Page 83 of Don't Tell Teacher

‘Don’t start that rubbish,’ Olly snaps. ‘I drove us up to Devon and back when you were pregnant. The doctor said it was fine.’

‘She said it was fine if you were comfortable braking,’ I say, over Tom’s escalating screams. ‘But when that van pulled out, you were in agony.’

‘You can’t keep me prisoner here,’ Olly growls, lurching forward. ‘Unable to walk, unable to drive. This is about control, isn’t it? You want to control me. You fucked up my leg. Now you want to fuck up my mind.’

Olly’s mood changes dramatically when Tom cries.

‘Stop it. Just stop it.’ I put Tom in his bouncy chair. ‘He’ll fall asleep soon. He always does eventually. You’ll see.’

‘I’m putting him in the camper,’ says Olly, lifting the bouncy chair and carrying it towards the door. ‘He sleeps when we’re driving.’

‘No,’ I shout, following.

My fists beat on Olly’s broad back, and he turns to me, eyes wild. ‘Don’t you ever do that again? Do you understand me?’ He puts the bouncy chair down, then gives me the look. The one that says he wants to slap me hard enough to make my ears ring. ‘Do you understand me? After everything you’ve done. Everything I put up with. I’m only with you because of Tom. I’m only with you because of this baby!’

I’m frightened, and for a moment I freeze.

That verbal lashing felt worse than any of the others. Not because it hurt, but because Olly hasn’t been this angry since before Tom was born. The baby calmed him down. But now it seems the old Olly is back.

This was my fault, though. After all, I hit him. What did I expect?

Olly scoops up Tom, chair and all, and storms down the stairs, his uneven walk pounding on wood. Bump, bump…bump, bump.

‘Don’t take my son,’ I scream down the stairwell, my words turning to shrieks. ‘Olly. Come back. Please!’

A door downstairs opens, and I hear the murmurs of Stuart – our neighbour and my friend.

And then Olly’s voice: ‘Get the fuck out of my way. Get out of my way.’

I hear scuffles and run downstairs to find Olly and Stuart grappling in the hallway.

The bouncy chair rests a few feet away and Tom is letting out low, frightened little moans.

Oh God.

Olly throws a vicious punch that knocks Stuart to the floor.

‘Olly!’ I scream. ‘Stop!’

Olly turns then, seeing me on the stairs. ‘Go back inside.’ He takes Tom from the chair and storms out the front door.

I run past Stuart who is clutching his jaw, and out onto the street.

Olly is strapping Tom into the back of the camper van. ‘Back off!’ he shouts, sensing me approach. ‘Just back off. I’m warning you.’ He clicks the baby-seat straps into place, pulls to make sure they’re tight, then slides the camper van door shut.

‘You can’t take my son!’ I shout.

Ignoring me, Olly stalks around the car with his jolting walk, climbing into the driver’s seat.

I pull at the camper’s locked sliding door, crying, sobbing, beating the metal panel as I watch Tom behind the glass.

Then the camper van starts up with its usual spluttering roar.

‘Don’t take him,’ I shout. ‘Don’t take him!’

The van pulls out into traffic.

I’m shaking now, cheeks soaked with tears.

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