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

is scratching at the back of my mind. I quash it. He’ll be in one of the other classrooms, or in the toilets.

I head back to the classroom. All the children have left now and to the obvious relief of the supply teacher, Ms Hamlyn has returned bringing with her an air of efficiency and the sense that everything is under control.

‘Oh yes,’ she says, vaguely scratching her head. ‘Dylan left with Harry – Harry Martin. Have you forgotten? You told us his mum was picking him up today for a playdate.’

Of course, Dylan is safe. He’s with Georgia. My relief mingles with slight annoyance at Ms Hamlyn’s patronising tone. For a start, she’s wrong.

‘No, I said she was picking him up tomorrow,’ I say firmly.

‘Oh,’ she looks confused. ‘I was sure you said today.’

It’s not worth arguing about. ‘Well, never mind, at least we know where he is,’ I mutter grudgingly. Ms Hamlyn is seriously taking a nosedive in my estimation.

‘Here – he forgot this,’ the supply teacher says, handing me Dylan’s book bag as I’m leaving. ‘I’m sorry about the mix-up.’

‘No worries. Perhaps I did give the wrong day. I’ve been a bit hassled lately.’

Outside, in the school playground, I sit on a bench and call Georgia.

There’s no answer.

It’s annoying, that’s all. She’s probably driving, or maybe she’s left her phone at home. I’ll try again later. I’m about to stand up and head out of the gate when it occurs to me that she might have left a note for me inside Dylan’s book bag. I peel back the Velcro and rummage inside, then empty the contents on to the bench. A book and a few pieces of paper randomly stuck together with glue fall out. Then I catch a glimpse of blue paper right at the bottom of the bag and my breath snags in my throat. A blue envelope – nothing written on it.

Not again. You’ve made your point. Now leave me alone, I think. I don’t feel scared any more. I feel angry. Ready for a fight. I tear open the envelope. Whatever it is, I’m prepared.

But nothing could prepare me for this.

I’m drowning in the air around me. The words on the paper buzz in front of my eyes like a swarm of vicious insects, the letters, block-printed in blue biro. This is worse than anything I’d ever expected or imagined:

I HAVE YOUR SON. DON’T GO TO THE POLICE OR TELL ANYONE ELSE IF YOU WANT TO SEE HIM ALIVE AGAIN.

Thirty-one

This can’t be real, I think. They’re just trying to scare me, that’s all. Dylan is safe. He’s with Georgia. Ms Hamlyn said so.

I fumble with my phone and ring Georgia again, but there’s still no answer and the bench I’m sitting on seems to be swaying, lurching from side to side like a boat. I grip the armrest, trying to hold on. This isn’t happening, I tell myself. It’s a nightmare. I’ll wake up in a minute. I shake the phone vigorously as if I can make it respond. ‘Georgia, pick up, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Are you all right?’ A teacher heading to his car with a stack of books has paused and is looking at me oddly. I realise I must have spoken aloud.

‘I’m fine,’ I say, trying to smile. The air feels like gravel in my throat and I try to breathe, thick, desperate gasps.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure,’ I say through gritted teeth.

‘Okay then . . .’ He hesitates, then shrugs and unlocks his car with a beep and loads the books he is carrying in his boot.

I watch him blankly as he gets in the car and drives out of the gate. Dylan’s safe, I repeat inside my head. He’s with Georgia. I stuff the envelope back in the book bag and lurch to my feet. Then I walk home in a daze, my feet moving themselves as if they’re not attached to me. They feel numb, like the rest of my body. The only part of me I can still feel is my heart, which seems to have expanded and feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest. Awful, horrific possibilities clamour in my mind. I picture Dylan scared, alone. Dylan hurt. Dylan . . . But my mind can’t go there. That thought is too appalling.

Calm down. Calm down, I tell myself. If they wanted to hurt him, they wouldn’t have sent a note. This is just another way to punish me.

They couldn’t have chosen a better way.

At home, I pace the living room, trying to reassure myself. Ms Hamlyn said that Dylan was picked up by Georgia, didn’t she? I think. So – he’s with Georgia. He’s safe.

I’m fumbling with the phone as I try her number again. I’m not really expecting her to reply, but this time she picks up immediately.

‘Hi, Cat,’ she says breezily, and her tone is such a contrast to the spiralling vortex of my thoughts that it feels like plunging into cold water.

‘Where’s Dylan?’ I blurt. ‘Is he with you? Is he okay?’

She sounds mildly alarmed. ‘What? No, Dylan isn’t here. Why?’

A black hole is opening. I’m standing on the edge, trying not to get sucked in.

‘But I don’t understand. You picked him up from school today, right?’

There’s a short pause. ‘No, we agreed on a playdate tomorrow. I’ve got it written on my calendar. Hang on a second,’ I can hear her breath and the sound of her flip-flops on her parquet floor. ‘Ah, yes, here it is. Tomorrow. Friday. Pick up Dylan. Did I write down the wrong day?’

Am I going mad? ‘But Ms Hamlyn said Dylan went home with Harry.’

‘Did she?’ Georgia sounds confused. ‘I didn’t pick Harry up today,’ she says. ‘Luke did. He had a day off work. He was going to take him to the park. But I can’t think why he would’ve taken Dylan too. I’ll . . .’

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Luke. Of course. It makes a weird kind of sense.

Georgia is still talking, an anodyne background