The Lost Son: A Supernatural Novel of Suspense Read online

  © Matt Shaw

  The right of Matt Shaw to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any format without written consent from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a magazine, newspaper or broadcast.

  The characters, and story, in this book are purely fictitious. Any likeness to person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  FROM THE SAME AUTHOR

  Love Life

  The Vampire’s Treaty

  (The Peter Chronicles)

  Happy Ever After

  G.S.O.H Essential

  A Fresh Start

  PETER

  All Good Things

  9 Months Book One

  9 Months Book Two

  9 Months Book Three

  Non-Fiction titles

  im fine

  Still Fine

  PlentyOfFreaks

  Wasting Stamps

  Self-publishing: Releasing your book to the digital market

  Collections

  Scribblings From a Dark Place

  9 Months Trilogy

  Happy Ever After Trilogy

  Reviews, Critics & Mystery Shopping

  The Story Collection: Volume One

  The Story Collection: Volume Two

  Novellas

  Smile

  The Dead Don’t Knock

  Writer’s Block

  Buried

  The Last Stop

  The Chosen Routes

  A Christmas to Remember (YOU choose the story)

  Romance is Dead

  The Breakdown

  The Cabin

  The 8th

  The Cabin II: Asylum

  The Missing Years of Thomas Pritchard

  Consumed

  Influenza: Strain ‘Z’

  The Lost Son

  Picture Books

  I Hate Fruit & Veg

  It’s fair to say I’m a busy author! If you want to keep up to date with my work why not join me on my author page - mattshawpublications

  The Lost Son

  M A T T S H A W

  1.

  The sun was shining high in the clear blue skies; a picturesque image ruined only by the faint sight of black barbecue smoke slowly filtering into the air from over on the decking where an assortment of food was starting to burn on the grill due to lack of attention. A lone wood pigeon called out from one of the many trees lining the back of Ian and Aimee’s country-side garden breaking the otherwise ghostly silence.

  Yet twenty five minutes earlier the scene had been different; Aimee had been sitting on a sun-lounger reading a book by her favourite author whilst pretending to listen to the random ramblings of her husband, Ian, as he kept close watch on the food he was cooking for them. Meanwhile their eight year old son, Josh, was playing on the lush green grass with his leather football, signed by the team he supported thanks to his dad’s winning bid during a recent charity evening he had attended. They had all been so busy, enjoying a relaxing Sunday afternoon, that they never heard the pigeon calling out, hidden amongst the trees’ vegetation, perhaps calling out to them - warning them of what was to come.

  Back to the present. A life-changing twenty-five minutes gone in the blink of an eye. The sight of blood next to the burst football on the road adjacent to the garden, still fresh, already attracting the unwanted attention of magpies. The smell of burning food and tragedy lingering in the warm summer’s air. A lone wood pigeon calling out from the many trees lining the back of Ian and Aimee’s country-side garden.

  Six months passed.

  Time, and the weather, eroded the stain upon the concrete but did nothing to dilute the pain of losing their only child. The time was eleven-thirty. Ian was laying on his bed wishing for sleep to take him away from the pain he couldn’t release. Even the heavy rain beating against the window, on the far side of the room, couldn’t lull him into sleep the way it used to when everything was normal...When his son was alive.

  He climbed from the bed quietly trying not to wake Aimee, unaware that she wasn’t even laying there. He crept through to the en-suite bathroom and closed the door behind him - only then, when he was sure he wouldn’t disturb Aimee, did he turn the light on. The sight of himself, in the mirror’s unkind reflection, startled him. He was starting to look old despite only being in his late thirties. The last six months had aged him more than he had realised. Probably the constant use of sleeping tablets he thought. He pulled open the medicine cabinet which was concealed behind the mirror. His wife’s anti-depressants stared at him. Ian hated the fact Aimee needed them. He wished he could take on the pain for both of them despite knowing, in reality, that he wouldn’t have been able to handle it.

  They said time is a great healer.

  They lied.

  He picked up Aimee’s small brown bottle of tablets and held it up for a closer look. Half empty. Before he had lost his son, Ian would have thought it was half-full. Those days were gone. Long gone. He wondered whether she would have missed one. She was adamant she needed to keep taking them. He wondered whether they really did offer her any support. More so, he wondered whether they’d offer him any. He put the pills back. He didn’t need them. He’d pull himself together without the need for medication. Besides, if he felt he really did need them - it’s not as though the counsellor they both saw hadn’t offered them to him – he would get his own. He picked up his own bottle, a small jar with sleeping pills inside. Just one to help him drift off. Just one. He pushed the child-proof lid down and twisted it off, throwing it onto the floor. He couldn’t help but think that the lid did nothing to help him move on from what had happened. It just reminded him of what they had lost. When he had picked the tablets up from the pharmacy, he had considered asking if they had one without that style of lid but he had realised he was just being stupid and had kept his opinions to himself. He tipped a pill into the palm of his hand, put the jar back on the shelf, and closed the mirrored door.

  ‘Definitely getting old,’ he thought. His once dark hair was tinged with flecks of grey. Even the stubble on his face was mostly grey now; one of the main reasons he didn’t let it grow into a beard the way he used to. He looked down at his hand, at the pills more precisely. They’re probably not helping.

  Aimee was taking the toll mentally. Physically she still looked as beautiful as she had on the day he married her, not that Ian would have blamed her had she let herself go a little. Her hair, although coloured, was still blonde; always in a style that suited her with a fringe over her bright green eyes. She never left the house without the subtle application of make-up and lip gloss. Ian knew why. She was trying to hide her pain. She didn’t want people seeing that, actually, she was struggling. Ian saw past the make-up though. He did his best to be her rock, the shoulder she needed to cry on, but it was as though something died in both of them, too, on that bleak day.

  Ian closed his eyes and necked the tablet. He swallowed hard and it went down in one. He opened his eyes and looked at himself in the reflection again. He sighed hard.

  The clock was still counting down the seconds and Ian knew it was getting closer and closer to when he had to get up. Coming to bed at half ten, he had hoped to drop off quite fast, as he had to get up early for work the following day. After an hour of just laying there, he knew the chances of an early night were done for. Ian found the nights the worst. At least his days were filled with work and a job that offered a multitude of welcome distractions. Aimee wasn’
t as fortunate. When Ian got the pay-rise and promotion at work he had told Aimee to quit her job. He thought he was being nice as it allowed her the time to stay at home and work on her paintings, maybe even sell a few more just as she had been lucky enough to do so before. A month later and their son was dead and Aimee was in an empty house wishing she still had a job to escape to. Ian’s nice thought went against him.

  He switched the light off, so as not to illuminate the bedroom, and opened the door. As he approached the bed, he realised it was empty.

  “Aimee?” he called out. There was no reply. “Honey?” He left the bedroom and walked down the hallway. She didn’t need to answer him for him to know where she was. He was used to this; waking up in the middle of the night, only to find an empty, cold space in the bed next to him. She’d be where she always was when she couldn’t sleep; their son’s old bedroom which had remained virtually unchanged since they had lost him.

  Several times Ian had broached the subject of changing the room around and turning it into something else but, each time, his ideas were met with hostility. Aimee even went as far as to accuse him of not caring for Josh because of his eagerness to do something to the room.

  He stopped in the open doorway to Josh’s old bedroom. Aimee was sat inside with her back to Ian, perched on the edge of Josh’s bed. She didn’t even know he was there.

  “Honey? You okay?”

  She didn’t answer. She just sat there clutching his pillow as she normally did, resting her head down upon it so she could breathe in the scent which still lingered on the pillowcase.

  “Aimee?”

  “I dreamt he was still alive. I dreamt everything was okay and that we were all so happy. When I woke up I believed in the dream for a while longer until I suddenly realised it was just that - a dream. None of it was real. He’s dead and he’s not coming back to us.”

  Ian crossed the room and sat next to Aimee on the bed. He put his arms around her. He didn’t have the words to comfort her. He didn’t have anything other than the warmth of his embrace and he knew, deep down, that it wasn’t enough. He understood the dream. He had them like that too. Cruel tricks of the imagination conning them into thinking all is well in their happy lives. Aimee barely registered Ian’s arm around her. It didn’t surprise him. Since that day, she barely registered when Ian was in the same room as her, let alone touching her.

  “We should move...” he said eventually. He half expected her to kick up a fuss but she didn’t say anything. She just held onto the pillow tighter. “...A fresh start. Staying here isn’t helping either of us. Perhaps move back to the city? Closer to friends and family?” Aimee didn’t reply. Instead she started to cry into the pillow. She loved the country, they both did, but there was no denying it didn’t fill them with as much peace as it used to. Not that it made any difference, Ian squeezed her tighter wishing she could feel him. “I do love you.” He wished she’d say the words back to him. Just once. He hadn’t heard her say the words for as long as he could remember. He didn’t ask her to say them. He didn’t feel as though he needed to. “So much...” he continued.

  He couldn’t help but smile, as he held her there, when he remembered how it used to be between them. He would say that he loved her and she’d always reply how she loved him more. He’d disagree and they’d have a playful little argument about who loved who the most. He realised he couldn’t wish his son back to life but wishing for her to say the words again - to have those playful exchanges again - was that too much to ask?

  * * * * *

  It wasn’t long before offers were being made on the house. People didn’t know about the accident in the road which caused the house to go on the market and, even if they had, they probably wouldn’t have been fazed. The house was in an ideal location; surrounded by lush country-side - perfect for those who sought peace and quiet - and yet not too far from the city if they did have to go to an office or do a shopping run.

  Four spacious double bedrooms, a private study, large kitchen with all the latest mod cons, a dining room separated from the lounge by glass double doors, a good-sized conservatory and, of course, the garden complete with decking. Aimee and Ian knew the house wouldn’t be on the market for very long. Someone would come along and fall in love with it just as they once had; a place to happily spend, what they thought was going to be, the rest of their lives away from the hustle and bustle of busy city-life.

  It had taken them even less time to find their new home too; a small three bedroom property in a quiet cul-de-sac in Hedge End, close to Southampton, even closer to some of their friends. Within two months of putting in an offer on the house, the removal vans were loaded up and heading for what they hoped would be a fresh start. Neither of them were foolish enough to believe this would be the answer to their grieving but, if it could help on any level, it’d be worth it.

  Aimee and Ian were standing by the removal van, watching one of the workers lock their possessions in by closing up the back. Everything packed away carefully in various sized cardboard boxes. Furniture wrapped in many layers of blankets and dust covers. Their lives condensed into two large lorries.

  “We’ll meet you there?” the worker asked as he lit up a cigarette after a job well done.

  Ian nodded, “We’ll be right behind you,” he said, “you have the address, right?”

  “Sure do,” the worker replied. He gave the miserable looking couple a wave and headed for the front of the lorry where the other removal men had congregated to enjoy their post-work fag break.

  Ian put his arm around Aimee, “You okay?” he asked her. He didn’t need an answer. He knew she’d be feeling sad because it was how he was feeling. Partly sad for leaving their home behind and yet a little bit excited about what the future might hold.

  Aimee turned back towards the house, “I’m not sure,” she said.

  Partly sad.

  Partly excited.

  “Can you give me a couple of minutes?” she asked Ian. “I know it sounds silly but...”

  “Want to say goodbye?”

  She laughed - more out of embarrassment than because of anything funny.

  “I’ll wait in the car,” he said. He gave her a peck on the forehead and gently pushed her away, “I’ve already said goodbye.”

  She gave him a smile and walked towards the house. So many memories overshadowed by the one bleak one which she hadn’t been able to shake until now - now it was time to go she could only remember the happy memories; Josh playing in the garden. Sliding down a long piece of wet tarpaulin, in the summer months, screaming with delight. He’d reach one end, jump up and run back to where the slide started - a hose spraying water on it to keep it wet and slippery enough. Head first, belly down, arms outstretched - he’d slide all the way down it again, happy to repeat the process time after time. The colder months were spent building snowmen. Noses made from various items depending on what was readily available at the time of the freeze - sometimes carrots, sometimes stones. Branches for arms. Leaves from the trees for hair - again depending on availability. Milder days spent with the football. Up and down he’d kick the ball until she’d call him in for breakfast, lunch, or dinner depending on the time. Sometimes with friends, if he had a sleepover, but mostly by himself - the house was too far for many of his friends to make it for a day visit. A broken rope hung from one of the large trees at the rear of the garden. She couldn’t help but smile when she remembered when the rope had broken. He had cried, her son, but it had still been funny to watch him drop to his bum in mid-swing. It wasn’t the pain that had caused him to cry - she wouldn’t have found that funny - it was the shock of the moment which did it. She could still picture his face when he had been in mid-air, after the snap, with a look of pure panic and confusion.. The look of fear in his eyes when Ian had offered to build him another rope swing. Traumatised for life. And these were just some of the memories that sprang to mind. Images of him sitting on the decking playing his handheld games console, reading books, magazines,
even enjoying sandwiches as an afternoon snack. Memories that, until now it was time to leave, had been lost thanks to a moment of tragedy.

  Aimee looked at the house. More memories in there too. A few arguments with Ian, mainly since the accident, a few tears from Josh whether they were brought on from silly temper tantrums, vivid dreams or the time when he caught his toe against a wall whilst running around. Pictures, in her head, of him playing with his many action figures in his bedroom, building dens out of furniture, pegs and blankets, making a fuss over not wanting to eat his vegetables, wanting to stay up past his bedtime to carry on watching television, asking for bedtime stories to be read.

  “I miss you,” she whispered under her breath. She blew a kiss towards the house and walked back to the car where Ian was waiting.

  “Done everything you needed to?” he asked.

  She nodded and climbed into the passenger seat, closing the door behind her. Ian climbed into the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut. Seconds later and the engine spat into life before the car slowly made its way down the stony driveway towards the country roads that would lead them to their new life. Towards their new life and away from the newly formed child’s hand-print which appeared on the glass of the bedroom window overlooking the driveway.