The Secret Mother

by Shalini Boland

Genres: Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

"Are you my mummy?"

Tessa Markham returns home to find a child in her kitchen. He thinks she’s his mother. 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 is suspected of taking the mystery child. Her whole life is turned upside down. And then her husband reveals a secret of his own…

Tessa isn’t sure what to believe or who to trust. Because someone is lying. To find out who, she must confront her painful past. But is the truth more dangerous than Tessa realises?

An absolutely unputdownable psychological thriller with a twist that will make you wonder if you can ever trust anyone again. If you loved Gone Girl, The Girl on the Train and The Sister this book will have you hooked.

What readers are saying about The Secret Mother:

"‘ Wow, wow, wow! What a fantastic book! The book starts with a bang… from page one and believe me, it doesn’t let up throughout the book and keeps you gripped until the very end! " Stardust Book Reviews, 5 stars

" Oh yes, yes, yes, yes this was my kind of read, I really have taken this and added it to my top 10 this year, it’s a screaming from the rooftops fantastic read, if you love a good thriller… if you love to stay up all night reading because you simply can't switch your mind off from a book, this is it, you found it, don't look any further… so fast paced it leaves your breathless. One of the best psychological thrillers that I have read that has shocked me, left me dribbling for me and wanting more from this author." Read Along With Sue, 5 stars

 

Release date: November 9, 2017

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 257

Sample

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.

I don’t have a child. Not any more.

Harry and I bustle about the kitchen together, and it’s so easy. So natural. Like we’re doing something we’ve always done. Like I really am his mummy and he really is my son and it’s perfectly normal to be making hot chocolate together on a Sunday evening after a walk in the rain. We’ll enjoy our drinks while watching a film, and then we’ll have to get his things ready for school tomorrow. I’ll run him a bath and wash his hair before tucking him up in bed and reading him a bedtime story. No! Stop it. Stop it right now. Why am I torturing myself with these ridiculous thoughts?

My throat is tight with tears, and all of a sudden, I’m crying into the bubbling pan of milk.

‘Are you okay, Mummy?’

I swipe at my tears with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. ‘Yes, yes, I’m absolutely fine, sweetie. I can’t wait to take a great big slurp of this when it’s ready.’

‘Me too.’

Harry kneels on a chair and I supervise as he stirs in the chocolate powder with a wooden spoon. Then I pour the drink into two mugs and we sit together at the tiny kitchen table. I only have a few minutes left to enjoy this snapshot of how my life could have been.

I know I should try harder to find out where Harry is from. To ask again who his real parents are, where he lives, and all those other important things. But he wouldn’t answer them the first time and I don’t want to upset him. I’ll leave those questions to the professionals.

Harry takes a noisy sip of his drink and grimaces. ‘It’s hot.’

‘Careful, don’t burn your tongue. Blow on it, cool it down a bit.’

‘Do you like trains?’ Harry asks. He’s acquired a hot-chocolate moustache, which makes me smile.

‘I love trains,’ I reply. ‘Once, I took the train right down through France and then on through Spain and Portugal.’

‘Wow! How long did that take?’

‘Days and days.’

‘And nights, too? Did you sleep on the train?’

‘Sometimes,’ I say, remembering the cramped carriage Scott and I shared, back when we first got together. Those hazy, beautiful first days of love.

‘Can we do that?’ Harry asks, his eyes wide at the thought of such an adventure. ‘Can we go on a train through all those countries and sleep on there with our sleeping bags?’

I want to tell him yes, of course we can. I want to say that tomorrow we’ll book tickets and travel across the world by steam train together. That we’ll see amazing, exotic sights and wave to all the passers-by. We’ll chat to interesting people and have a cabin of our very own. I’ll buy him an engine driver’s cap, and the conductor will let him blow the whistle. It’ll be the best fun in the world.

‘I’m sure that one day when you’re older you’ll be able to do that, Harry.’

‘Brilliant,’ he replies with his nose in his mug, making his voice sound all echoey.

The doorbell rings and I give a small start.

‘Who’s that?’ Harry asks with a frown, placing his mug back on the table.

‘That will be Scott,’ I reply, getting to my feet. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll like him. He’s nice.’

‘Okay.’

‘I’m going to let him in,’ I say, ‘and then I’ll be back. Just stay here for a moment, all right?’

Harry nods, his face suddenly serious.

I leave the kitchen, closing the door behind me. Scott refuses to use his keys any more. Even though we’re separated and no longer living together, I told him to keep a set for himself. I said that this will always be his house too. But he never lets himself in, he always rings the bell.

I open the front door to my dripping, scowling husband.

‘Hi, come in. I didn’t know it was raining so hard.’ I stand back and he walks past me into the hallway. ‘Shall I take your coat?’

‘I’m not staying, Tess. What’s this about?’ His deep voice booms around the narrow space.

‘Shh, keep it down,’ I say, gesturing towards the kitchen.

‘What?’ he says, louder than ever. ‘Why? Is someone in there?’

‘Scott, please.’

‘Okay,’ he says in an exaggerated whisper.

‘Listen,’ I begin. ‘I came home from the cemetery this afternoon…’

Scott’s face darkens further. He never goes to the graveyard, he says it’s too depressing. That he would rather remember them how they were.

‘…and when I got home, there was a little boy in our kitchen.’

It takes a few seconds for my words to register.

‘A little boy?’ Scott says, his brow creasing. ‘What are you talking about? What little boy?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you,’ I say, my heart thumping. ‘He’s in there now. His name is Harry.’

Scott takes hold of my shoulders and looks into my face as though he’s searching for something. ‘Tessa, what the hell? I hope you haven’t gone and done something stupid.’

I shrug his hands off and take a step back. ‘I haven’t done anything,’ I hiss. ‘I’m telling you what happened. I came home and he was in our house, sitting at the kitchen counter, drawing. And then he asked me if I was his mummy!’

‘Christ, Tess. What have you done?’ He pushes past me and opens the door to the kitchen, halted in his tracks by the sight of Harry sitting at the table, scooping out milk froth from the bottom of the mug with his forefinger.

I edge past Scott to go and stand with our little visitor, not wanting him to feel intimidated by the sight of an angry stranger. But Harry seems fine. He stares at Scott before switching his gaze to me.

‘Harry,’ I say with forced cheerfulness. ‘This is Scott, who I was telling you about.’

Harry gets to his feet and wipes his sticky fingers on his jeans. He comes around the table and holds his hand out. ‘Nice to meet you, Scott,’ he says, his little voice so pure and confident I want to hug him.

Scott’s anger towards me has deflated. He stands there with his mouth open before responding to Harry with a dazed handshake. ‘Hello,’ he croaks. ‘Me and Tessa are just going to have a little chat in the hall, okay? We’ll be back in a minute.’

‘Is your name Tessa?’ Harry asks me.

I nod.

‘But you’re my mummy, right?’

I give him a limp smile, unwilling to deny it.

‘Okay, Harry,’ Scott interrupts. ‘Just give us a couple of minutes.’

He grabs me by my upper arm and manoeuvres me out of the kitchen, his eyes narrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. He closes the door behind us and turns to me, hands opened out like claws.

‘Why does he think you’re his mum? Where’s he from, Tess? Where’d you get him?’

I shake my head. ‘I told you before. I got home and he was—’

‘Yeah, you said, he was just there, sitting at the counter. But that’s impossible. A child can’t magically appear in your kitchen. Where did you find him, really? Tell me and we can sort it out.’

I should have known Scott wouldn’t believe me. After all we’ve been through, he no longer trusts me. He doesn’t have my back any more. I’m on my own.

His voice softens. ‘I know this is hard. I know your heart is broken from what happened, but you can’t do stuff like this. You’ll get into serious trouble. You could go to prison.’

‘I didn’t find him, or take him, or whatever else you think I’ve done,’ I snap, clenching my fists by my sides. ‘Do you really think I’d take someone else’s child after what happened to us? Do you think I’d put another mother through that kind of pain? I’m telling you the God’s honest truth. But if you can’t believe me, then—’

‘It’s not a case of not believing you. Maybe you genuinely can’t remember what happened. Maybe… Oh, I don’t know.’ Scott’s broad shoulders droop and he runs a hand through his dark hair, suddenly looking like a small, tired boy himself.

‘We need to call the police, right?’ I say.

‘Yes. You should have called them before you called me. You should have called them instead of calling me.’

‘I know.’ I dip my head and chew my lower lip, feeling ashamed. I. . .