on something. A quick rummage revealed a bag bulging with bikinis, sandals and sarongs. I’d been accruing them ever since we booked the holiday back in June. One of the sarongs had exploded over the side, its floral turquoise print loud against the murk. I shoved it back into the bag, my fingers lingering on the soft cotton. When I’d found it in the shop I’d imagined wearing it over a bikini to lunch, my skin sea-salt tight after a morning at the beach.
We’d been on the roof of that power station for nigh on two hours before Jason had let me help him over to the lift. I’d driven us home, guided him upstairs and, after peeling off his soaked jeans and shirt, pushed him back onto the pillows. The duvet had been where we’d left it that morning, scrunched at the foot of the bed. As I’d brought it up to his waist, his eyes were already closed.
I looked over to where Jason lay. His arms were on top of the quilt, tucked close to his body, his palms surrendered upwards. It reminded me of a yoga class I’d tried once. At the end of the session the teacher had made us get into exactly this arrangement and had told us it was called the dead man’s pose. I pushed the bag as far back into the wardrobe as it would go.
I slipped on my heels and scooped up my handbag. I wanted to stay home and keep an eye on him, but after failing to come good on my promise to return to the office yesterday, there was no way I could ask Yvonne for any more unplanned time off.
Giving Jason a kiss, I headed downstairs and out the door. My stomach rumbled. I was hungry, but breakfast would have to wait. I wanted to get into work early and there was an important stop I needed to make on the way.
My breath clouding white on the morning air, I got in the car and started the engine. As far as I was concerned, Jason going up on the roof like that had changed everything. I was no stranger to the dark days that both of us dipped in and out of from time to time. They were an inevitable part of life without our children. But being with Jason on top of that power station was the first moment I’d ever felt like I might lose him to them. And so, last night, as I’d lain there listening to him breathe, I’d decided that I needed to do something, anything to help. Even if that something meant going back on my word.
I approached the small bridge that would take me over the river from Thornaby to Stockton and found myself caught in a line of rush-hour traffic. Before long I came to a complete standstill. From where I sat, I could see the river’s edge. A single swan was floating near the bank, hard white on the black water. Suddenly, it took off and flew away downriver. I wondered what had disturbed it and then, in answer to my question, the nose of a pleasure cruiser emerged from underneath the bridge. Gulls were racing alongside its starboard side, so close to the water that the tips of their claws skimmed the surface.
Somewhere ahead the lights changed and I was on the move again. Reaching the roundabout, I drove past my usual turn-off, taking the one that would lead to the end of the high street nearest the police station instead.
No matter how many weeks had passed and whatever I might have seen to the contrary, I’d never dropped my suspicions about the boy from the off-licence. I’d been just about able to live with it, but then yesterday had happened. I could no longer in good conscience continue to ignore those suspicions. If there was even a sliver of possibility that I could put Jason out of his misery, then I had to try.
Taking everything into consideration, I’d decided my best bet was to once more ask Martin for help. He and his team were the only people who could find out, quickly and cleanly, if there was anything more to my hunch than mistaken identity. I’d give a statement to the investigating officer on the case and make it official. I knew they’d ask to interview Jason and that he would be angry with me for going behind his back but so be it. I