He keeps thinking about Maddy in her hospital bed. He asked Debbie to get her friend to send him a picture. ‘Why would you want to see that?’ Debbie asked over text. ‘I need to,’ was the best he could do.
The shock of her bandaged head and the tube coming out of her mouth had stolen the air from his lungs. There was no real way to tell it was his sister in the bed but he knew it was. In his van only minutes ago he had dropped his head and closed his eyes. Please let her survive this.
Now he pushes his shoulders back and strides up to the counter. He’s done his time and he’s trying to help. And no one saw his one last sad desperate act. No one saw it and no one knows about it and he’s not going to let that prevent him from getting someone help.
The policewoman is dressed in a uniform with a tactical vest and a gun at her side. Logan is sure that without the air conditioning she would be sweating buckets. It’s a lot of weight to have to carry, and the short, blonde-haired policewoman doesn’t look like she weighs much.
‘Can I help you?’ she asks, her face neutral as her eyes dart up and down assessing him, his size and the coloured edges of his tattoos peeking out of his sleeves at his wrists, the words on his hands, the words on his face. He watches her lips move slightly as she reads the tiny letters under one cheekbone that spell out: I refuse to sink.
He imagines she think he’s lost.
‘Um yeah… it’s kind of strange… I’m not really sure how to explain it.’
The policewoman’s hand goes to her side, rests on her gun. ‘Start at the beginning?’ she suggests.
‘Okay, so I’m a delivery driver with Pack and Go, as you can see,’ begins Logan, pointing to the logo on his shirt, where a smiling box is circled with a clock, hoping that it gives him a reasonable amount of legitimacy, ‘and I went to a house this morning at around seven thirty to drop off a computer but the woman wouldn’t open the door. She needed to sign for the package but she wouldn’t open the door…’
‘Don’t you have procedures for that sort of thing?’ the woman asks and Logan can see her stifle a yawn. Right now, he’s the most interesting thing she’s seen all day and she’s already bored with what he has to say. He’s not used to being dismissed so easily.
‘No,’ he attempts to keep his frustration in check, ‘I’m worried that there is something going on in her house, something that’s stopping her from opening the door. I think she’s in trouble. Her name is Katherine West.’ Logan feels his shoulders relax a little. He’s told someone who can actually do something about it now.
‘I went back to try and deliver the parcel again and a kid said something about a real gun through the door, and then the kid said, “Ow,” and some guy told me to go away.’ Logan feels his certainty wither as he speaks. He sounds like he’s a bit mad.
‘Is it usual for delivery drivers to return a second time to try and deliver a parcel? Don’t you just leave a note and drop it at the post office?’
‘Yeah, we do usually, but I feel like something is going on at that house.’
‘Sorry, what did you say your name was?’
‘I didn’t. What difference does it make?’ Logan’s stomach turns over just once – this is not good.
‘What is your name?’ the policewoman asks very slowly and clearly, making sure he understands the question, a small smile playing on her lips.
Logan considers lying but she could just call the company. She knows where he works now and Mack only has ten drivers. He also thinks about just telling her to forget it but he’s piqued her interest now. He’s done a very, very stupid thing by coming in here.
‘Logan Clarkson,’ he says softly, ‘but I have no idea why that matters. I can give you the address of the woman’s house and you can send a car to check it out. All I wanted to do was tell you that I’m concerned about her.’
‘And how long have you known Ms West?’ she asks, her fingers tapping on her keyboard.
Logan feels his hands form into fists. He knows exactly what’s going on here.
‘I don’t know the woman. I am a delivery driver. I tried to make a delivery and she wouldn’t open the door and I found that strange. I’m concerned for her welfare.’
‘Is Katherine related to you in any way?’ Her tone is flat, her voice devoid of interest or emotion. But he knows she’s asking the questions this way so that he will slip up and give her an answer he doesn’t mean to give her.
‘Look… no… no, I told you, I’m just doing my deliveries.’ He struggles to keep his frustration out of his voice. ‘I don’t know anything about her. She’s got nothing to do with me.’
The policewoman throws him a look and then reads her computer screen, her lips moving as she does so. She looks up at him. Her hand goes back to the gun at her side. There is a small twitch right next to her eye. He can tell she’s a little – just a little – unsure now and worried about what he may do. He’s big enough to leap over her nice white counter.
‘Well, we will certainly send a car, Mr Clarkson. Am I correct in saying that you have served three years in prison for break and enter and assault?’
Logan knows that she’s stopped listening to him about anything at all. She is more concerned about his record. His past is not going to let go.
‘Yes,’ he replies, polite and careful. He knows that even the smallest misstep could land him back in jail.
‘We’ve had a few break-ins in the houses around this area over the last few months. You may be right to be concerned.’ She gives him a half-smile and even though he is a lot bigger than she is, his skin pricks with fear. He is a mouse to her cat and one wrong word will allow her to catch a hold of him.
‘Okay, and the address of the house you tried to get into is…?’
Logan registers the words; registers the way she has phrased her question. ‘I didn’t try and get into it. I just wanted her to sign for a parcel.’
‘And the address was?’
‘It’s um…’ Logan swallows. The policewoman’s face is making him nervous. ‘It’s twenty-four Hogarth, no sorry Holborn, twenty-four or twenty-six…’ He shakes his head. He’s been to the house twice today. How could he possibly have forgotten the address?
‘It’s on my phone, but I…’ He searches in his pockets. He has left his phone in the van.
‘I understand,’ says the policewoman, a hard edge to her voice. ‘Perhaps you can wait here while I go and get a detective. You can explain it to him. And then we can go and get your phone together. Please don’t move, Mr Clarkson. I’ll be back in a minute.’
‘Fine,’ says Logan.
The policewoman turns and walks to the back of reception, where there is a door. She opens it and looks around, perhaps hoping to catch someone’s attention. She looks back at him quickly and then she steps into the back area, leaving him alone at the front.
Logan feels himself starting to sweat in the frigid space. He’s going to get hauled back there and then things are only going to go one way after that. He won’t be able to control his temper, he knows he won’t. He was just trying to do the right thing. And they may know something.
He shouldn’t be here. He should be waiting at the airport, hoping to get on an earlier plane so he can be with his sister. This woman has nothing to do with him and he bears no responsibility for what is happening in that house. He bounces on the balls of his feet, desperate to run. He takes a deep breath, hoping to calm himself, but his heart rate speeds up and he can’t stop himself from turning around and bolting out of the police station, down the concrete stairs and across the road to where he has parked his van. His body moves without him forming a plan. He knows he needs to run.
‘Mr Clarkson,’ he hears as he climbs into his van. He starts the engine and drives off before he’s even put his seat belt on, panic making his hands shake.
Debbie was right. He should have just left it alone.
‘You’re such an idiot!’ he shouts as he slams his hand on the steering wheel. When he feels he’s put enoug
h space between him and the police station, he pulls into a side road and, sitting in his seat, he rips open the long-sleeved shirt he is wearing, ignoring the buttons that go flying, hitting the floor and the window with light cracking sounds. He takes it off and throws it on the floor and pulls a T-shirt he keeps in the van over his head. His tattoos are clearly on display. It doesn’t matter anyway. It doesn’t matter how hard he’s trying to live a good life, how tightly he is clinging to the straight and narrow, or who he fundamentally is. He will always be a man with a criminal past first, last and every time.
He’s going to get on with the rest of his day, and when they come for him, he’ll lie like the criminal he is and say that he actually made a mistake and tried to deliver to the wrong house or some other rubbish. He hopes they send a car and knock on doors in the neighbourhood. It was Hogarth Street, he’s sure. They’ll probably go and check. They’ll find the house. He’s sure they will. They have her name as well. It will only take minutes to figure out the right address, although they may question why he gave them the wrong one.
‘Enough,’ he rebukes himself. ‘Enough, enough, enough.’
He is done being concerned about the woman. Debbie is right. It’s really not his problem.
He only has a few deliveries left and then he’s done – done with everything that has happened today.
She has his name now. That was stupid, but all his record will show is that he’s done his time. His fingerprints are on file too. Would they dust for fingerprints if nothing was taken? Moved but not taken. He caught himself just in time. But was it just in time, or has he now alerted the police so they will take the time to check?
He can’t go back to prison. There’s just no way. A ball bounces into the street in front of his van and he registers it but doesn’t think, and only when a small child races onto the road does he slam on the brakes, the tyres screeching to a stop and filling the air with a burning rubber smell that comes in despite the air conditioning being on high.
‘Get a grip, Logan!’ he shouts as a panicked mother darts into the street to retrieve the child and the ball, waving her apologies as she does. It could have gone another way. He’s not concentrating. Life changes in a split second. He doesn’t have the luxury of split seconds anymore.
18
Gladys
Gladys turns out the chocolate chip muffins, inhaling the sweet, dark smell of the cocoa and melted chocolate chips. She gently breaks off a corner piece, burning her fingers a little, and blows on it. When she feels it’s cool enough, she pops it into her mouth. It’s delicious, just the right amount of moist and chewy but with a little bit of crust around the edges. Chocolate muffins are one of her specialities.
She puts one of the muffins on a plate to give to Lou for his tea and keeps the broken one for herself. The rest she arranges on a green plate with a pretty white doily underneath. No matter what Katherine is going through, there’s no way she’ll refuse a plate of muffins. Gladys admires her work, loving the way the colours work together.
‘Just dropping these muffins off at Katherine’s,’ she calls to Lou.
She opens her kitchen back door before he has a chance to answer and walks out of the house and around the side to the front gate. The heat is a thick blanket, settling over her shoulders, as the cicadas scream. She immediately begins to perspire but she walks quickly, hoping that Katherine will invite her in.
At Katherine’s front door she rings the bell and takes a deep breath. She will just leave the muffins if they won’t let her in, but she’s sure this time the door will be opened.
She waits for a few minutes and, when nothing happens, she rings the bell again and then she calls through the door, ‘Yoo-hoo, just dropping off some of my famous chocolate chip muffins.’
Feeling somewhat silly, she steps up to the timber front door and puts her ear to it. She can’t make out any sound but it is a very thick door. She steps back and waits again. Next to her the marigolds in their large pots are wilting in the heat. Poor things, she thinks. They need some water.
She decides she will press the bell just one more time and then, if no one comes, she will give up and leave the muffins at the side of the door. She shakes her head a little, annoyed that she has not thought to cover them. If she leaves them on the floor, the ants will get them, and already large flies are buzzing around her head. It’s probably too hot to leave them anyway. She will just have to take them home and try again later. She reminds herself that the muffins are a ruse to get Katherine to open the door. If she does, Gladys tries to think of questions that she could ask that would allow Katherine to tell her she needs help without actually telling her.
Do you need to see a doctor? I can call one for you, is the best she has come up with so far.
She presses the bell and waits another minute. Just as she’s about to give up, she hears the sound of the safety chain moving and the lock turning, and the door opens.
19
Things are starting to unravel in my head because I’m getting tired. Control is slipping away but I clutch the gun tighter. I will not let go. I take in great big lungfuls of the stifling air coming in from outside and try to calm myself. I try to remember the plan that I had this morning, the plan to make her listen and understand. That’s what I need her to do, listen, understand and then acknowledge her part in all of this. Then we can move forward from there. But I’m not sure what forward would look like. Who will we be after today, the two of us, the four of us?
‘Why?’ she asks me, utter confusion in her voice. ‘Why are you doing this?’ She is cradling her wrist as it puffs up and her eyes scrunch with the effort of fighting the pain she is in.
I shove the gun into the waistband of my pants and clap my hands together, then wipe them on my jeans, getting rid of the sweat. It’s easier if I don’t look at her. I don’t want to see her pain because I know it will sway me. Even a monster has some feelings.
‘On with the story of my father dying,’ I say, and I see George watching me. He is too little to conceal his facial expressions and so his thoughts are obvious. He thinks that the gun is less accessible because it’s in the waistband of my pants. I reach behind me and pull it out and his little shoulders slump. ‘I’m not stupid,’ I tell him.
‘I didn’t say you were,’ he says, with more anger creeping into his tone than I like.
I take a step forwards and crouch down right in front of him, so close he can feel my breath. ‘I can hurt you like I hurt her, like I hurt Sophie and that stupid toy. I can, you know,’ I say, my voice low.
He wrinkles his nose and sits back further on the sofa, pushing his body into the cushions to get away from me. I can’t help the small thrill of power I feel. My father would have benefitted from believing I feared him, rather than that I found him ridiculous. Perhaps all fathers like to be feared instead of loved.
‘Tell me why you didn’t call the police when your father died,’ she says quickly, forcing my attention away from George.
I stand up and go back to the window. I don’t like the heat but the air in here is starting to get a stale smell. In fact, it stinks.
‘I came home from school and he wasn’t on the sofa, where he usually was. There was an empty bottle of whisky on the coffee table along with at least seven empty bottles of beer, but I didn’t think much about that.’ I can still see the label on the bottle of whisky, slightly torn at the corner. It was a cheap brand, even I knew that. I was grateful he wasn’t there. I thought he had gotten himself so drunk that he’d stumbled off to bed and I looked forward to having control of the television and being alone for the night. I moved the bottles aside and put my feet up on the ugly fake wood coffee table, something he hated me doing. I kept my shoes on.
‘I thought he was sleeping, just sleeping,’ I say.
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she replies.
I shrug. ‘I could have checked on him, but I was so sick of his shit. I just left him to it and had myself a good night. I even opened o
ne of his precious beers and drank it while I ate my two-minute noodles.’
‘You couldn’t have known,’ she says.
‘Yeah, I don’t care what you have to say about it,’ I say mildly, and then I point the gun directly at her. ‘I think it would be best if you just shut up.’
She sags down and the children huddle closer to her.
‘Perhaps they can go and get something else to eat. It would be better if they didn’t hear this.’
‘Actually, it’s time they learned about the real world. This,’ I say, gesturing around the room with my gun, ‘is not the real world. This nice garden and the nice house and everything that goes with it isn’t the real world and they should know that. My childhood was the real world.’
‘Most children are not held hostage by someone who’s supposed to love them,’ she says, ‘by their—’
‘Just shut it,’ I say. If she understood anything at all about love, then I wouldn’t be doing this. I thought I understood love but it turns out that even when I think I understand it, I can’t have it. All I can have is heartbreak.
I wait in case she’s going to argue with me but she doesn’t. She’s hurt, that’s fine. I’ve been more hurt than any human being should be. Physical pain heals; it’s the mental shit that kills you.
‘I didn’t check on him the next morning. Just got up and went to school. It was only when I came home that afternoon that I thought something might be wrong. Do you want to know why I thought that?’
‘Why?’ she asks but she’s only asking to placate. I don’t think she really cares.
I laugh, a dry laugh. ‘Because there weren’t any more empty bottles on the coffee table. It was still the same ones from the day before, the same whisky bottle with the torn label and the same seven beer bottles. It was then that I thought to check on him and I went and opened his bedroom door and, man, the smell… well, I can tell you it was pretty bad. He’d lost control of himself in the moment he died.’
The Family Across the Street Page 13
