Page 94 of Don't Tell Teacher

I’ve tried to stay away from him. From the ‘us’ that happens whenever I feel low. But it hasn’t been easy and I’ve lapsed. Several times over the last few years.

‘He came up to see you,’ says Olly, turning to me. ‘Didn’t he?’

I stiffen. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘He came up to see you!’

‘Please,’ I say. ‘Don’t shout. Tom’s sleeping. He has school tomorrow.’

Olly stands then, towering over me. ‘Matt said he saw you coming out of Stuart’s flat the other week.’ The words are full of menace. Matt is one of Olly’s best friends. A believable testimony.

Oh God. I feel sick to my stomach.

‘Hesawyou!’ Olly shouts. ‘What were you doing?’

‘It was probably about a parcel or something. Matt … he’s just trying to stir things. He’s always been jealous of us. You know that.’ A terrible excuse, but the best I can think of. I’m trapped on the sofa, nowhere to hide.

‘How many times?’ Olly demands, eyes blazing.

‘Olly, you’re being jealous. Irrational. It’s the pills. Nothing’s happening between me and Stuart,’ I say, desperately.

Olly throws an art deco vase on the floor and it smashes.

I cover my head and suddenly I’m on the floor too, crawling towards and out of the apartment door. Now everything flashes black, white and red. I hit the staircase with my arm, my hip, my cheek as I tumble down, down, down.

I land in a crying heap on the floor below, feeling like I’ve been beaten with truncheons.

Olly stands at the top of the stairs, a look of utter contempt on his face. ‘Why did you do that?’ he asks. ‘Why did you throw yourself down the stairs?’

I want Stuart to come and rescue me. But I don’t think he heard. Or maybe he went out.

Olly goes back into the flat and I limp slowly back up the stairs, a beaten, broken animal, back to the shadow I stand in, the man who says he loves me.

Back to our son, whom I pray has slept through all this.

I just don’t know what else to do. I’m so desperate for a stable home. To give Tom what I never had. But this isn’t stable. It’s more dysfunctional than my own upbringing.

When I reach the top of the stairs, I see Tom’s bedroom door is open and hear he is crying.

I run to him. ‘Tom!’

In the bedroom, Olly stands over Tom’s bed, chest heaving.

‘What are you doing?’ I scream. ‘Why is Tom crying?’

Olly eyes are both drug-glazed and panicked. ‘I—’

‘Why is he crying?’ I demand. ‘What did you do, Olly? God, what did you do?’

I pick up Tom and see his hand fall at an odd angle from his body. ‘Oh God. Oh my God.’ I turn to Olly, shaking my head. ‘What did youdo?’

Lizzie

Margaret is on a swing when we arrive at the play park, swaying back and forth, feet scuffing the ground.

She’s dressed young for a sixty-something woman, in a long, blue crepe dress that swills around her white sequin-covered plimsolls, but she carries it off. Some people can wear teenage clothing just the right way, no matter what their age.

This forever youthfulness reminds me of Olly.

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