The Child Next Door: An unputdownable psychological thriller with a brilliant twist

by Shalini Boland

  ‘Hate to ask again,’ she says, ‘but could I borrow a teensy bit more for the taxi home?’

  ‘That’s okay,’ I say, ‘you can share a taxi with me.’

  ‘Thing is, that hot waiter has asked me to go clubbing with him.’ Mel nods in the direction of a fair-haired waiter, who looks about eighteen.

  ‘Are you serious?’ I ask.

  ‘I know, right. Looks like I’ve still got it, hon.’

  I shake my head and can’t help grinning at her. ‘Who’s babysitting?’

  ‘Jess Slater. She said not to worry if I’m late.’

  ‘Yeah, but she’s only just turned fifteen. Don’t be too late, Mel, it’s a school night.’ Jess is the middle one of three sisters who live next door to me at number three. Her stepdad, Stephen Parkfield, is the headmaster at St George’s, the school where I teach.

  ‘Jess’ll be fine,’ Mel insists.

  ‘Yeah, Jess’ll be fine, but you know what Lorna’s like. She won’t be happy if you rock up at 2 a.m.’ Lorna is Jess’s mum. She was in the year above us at school.

  ‘Miss hoity-toity I’m-married-to-the headmaster,’ Mel sneers.

  ‘She’s all right,’ I say, sticking up for her.

  ‘No she’s not,’ Mel says. ‘She’s a snobby cow. You know she is.’

  ‘I dunno, I think she’s just shy and a bit awkward.’ Lorna and her first husband split up when their daughters were young. It can’t have been easy for her with three young girls. She met Stephen Parkfield soon after, and they married almost straight away.

  ‘Wouldn’t hurt her to crack a smile every once in a while,’ Mel says.

  ‘Just try to get home by midnight.’ Even as I’m saying the words, I know there’s no chance Mel will be back by then.

  ‘You’re such a stresser,’ she says, squeezing my hand.

  ‘Honestly, Mel. I’m just looking out for you.’

  ‘I know you are, hon. I know.’

  I have to stop worrying about her. It’s her life, not mine.

  ‘So, can I borrow some extra cash, then?’ Mel asks again.

  ‘I’ve only got enough for my taxi home,’ I say. ‘I’ll have to go to the cashpoint.’

  ‘Thank yooou!’ She kisses my cheek and drags me to my feet. ‘Let’s pay the bill and go there now.’

  Eventually, we all say our goodbyes, promising to meet up again soon, and I slide into my taxi, leaving Mel at the bar while her hot waiter finishes his shift. I don’t know how she manages it, but men are always drawn to her. Trouble is, they never end up sticking around.

  The cab journey home is smooth and quick, the driver thankfully untalkative, my mind pleasantly vacant. I stifle a yawn as we pull into Magnolia Close and I point out my house. I’m looking forward to holding Daisy in my arms and giving her a feed. It feels as though I’ve been away for days.

  As I step out of the cab and close the door, I see the Parkfields’ curtains twitch. I bet it’s Lorna assuming Mel’s back too. She’ll probably be expecting Jess home any minute. I toy with the idea of knocking on her door, letting her know that Mel won’t be home until later, but instantly dismiss the thought – I don’t want to get involved in that drama.

  The taxi has gone, and I realise I’m still standing on the driveway. I give myself a shake. But as I begin walking down the path, I notice that something is off. I frown into the dark patch of garden that lies between the porch light and the streetlight. Suddenly, I realise what it is – the plants and flowers in one of the front borders have been flattened. I take a few steps closer and peer into the flower bed. It’s as though someone has stomped on all the poor plants, grinding the leaves and petals off their stalks so they’re now trampled into the dry earth. Did someone do this on purpose? Why would they do such a thing? Could it have been kids?

  But my questions fade as I hear a distant noise – a baby crying. Not just crying, but screaming. Daisy! She sounds hysterical. Bloody Dominic. What’s he doing? Why isn’t he comforting her? Or maybe he is trying to soothe her but she’s crying with hunger and it’s my fault for staying out too late.

  I run down the drive and along the path, fumble with my keys in the lock and stagger into the hallway. The lounge door is open and the TV is on. I see the back of Dom’s head. Why is he sitting in there, when Daisy is screaming her lungs out?

  ‘Dom!’ I march into the lounge.

  He opens his eyes. ‘Eh?’

  ‘Were you asleep?’ I snap, noting the open windows.

  ‘Yeah, must’ve nodded off.’

  ‘Your daughter is screaming her head off up there.’

  ‘What?’ He jumps to his feet and frowns. ‘No she’s not.’

  I tilt my head to listen. Sure enough, she’s quieted down. ‘Well, she was a second ago.’ I glare at him, stomp out of the room and race up the stairs, hoping to God she’s okay, wishing I had never gone out. I stride into our darkened bedroom and peer into the Moses basket, ready to scoop Daisy into my arms.

  But it’s empty. Daisy isn’t there.

  Eight

  ‘Dom!’ I yell. ‘Dom, come quickly!

  ‘What is it?’ He switches on the light and stares at me, bemused.

  ‘Where’s Daisy?’ I ask, on the verge of panic. ‘Why isn’t she in her basket?’ I see that our bedroom window is open and I suddenly remember the trampled flowers in the front garden. My skin goes cold.

  ‘It’s okay, Kirstie.’ Putting his fingers to his lips, he leads me into Daisy’s room and over to the cot where our daughter lies on her back, fast asleep.

  As I stare down at my baby, relief swamps me. My hands tremble as I reach down to stroke her hair, marvelling that she really is here. That she’s safe. That my fear was unfounded.

  ‘I moved her back into her own room,’ Dominic quietly explains. ‘I thought it would be best.’

  ‘For a minute, I thought… I thought…’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Dom whispers. ‘I should’ve told you. I didn’t think.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ I push my fingertips into my forehead, and take deep, steadying breaths. ‘But I heard her screaming. When I was outside, she was yelling so loudly. I thought she must be hungry.’

  ‘She’s fine,’ Dom says. ‘Good as gold. No tears all evening.’ He puts his arms around me and brings me close to his chest. ‘I’m sorry, Kirst. I can’t imagine how you must have felt seeing the empty basket.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry I panicked.’

  ‘It’s fine, don’t worry about it.’

  I lean back and stare at him, trying to discern his expression, but I can’t see him clearly in the gloom. ‘If it wasn’t Daisy screaming, then whose baby did I hear?’

  ‘It was probably just foxes,’ Dom says.

  ‘It wasn’t foxes. I know the difference between foxes and babies.’

  Dominic sighs. ‘The main thing is that Daisy’s safe.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, you’re right. She’s safe. She’s here. But there is something strange going on.’

  ‘Strange?’

  ‘Someone trampled all the flowers in our garden.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Dom frowns.

  I lead him out of Daisy’s room and down the stairs.

  ‘Kirstie?’

  I open the front door and walk across to the decimated flower bed. Dom follows behind and I point at the mess of earth and leaves, breathing in the heavy scent of crushed flower petals.

  ‘Who did that?’ he asks.

  I shrug. ‘It was like this when I got home.’

  ‘Must be kids,’ he says. ‘Little shits.’

  ‘It looks deliberate, though.’ I wrap my arms around myself. ‘Why would kids walk down our drive and do something so horrible?’

  ‘Could it be one of your pupils?’ Dom asks. ‘Maybe you gave them a low mark or something, and they thought they’d get back at you by doing this.’

  I give a small shiver and Dom puts an arm around me. ‘Come on,’ he says, ‘let�
�s go back in. Whoever did it is an idiot, but I doubt they’ll be back.’

  I let myself be guided back inside the house, still disquieted by the flower bed, but also haunted by the ghost of that screaming baby I heard earlier. I briefly wonder if I could have been hearing things. Could it have been foxes like Dom said? No. Definitely not. Maybe there is another baby nearby? But our road is isolated. And there are no other babies on this street. These thoughts circle my brain as I check that the front door is locked properly. I don’t want to think about all this now. I’m suddenly exhausted. All I know is that Daisy is okay. She’s upstairs in her cot and I won’t be leaving her side tonight. Though I know she’s safe, the nagging suspicion that someone is trying to take her won’t leave me alone. And the thought I’m losing my mind keeps growing.

  I bring Daisy into bed with me. She’s hungry and contented as she lies in my arms, her fingers stroking my face as she feeds. My earlier panic is finally receding. There’s no way Daisy will be sleeping in her own room tonight and Dominic knows better than to try and persuade me. He comes into our bedroom.

  ‘I’m so sorry about before, Dom. About overreacting like that when I thought Daisy was crying, and then when I thought she was missing.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s fine.’

  ‘It’s not fine. I completely panicked. This whole baby-monitor thing yesterday, it spooked me. I’m a nervous wreck.’

  ‘Forget it.’ He shakes his head and gives me a small smile.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I repeat.

  ‘You were worried, that’s all. Let’s get some sleep. Things will seem better in the morning.’ He yawns and scratches the back of his head.

  ‘I don’t know how I’m ever going to sleep tonight.’

  ‘Look, the main thing is that we’re all okay. You’re fine, I’m fine, Daisy’s fine, so let’s just forget about it, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  But it’s not okay. Everything is off-balance.

  Once Daisy has finished feeding, I wind her and change her nappy, chatting to her and dropping kisses onto the soft skin of her shoulders and cheeks. The thought of anyone trying to snatch her makes me ill with anxiety. I try to push the thoughts out of my head. To clear my mind of troublesome thoughts. I lay my daughter down in the Moses basket and climb back into bed.

  ‘Anyway, how was your evening?’ Dominic asks, getting in beside me.

  ‘My evening?’

  ‘Yeah, your evening with Mel and the girls, how was it?’

  I’d almost forgotten about my night out. ‘It was good,’ I murmur.

  ‘Who was there?’

  ‘The usual. You know.’ I think about Tamsin Price’s sneering face, but I don’t mention her name to Dom. It took the two of us long enough to get over that particular episode. The last thing I want is to dredge it all up again.

  ‘Mel behave herself?’

  ‘Ha. She pulled a twelve-year-old waiter.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yep. Honestly, I don’t reckon he could’ve been more than nineteen.’

  ‘That girl,’ he says through a yawn. ‘Tell me all the gory details tomorrow. Can’t keep my eyes open any longer.’

  Dom falls asleep almost instantly. Once his breathing deepens, I slip out of bed to check that all the doors and windows in the house are closed and locked. Reluctantly, I decide to leave the windows in our room open, as I know Dom will wake up if he gets too hot. Eventually, I return to bed and fall asleep, but when I wake a short while later, in the early hours of the morning, I feel the urge to check the house again. I can’t help myself. It’s like an itch I have to scratch. A compulsion.

  As I’m checking the back doors I hear a dull bump outside. I catch my breath and peer into the garden. There’s nothing but blackness. No movement. The rational side of my brain says that this is nothing more than a cat jumping from the fence onto the shed roof, a sound I’ve heard a million times before. But I don’t think I am in my rational mind. What if it’s them lurking around outside, checking our defences?

  I picture the door handles moving up and down as though someone is testing the locks. In reality, the handles are unmoving, but I can’t shake the image of a person pulling at them, trying to get in. My heart thumps and I think about grabbing a knife from the kitchen drawer for protection. But that’s ridiculous. There’s no one out there – I saw as much with my own eyes. I need to stop this. I need to go back to bed.

  But as I plod back up the stairs with the image of the moving door handles lodged in my brain, I realise there will be no sleep for me tonight.

  * * *

  My brain is still wired as the sky begins to lighten. Dominic and Daisy are sleeping, safe and sound. I rub at my eyes, noting that the clock reads 6.25 a.m. I think this is the longest she’s slept through without a feed. Finally, I allow my eyes to close, my body to relax.

  Through a fog of sleep, I hear the beeps of Dominic’s alarm. It’s easy to ignore. I curl my legs up into my body and sink deeper into the mattress. But almost as soon as sleep takes me again, Daisy’s cry cuts into my consciousness. I can’t block her out. She needs me.

  ‘I’ll change her,’ Dom whispers in my ear. ‘Sleep a while longer.’

  I give a murmur of thanks and relax once more.

  Too soon, Dominic is back in the room, Daisy fussing in his arms. I know she’s hungry. I prop myself up in bed and Dom passes her to me. As she feeds, I close my eyes again and try to doze. My mouth tastes sour and my head is fuzzy. It must be the lack of sleep.

  Memories of last night return – not my night out with friends, but what happened when I got home: discovering the trampled flowerbeds, shouting at Dominic, frantically checking the locks, viewing my distorted reflection in the bifold doors and the darkness beyond, imagining the door handles moving. It seems crazy that I let myself get carried away like that, allowing myself to imagine such terrible scenarios. I’m not that person. I’m Kirstie Rawlings, wife, mother, teacher, always calm and rational, happy. I push the disturbing images away as though they are an unwelcome nightmare, not an actual memory. Last night was an aberration. I won’t let it happen again. I’ll catch up on my sleep and get back to my normal self.

  ‘I’m going now, Kirst.’

  I force open my eyes and give my husband what I hope is a nice, wifely smile. ‘Have a good day.’

  ‘It’s Friday, so I should be home a bit earlier tonight. Shall I pick up some ready meals from M&S?’

  ‘Sounds good. Thanks.’

  ‘Any preference?’

  ‘You choose.’

  ‘Okay. See you later.’ I manage to stop myself from begging him to stay home today. It wouldn’t be fair. He’d only worry. But as I listen to his disappearing footsteps followed by the bang of the front door and the car starting up, it’s all I can do to stop myself running after him. As the sound of his car engine recedes, the newly familiar hollow lump of dread takes up residence behind my sternum. A crushing anxiety that I have no idea how to dispel.

  I should sleep. If I’m not awake, these thoughts can’t plague me.

  Once I’ve finished feeding Daisy, I take her with me to the bathroom while I clean my teeth and swallow down two paracetamol. She’s quite content, so I place her back in her basket and climb back into bed. Almost as soon as I let myself drift, I’m dragged awake by the juddering roar of a pneumatic drill and the whine of some kind of electric saw. The builders at number six must be out in force.

  It’s okay, I tell myself, I can tune it out. I’m sure I can. But instead of fading into background noise, each sound seems to grow louder and sharper – the blaring radio, the raucous shouted instructions, the beeping of a reversing truck… Anger builds in my gut. I grind my teeth and ball my fists. This disruption has been going on all summer and I’ve had enough. Surely they can give it a rest for one morning. Surely.

  I fling the sheets back and stomp around the bedroom, throwing on a sundress and dragging my fingers through my tangled black curls. Daisy is cooing conten
tedly in her cot, not at all bothered by the racket outside.

  ‘Come on, little one,’ I say, picking her up, eliciting a wide grin, ‘let’s go and tell those naughty builders to shut up. They’re doing Mummy’s head in.’

  Downstairs, I open the front door and screw up my eyes against the sun. What will I say to the builders? Will they become angry? Abusive, even? But my craving for silence overrides my nerves. I’ll draw on my teaching experience and pretend they’re a bunch of unruly teenagers.

  I’m about to step outside when I see a puddle of something white beneath my raised foot. It has oozed down the front step and onto the path, gloopy tentacles splayed out in all directions. What the hell? I teeter in the doorframe for a moment before bringing my foot back inside. A second later I register the unmistakable stink of paint. My heart begins to thump uncomfortably. Why is there spilt paint on my doorstep? I take a giant stride over the puddle and glance left and right in case whoever did it is still hanging around. I can’t see anyone. I can’t believe this! First the flower bed and now paint everywhere. What is going on?

  Nine

  Spying something else white under one of the bushes, I walk over and pull back a leafy branch, while Daisy tries to wriggle out of my arms. There, tipped onto its side beneath the bush, lies a paint can leaking more of the toxic stuff into the ground. A few yards away the lid lies glinting on the trampled flower bed. This is getting ridiculous. What’s going on around here? I bite my lip, unsure of what to do.

  Perhaps the paint can is from the building site. I may as well go over there – I can ask them about the paint as well as asking them to keep the noise down. That drill feels like it’s boring into my brain. I reach over the puddle to close the front door, before walking back to retrieve the paint can, its handle warm and sticky.

  I take a breath and walk over to number six. The noise has already spooked Daisy, whose happy nonsense-chatter stops as the drilling gets louder. A burly man in his forties, dressed in a plaster-splattered T-shirt and shorts, paces on the driveway, shouting into a mobile phone clamped to his ear. I pay no attention to his words, concentrating instead on what I’m going to say to him. He looks up and catches my eye, holds a forefinger up to indicate he’ll be a minute. I wait, unsmiling.