Surrogate – a psychological thriller Read Online Free PDF Page A

something grander. I explained that Dad's lawyer made sure Mum got as little as possible after the divorce. By putting all her cards on the table and confessing her adultery, she thought she was being grown up and honest. Instead, Dad had punished her. He had even made sure he got custody of me, her only child, claiming drink made her an unfit mother. The truth was that she had never really drunk until her son was taken away from her. I remember my acute embarrassment when she would unexpectedly appear at school chapel on Sundays. Of course, she had been desperate to see me.
    We walked down the garden path, pressed the bell and waited. Privately I sent a prayer that Mum would be in a fit state to see us. But sure enough, she answered the door unsteadily, her head bobbling from side to side. It was just after midday and she was pissed. "Mum, this is Mole; Mole, Mum," I said, stepping across the threshold.
    We exchanged greetings, and Mole presented a little posy of flowers she had bought on the way down. Mum looked Mole up and down for a moment and then turned away, shuffling towards the kitchen sink. Mole and I exchanged a look. She had heard my teenage stories about having to hide the vodka bottles; one night I had got so desperate that I had thrown all the booze in the house into the dustbin.
    Not that it helped. It was difficult to believe that Mum had been an alluring flight attendant when she met Dad. She had served him on a flight to the Middle East and had gone out with him during the stopover. In a moment of clarity once, Mum admitted that she had let herself go. A girlfriend from her stewardessing days had come to stay and bluntly told her the truth, which had left her shaken. "And your mother never met anybody else?" Mole asked. I shook my head.
    We went through into the sitting room, and Mum asked what we wanted to drink. Mole said she would have a tonic water, and I nodded that I would have the same. We made small talk, and I explained how we had met. The conversation proceeded in fits and starts, and it never seemed to get going. Every time Mole lobbed the conversational ball towards Mum, it would roll to a stop at her feet. She lit another cigarette and tapped ash into an overflowing cut-glass ashtray resting on the wing of her armchair.
    Eventually Mum asked, "So, how's your father?"
    "His kidney problems don't appear to be getting any better. He seems to spend more and more time hooked up to that dialysis machine."
    "Is he still with that Russian bitch?"
    "Mum, Eliska is Czech, she's not Russian. And they've been married for nearly ten years. The way you talk, it's as if it happened only yesterday."
    As I said, Eliska was my father's second wife, a grave woman in her thirties who always seemed to be dressed in black. Dracula's wife, I called her. When I was a kid, I used to stay up late watching old horror movies on TV. On one occasion, I must have fallen asleep, because all I remember was Dracula swooshing down candlelit corridors and his ethereal brides materialising out of the fog. At first I thought Eliska was another of Dad's girlfriends, women tottering around overpriced boutiques in high heels. Eliska, though, stuck around. I noticed her look of peasant cunning when she visited Sundials for the first time.
    "This must be a beautiful view in the summer," said Mole, interrupting my thoughts. She stood up and walked over to the picture window. The clouds were sagging with the inevitable rain. Mum asked Mole about her parents, and she told them about the fatal car crash. A passer-by had seen the car swerve on the country road and go straight into a tree. The inquest blamed mechanical failure in the car, she said.
    We had lunch, and I kept furtively checking my work emails. As I expected, the whole afternoon had been a waste of time, and I wanted to get back to London. I sensed that it was a strain for Mum too. All she wanted to do was carry on drinking and ruminate bitterly on the past. It was so desperately