Most of his fellow Americans would love this village, though. Churchill. Good British name, too. The village was – what was the expression? – chocolate-box pretty. Quaint as hell.
He smiled to himself. He felt certain that Kate and Jack were going to be at Miranda’s. There’d be a scene, no doubt. But he relished the thought of the confrontation, Kate trying to justify what she’d done. Just watch her try to take the moral high ground, he thought.
He found the address the man at Miranda and Pete’s old house had given him, and parked outside. The wipers squeaked back and forth across the windscreen before halting. Vernon got out of the car, rehearsing what he was going to say, and rang the doorbell.
The SPEED KILLS sign almost made Sampson smile. He screeched round the corner by the church, roaring on past the neat low Cotswolds stone balustrade edging the churchyard. The pink teddy bear on the back seat toppled over. A cat was crossing the road up ahead, trying to escape the rain, and Sampson put his foot on the accelerator, but the animal darted to safety with a split second to spare.
He felt good. More alive than he could ever remember. It must be the proximity of Kate’s blood, he thought.
He found the street he was looking for and pulled to a halt a few doors away. He stood in the rain for a few seconds, enjoying its feel on his face. He held the pink teddy under his jacket. Then he walked up to the door and pressed the bell.
Miranda opened the door.
The man standing before her had damp hair and a strange smile on his face, the look of a man who is about to get what he wants.
‘Hello Miranda,’ he said. Before she could reply, he darted past her into the hallway.
‘Hey,’ she said. ‘What are you . . .?’
He cocked his head, listening, and looked up the stairs. Then he turned back to face her. She folded her arms protectively across her chest.
‘Where is she?’ he demanded.
‘Who?’
‘Who do you think? Kate. Is she here?’
Miranda shook her head. ‘No . . . no, she’s not. Is she – is she in England?’
He gave her an incredulous glare. ‘I take it from the smell on your breath that that was a drunken question. I’m sure you know I’m not stupid, Miranda.’
‘Oh yes, I know that very well, Vernon.’
‘So don’t treat me like . . .’
There was a cry from upstairs. A squeal of laughter followed by a happy outburst from Amelia. ‘Well done, Jack. You beat him.’
Vernon dodged past Miranda and ran up the stairs. ‘Jack? Jack?’
Miranda listened in horror from her position frozen at the bottom of the stairs as Jack came running out of the bedroom, short of breath, gasping, ‘Daddy?’
‘Jackie.’ Vernon swept him up into an embrace as George and Amelia poked their heads out of the bedroom and gawped. ‘I’m here to rescue you.’
Jack said, ‘Like Superman?’
‘Yes, son. Just like Superman. Where’s your mother?’
‘She’s gone on an adventure with Paul.’
‘What? Who’s Paul?’
‘Mummy’s new friend.’
‘Her boyfriend,’ giggled George, who immediately pulled his head out of sight.
Vernon stomped down the stairs, still holding Jack in his arms. He pushed past Miranda then swung round to face her. ‘What’s all this about Kate and some guy called Paul? Where are they?’
Miranda shook her head. ‘I can’t tell you.’
Vernon felt the blood in his veins heat up. This stupid drunk slut. How the hell could Kate have left their son with this unfit mother? Because Kate was an unfit mother herself – that was the truth. He was going to take Jack so far away from here, and make sure that Kate never got her hands on him again. She’d blown it. Jack would be a million times better off without her.
‘It doesn’t matter anyway. Come on, Jack. Let’s get out of this place.’
Jack’s little blue wheely suitcase was standing by the front door, still packed but with the zip open, presumably where his pyjamas and toothbrush had been removed at bedtime the night before. Vernon could see a corner of the boy’s passport sticking out of the front pocket, where Kate always kept it. He zipped the case and picked it up.
Miranda stepped in Vernon’s path as he led Jack towards the door. Blinded by a flash of anger, Vernon pushed her aside, using Jack’s case as a shield. She banged her hip on the side table and fell to the floor, staring up with shock. Vernon pointed a finger at her. ‘Don’t try to get in my way.’
Upset by the violence, Jack started crying and squirming, and Vernon had to struggle to hold on to his hand. ‘Come on, Jackie. We’re going on an airplane. Soon you’ll be home and you’ll see Tyler and all your other friends again. You’ll like that, won’t you?’
Jack shook his head, his face red, tears rolling down his cheeks. ‘I want to stay here with George. I want Mummy.’
‘Shush. Come on, stop wriggling.’
But Jack wouldn’t stop. As Vernon opened the front door, hefting Jack up into his arms, the boy screamed, ‘Billy. I want Billy.’
Vernon clenched his teeth, trying to bite back the intense irritation that crawled up his spine, trying to ignore the veins pulsing in his temple. ‘Who the hell is Billy?’
‘My robot.’ He stretched out his hands towards the open door of the living room, where Billy had been left on the sofa.
Vernon ignored his pleas. He carried the bawling Jack out to the car, wrestled him onto the back seat, threw in his case after him, and locked the doors, ignoring the persistent pleas for Billy the robot. What was it? Some present that Kate’s new boyfriend had bought Jack as a bribe? Well, fuck it. Jack would soon forget all about Billy and Paul and his mother.
Miranda stood in the doorway and watched them drive off, Jack pressing his tear-soaked face to the window.
Miranda shut the door and ran to the phone, dialling Kate’s number. It went straight to voicemail.
She sat down on the bottom step, her head in her hands. George went back into his bedroom to obliterate memories of what had just happened by playing videogames, while Amelia crept down the stairs and sat next to her mum, leaning against her, whispering, ‘I don’t like Uncle Vernon.’
‘Neither do I, sweetheart,’ Miranda said.
The doorbell rang again. Miranda sighed.
‘It’s okay, Mummy,’ Amelia said. ‘I’ll get it.’
The hypnotherapist was called Doreen, which Kate thought seemed incongruous. She had half-expected a caricature of a stage hypnotist, called something like Wanda, who, in her mind, would be a cross between a fairground fortune teller, with a fringed headscarf and too much eyeliner; or else a male showman, cummerbunded and pomaded, waving his hands around and saying ‘You are feeling sleepy, look into my eyes, look into my eyes.’
Paul had looked