Page 146 of Night Call


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She was on the sofa by the window, scribbling answers into the daily crossword. She always kept the curtains open well into the night, because spying on the neighbours was her personal hobby.

Tracey McArthur looked small, hunched over with her head in the newspaper and pink reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. She almost looked normal, and not at all like the looming shadow that’d darkened most of Pember and his sister’s lives.

With every fibre of his being, he wanted to march straight to the house and scream at her for being such a vindictive fucking bitch. Imogen’s ashes were still under his fingernails, despite him showering and scrubbing his hands red raw.

He wanted to, but he didn’t, because if he’d learned anything in his relatively short life, it was that blowing up and losingcontrol was exactly what she wanted. It’d mean she’d won.She’dbeen the bigger person all along.

It had been Imogen’s fatal flaw, and every time they had a blazing argument, his mother would develop this self-satisfied gleam in her eyes. Afterwards, she’d go into Pember’s room, take him into her arms, stroke his hair and say “Thank God” that he was such a good boy. Her boy. Her baby. Not like his sister.

It had driven a wedge between him and Imogen for years, which was something he could never forgive.

It had all stopped when he was about to hit puberty and estrus started to bloom within him. Something in his mum’s expression hardened when his pheromones started to change that fateful Saturday morning, and she cut off all his hair.Thenhe started to understand why Imogen hated her.

He picked at a piece of lint on his thin blue jumper and brushed out a non-existent crease from his jeans. Val could tell he was going to do something stupid, because she’d chewed his ear off about nothing at all, trying to fill the space created by his contemplative silence. And for once Pember’s brainwasquiet. The chaotic buzz that usually accompanied any and all thoughts of his mother was dormant.

Taking a step forward, he let his walking boots crunch heavily against the gravel. His mum looked up, then rose as her dark green eyes homed in on him like a goddamned tractor beam. She knew he would come.

“Hi, Mum,” he whispered, though she would never hear it.

She ran her fingers over her skirt then plucked the glasses off her nose and placed them on the coffee table. She still carried herself with the grace of a dancer as she moved with unnatural stillness towards the front door.

Pember straightened his jacket, combed a hand through his hair and let out a breath.

“We can do this,” he said, running his thumb over Imogen’s necklace.

The door clicked, and he stood face to face with his mother once again. She sniffed, her jaw setting into a hard line. “You look terrible,” she said, folding her arms and jutting out her chin.

Pember sighed, biting the inside of his cheek. “Hello, Mum,” he said, slowly walking towards the house.

She scoffed, drumming her fingers across her folded arms. “I’ve been a nervous wreck, you silly boy. I had to go to the doctor’s and?—”

“How’s Aunt Mary?” he said, drawing level but keeping out of striking range. “And Uncle Ron?”

Her eyebrow twitched at the dismissal. “What? Pember, I’m?—”

“And cousin Emma? Has she had the baby yet?”

Tracey’s lips peeling back over her teeth. “A girl. Alpha. But I have been so?—”

“That’s nice.” He nodded. “Shall we have a chat?” He gave her a curt smile, gesturing towards the house.

Tracey’s nostrils flared as she stood her ground. “I’m not sure we should. Who knows where you’ve been this last month.”

Pember scoffed. “You know exactly where I’ve been, but I’m happy to air our dirty laundry to the neighbours.”

He shrugged, tipping his face towards the road.

She stepped forward, eyes flitting up and down the street, because although she craved his anger, she would most certainlynotwant to taint the image of the perfect family she kept up to everyone on the street. With a huff, she stepped back and let him in.

The house was just as he remembered—well-kept without a cushion out of place.

Suffocating.

“Tea?” he said, slowly walking through the living room and glancing towards the fireplace. She’d rearranged the china ornaments to make it look like Imogen’s ashes had never been there at all. Pember sighed, drawing two cups from the cupboard and flicking on the kettle.

Tracey’s slippers padded across the tiles before she stopped and yanked the mugs out of his hands. Pember flinched, making her head tilt in that horribly patronising way he was used to. Like he was a kid who’d been caught out in a lie.

He thought for a moment she was going to smack him, but instead she placed the cups down and began making the tea.