"Be careful. And don't forget your scarf!"
Too late – the door slammed and quick footsteps descended the path towards the road and a gaggle of excited voices that led away towards the village. Off he went in his pirate costume to collect enough sweets to last a week or so, that is if he didn't share them. But she knew he'd share them. He was a good kid like that.
She didn't hold much with Halloween. Yes, she'd heard of it as a girl, but at that time it was seen as a distinctly American thing – all plastic pumpkins and scary films. Slowly, as shops, restaurants and even supermarkets caught on, it became part of the calendar, but there was something begrudging about letting this interloper in to a British calendar, at least hers. It wasn't... organic – was that the right word?
And here she was, allowing her son to go out trick or treating with the other kids. She went herself last year, with other mums, and in truth had a great time of it, but that was before Shaun left. She just didn't feel up to it and made her excuses to Sue. She understood. The house was blissfully quiet.
The washing up was loaded, the floor mopped, the cat let out and curtains drawn. It all looked so very normal and nice; a perfect sparkling kitchen, all the new furniture, the low lighting, the gas fire slowly hissing away in the wall, and above it on the mantelpiece a school photo of Martin and the slow ticking of her grandfather's presentation clock. It was 7 o'clock precisely.
She kicked off her slippers and pulled her feet under her and was about to reach for the remote when she paused. Where was it all going? Was this moment what she really wanted tonight? Would this quiet, solitary evening without a bastard husband and noisy 10-year old become a regularity – a norm. Why did things have to end that way? Why couldn't he have been a little more understanding, a touch more loving? Then she might have been a little more forthcoming. Then they'd still have been together and it would still be a proper family – a normal family. No excuses and no tears at bedtime...
What was she thinking? He was the bastard – he found a slut's big pair of tits beyond temptation. He upped and left. It wasn't her fault. She slammed her thumb on the remote and the flatscreen TV erupted into life: wildlife on BBC2, about birds in springtime. Nests. She quickly changed to ITV and the beginning of X-Factor. Her mind settled as the first singer, a nice looking boy of about 18, was introduced and began his intense, pent-up warbling.
He looked a little like Martin, almost a future vision. She wondered if he'd also one day have a good voice. He didn't sing much about the house – the last time she remembered him singing was as shepherd no 2 in the nativity scene in year 3. But if he looked and sounded like that? Stirrings of displaced pride welled within and she watched even more intently. He beamed innocently from his picture – as if the picture was really his face, really looking at her.
The rest of the programme was the usual mix of audience over-reaction, the judges' acerbic comments and Dermot o'Leary being the greek chorus that suited her mood. She quite forgot herself, that she was alone and that it was Halloween and at times even gave out a chuckle.
Before the end she heard the front door slam.
"That you, Martin? How'd it go?"
She heard his familiar footsteps thud up the stairs and his bedroom door noisily close. Sounded like something was up. The boy who looked like Martin came second; she was a little disappointed and switched off the TV. The house descended into a raging quiet again. A little too quiet for normal, she imagined he was already back on his new laptop.
"Martin? How did it go?"
Through the door's glass panel she could see the hallway was in total darkness. Not really unusual; he thought nothing of keeping it burning 24 hours, but at night it was hard to see on the landing without it.
She opened the hallway door. A breeze of frozen air enveloped her and quite caught her breath. The front door was firmly closed, and again the kitchen door. She turned on the light at the top of the stairs, and putting her slippered feet silently on each carpeted stair, slowly climbed listening for any of his familiar movements.
"Martin?"
He couldn't have gone to sleep so soon. He could hear her even through his earphones, but there was nothing but stillness. Standing by his World of Warcraft-postered door she again called his name, knocked and tried the handle – it was icy, like a fierce little ice cube in her fingers.
She instantly pulled away. Then she thought, smiled and opened up the door.
"Martin? That's a great trick..."
The room was dark and empty and full of his smell, only more-so. She stood for a while waiting for the little tinker to rush out from the wardrobe, or grab her ankle from under the bed. But all was still. Only the wee twinkling lights of the modem glimmered a sickly green light from his desk.
She flicked on the light: he wasn't here at all – not even hiding. She checked her bedroom, the spare, the bathroom and even the airing cupboard, leaving the lights on as she went. She looked up at the loft access panel.
"OK, Martin, very clever." she acknowledged. "Where are ya?"
The house around her was still, awful and coldly empty. Again she felt the chill around her neck, her arms and the back of her legs – a deep, sudden chill under the skin, as if someone was intentionally blowing cold air at her. It gave her a terrible, unhappy feeling...
Rushing downstairs to the kitchen she picked up her mobile to call Sue – she had missed 5 calls and there were as many messages.
FROM: Susan
MESSAGE 1: Call me.
FROM: Susan
MESSAGE 2: CALL ME NOW...
Ignoring the rest, she hurriedly returned the number.
"Oh my God, is that you?"
"Sue, what's happened?"
"Stay where you are – we're coming to fetch you. We're nearly there."
"Has something happened to Martin?"
On the kitchen door handle beside her hung a scarf, and on her mantelpiece sat his photo keeping up the same 10-year old frozen smile.
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