The kitchen window is open a crack; though, when I try to pull it open with my fingers, it’s locked in place. If someone was trying to get in, they would’ve had to make far more noise than they actually did.
It’s only as I reclose the back door that I realise there was something vaguely familiar about the way the shape moved over the gate. The light was poor and I’m tired, but it was the knees-in gait that takes me back to my teenage years of walking to school with my then boyfriend, Chris.
Fourteen
THURSDAY
It’s almost sad to see how Hendo’s has become a sorry imitation of itself. When I used to walk past it on my way to school every day, the factory was the thumping, vibrating heartbeat of the community. The three-storey red-brick building soared high above almost every other structure in the town and it was probably the easiest way for anyone to give directions. Before Google Maps, people would arrange to meet outside Hendo’s at a set time. Taxi drivers would be told to take a left or right just after Hendo’s and then the rest of the instructions would follow. There would be a near constant throng of workers hanging around the back gates, slightly off company property, where they were allowed to take their smoke breaks. It seemed normal then, and I’m sure ‘different times’ would be the excuse, but some of the men would always want to talk to the schoolgirls who passed. I was as guilty as anyone for stopping to chat and trying to bum cigarettes. It might be called grooming now – but that was how things had been for many years before me and my friends started doing it.
There is no sign of anyone at the back gates now – whether young girl, or old man. It might be a sign that smoking itself has gone out of fashion, but I suspect there’s more to it than that. Instead of the thrum that used to be attached to the factory, whatever used to make that noise is silent. The building itself seems largely abandoned, with the car park barely a third full and no sign of anyone in the windows.
I continue walking along the path at the back of the factory and there are no cigarette butts mashed into the gutter, let alone the smell of stale tobacco that used to cling to the gatepost. It’s probably better for everyone and yet I feel a surprising sense of melancholy, as if something’s been taken from me. I walked this way every day for years and now, without my knowledge, it’s changed. When this place closes for good, it will be like the town itself has shut down.
At the end of the path, as I get close to the High Street, there is a new generation of teenagers hanging around on the low wall next to the war memorial. There are five girls, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old, sitting in a semicircle, all staring at their phones. I struggle to remember what we used to do when we would hang around here. I think it was just sitting around gossiping and joking. Did the generation before us sit here and do something else? In another twenty years, will it be people’s virtual holograms in a group? People and trends might change – but places like this never seem to.
I head into the Lidl on the corner, trying to remember what it used to be. I can vaguely picture a building with a large candy-striped awning at the front but have no memory of what it housed. As for the Lidl, there’s the usual mass of random items across the centre of the store, as if snorkelling or mountain climbing in Elwood is a regular thing. I buy a basket full of cleaning supplies and basic foodstuffs, add a bottle of their own-brand vodka for good measure, then pay with the cash I found at the house, and leave.
The bags are heavy, but I can’t bring myself to go past Hendo’s again, even if it is the shortest route back to the house. Instead, I take the path that goes closer to the park, although it isn’t long before I have to stop at a bench and give my hands a rest from the way the bag handles are digging in.
It’s perhaps a surprise that the newsagent that used to be on the corner is still here – in spirit, if nothing else. When I was a teenager, I would steal those copies of NME and Melody Maker from here. It was the place that stocked seemingly every magazine, plus the daily newspapers. Apart from cigarettes and chocolate, I don’t think it sold anything else.
Even without going in, I can see through the door that it is now one of those local stores that sells a bit of everything. There is a pallet-load of orange squash bottles a little inside the door, with rows of Pot Noodles on the shelf behind.
There are newspaper bins outside, like the ones at petrol stations, and there’s a handful of Elwood Echo copies remaining with today’s date. I never read it when I was younger myself, but Dad did and my school was in there semi-regularly for the various events in which we were involved.
HIT-AND-RUN HUNT
Boy, 8, in intensive care
The front page keeps things straightforward with details of where and when the collision happened, plus a quote from Sergeant Davidson, asking for information about the possible driver. It mentions that the car could be ‘black or grey’. I’d love to think someone else gave them this information, but what if this is entirely down to me? What if I’m wrong and people will now be looking for the wrong vehicle? It’s not as if it was fun and games before, but my lack of clarity suddenly feels a lot more serious.
Ethan isn’t named and I have to go through the article twice to realise that, except for Sergeant Davidson, nobody is identified. Ethan is called either an ‘eight-year-old’ or ‘the victim’.
I put the paper back on the rack and turn to my shopping bags on the ground. I’m about to leave when I have another thought and pick up the paper once more. It’s hard to find anything among the pages due to the sheer number of adverts. Entire pages are devoted to pictures of cars and sofas and it’s easy to see why publications are going out of business if this is the best they have to offer. I’m near the back when I finally find the announcements section underneath a pair of crosswords. Damien said it might not make it, but, at the bottom, surrounded by a neat box, are the words that somehow make it more real.
NOTICE OF FUNERAL
DENNIS JOHN MICHAEL COYLE passed away on 10 July at his home in Elwood. He was 66 years old and is survived by his daughter, Abigail. Funeral services will be held at Elwood Funeral Services on Friday at 4 p.m. Donations are not expected.
I read the notice three times and then find myself counting the content.
In the end, my father finished as forty-one words at the bottom of a page, underneath a crossword. A tenth of those is simply listing his name. Another tenth is telling anyone interested in going that they shouldn’t give any money. He’s across from another page, on which a company is selling discount flooring.
I’m not sure what to make of it. I guess we’re all reduced to something similar in the end, but, with my father, it couldn’t even list any achievements. What would it say?
I put the paper back a second time, then pick up the shopping bags, and continue on towards the house.
I’m at the edge of the park, close to the bus stop where all this started, when I spot the boy standing on the street corner with an older girl. From the way she’s arched over him, it looks like she’s telling him off, but I don’t catch the actual words and, by the time I get to them, she’s stopped.
The boy’s eyes widen as he recognises me, but I’d already clocked him as Petey, the lad who knocked on Jo’s back door. I put down the bags and rub my fingers into my palms, trying to get a bit of life back into them. Petey looks younger up close, definitely no older than ten and probably younger. That would fit in with Ethan only being eight.
‘You’re Petey, right?’ I say to him.
He doesn’t reply – but the girl who’s with him takes a small but noticeable step to stand in front of him.
‘And you’re Beth…?’ I add.
She frowns, but the way she scrunches up her face doesn’t change the fact that she’s blonde-haired, brown-eyed and small-town pretty. It’s somewhat harsh, but, though she would be anonymous in a city, Beth could unquestionably have her pick of the boys in a place like Elwood.
Jo implied that Owen might have got her pregnant but, if that is the case, it certainl
y doesn’t show. Beth is seventeen or eighteen and has a skinniness that, in my case at least, ebbed away through my twenties and was a long-distant memory by the time thirty rolled around.
‘Who are you?’ she asks, although there’s more in the way of intrigue than there is hostility.
‘I’m Abi—’ I say, though don’t get a chance to expand because Beth cuts in.
‘Jo’s friend,’ she says.
‘Right. I used to live here but moved away.’
‘You found Ethan.’
‘Yes.’
Independently of one another, we each glance down the road towards the blanketed tribute on the verge. Her identity was something of a guess, although Jo told me that Petey’s older sister was named Beth. I’m not sure how she knows me, however.
Petey steps out a little, eyeing me around his sister, although he doesn’t say anything.
‘Have you heard anything?’ Beth asks.
‘About what?’
‘Ethan.’
‘Only that he’s still in intensive care as of last night. Nothing this morning.’
Beth half-turns to her younger brother. ‘Can’t believe he was on the way back from ours. I babysit the pair of them sometimes.’
‘I’m not a baby!’
Petey sounds indignant at the very idea, though I can tell from the hint of a grin on Beth’s face that she used the word on purpose to wind him up.
‘Were you looking after them on Tuesday?’ I ask.
‘God knows what they were doing upstairs, but I suppose so. Mum was still at work, so I was going to do them fish fingers for tea.’
‘Ethan doesn’t like fish.’
We both look down at Petey, who, unlike the boy in Jo’s back garden last night, suddenly seems his age.
‘You could’ve said,’ Beth replies.
Petey shrugs it off as Beth grimaces.
‘Anyway, Ethan said he was going home and then…’ She takes a breath. ‘I keep thinking I should’ve stopped him. If I’d said “wait a minute” or something like that, then the timings would’ve all been different.’
She glances to Petey and then along the street towards the tributes on the verge once more. There’s not much else to say and I’m not sure why I started the conversation anyway. Beth checks her phone and then turns away. It feels like the end of the conversation and she even manages a ‘See y’around’ as I pick up my shopping bags, ready for the final part of the journey home. That’s when I surprise myself.
‘Was Owen there?’ I ask.
Beth turns back to me: ‘Where?’
‘At your house when you were looking after the two boys.’
She blinks. It’s none of my business, but she answers anyway. ‘Owen…? I’ve not seen him since the weekend.’ She pauses and then quickly adds: ‘Why?’
‘No reason,’ I say, unable to come up with something better.
She stares at me for a moment, wondering what she’s missed.
I need to say something and manage: ‘I was round Jo’s house last night and he was talking about you.’
‘Was he?’
Petey starts shuffling restlessly, in the way children do.
‘I can’t remember what he was saying. Nothing bad. I think that he was with you at the weekend, or something. He was talking to Jo.’
Beth shrugs. ‘He’s got his driving test next week. Can you believe that? He was saying he didn’t feel ready and now this happens to his brother. I dunno if he’ll go through with it.’
Petey continues fidgeting and Beth spins back to him. ‘Will you stand still?’ she scolds.
‘I’m bored.’
She sighs. ‘Fine! We’ll head back.’
‘I can go by myself.’
‘Not now, you can’t. You know what Mum said.’
Petey stomps his feet as Beth offers a conciliatory shrug in my direction. ‘See ya,’ she says.
Petey continues to protest while they head off side by side in the opposite direction to Ethan’s tribute.
I watch them for a moment and then continue on towards the house, though the bags feel heavier than before. I stop once more on the bench next to the flowers and footballs. It was here that I first met Owen two nights ago, when he’d come to find his mum. It was here that he said he was with Beth when his mum couldn’t get hold of him after Ethan had been hit.
Which means at least one person in this town is lying.
Fifteen
When I get to Jo’s place a little after midday, there’s a man in shorts, T-shirt and a baseball cap carrying cables from a grey van into the house through the wide-open front door. I wait at the entranceway, tapping on the door frame, though nobody answers.
‘Hello…?’
My voice echoes along the hall, but there’s still no reply, so I edge into the hallway. That’s when the man in the cap emerges from the kitchen without the cables he had been holding. He passes me with barely a glance and heads back outside towards his van.
There are voices coming from the living room, so I ease my way inside, saying Jo’s name. She’s on the sofa when I get in, turned to face another woman who I sort of recognise, although I’m not sure from where. The room has changed completely since I was here yesterday. There’s a TV camera on a tripod set up in front of the windows, with the curtains drawn and bright white light spilling from a bulb off to the side. A whitish inverted umbrella is behind the light, reflecting it back into the room.
Neil and Owen are hovering awkwardly in the corner and, aside from brief glances, neither of them acknowledge me.
‘…is that clear?’ the second woman says.
Her hair is lacquered into a bob that I’m fairly sure wouldn’t move in a typhoon. She has teeth so white they could star in their own toothpaste commercial, plus manicured bright red nails that are drumming a steady beat on a yellow US-style legal pad.
Jo looks past the woman towards me. ‘This is Abi,’ she says. ‘One of my best friends.’
The woman turns to take me in. ‘Lovely to meet you,’ she says, not moving from her spot and then immediately twisting back to Jo.
‘I’m going to be on telly,’ Jo adds, still talking to me. ‘This is Diane Young. Have you seen her show?’
I suppose this is why I recognise Diane without specifically knowing her. I don’t think I’ve seen her show – or even know what it is – but these things tend to sink in through osmosis.
Diane forces a smile in my direction.
‘I’ve seen the show,’ I say, though I’d be as certain as can be that Diane sees right through me. She doesn’t seem the sort to tolerate arse-lickers or yes-men.
‘Great,’ she says, although her tone has an incredible way of making it clear she couldn’t care less and knows that I’m lying.
‘Can she stay?’ Jo asks.
I don’t get a chance to say I only came over to see if there were any updates on Ethan because Diane snips a reluctant ‘fine’. She turns to me and nods to an uncomfortable-looking dining chair that’s been jammed into the corner. ‘You can sit there.’
It’s hard to know why I go along with this, other than that Jo’s son is in hospital and it’s hard to say no to anything she asks. There’s also the not small matter that, when Diane says something, it very much feels like that thing should be done immediately.
With me dealt with, Diane turns back to Jo. ‘I won’t ask anything with which you might be unhappy,’ she says. ‘I just want to ask you about Ethan and the type of boy he is.’
Jo’s nodding along, but there’s something off about her eyes. She’s staring intently, although, at the same time, doesn’t seem focused on anything in particular. She has every reason to be nervous or edgy, of course. Not only as she’s seemingly going on television but also because of what’s happening with Ethan. It’s a lot for anyone to go through in such a short period.
As I watch, I find myself wondering how this all came about, considering Jo was so insistent she wouldn’t work with the police in appealing to the d
river to come forward.
‘Is that all right?’ Diane adds.
Jo nods quickly. ‘Yes, yes.’
Diane is too smart not to see Jo’s jitters – and she takes Jo’s hand in hers. ‘You’re going to do brilliantly,’ she says. ‘When Ethan’s recovered, you’ll be able to show him the time you were on TV and he’ll be so proud.’
Jo gulps away a sob that’s appeared from nowhere and half turns away. ‘You reckon?’
‘I know it, Jo. I just need you to keep being strong for the next hour or so. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
Diane pushes herself up from the sofa and turns to Neil and Owen in the corner. She’s shorter than both of them and yet somehow seems taller. When she addresses Owen, the teenager stands up straighter.
‘I need you to talk about Ethan as a brother,’ she says. ‘Perhaps tell a story about something you’ve done together? Maybe a time when he helped you with something – or you helped him.’
She’s barely finished the sentence when Owen starts nodding. If Diane was after world domination instead of daytime television ratings, she’d be dangerous.
‘And Neil,’ she continues, ‘you love Ethan like a son, obviously. If you could perhaps come up with a time you bonded over—’
‘Football,’ Neil blurts out.
‘Football it is,’ Diane confirms, unflustered. ‘The pair of you will do terrifically. Now, where’s Nathan…?’
Diane heads back into the hallway and returns moments later with the guy who was ferrying cables inside. A second man appears and the pair continue setting up the equipment as Diane takes her place in the armchair. The trio of Jo, Neil and Owen are somewhat squashed on the sofa, although Diane manages to make them relax by explaining how everything is to be recorded for tomorrow’s show. She then tells a story about how a celebrity even I’ve heard of locked himself in their studio toilets and fell into the bowl while trying to escape the cubicle. In anyone else’s hands, especially considering the circumstances, it could be offensive. In Diane’s, she somehow has all three members of the family laughing at the same time.
The Child Across the Street: An unputdownable and absolutely gripping psychological thriller Page 8
