My Husband's Son: A dark and gripping psychological thriller by Deborah O'Connor Page A
Authors: Deborah O'Connor
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then I might be able to pass it on to our forensic artist. It’s not an exact science, but they could compare him with the age progression images they’ve already done.’ He made a camera sign with his hands. ‘It needs to be a good, clear picture of his face, otherwise it won’t work.’
I bowed my head in thanks.
‘I can’t promise anything, but maybe we can find a way to put your mind at rest.’ At this, he headed back outside, presumably before Jason could notice he was missing.
Feeling lighter than I had in days, I hugged myself and smiled. A picture, of course. All I needed was a picture.
Chapter Thirteen
Later, with the house to ourselves, we set about putting things straight. I focused on the kitchen while Jason kept to the garden. Every now and again our paths would cross. I’d place a rubbish sack next to the back door or Jason would transport a stack of stray plates to the sink. Each time it happened was a surprise. As though, until that moment, we had forgotten the other person was there. We didn’t acknowledge each other or even make eye contact; instead we’d weave and dip, hands in the air, hips sucked back, locked in a deft, silent tango.
The first time I knocked into him was by accident. We were in front of the fridge, going in opposite directions, and my elbow caught him sharp in the ribs. I didn’t apologise.
Ten minutes passed and I was busy veering a heavy saucepan onto a high shelf when he appeared with a clutch of dirty pint glasses. I made sure to lurch towards him, enough to make one of the glasses smash to the floor. We stared at the shattered fragments, glittering on the tile. I held my silence. He was the first to break away, in search of the dustpan and brush.
After that he left me to it and retreated upstairs. As soon as I finished tidying, I followed him. He was in the spare room. I hovered by the closed door for a moment, listening, and then went inside.
He was standing opposite the wall of Barney’s age-progression photos. I looked down. Spread out on the floor was a collage of colour photographs. Family snaps of Barney at various ages. Seeing the images positioned next to each other like this, it was easy to grasp the dislocation between the real, historical pictures of Barney on the carpet and the imagined work of the forensic artist on the wall. I watched as Jason shifted his gaze from the wall to the floor. Up and down. Back and forwards. Over and over. I could only guess at the chasm that must exist between the two sets of images and the other, third version of Barney that Jason carried around in his head. Was that what he was trying to do now, close the gap?
I slipped my arms around his waist and rested a cheek against his back. I felt him relax. He pulled me forward and hugged me into his side. I looked at the scatter of glossy photos arranged at his feet and with a start I realised he had muddled two of my Lauren pics in with his Barney collage. We kept our respective photo collections in shoeboxes on the same shelf. Both boxes were always close to overflowing. Some of my photos must have got mixed in with his.
The first imposter was a close-up of Lauren as a baby, no more than six months old, swaddled in a lemon bath towel; the other was of her as a toddler. Shot from behind, it captured her mid-air on a swing. I wanted to scoop them up immediately, to put them back with the others, but I couldn’t bring myself to point out his mistake.
He went to rest his head on my mine and as he turned I intercepted him halfway with a kiss. Close-lipped, he reciprocated, took my hand and led me out onto the landing, towards our bedroom. I dug in and tried to keep kissing him on the landing where we stood. He pulled away.
‘You don’t want to?’
I pulled him against the wall and kissed him some more.
‘Here?’ He looked down the stairs, at the front door, worried someone might see us through the frosted glass.
I turned around and, pushing myself up against the wall,
I bowed my head in thanks.
‘I can’t promise anything, but maybe we can find a way to put your mind at rest.’ At this, he headed back outside, presumably before Jason could notice he was missing.
Feeling lighter than I had in days, I hugged myself and smiled. A picture, of course. All I needed was a picture.
Chapter Thirteen
Later, with the house to ourselves, we set about putting things straight. I focused on the kitchen while Jason kept to the garden. Every now and again our paths would cross. I’d place a rubbish sack next to the back door or Jason would transport a stack of stray plates to the sink. Each time it happened was a surprise. As though, until that moment, we had forgotten the other person was there. We didn’t acknowledge each other or even make eye contact; instead we’d weave and dip, hands in the air, hips sucked back, locked in a deft, silent tango.
The first time I knocked into him was by accident. We were in front of the fridge, going in opposite directions, and my elbow caught him sharp in the ribs. I didn’t apologise.
Ten minutes passed and I was busy veering a heavy saucepan onto a high shelf when he appeared with a clutch of dirty pint glasses. I made sure to lurch towards him, enough to make one of the glasses smash to the floor. We stared at the shattered fragments, glittering on the tile. I held my silence. He was the first to break away, in search of the dustpan and brush.
After that he left me to it and retreated upstairs. As soon as I finished tidying, I followed him. He was in the spare room. I hovered by the closed door for a moment, listening, and then went inside.
He was standing opposite the wall of Barney’s age-progression photos. I looked down. Spread out on the floor was a collage of colour photographs. Family snaps of Barney at various ages. Seeing the images positioned next to each other like this, it was easy to grasp the dislocation between the real, historical pictures of Barney on the carpet and the imagined work of the forensic artist on the wall. I watched as Jason shifted his gaze from the wall to the floor. Up and down. Back and forwards. Over and over. I could only guess at the chasm that must exist between the two sets of images and the other, third version of Barney that Jason carried around in his head. Was that what he was trying to do now, close the gap?
I slipped my arms around his waist and rested a cheek against his back. I felt him relax. He pulled me forward and hugged me into his side. I looked at the scatter of glossy photos arranged at his feet and with a start I realised he had muddled two of my Lauren pics in with his Barney collage. We kept our respective photo collections in shoeboxes on the same shelf. Both boxes were always close to overflowing. Some of my photos must have got mixed in with his.
The first imposter was a close-up of Lauren as a baby, no more than six months old, swaddled in a lemon bath towel; the other was of her as a toddler. Shot from behind, it captured her mid-air on a swing. I wanted to scoop them up immediately, to put them back with the others, but I couldn’t bring myself to point out his mistake.
He went to rest his head on my mine and as he turned I intercepted him halfway with a kiss. Close-lipped, he reciprocated, took my hand and led me out onto the landing, towards our bedroom. I dug in and tried to keep kissing him on the landing where we stood. He pulled away.
‘You don’t want to?’
I pulled him against the wall and kissed him some more.
‘Here?’ He looked down the stairs, at the front door, worried someone might see us through the frosted glass.
I turned around and, pushing myself up against the wall,
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