Read Online My Husband's Son: A dark and gripping psychological thriller by Deborah O'Connor - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Deborah O'Connor
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day.’ I squeezed it hard. ‘Please.’
She screwed up her eyes and leant forward, towards the skyline.
‘It really is quite odd. I keep looking and looking and still, I haven’t been able to spot a single tree.’
I released her hand back into her lap and got to my feet.
‘It’s getting late. Come on. I’ll walk you back to your car.’
Chapter Nine
I waved Mum off and continued down the hill to our front door. Inside, the house was dark. I was about to turn on the hall light when I heard the squeak of chair against floor tile.
‘Jason?’
‘Back here,’ he shouted. ‘In the kitchen.’
I made my way down the passage and found him sitting at the table.
‘Has there been a power cut?’
‘The electric’s fine.’ He got up, came round to where I stood and kissed me lightly on the mouth. Easing my bag off my shoulder, he unbuttoned my coat, slipped it away from my body and offered me a chair. I let myself sink down onto the wooden seat and sniffed. The central heating was on full and its warmth had mingled with something sweet and vaguely familiar. I took another sniff, deeper this time. The air was thick, syrupy almost.
Jason pulled up a chair opposite.
‘I know you like to mark today in your own way but this year I wanted to do something for you.’ He cleared his throat. ‘And for her, for Lauren.’
He twisted round and reached towards the sideboard. Holding whatever it was with both hands, he brought it forward and placed it on the table in front of me. I squinted in the gloom.
‘I had to order it special.’ There was the rasp of a lighter being struck. ‘It was tricky to track down, but then someone on the internet pointed me in the right direction.’ The lighter’s yellow flame bounced and once it had settled he held it next to a pink birthday candle. As the wick caught and flared, a weak disc of light spread out onto the table below. I looked down and saw that the candle was wedged into the middle of a small, triangular biscuit. The biscuit was golden brown and decorated with tiny strips of orange peel and granules of sugar that twinkled in the light.
I recognised it immediately.
‘Infar-cake.’
Jason smiled and reached for my hand.
‘Dreaming bread,’ he said quietly.
I moved my face in close to the plate and breathed deep. I’d come across infar-cake only once before, on holiday on the Isle of Mull. Its salty-sweet tang was unique. I broke away a corner of biscuit and placed it in my mouth. Rolling the crumbs around on my tongue, I felt the sharp granules of sugar soften and dissolve.
‘Is it OK?’ asked Jason. ‘I spoke to the lady on the phone. She told me this was the right type.’
I squeezed his hand.
‘It’s perfect.’
Lauren and I had gone to Mull with Mum and Dad when Lauren was three. Dad had always wanted to go and so one week in May we’d rented a cottage and set off for the Hebrides. A few days in, I’d suggested Lauren and I explore the rock pools on a nearby beach. We’d had a great morning looking at the tiny fish and crabs that populated each enclave of water and had got so into it that we’d walked from one end of the beach to the other. By then it was lunchtime and so, instead of returning to the cottage, I’d led us into a village in search of a café. We soon discovered that the village contained nothing but a few fishermen’s houses and a small shop that sold basic groceries. We were both starving and so, instead of trekking all the way back to the cottage, I’d decided to improvise.
Inside the shop I grabbed some bread, cheese and crisps and as I waited to pay I noticed a plate of what looked like flat triangles of some kind of bread for sale on the counter next to the till. They resembled a more solid version of an Irish potato farl. The shopkeeper noted my curiosity and explained that it was homemade infar-cake, a kind of shortbread, and that it was a local specialty. I added two of the odd-looking biscuits to my basket, and while
She screwed up her eyes and leant forward, towards the skyline.
‘It really is quite odd. I keep looking and looking and still, I haven’t been able to spot a single tree.’
I released her hand back into her lap and got to my feet.
‘It’s getting late. Come on. I’ll walk you back to your car.’
Chapter Nine
I waved Mum off and continued down the hill to our front door. Inside, the house was dark. I was about to turn on the hall light when I heard the squeak of chair against floor tile.
‘Jason?’
‘Back here,’ he shouted. ‘In the kitchen.’
I made my way down the passage and found him sitting at the table.
‘Has there been a power cut?’
‘The electric’s fine.’ He got up, came round to where I stood and kissed me lightly on the mouth. Easing my bag off my shoulder, he unbuttoned my coat, slipped it away from my body and offered me a chair. I let myself sink down onto the wooden seat and sniffed. The central heating was on full and its warmth had mingled with something sweet and vaguely familiar. I took another sniff, deeper this time. The air was thick, syrupy almost.
Jason pulled up a chair opposite.
‘I know you like to mark today in your own way but this year I wanted to do something for you.’ He cleared his throat. ‘And for her, for Lauren.’
He twisted round and reached towards the sideboard. Holding whatever it was with both hands, he brought it forward and placed it on the table in front of me. I squinted in the gloom.
‘I had to order it special.’ There was the rasp of a lighter being struck. ‘It was tricky to track down, but then someone on the internet pointed me in the right direction.’ The lighter’s yellow flame bounced and once it had settled he held it next to a pink birthday candle. As the wick caught and flared, a weak disc of light spread out onto the table below. I looked down and saw that the candle was wedged into the middle of a small, triangular biscuit. The biscuit was golden brown and decorated with tiny strips of orange peel and granules of sugar that twinkled in the light.
I recognised it immediately.
‘Infar-cake.’
Jason smiled and reached for my hand.
‘Dreaming bread,’ he said quietly.
I moved my face in close to the plate and breathed deep. I’d come across infar-cake only once before, on holiday on the Isle of Mull. Its salty-sweet tang was unique. I broke away a corner of biscuit and placed it in my mouth. Rolling the crumbs around on my tongue, I felt the sharp granules of sugar soften and dissolve.
‘Is it OK?’ asked Jason. ‘I spoke to the lady on the phone. She told me this was the right type.’
I squeezed his hand.
‘It’s perfect.’
Lauren and I had gone to Mull with Mum and Dad when Lauren was three. Dad had always wanted to go and so one week in May we’d rented a cottage and set off for the Hebrides. A few days in, I’d suggested Lauren and I explore the rock pools on a nearby beach. We’d had a great morning looking at the tiny fish and crabs that populated each enclave of water and had got so into it that we’d walked from one end of the beach to the other. By then it was lunchtime and so, instead of returning to the cottage, I’d led us into a village in search of a café. We soon discovered that the village contained nothing but a few fishermen’s houses and a small shop that sold basic groceries. We were both starving and so, instead of trekking all the way back to the cottage, I’d decided to improvise.
Inside the shop I grabbed some bread, cheese and crisps and as I waited to pay I noticed a plate of what looked like flat triangles of some kind of bread for sale on the counter next to the till. They resembled a more solid version of an Irish potato farl. The shopkeeper noted my curiosity and explained that it was homemade infar-cake, a kind of shortbread, and that it was a local specialty. I added two of the odd-looking biscuits to my basket, and while