The Child at My Door: A completely unputdownable and gripping page-turner by Sam Vickery

Author:Sam Vickery [Vickery, Sam]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bookouture
Published: 2024-01-23T00:00:00+00:00

I spun the lid off the bottle of Chardonnay, pouring it into a chipped coffee mug, wishing I had a proper glass to use instead. The wine was acidic and warm, the bottle having been won in a raffle several months earlier; I’d only managed to keep hold of it because Scott couldn’t stand wine in any form. I’d have avoided it myself usually, but right now, I needed something to take the edge off the delirium that was creeping over me. My temples throbbed, my head pulsing with adrenaline and exhaustion, the insomnia peaking, filling me with that familiar sense of dread and terror that I’d learned to expect. I couldn’t stop my thoughts from travelling down dark pathways, and as much as my stomach protested, my throat closing at the paint-thinner quality of the drink, I forced it down, needing the warmth to carry away some of my anxieties.

I slumped on the sofa, clutching the mug in my hand as if it was a shield. In another life, I could have happily given up… given in to the gift of numbness that came with losing yourself in a bottle. Blotted out the past, the future, concerning myself with nothing but the goal of obtaining the next drink. It would certainly have been easier. But I had a son to consider, responsibilities to think about, and tempting as it was, I wouldn’t let myself fall into that trap.

But right now, I thought, swallowing back another burning mouthful, Tommy was with my mum, and I was here alone, lost, fidgety with the uneasy fear paired with the hyper-colour memories that flitted across my mind, torturing me.

I’d called Mum on the way back from Annie’s to let her know I was coming over, but she’d told me it wasn’t convenient. To come tomorrow instead. She’d been explaining why, and I’d tried to argue, but the poor reception on the train made it impossible to communicate, and when I’d called again, she hadn’t picked up. I wasn’t going to give up though. I would wait an hour, and then I was going to head over to her house anyway. I needed to see my son.

I glanced at the wine, feeling guilty for indulging in the middle of the day, hoping Mum and Tommy wouldn’t smell it on my breath, but not guilty enough to pour it away just yet.

I pulled my phone from my pocket, navigating to my emails, needing distraction. The summer newsletter had come in from Tommy’s preschool, and I clicked on it, reading through the bulletins about parents forgetting to bring sunhats and late-pickup fees, followed by the usual descriptions about what the children had been up to this term. There had been the summer market held on the field behind the nursery, where they’d fundraised for a new soft-play room. Then the visit to the farm – a trip I’d kept Tommy off for as they’d wanted an additional payment of nine pounds, which I couldn’t convince Scott to give me at the time.

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