven’t had time to colour it in properly,’ he explains.
‘It’s
lovely, Harry. Is that you standing next to the train?’
‘Yes.’
He nods. ‘It’s you and me. I drew it for you because you’re my mummy.’
Am
I hallucinating? Have I finally gone crazy? This beautiful little boy is
calling me his mummy. And yet I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him before in
my life. I close my eyes tight and then
open them again. He’s still there, looking less confident now. His hopeful
smile has faltered, slipping into a frown. His eyes are now a little too
bright. I know that look – it’s the one that precedes tears.
‘Hey,
Harry,’ I say with false jollity. ‘So you like trains, huh?’
His
smile returns. ‘Steam trains are the best. Better than diesels.’ He scrunches up his face in disgust and blinks.
‘Did
you come here on the train? To my house?’
‘No.
We came on the bus. I wish we did come on the train, the bus was really slow.
And it made me feel a bit sick.’ He lays the sheet of paper back on the
counter.
‘And
who did you come with?’ I ask.
‘The
angel.’
I
think I must have misheard him. ‘Who?’
‘The
angel brought me here. She told me that you’re my mummy.’
‘The
angel?’
He
nods.
I
glance around, suddenly aware that Harry might not be the only stranger in my
house. ‘Is she here now?’ I ask in a whisper. ‘Is there someone else here with
you?’
‘No,
she’s gone. She told me to do some drawing and you’d be here soon.’
I
relax my shoulders, relieved that there’s no one else in my home. But it still
doesn’t help me solve the problem of who this little boy is. ‘How did you get
into the house?’ I ask, nervously wondering if I might find a smashed window
somewhere.
‘Through
the front door, silly,’ he replies with a smile, rolling his eyes.
Through the front door?
Did I leave it open somehow? I’m sure I would never have done that. What’s
going on here? I should call someone. The authorities. The police. Somebody
will be looking for this child. They will be frantic with worry. ‘Would you
like a hot chocolate, Harry?’ I ask, keeping my voice as calm as possible. ‘I
was going to make one for myself, so—’
‘Do
you make it with milk?’ he interrupts. ‘Or with hot water? It’s definitely
nicer with milk.’
I
suppress a smile. ‘I agree, Harry. I always make it with milk.’
‘Okay.
Yes, please,’ he replies. ‘Hot chocolate would be lovely.’
My
heart squeezes at his politeness.
‘Shall
I carry on colouring in my picture,’ he
says, ‘or shall I help you? Because I’m really good at stirring in the
chocolate.’
‘Well,
that’s lucky,’ I reply, ‘because I’m terrible at stirring in the chocolate, so
it’s a good thing you’re here to help me.’
He
grins and slides off the stool.
What
am I doing? I need to call the police right now. This child is missing from
somewhere. But, oh God, just give me ten minutes with this sweet little boy who
believes I’m his mother. Just a few moments of make-believe and then I’ll do
the right thing. I reach out to touch his head and immediately snatch my hand
back. What am I thinking? This boy
has to go back to his real mother; she must be paralysed with worry.
He
smiles up at me again and my chest constricts.
‘Okay,’
I say, taking a breath and blinking back any threat of tears. ‘We’ll do the
chocolate in a minute. I’m just going to make a quick phone call in the hall,
okay?’
‘Oh,
okay.’
‘Carry
on with your drawing for a little while. I won’t be long.’
He
climbs back up onto the stool and selects a dark green pencil before resuming
his colouring with a look of serious
concentration. I turn away and pad out to the hall, where I retrieve my phone
from my bag. But instead of dialling the
police, I call another number. It rings twice.
‘Tess.’
The voice at the other end of the line is clipped, wary.
‘Hi,
Scott. I need you to come over.’
‘What?
Now?’
‘Yes.
Please, it’s important.’
‘Tessa,
I’m knackered, and it’s hideous out there. I’ve just sat down with a cup of
tea. Can’t it wait till tomorrow?’
‘No.’
Standing by the hall table, I glimpse Harry through the doorway, the curls of
his fringe flopping over one eye. Am I dreaming him?
‘What’s
the matter?’ Scott says this the way he always says it. What he really means
is, What’s the matter now? Because
there’s always something the matter. I’m his damaged wife, who’s always having
some new drama or make-believe crisis. Only this time he’ll see it’s something
real, it’s something not of my making.
‘I
can’t tell you over the phone, it’s too weird. You have to come over, see for
yourself.’
His
sigh comes long and hard down the phone. ‘Give me twenty minutes, okay?’
‘Okay.
Thanks, Scott. Get here as soon as you can.’
My
heart pounds, trying to make sense of what’s happening. That little boy in
there says an angel brought him. He says I’m his mummy. But he’s not mine. So
where on earth did he come from?
I
take a breath and go back into the kitchen. The air is warm, welcoming, cosy. Nothing like the usual sterile atmosphere
in here.
‘Can
we make hot chocolate now?’ Harry looks up with shining eyes.
‘Of
course. I’ll get the mugs and the chocolate. You open that drawer over there
and pass me the smallest pan you can find.’
He
eagerly does as I ask.
‘Harry,’
I say. ‘Where are your parents, your mummy and daddy?’
He
stares at the pans in the drawer.
‘Harry?’
I prompt.
‘They’re
not here,’ he replies. ‘Is this one small enough?’ He lifts out a
stainless-steel milk pan and waves it in my direction.
‘Perfect.’
I nod and take it from him. ‘Can you tell me where you live?’
No
reply.
‘Did
you run away from home? Are you lost?’
‘No.’
‘But
where’s your house or flat? The place you live? Is it here in Friern Barnet? In
London? Close to my house?’
He
scowls and looks down at the flagstone floor.
‘Do
you have a last name?’ I ask as gently as
I can.
He
looks up at me, his chin jutting out. ‘No.’
I
try again, crouching down so I’m on his level. ‘Harry, darling, what’s your
mummy’s name?’
‘You’re
my new mummy. I have to stay here now.’ His bottom lip quivers.
‘Okay,
sweetie. Don’t worry. Let’s just make our drinks, shall we?’
He
nods vigorously and sniffs.
I
give his hand a squeeze and straighten up. I wish I hadn’t had to call Scott.
And yet I need him to be here when I ring the police. I can’t deal with them on
my own, not after what happened before. I’m dreading their arrival – the
questions, the sideways glances, the implication that I might have done
something wrong. I haven’t done anything wrong, though. Have I?
And
Harry… he’ll be taken away. What if his parents have been abusive? What if he
has to go into foster care? A thousand thoughts run through my mind, each worse
than the one before. But it’s not my place to decide what happens to him. There’s
nothing I can do about any of it, because he’s not mine.
Don't know about you, but that extract has made me want to read more! If the same applies to you then click on one of the links below and grab yourselves a copy. It's due for release on 9th November 2017 and you wouldn't want to miss out!
Tessa Markham comes home to find a child in her kitchen calling her ‘mummy’. But Tessa doesn’t have any children.
Not anymore.
She doesn’t know who the little boy is or how he got there.
After contacting the police, Tessa comes under suspicion for snatching the child. She must fight to prove her innocence. But how can she convince everyone she’s not guilty when even those closest to her are questioning the truth? And when Tessa doesn’t even trust herself…
A chilling, unputdownable thriller with a dark twist that will take your breath away and make you wonder if you can ever trust anyone again. Perfect for fans of Gone Girl, The Girl on the Train and The Sister.
What readers are saying about Shalini Boland:
'Read in one sitting from 9pm last night until 2:15 am. I literally could not put it down!!!! The story line and the twists and the way it's written just draws you in completely and you have to know where it's going I couldn't read fast enough… absolutely addictive and brilliant and an end I didn't see coming. This is one book you have to read and it gets 5 huge stars from me!!!!’ Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars
‘What can I say? Just wow. I'm usually never surprised by an ending, but this one blew me away. I am totally in shock and think I'll have a hangover from this book for a while. A great read that keeps you on your toes until the very last word.’ Stacey Harrell, Goodreads
‘If anyone can have me reading until 2am and finishing a book in less than 48hrs in the school holidays it’s this author… massive five stars from me.’ Sarah Mackins, UK Crime Book Club, 5 stars
‘The ending of this book blew me out of the water, you won’t be able to put this down.’ For the Love of Books, 5 stars
‘The plot is gripping and once you've started reading, you have to keep on reading, you need to know how the story will end.’ Bits About Books, 5 Stars
‘... one of the most chilling reads of the year for me.’Ajoobacats Blog, 5 Stars
‘This book should come with a warning… make sure you have enough time to read it in one-sitting because as soon as you’ll pick it up, you won’t be able to put it down!’ Bookishly Ever After, 5 stars
‘This is a brilliant psychological thriller. In fact, it's one of the best I've read. It is full of suspense and has more twists and turns than a fairground ride.’ Jackie Roche, UK Crime Book Club, 5 Stars
‘I thought I knew the direction this story was going go. Then the jaw dropping moment happened!... unputdownable!’ Goodreads Reviewer, 5 Stars
‘Once again, Boland has managed to blow my mind with all the twists and turns… an outstanding explosive read!’ Mello and June, 5 Stars
'Great book. I read it in less than 24 hours. I was unable to put it down. The story was fast paced and intriguing.’ Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars
