Destroy Me by Karen Cole (read people like a book TXT) 📗

that she’s right. I’m suddenly aware that Dylan is staring up at us open-mouthed, listening to our conversation. I wonder how much he’s heard. How much he’s understood.

‘Come on Dylan, let’s go,’ I say brightly, and I clasp his hand in mine. Inside, I’m fuming with anger and humiliation. Some people are so narrow-minded, I think. So quick to judge and condemn. They don’t even know me. How dare they? Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?

I hesitate when I see Georgia standing at the school gate, talking to another woman with short blonde hair. I want to slide out of here unnoticed but they’re blocking my path and there’s no other way. I decide to brazen it out and I stride up to them with a confident smile plastered on my face. They’re talking quite intently but break off abruptly when they see me.

‘Hi,’ I say breezily. ‘How are you?’

‘Hi,’ says Georgia looking embarrassed and unsure. ‘Cat, this is Marsha. Marsha this is Catherine. Marsha’s daughter, Willow, is in Butterflies class with Harry and Dylan.’

‘Nice to meet you, I’m Cat,’ I say holding out my hand.

The other woman gives me a sharp look and pointedly ignores my hand. I let it fall awkwardly by my side and feel myself shrinking inwardly. But I plough on regardless, smiling so brightly that my cheeks hurt.

‘Do either of you know what this could be? I got it in Dylan’s book bag yesterday.’ I take out the photo and hand it to Georgia.

She gives it a cursory glance. ‘No, I’ve no idea, do you, Marsha?’ Georgia says and Marsha shakes her head slightly, her eyes as cold as stones.

‘Why?’ Georgia asks.

‘Never mind,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ And I slink past them feeling about two inches tall.

When I get home, all I want to do is go to bed and curl up under the duvet. I want to forget about Marsha and Georgia, about Luke’s lie and the fact that I’m going to have to talk to the police tomorrow. But I can’t, because Dylan is here, tugging my hand, demanding that I play with him.

‘Don’t you want to watch TV?’ I say, but he shakes his head firmly. Typical. Normally I can’t drag him away from his cartoons, but today, just when I could do with some space, he seems particularly clingy and he’s got it into his head that he wants us to do a jigsaw puzzle together. He drags one out from the cupboard and tips out the pieces on to the floor.

‘I need you to help me,’ he says, rummaging through them.

‘Don’t forget to start with the corner pieces,’ I advise him absent-mindedly. I’m scrolling through the messages and posts on my phone. There’s nothing much. An invitation from my cousin to the christening of her son and some posts from Gaby about dogs that need rehoming. Theo has been tagged in a post from Harper – a picture of them posing at an exhibition of Harper’s paintings. God, that’s just what I don’t need right now – a reminder of their perfect life. I haven’t bothered to unfriend Theo because he never posts anything, but now I think that was an oversight and I’m just clicking on his profile, working out how to delete him when my phone pings, and a message pops up. There’s a bubble on my screen, a picture of a man in a baseball cap with a moustache. George Wilkinson again. I click on it angrily. What does he want this time? Why can’t he just leave me alone?

‘Mummy, help me,’ Dylan says plaintively. ‘Where does this one go?’

‘Hold on a minute, sweetheart.’ The message fills the screen and I grip the phone tightly, trying to remain calm and convince myself, yet again, that it’s a coincidence.

‘Remember this?’ he’s written, and underneath there’s a photo of a pub sign, the Royal Oak. It’s a pub in the town centre near the church. I haven’t been there for years, but we used to go there all the time in the sixth form. And we went there that night, after the park – before Nessa’s party.

I saw her the other day from the car window. We were driving home from the hospital, and we had stopped at the traffic lights near the marketplace. She was standing on the kerb waiting to cross the road. And she was so close I could’ve almost reached out and touched her.

I couldn’t quite believe she was there. I thought I must have conjured her up from some dark recess of my mind. But it wasn’t my imagination, it was her. I watched, in helpless rage, as she smiled and waved at someone on the other side of the road. She actually smiled, and my heart clenched like a fist.

Why haven’t they locked her away? What right has she got to liberty after all that she’s done? It made my blood boil, seeing her there, sauntering along the street, free as a bird, without a care in the world. I wanted to get out of the car and run after her – to confront her. I wanted to smash her face until that peachy-smooth skin was bruised and battered to a pulp. But of course, I didn’t. I let her cross the road, stop and pause to look in a shop window. One day I’ll make her pay for the things she’s done but not yet. For now, I need to be patient. Good things come to those who wait.

Eleven

I haven’t slept well in days. I drop off in Dylan’s bed reading him a bedtime story and wake up two hours later with a crick in my neck and drool running down my chin. Forcing myself up, I stumble across the landing and crawl into my own bed. Then I spend another night tossing and turning before I finally fall asleep again, just as it’s getting light.

The sound of a leaf blower outside my window drills into my head and I