The Stepson: A psychological thriller with a twist you won't see coming(9)

Out of badness – and she was impressed with herself for managing this – Maggie turned the stilted conversation from the weather to the formation of the universe. ‘What do you reckon to the oscillating model?’

Yvonne stared at her. ‘The what?’

‘The oscillating model of the universe? A whole load of big bangs alternating with big crunch thingmies? I’d rather believe that was what happened than just one big bang. If there was just the one, what was there before it, eh?’ And she shoved a big piece of scone in her gob and muttered through it: ‘Blows your mind.’

Yvonne’s mouth had actually dropped open at that point.

‘Some of the evidence is against it, though, according to this programme on BBC Two last week. I try to make the time to keep myself informed about the big questions, you know? If you don’t watch yourself, it’s easy to get bogged down in the mundane wee things, washing socks and going to the supermarket and doing the books for the business, and forget there’s a whole other higher plane out there where folk are pondering the big stuff, how life evolved, how the universe came to be – pure dead amazing, eh? I always think it’s a shame that so many people go through life never knowing that that higher plane even exists.’ She’d bit into her scone again and chewed for a few seconds, enjoying the look of pure hatred on Yvonne’s sour face. ‘Aye, I try to take advantage, when I can, of the brilliant resources out there now for the lay person to educate themself.’ She’d slapped more butter onto her scone. ‘BBC Two at eight o’clock on a Tuesday, if you’re interested. But maybe you’ve not even got a telly?’ And Maggie had favoured Yvonne with a look of pure pity.

Now, she hardly even glanced at the bitch.

‘Wait, wait, wait!’ Duncan shouted from behind, and here he was, sweeping her up in his arms and pretending to stagger under the weight of her – even thirty-six weeks pregnant, Maggie was only seven and a half stones – and carrying her over the threshold, and Maggie was yelping and laughing as he pretended to drop her, while poor Nick tramped along behind, humphing their cases like a porter.

Nick was a good lad, and she felt bad for him, losing his ma and now having to cope with his da’s new woman, and out of respect for that she’d hardly ever visited Sunnyside. She and Duncan had mostly spent time together in Langholm, in the coffee shop or the flat. According to Duncan, Nick was ‘coping remarkably well’ with Kathleen’s death and had no problem with Duncan’s new relationship, but Maggie wasn’t buying that. There was bound to be resentment in the boy, no matter how much nicely-brought-up middle-class politeness he layered on top of it.

Even now, when he must be dying inside, as he came into the hall after them and set down the cases with a thump, he gave her a wee smile and muttered, ‘Welcome to Sunnyside, Maggie. How are you feeling after the journey?’

‘Oh, thanks, Nick! It’s really good to be here. I am a little tired.’ She’d noticed that, when she spoke to Nick, she subconsciously took the edges off her Paisley accent and tried to speak ‘proper’. Her telephone voice, as Duncan called it. It was as if she was trying to prove to the boy that she was a worthy successor to Kathleen.

Who was she kidding?

Not, she was sure, Nick Clyde.

‘How about a nap, while I rustle up something for dinner?’ Duncan suggested, heading for the cases. ‘I’ll take these up, but we can unpack later.’

‘I’ll do it.’ Nick hefted the cases. ‘Not an entirely altruistic move. The sooner you get in that kitchen, the sooner my stomach will realise that no, it’s okay, my throat hasn’t been cut.’

‘What a lovely analogy.’ Duncan grinned, giving the boy another half hug as Nick went past him to the stairs.

This was where Kathleen had died. She’d fallen, the forensics folk had decided, from the landing onto the hard Victorian tiles and been killed instantly. Maggie couldn’t help looking down at those tiles and wondering where, exactly . . .

Poor Nick. Poor lad, having to walk here every day and remember what had happened, what he’d seen.

Maggie put the image out her mind and began the trek up the stairs. She’d only been upstairs in Sunnyside three or four times, most lately on a Saturday a couple of weeks before the wedding, when she and Duncan had redecorated the bedroom that was to be the nursery and arranged the new furniture in it.

She opened the nursery door and stepped inside.

‘Your room,’ she whispered, stroking her belly.

Leaf-green walls and a Winnie the Pooh frieze. A white cot and chest of drawers and changing table. An antique trunk for all the toys. Shelves already filling up with a collection of soft animals. A thick, firm-piled alphabet rug.

The familiar feelings of excitement and panic filled her.

She was going to be someone’s ma.

She’d never thought she would be. How could wee Maggie McPhee give a kid what they needed? How could she keep them safe?

Someone was there. Behind her. She swung round, her heart, for no reason, hammering. The baby moved, as if to go, Steady, Ma!

It was just Nick, standing in the doorway.

Poor wee bastard.

She wanted to tell him that she would never try to take his ma’s place, even if she could. But all she said was, ‘Hi, Nick.’

‘Dad’s room is next door. But maybe you know that.’