CHAPTER 1
ESCAPE
Pember
Passport,birth certificate, cello. Passport, birth certificate, cello.Those were the words Pember chanted to himself as he tried to slide the key into the back door. He’d planned this moment for months, but now the time had finally come, his hands were shaking so uncontrollably they could barely keep hold of the damn key.
Use the back door to avoid the camera. Unplug the alarm the night before. Dress for work to avoid suspicion. And most importantly, change the collection time for the food shopping so Mum goes out an hour earlier.
Get in, get out, avoid confrontation.
Pathetic, really, the lengths he had to go to, and now his treacherous fingers just would not cooperate.
“Come on,” he whispered, gritting his teeth beforefinallypressing the back door open with a click. He swallowed as it creaked.
There was movement at knee height, followed by one sharp yap that ricocheted up his spine. A damp muzzle pressed into his belly.
“Bailey,” he whispered, driving a hand into his coat pocket to dig out the dog treat that was ready and waiting. The black Labrador licked his hands, and after a moment of coaxing she returned to her bed. She truly was a fickle thing.
Deafening silence fell over the rest of the house, like the halls of some long-abandoned church. Number 36 Acacia Drive had been his home for the entire twenty-four years of his life, the place where he lived with his sister and parents. Except now Imogen was dead, same as his dad, and the place he called home had become his prison.
When nothing changed, he stepped further into the kitchen, scanning the room for anything out of place. Newspaper on the table.Teacup on the drying rack. Car keys missing from the sideboard. He’d known the keys would be missing because the car wasn’t on the drive, but he sighed with relief all the same. Normal. Everything looked nice and normal, and not at all like his mother knew he was leaving her.
Slipping off his shoes, he padded across the neatly kept kitchen and into the living room. Reading lamp, off. Crossword half-finished on the sofa. Coat absent from the hook by the front door.
His eyes drifted to the black urn sitting on the corner of the mantelpiece.
“I’m sorry, Immy,” he whispered, biting his lip. “I’m so sorry.”
Pushing a hand through his dark, unruly hair, Pember jerked his gaze away and headed towards the stairs. “Mum?” he called softly, voice cracking as he waited for a reply.
When none came, he swallowed back a grimace and snuck into her bedroom. Bed made. Curtains open. Slippers by the nightstand. Letting out a shaky breath, he carefully drew open the chest of drawers, wincing at how loudly they creaked and the wrongness of rifling through his mother’s private things.
Except, they werehisthings.Hispassport,hisbirth certificate. Just two items of many she controlled. He’d been damn lucky she hadn’t noticed the missing documents when he snuck out to the lettings agency eight weeks ago. And that she hadn’t seen him loitering by the door, ready to intercept the post each morning.
He’d slowly removed belongings from his bedroom, reorganising and rearranging things so she wouldn’t notice. She’d made a comment one day, but he’d chalked it up to nesting, and eventhathad made her nose wrinkle in disgust.
“We don’t do that in this house,” she’d said. And that’d been the end of that.
Paying for two months’ rent on a house he wasn’t living in, especially on his shitty apprentice salary, had been a necessary evil. But it’d still taken a massive chunk of what little savings he had.
Things with his mum had gotten progressively worse over the last year, and it had reached the point that it was now or never.
Finding the passport and birth certificate, he plucked them from the drawer and tiptoed to his bedroom. The house was empty, but the roiling anxiety in his stomach wouldn’t allow him to move with confidence.
Pushing open the door, he glanced around at the bare magnolia walls and plain furniture. He stupidly checked behind the door, as though his mum might suddenly jump out like the bogeyman. It was pathetic, really, and the room he’d called his own for a quarter of a century held no trace of him as a child, or a man.
He hated it, hated everything about it, except the massive black hard case that was nestled under his bed. “Time to go,” he whispered, running a hand over the faded leather and sliding it out. He glanced out the window one final time before slowly turning to leave.
“What are you doing?” a voice, sharp as a whip, snapped from the doorway.
Pember spun, almost falling over the instrument. “M-Mum,” he stuttered, taking a step back. She hung over the threshold, her dark, curly hair and green eyes a cold parody of his own. The sleeves of her pink cardigan were rolled up, which was something she never did.
“You were meant to be out,” he continued. “Collecting the shopping. I… I… I thought?—”
“You thoughtwhat,Pember? That you’d sneak in whilst my back was turned? That you’d steal from me?”
Pember sniffed. “I’m not stealing. These are mine.”
