I was in the kitchen, slicing up the last of the party sandwiches, when he finally called.

I place the knife down very carefully, turning the blade away from my body, before taking a deep breath.

On the frosted marble island, the phone continued ringing out; a weak, insectile buzzing sound I’d specifically programmed for his number.

When I finally answered, I did it without saying hello.

But it made no difference; his voice is bright and cheerful, brimming with confidence.

‘Great news, Carla! I’ll be able to see Reese on his birthday. Now I won’t show up until much later, after the football. But the main thing is . . . I’m going to be there. Just don’t tell him I’m coming.’

This man’s voice is a disease to me, crawling its way under my skin and into my brain.

‘Do not tell him anything. Do you hear? He still thinks we’re stuck in Ibiza.’

I endure this for Reese. But I feel like something inside me is going to explode.

‘Earth to . . .  Carla!’ he booms. ‘Not having a little moment, are we?’

My response is to hiss down the line, letting him know I’m still here.

‘Mature. Very mature. Now listen, let him think his dad’s a thousand miles away . . . until I show up about nine, and surprise him!’

‘Hang on a second!’ I tell him, gaining back some strength. ‘I’m with Marissa. She’s helping me with everything.’ I slam the phone onto the marble island, and shout into the empty kitchen. ‘Marissa! he says he can make the party after-all. How wonderful! Isn’t he a brilliant human being?’

I try to laugh out loud, but my throat is dry. Nothing comes out.

‘Oh, don’t have another meltdown, Carla, my ears are hurting from the flight. Can’t you just calm down and think about our son? Can’t you picture his face? Sulky and sad that dad couldn’t make his birthday. Yes? Now picture that same little face lighting up when he sees the green Porsche pulling up.’

His plan burrows into my headspace, pushing the rest of me out. I smash the phone onto the marble worktop once, twice, a third time, smashing his voice, smashing a world I once knew and loved.

Moments later, his horrifically calm voice comes back to me.

‘Earth . . . to . . . Carla?’

Reese wanders into the kitchen perhaps half an hour later -I can’t say for sure, don’t seem to know anything for certain anymore- and he’s plugged into his computer headset, talking into the microphone about a ‘plan to get past the tower.’

The response from whoever he’s talking to -Ali, most probably- causes Reese to snarl his lips. ‘Okay, I’ll do it then, bitch.’

I’m watching him from the darkness of the utility room.

This is my safe space, crouched up on the worktop, my back to the wall. The gentle hum of the boiler soothes me. It’s my private cocoon. I can see everything coming.

I watch Reese survey the platter of sandwiches, sausage rolls, and tomato pastas. The packets of crisps and peanuts. The carrot sticks and clusters of grapes. Recklessly, he tears open the cling film wrap containing the sandwiches and stuffs a ham triangle into his mouth.

He chews and talks into the mic at the same time.

‘Once I’ve had my sandwich, I’ll kill her, and you can infiltrate the castle.’

Because of the headset, Reese doesn’t hear me creeping into the kitchen. I move towards him as he opens the fridge, the slim frame with the wavy black hair. He’s wearing the turquoise shorts and t-shirt combo his other grandma bought for his birthday.

Thin arms and long, bandy legs.

My child. He smells clean and warm.

I never know if he’s happy.

He never tells me what’s wrong.

I need him to know how much I love him and need him right now. How we will get through this together. Without his father bringing us down.

As soon as I’m close enough, I hug him from behind, wrapping my arms around his chest and burying my face into the soft skin of his neck.

My nose fills with the sweet coconut smell of his freshly washed hair.

My flesh and blood.

My boy.

Against me he struggles violently, crying out in anguish.

He shouts something else and twists viciously from side to side, trying to get rid of me.

I can feel the distress pouring out of him.

But can’t let go.

I embrace him more tightly, hanging on, breathing in.

How many more chances will I have to hold him like this.

The computer headset twists loose and hangs by its wire at the side of us.

Reese screeches, ‘get off me,’ in genuine distress.

Frightened by the headset getting damaged, and the pitch of his panic, the sounds coming out of him, I loosen my grip, allowing him to tear away.

He shoves me back with an elbow.

‘Get off me! Fucking weirdo.’

My rush has plummeted.

I feel worthless.

Under his fierce gaze I slink back towards the sink, like an animal.

My mother turns up in Michael’s silver estate. Last week she volunteered to drive us to the sports centre in her boyfriend’s car, because it’s bigger, with more space for the platters of food.

‘I’ll tell him you always go overboard.’

After getting out the car she pulls on a face mask, covering her nose and mouth, before grabbing Reese’s wrapped birthday gift – a computer game I’d recommended- from the front seat.

‘Hi mum!’ I shout from behind the window, waving at her. She doesn’t hear me, or notice. There’s no point in mentioning the mask, or the surgical gloves, it’ll only make things awkward.

I’m constantly reminded that I could be contagious.

To not get too close.

I open the door and automatically take a step back, allowing her to stride into the hall.

‘Everything ready, Carla? Michael needs the car back by three at the very latest.’

‘Yes. Everything’s ready, mum.’

She shows me Reese’s birthday gift and smiles.

The brightly wrapped presents look strange held in surgical gloves.

‘Where’s the birthday boy?’ she asks. ‘Where’s my handsome grandson.’

‘Upstairs.’ I tell her. ‘I’ve barely seen him all day.’

‘It’s normal, love.’

She heads up the stairs, calling Reese’s name in singsong.

He screams a barrage of violent insults at his enemies until Mum’s knock at his door cuts him off.

‘Go away, weirdo!’

‘But it’s Grandma.’

‘Grandma!’ he chimes, becoming childlike again. ‘Come in, come in!’

Under Mum’s orders I sit in the back of the car for the journey to the sports centre. Reese takes advantage by forcing his chair all the way back without warning me, bashing the full weight against my knees.

‘Ouch!’ I can’t help but cry out.

‘Grow up. I hardly crushed you.’

After glancing at me in the rear-view mirror, Mum asks Reese if he’s expecting to see his dad.

‘Tomorrow, I think. Or maybe the day after.’

I fight back the urge to say something, finding it especially difficult to stay silent with mum staring so hard in the rear-view mirror.

‘Flights are a nightmare these days,’ Mum explains, eyes locked onto the road as she turns onto the dual carriageway. ‘People always get delayed.’

Reese asks if he’s allowed to take control of the Volvo’s sound system. And before mum agrees, he jabs at his phone, connecting Spotify to the speakers.

After a blast of something fast and bolshie, I ask him nicely to lower the volume.

Reese responds by shifting the sound system around, so that the music only pours out the front, blasting me out for the rest of the journey across town.

In the sports centre car park Reese spots one of his friends armed with a football, and they rush off onto the pitch we’ve booked for the next hour.

          ‘Be careful, Reese,’ I yell after him.

          ‘Oh, let him go,’ Mum chides.

Once she’s helped transfer the platters of food onto the tables behind the football pitch, Mum tells me she’ll have to get going.

‘Michael needs the car back-’

‘I know, I’m fine . . . I’m okay.’

‘Whose driving you home again, love?’ Mum adjusts her facemask, tightening the straps.

‘Melinda,’ I say, pointing her out amongst the other mums clustered near the gated entrance to the football pitch. ‘The tall one in the silver jacket.’

‘Does she know?’ Mum asks.

Ignoring Mum, I wave at Melinda.

Melinda starts making her way towards us.

‘Carla, is that . . . that horrible selfish man really going to ignore his own son’s birthday?’

‘He’s going to surprise him. Show up when Reese isn’t expecting it. He wants me to do everything, and then . . . and then he’s going to turn up at the end . . . like magic.’

Melinda looks at me, unsure what to say.

Mum smiles at us both, says goodbye from the car.

I watch my mother’s blue surgical gloves gripping the steering wheel as she guides herself away from me.

My conservatory is warm, lit with candles. I pour out the last of the Shiraz, and tilt the glass to one side, watching the dark red liquid run towards the rim. I’ve uploaded a dozen or so photographs from the party and put on them on my socials. I even tagged in the parents of some of the kids, those parents I thought I knew well enough.

My phone buzzes with a notification.

From upstairs I hear Reese screeching at his game. So much rage, so much venom.

I’m struggling now to read the comment, my eyes blurring a little, when the phone screen changes. The insect like buzzing sound emerges.

I answer sharply.

‘Let me guess, you really, really wanted to see your son on his birthday. But you had plans with your little slut instead?’

‘Sshh,’ he whispers. ‘I’m outside.’

When I jump off the setae, I knock the table and the bottle of wine, which smashes apart, breaking in two. The neck intact, splashes of red dripping down jagged shards of the base and covering the white oak floor. I see him marching up the garden path, hauling half a dozen shopping bags from JD Sports and Game and John Lewis.

As soon as I answer the door, I can’t help scanning the road for his car. ‘You better not have that little bitch waiting outside my house.’

‘Sssh’ he repeats. ‘We don’t want Reese to hear me, remember?’

The shopping bags bang into my legs as he moves towards the stairs. I feel sick, and my heart is pounding violently, violently, as I stand in the narrow porch, staring out into the darkened street.

‘If she’s out there,’ I warn him. ‘I’ll rip her throat apart. I will . . . I will.’

From upstairs I hear Reese screaming and shouting at his computer games. ‘It doesn’t work. Nothing fucking works anymore!’ he cries.

From halfway up the stairs, Oliver turns around with an insidious grin.

‘Go out looking all you want, Carla . . . you won’t find anyone. Anything.’

The smugness in the bastard’s face. I don’t want to listen, but every sound is absorbed into my head, every echo carries. Especially as he opens Reese’s bedroom door and the words ‘Dad!’ are called out in a high, excited voice.

‘Happy Birthday, my son!’

Barefoot and still holding the wine, I charge outside, light-headed, the wine sloshing over my wrist as I make my way onto the street.

A car door slams shut further down, near Katherine and Ian’s house, and I find myself heading in that direction.

Above me, the street lamps glow, slightly blurring my vision.

Three houses over, on the other side of the street, I spot the Porsche, nestled in between two vans.

Typical fucking Oliver, finding a little space to exploit where there shouldn’t have been one.

My heart thuds, a fist clenched, as I cross towards the darkened Porsche.

I’ll drag her from the car by her shiny blonde hair, tear bunches of it loose. I’ll drag the bitch across the road. Maybe I’ll smash the glass across her face.

Ruin her the way she’s ruined me.

But there is nobody there.

The car is empty. Darkness.

Tiny stones and bits of grit cut into my feet as I walk back home.

Back in the house I finish the wine and pour gin and tonic into the same glass.

I listen out for voices. The gin bubbles and fizzes as I creep up the stairs.

Reese is talking rapidly. He sounds frightened, agitated.

‘I don’t trust her dad, there’s something wrong with her, honestly.’

Oliver replies in a low voice, words I can’t make out.

‘She’s turning into some sort of psycho.’

I stop dead, unable to move.

‘Don’t leave me here, Dad, please.’

‘Son . . . I might be able to sort something out soon . . .’

Light-headed, I back away from his door.

‘But for now, just be a good boy . . . your mum’s not been very well lately.’

The stairs feel unreal, falling away from me as I walk. The hallway’s spinning. I stumbled back into the conservatory. The broken bottle of wine lay on the floor, the base ruptured, jagged in the candlelight, a puddle of red around it.

I can feel my head spinning, the walls moving around me.

The sound of Reese’s door opening. Furious whispering upstairs.

I try to heave myself up from the sofa, but everything wobbles in front of me, and I fall back onto the sofa.

A gust of cold wind travels through the house as the front door is opened.

‘I’ll be in touch son . . . be good to yourself. Don’t you be worrying too much. I’m proud of you.’

Reese says goodbye, slams the front door, and sounds like he’s on his way back upstairs.

‘Reese,’ I call out.

There is a moment of hesitation, of silence.

‘Come here right now’.

He’s in the conservatory, coming towards me. ‘You’re a mess.’

I stagger up from the couch and move towards him. He looks back at me, a lopsided grin trying to stay calm.

I rag my t-shirt up over my head and throw it to the floor.

‘Oh my God, what’re you even doing?’ horrified, he turns away and goes to leave.

‘Get back here right now.’

I unfasten my bra, letting that also fall to the floor.

‘Oh my God, you’re off your head. What the fuck, oh my God, you’re so fucked up.’

‘Look at me! Look at me!’ I demand.

He stops and stares at me, avoiding my chest, his eyes blazing with contempt.

I reach down for the broken wine bottle, holding it by the smooth neck. I raise it, baring the jagged edges of the smashed base in the air.

I brandish it before my face, waving it across the air, watching it shift before my blurred vision.

He steps back, eyes still blazing, and getting brighter.

‘Nine months!’ I scream. ‘Nine months you lived inside me!’

I prod and probe at my bare skin with the sharp edge of glass, scratching very softly, before dragging at the skin, much harder.

A slim line of blood seeps to the surface.

‘Oh my God, what’re you doing? You’re a psycho mum,

you’re a psycho. Stop it.’

‘And for what, for what!’

I drag the glass harder, gasping in pain as the skin opens up, blood oozing from my belly.

‘Stop,’ he stammers. ‘Oh my God . . . Stop.’

‘Now there is . . . nothing . . . only emptiness,’ and I feel woozy, woozy as I bring the shattered glass base smashing into myself, across my breasts, near the heart, to obliterate everything, crying sharply, and Reese lunges forward and grabs my wrist, screeching in terror, there’s a struggle, and the bottle smashes against the floor as we collapse back onto the sofa.

I can hear him, far off, but near.

He holds me down and screams hysterical.

The blood oozes out from my chest and stomach, running down the sofa.

I feel woozy, lighter than air.

I close my eyes and Reese screeches at me.

Reese is covered in my blood. ‘Ambulance. Call an ambulance.’ He’s yelling.

I open my eyes and hold them open a moment. The glittering, glimmering room moves and shrinks away from me.

‘It’s okay . . .’ I’m telling him. ‘It’s going . . . to be okay.’

I see him rising . . . rising higher above me, surrounded by a golden light.

I think he’s going to save me.

S J Horay is a fiction writer from Liverpool, working within the realms of psychological horror, black comedy and realism. His stories have an intense, dramatic narrative, and tend to be sinister in tone. His work explores themes ranging from identity and addiction to sexual desire and violence. S J Horay is represented by Clare Coombes at The Liverpool Literary Agency.

His debut novel, Saint Jason, a contemporary British black comedy about a young man with mother issues whose life spirals violently out of control, is currently seeking a publisher.

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