Hide and Seek

by Sarah Turner

AS SOON AS CATHY SAW Luke, she wanted to destroy whoever had hurt him. He was walking slowly, holding an arm across his stomach, and his movements were stiff; he was clearly in pain. She got out of the car, hugged him, then looked at him carefully under the flickering streetlight, noticing the cuts on his mouth and the swelling around his eyes and nose. As she drove, he told her the details: a stranger had attacked him outside a nightclub as he’d walked home from his friend’s house. He didn’t know why. Perhaps he’d thought he was someone else. He said all this quickly, in brief bursts of speech, as though it was a relief just to talk to her. When she asked for a description, he told her that the man was tall, white and older than him—about thirty, probably—with short brown hair. 

‘We should call the police,’ she said, but he turned to her, alarmed. 

‘We can’t. Please, Mum, don’t. I hit him back.’ She nodded without answering. Tentatively, he said that the man’s mouth had bled. He might have broken his tooth. Something dark and unfamiliar in her hoped that he had.

She took Luke home, cleaned his cuts, and made him pancakes, holding her phone in one hand, reading a list of concussion symptoms she’d found online. 

‘Headache?’ she asked him. ‘Dizziness? Nausea?’ The tight band of anxiety across herchest that had locked into place when he’d first called loosened slightly each time he shook his head. After he’d eaten, he slept, but she lay awake for the rest of the night. Luke was still only seventeen. When she closed her eyes, she saw him trapped, being attacked by a stranger. As soon as it was light, she got up and made coffee, but the image kept coming back to her, no matter how hard she tried to clear it from her mind. She felt an urgent need to do something—anything—but her mind span away before she could settle on what. She dressed and drove back to the town. 

She didn’t have a plan. It just felt better to be moving, and Luke had seemed so exhausted, she thought he’d sleep into the afternoon. She left the car in a side street and walked towards the nightclub. She was exhausted, and jittery with it, and anger was pulsing through her steadily in waves, filling her with an unsteady energy, which pushed her to walk even faster. What she was doing was pointless. She kept telling herself to go home, but she had an overwhelming need to keep going. She would demand to see the manager. She’d insist on viewing the CCTV footage. She was focused and determined, ready to argue, but the big doors were locked, and she couldn’t even see inside. The energy ebbed from her quickly as she stood there. Hot, defeated tears pushed into her eyes. A pigeon walked between broken glass and discarded food wrappers, forlornly pecking the edge of a flagstone. 

Luke was still sleeping when she got home. His face looked worse. She stood by the kitchen window, trying to stop thinking about the bruises underneath his eyes and wondering whether the man might look for him again. The town was small. It would be hard to stay hidden. She thought of him taking his first steps at 13 months, stumbling towards her with his arms outstretched, and then of him last night, walking in that broken way towards her car, and felt overwhelmed by the brutality of the world she’d brought him into. She cleaned the flat with a hard, angry sadness, trying to keep her mind focused, but feeling it swing back constantly to the image she had formed, and couldn’t now delete, of her son cornered against a wall. 

When Luke woke, he looked a little better. The cut on his head was beginning to heal, but his mouth was still swollen, and his nose was bulkier than it had been before. The bruises made him look older. She wrapped ice in a tea towel and he held it on his nose until it melted down his face. She brought him food, and when he was settled in the armchair in front of the fire, she asked if he’d seen the man before. 

He hesitated. ‘I think he works in the supermarket opposite school.’

‘We should definitely call the police if you know who he is.’ He didn’t answer. ‘You’re allowed to defend yourself,’ she said.

He met her eyes slowly. ‘I’d rather just leave it.’

He stayed with her that evening, but on Sunday afternoon he wanted to go out and meet a friend. 

‘Stay away from the town centre,’ she said. ‘Call me if you start to feel worried.’ His eyes seemed to empty, but he nodded, blankly. 

After he’d gone, she drove to the little supermarket opposite the school, but saw no one who matched the description. She took some bread to the counter anyway. There was a little queue of people buying lottery tickets, cigarettes and vapes, and the woman behind the till put out a call for assistance. A male staff member came over. She was sure it was him straightaway. His lip was swollen. As he scanned her bread, she noticed a cut on his knuckles.

‘Anything else?’

She shook her head, fighting the impulse to accuse him loudly in front of his colleague. There must be something better she could do. As she approached the automatic door and it swept open, blowing cold air into her face, she looked back and saw him laughing with the next customer. His teeth were intact. She thought straight away that that would make Luke safer.  

She almost told Luke about the man’s teeth when he came home, but saw how intrusive it might seem to him that she’d gone there at all. She hugged him instead, scanning his face, trying to convince herself that he was looking better. He had a university interview in a few days’ time, but there was still bruising underneath both eyes and she was certain it would affect his chances. She thought about the years she’d struggled after leaving school pregnant, and about how badly she’d wanted a better life for Luke. He’d been so close to success. It shocked her to think that after all her sacrifices and Luke’s long hours of focused hard work, this man could appear from nowhere and ruin it all.

She drove Luke to school the next morning, then parked and walked past the supermarket. The man was stacking a shelf near the door. A cluster of schoolboys jostled him as they pushed past. She saw his face twist as he mouthed something at them. Her pulse sped up, but they went on, without noticing. 

That afternoon, she went back twice. The man was leaving as she approached the second time, pulling on a jacket. On the street, he pushed his hands deep into his pockets, lowering his head against the drizzle. She followed him to a bus stop and waited beside him. Standing that close, she was overwhelmed by the full force of her hatred for him. It was so strong she was surprised he couldn’t feel it too. She wanted to rush at him; she wrapped her arms round her stomach, physically holding herself back. When the bus came, she got on too. She sat behind him and got off at his stop. 

He glanced at her as they left the bus, but her hood was up and his eyes passed over her. She wanted to round on him and shout the insults that had been smouldering inside her since she’d seen Luke’s face that night, but she pressed her mouth shut. She crossed the road instead and followed him home, walking slowly past his door as he fumbled for his keys. She walked back a moment later and saw light from a bare bulb spilling out across his doorstep. She thought about ringing his bell and unleashing a torrent of words at him, but knew it wouldn’t satisfy her. She could throw a brick through his window, but he’d never know why. Reluctantly, she turned away from the house.

She went back several times over the next few days, when she was so preoccupied by the man that she couldn’t focus on anything else. The first time she saw no one, but on her next visit, she heard shouting from inside, then a door slamming and a child crying loudly. A woman came out, walking fast, with a young boy following her. Cathy started to worry about their safety. She wondered whether the man was the boy’s father, and whether she should tell his mother how violent he’d been. But the next time she went there, she saw them all walking in the street together, the woman leaning against the man, with her head on his shoulder, and saw that there was no point. She could still tell her. She could explain to her in detail how he’d assaulted a schoolboy. She could show her photos of Luke’s injuries. But she wouldn’t believe that it had been him. Cathy could tell from the look in her eyes when she smiled at the man.

Luke seemed subdued and less confident, but his university interview was online, it turned out, and the bruising had faded so much it was reasonable to think that the interviewer might not notice. She felt sad much of the time, even so. They had moved into a new phase of life, where she couldn’t protect him. She woke in the night and thought of the man. She imagined screaming into his face. She could almost feel the relief it would give her.

She went back to his house on Saturday morning and watched until he came out, holding the hand of the child, who had to walk quickly to keep up with him. She followed them slowly, consumed with a blind, searing anger and an urgent need to get justice for Luke. The man needed to suffer. He had to understand what he’d done.

In the playground, the man sat on the back of a bench with his boots on its seat, absorbed in his phone. There were several other people there. Near the climbing frame, two women stood talking, looking up at their children. The boy was by the slide, alone. Cathy pushed the bright yellow gate open and approached him. She smiled, and watched him smile back. 

‘Look,’ she said. She pointed at the rubbery ground, where a few pebbles had been piled. ‘Someone made a statue.’ 

He nodded seriously. ‘Sta-choo.’ When she moved slightly to the left, she was hidden by the slide. The man glanced up, and back at his phone. The boy squatted by the railings now, scratching in the soil with a stick, but maintaining eye contact with her solemnly. When she smiled at him again, he got up and came closer. 

‘Stick,’ he said, holding it up for her to inspect. 

The man was leaning forward now, still looking down at his phone. 

‘What’s your name?’ she asked the boy.

‘Jack.’

‘That’s nice. How old are you?’

He closed his eyes, pushed the word out carefully – ‘Four’ – and smiled again. He was older than she’d thought. He was small for his age and his speech was unclear, and there was something so sad about his manner that she wanted to go to the man, rip his phone from his hand, and tell him to his face that he was a self-centred bully who was neglecting his son. 

‘Wow,’ she said instead. ‘That’s so grown up!’ He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and smiled at her shyly. ‘What’s your favourite game?’ she asked. He shook his head, shrugging, with a faint, restrained smile. She thought for a moment. 

‘My son liked trains.’

‘Thomas,’ he said softly.

‘And Gordon.’

He smiled more openly now, looking up at her face, as though he wanted her to say more. 

She thought about Luke as he’d been at this age – the weight of him in her arms, the softness of his face against hers. Jack moved to the swings now and stood behind one alone, pushing it half-heartedly, looking at a man who was laughing with his daughter. She thought of all the conversations she’d had with Luke when he was little, all the games they’d played, all the books she’d read to him, and the unfairness of it stunned her. She thought of going to the man and telling him he should talk to his son more, listen to him, play with him. If she could do that, he could, she’d say. She’d brought her own son up alone in a tiny flat. The only things that really mattered were time and love. She would tell him archly that he should help Jack manage his feelings, so he didn’t turn into the kind of man who might punch a stranger. But the anger burned in her chest again, and she saw that she couldn’t even control her own emotions, let alone help this man. She couldn’t hurt him either, not in any way that would satisfy her. Frustration seethed in her, but there was nothing she could do. 

She walked away. Then she stopped and went back. Jack would do much better with attention. Even if she just had a few days with him, she was certain she could improve his speech. He brightened when he saw her. 

‘Let’s play a game,’ she said. ‘Let’s play hide and seek.’ 

He followed her happily. She opened the yellow gate to let him through, walking slightly behind him. She could keep an eye on him from a distance. If anyone approached, she could quickly walk away. She promised herself that she wouldn’t keep him long. Just a couple of hours, probably, long enough to know that the man would be suffering. His partner would blame him. It would destroy their relationship. 

They set off across the grass towards the nearby trees. The man still hadn’t moved. She held a branch back so Jack could easily get through, and as she let it snap back into place and they were hidden, she knew that she’d done it. There was a strong smell of pine. She breathed the sharp sweetness of it in, feeling a shiver of triumph and noticing, with a strangely detached interest, how the anger had unleashed someone quite different in her, who was capable of behaving in ways that surprised her. 

‘You hide first,’ she said to Jack. He crouched down behind a tree, laughing, with his hands over his mouth and his eyes on hers and she watched, half-amused, barely thinking about what might happen next, but flooded with a deep, overwhelming sense of relief at having finally got the justice she’d needed.

oOo

Sarah Turner’s short stories have been published by journals including: J Journal, The Sonora Review, Fictive Dream, Shooter Literary Magazine, Litro and The London Magazine and in 2023, she was shortlisted for the Bridport Prize Short Story Award.

Some of her published work can be read at www.scturnerfiction.com and she is on BlueSky @scturnerfiction.bsky.social.